Dead Trees

by Brent Saltzman

  “I can assure you that I had a very happy childhood, Mr. Gaule.”

  “That’s…actually surprising.” Gaule shrugged and took another sip.

  “One winter, though, we had a bit of a gopher problem,” Hopkins reflected. “They were nibbling at our crops, you see. Completely destroying everything we had worked so hard at for their own selfish gain.”

  “Survival,” Gaule nodded in amusement. “How dare they.”

  “The beasts survived many years without stealing our crops, they can go back to it. Anyway,” continued Hopkins, “my father had ordered my brother John and I to eliminate the gophers. Smoke them out, you see. Only then would our garden proliferate and prosperity return. But there was a problem.”

  “A witch problem?”

  “Not exactly. It appeared that a family of rabbits had taken to using the tunnels that the gophers had dug. One of my younger brothers had taken a liking to the rabbits, but unfortunately I could not poison the gophers without also killing the rabbits.”

  “I see,” Gaule nodded. “You felt the marks on your soul were not outweighed by the potential rewards.”

  “Correct.” Hopkins downed half his flagon of beer in a few mighty gulps before proudly slamming it down on the counter. “I killed everything in the tunnels, Gaule. Because if a few innocents were killed in the name of doing God’s work, then so be it.”

  “God’s never minded sacrifice, has He?” Gaule thought of all the times through the Bible that God had demanded a life, either as retribution or as a statement of trust in his eventual message. “You know, I really thought we were past such barbaric practices.”

  “You call it ‘barbaric,’” Hopkins said, “I call it the work that softer men do not have the courage to do. I have no doubt that some innocent people have lost their lives under me, but just as our garden flourished after smoking the gopher tunnels, so too shall this world be cleansed.” Hopkins pulled a large coin from his pocket and flipped it to the innkeeper.

  “Funny,” Gaule mused, watching the innkeeper stare at the coin in disbelief. Apparently he had purposely overpaid the man. “Cleansed of both its demons and its wallet, I see.”

  “I have a team to pay,” Hopkins said. “Horses to feed. I cannot work effectively if I work for free. Let me ask you, what’s a vicar’s salary?”

  “Enough.”

  “Which is all I ask for, as well.” Hopkins stood, tipped his hat, and turned to leave.

  “I think you’re a fraud.”

  The Witchfinder General stopped dead in his tracks. He turned around to face the older man with fire in his eyes. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You,” Gaul spun on his barstool, “are a fraud.”

  Hopkins smiled. “And how is that?”

  “Oh, please. You and I both know you’re too smart to believe in this hogwash about witches and pacts with the Devil, Matthew. But you’re a hell of a businessman. And a businessman without a conscience is a dangerous man.”

  “Hmm.” Hopkins sighed. “Perhaps you are right, vicar. Perhaps I will come and confess for these sins of mine. You know, I do believe,” he said threateningly, “that a trip is overdue to, where is it you preside? Great Staughton, is it?”

  Gaule dropped his friendly façade and clenched his fists. “You will be brought to justice long before that, Hopkins. If you believe you’ll hang any of my people for the sake of filling your own coffers, then this is not going to end the way you think.”

  “Or perhaps it won’t end the way you think, Mr. Gaule.” Hopkins cracked his knuckles. “You have the idea that I deal in fear. I actually take it as a compliment.”

  “Are you threatening a man of the church, Hopkins?” Gaule asked. “Because if you did, then perhaps I shall retract my statement about you being smart. You wouldn’t be stupid enough to accuse a man of God, would you?”

  “You see, the thing about fear, Mr. Gaule, is that it’s like the flame of a candle. It spreads, and spreads, until nothing, not even the slivers of wax that thought they were safe beneath their own righteousness, shall be spared.” Hopkins smiled. That dastardly, evil smile. “Have a fantastic afternoon, Mr. Gaule.”

  “Considering you’re leaving, I imagine I shall.”

  Hopkins ignored the quip and tipped his hat once more before vanishing into the rain. Gaule gave him a few minutes, then sprinted out toward his horse in a panic, nearly tripping in the mud. When he reached the stables, he threw the door open to find Rebecca flipping through a pamphlet.

  “I thought you were busy whoring?” Gaule asked as he mounted his horse.

  “I wanted to!” Rebecca said. “But it sort of lost its appeal when you actually approved it.”

  “I was kidding.”

  “Oh…”

  “Let’s go,” Gaule said. “We have to stay on their trail. Perhaps make a stop in Great Staughton and make some arrangements in case Mr. Hopkins decides to stop there, himself.”

  “Shame. I was just starting to enjoy myself.” Rebecca hopped up onto her horse.

  “Hopkins made a threat that wasn’t exactly vague,” Gaule said. “But I cannot imagine he’s stupid enough to attack a member of the clergy.”

  Gaule explained the situation to Rebecca as they headed off into the rain, the horses following the trails left by Hopkins and his company. Gaule felt only half at ease. A witchfinder would never stoop to accusing a man of God of witchcraft. It would be enough to ruin one’s reputation.

  Unless, of course, as John Gaule would shortly discover, that witchfinder was as insane, and as ruthless, as Matthew Hopkins.

  -10-

  Seeds of Evil

  December 1634

  M atthew Hopkins, 14-years-old, bounced in the back of a horse-drawn carriage as it made its way down the wintry mountain road. Pine trees dusted with snow shimmered in the twinkling of the midnight stars. In the distance, nestled in a valley, the parish of Great Wenham sat peacefully, the flickering yellow of fireplaces and smoking chimneys making it a warm, utopian beacon on such a cold night.

  The carriage slipped into the village as fast as it could, the horses galloping through the snow-lined streets. It finally stopped at a small house next to St. John’s Church; the Hopkins family home.

  Young Matthew Hopkins jumped out of the carriage and sprinted for the front door. The driver shouted something about needing help with his bags, but Matthew ignored him and ran inside to find his five brothers already gathered in the living room, all apparently having been waiting for his arrival.

  They sat in silence as the fire crackled.

  “Where is he?” Matthew asked, his breathing heavy. Snowflakes melted in his hair. Tears were already running down his face.

  “The bedroom,” John Hopkins said glumly.

  Matthew took off.

  “Wait!” John grabbed Matthew’s arm as he ran by. “Matthew, it’s not pretty…Don’t do this to yourself. Please. Let this one go.”

  “You sent for me so I can see him one last time,” Matthew reminded him. “I’m fulfilling that.”

  “Yes, but,” John turned to his brothers for support. None had anything to say. “We thought you’d be here earlier, when he was more healthy. Please, Matthew, I’m asking you to trust me. No good can come of you going into that room.”

  Matthew Hopkins did not listen. He ripped his arm away from his older brother and stormed into the bedroom. There, he saw a sight his eyes had hoped never to witness, one he could scarcely comprehend: lying in bed were what could best be described as the skeletal remains of his father. James Hopkins had been stricken with an illness for weeks. It had sapped him of energy and reduced him to an emaciated husk of a man, barely able to speak.

  Matthew Hopkins could not imagine ever seeing his father in such a state. His skin was brittle and bruised. His face was white and wrinkled. His teeth were gone, leaving black gums. When Matthew held his father’s hand, he could feel the bones beneath the thin layer of what little flesh remained.

  “Matthew,” his fa
ther whispered. It was clear by the weakness of his voice that James Hopkins was delicately balancing on the fence between the world of the living and that of the dead. It was only a matter of time before he fell completely into the void.

  “I’m here, father,” Matthew said.

  “I cannot…say the same…for your brothers…”

  “They do not deserve the honor of seeing you off, father,” Matthew said with conviction.

  “They do not. But you, child,” James touched his son’s face. “You are a true warrior for God. God needs warriors. Especially in times such as these.”

  “Because of evil.” Matthew nodded. “We can stop it. Together, father. We can stop it from spreading across our land.”

  “We must. It is too late…for me…” James lifted the blanket off his chest, where a mark lay burned into his flesh. It was a red, raised mark shaped like a twinkling star.

  The mark of one afflicted by a witch.

  “A witch…” Matthew Hopkins gasped. “A witch did this to you, father?!”

  James Hopkins coughed and wheezed. His time in this world was coming to an end. “Listen, son. Evil is spreading. Sin…it’s like…a seed…a seed of evil. You must stop it. At any cost.”

  “Any cost, father,” Matthew repeated.

  “There is…a secret.”

  “A secret?”

  James Hopkins gasped for breath. The mark on his chest burned and throbbed.

  Matthew scrambled about, flustered, looking for medicine or a pillow or a glass of water…anything to relieve his father’s suffering.

  “Forget it, child! Come here.” James called his son over. “Fear is a powerful tool. Use it. Use it to stamp out the seeds of evil.”

  “I…I understand,” Matthew said.

  “No…you don’t.” James gestured to a journal on the nearby table. “That book. Bring it to me.”

  Matthew did as he was told. It was the same worn, leather journal he’d use in his later career. The same one he’d carry everywhere and let no one else see.

  “There is a secret…inside this book,” James said. “It is for your eyes only. Do you understand?”

  Matthew hesitated. The gravity of what was about to happen had not yet dawned on him. James handed him the journal. It felt heavy. He took it gently. “Is this…Daemonologie?” he asked.

  “No, no, it’s…something else. Open it.”

  Matthew sat next to his father and opened the notebook. What he saw confused him at first and he demanded an explanation. And with his dying breaths, James Hopkins provided one.

  -11-

  Fourteen Widows

  AUGUST 1645

  T he waters of the North Sea boiled beneath a stormy sky. Rogue waves the size of monsters slammed against the hull of Nicholas Swift’s schooner, Remembrance. Water spilled over the main deck as her small crew of six men braced for every impact, grabbing onto anything they could. They’d been fishing off the coast of Harwich when the storm hit. It had been like nothing the men had ever seen; swells taller than any they had ever experienced and rain like thick white sheets, as if conjured by God.

  Or something else…

  “Bring in the sails!” Swift shouted over the storm.

  One of Swift’s men sloshed through the water on deck, slipping on some rope and smacking his face on a rail. When he got up, his nose was bleeding. He stumbled through the rain before collapsing at the bottom of the main mast.

  “Christ, I’ll do it myself!” Swift leapt down from his perch behind the ship’s wheel and made his way to the mast. It wasn’t an easy trip. On more than one occasion, a wave threatened to capsize the ship and he had to reach for some kind of handhold; a rope, a railing, anything.

  “Captain!” one of his men yelled over the torrential downpour. “A ghost!”

  A ghost?

  Swift struggled to stand, gripping the wet railing as he looked out into the white sea. He scanned what little he could of the horizon, most of it obscured by the storm. Then, he saw it. Like a beast from the depths, the thing was gigantic, at least as large as their ship. It moved, a gray blob behind the wall of rain that grew bigger and bigger…

  “It’s coming for us!” one of the men shouted.

  He was right. The creature appeared to be heading straight for their ship. It was coming at them fast. Swift ran for the ship’s wheel, though he knew in the back of his mind it would be too late. He slipped and slid his way up the steps and got behind the wheel, then looked up at the shape that had been approaching them through the storm.

  It was another ship.

  “Brace for impact!”

  The other schooner slammed into Remembrance with the force of an angry leviathan. Wood exploded and the mast creaked and fell, snapping the second ship in two.

  It was on that day that 14 men met their end in the abyss. As the schooners sank, they dragged their crews with them into the deep, cold, black waters.

  Never to be seen again.

  T he congregation sang and prayed. The church of All Saints, located in Brandeston, was holding a vigil for those lost in the terrible accident off the coast of Harwich two weeks earlier. Those in attendance included the 14 widows of the men whose souls were lost. Many were accompanied by bawling children. Some were too young to understand that their fathers were not coming back.

  The vicar, John Lowes, lit 14 candles at the front of the church. He was 80 years old and had proved to be a divisive member of the community. A widower, John Lowes had preferred traditional Anglicanism more than anything else, which had angered many of the parish’s residents. Many of them felt that he was not extreme enough.

  Anglicanism was known colloquially as “the middle way.” It borrowed elements from Catholicism and Puritanism. For people who cared not for either extreme, it offered a good balance. However, during times of war, there was no middle ground. Those who were not exclusively with one were the enemy of the other. That isn’t something that has changed much today, unfortunately, and it’s what made John Lowes a controversial figure in his community. His refusal to bow to the pressure of Puritanism that fueled half the civil war was the reason he was so disliked among the villagers of Brandeston.

  When confronted about these inadequacies, John Lowes was defensive. He frequently berated the younger members of his church and had a strict policy against allowing children into Sunday mass. John Lowes hated children. His curmudgeon attitude and unlikable nature had made him a frequent target of townsfolk, almost all of whom wanted him replaced. The problem, however, was that replacing a vicar was a difficult task.

  There had to be…cause for removal.

  After the evening had died down and the mourners left, Lowes extinguished the candles, one by one. When he was finished, he heard a clapping behind him. He turned to see a single man sitting amongst the church pews. It was a bearded man with a top hat and cape. He smiled and clapped.

  “Excellent eulogy,” Matthew Hopkins said. “I almost imagined, for a moment, that your concern for the souls of the young men lost at sea was, well how do I put this, genuine.”

  “And how do you know it wasn’t?” Lowes asked, his voice cracking under the weight of his advanced age.

  “I’ve spoken to villagers,” Hopkins said. “I’ve come to understand that you were not at all fond of the sailors whom most tragically drowned off Harwich.”

  “Hmph.” John Lowes adjusted the cross on his neck and began extinguishing the oil lamps around the church. “My personal feelings are irrelevant. I gave them what they needed to ensure they passed on peacefully to the next world. Where that next world is…well, I guess that depends on what those morons did in life.”

  “Morons, you say?” Hopkins stood up and clasped his hands behind his back. “Tell me, did you have problems with these men, Mr. Lowes?”

  “Of course I did,” Lowes snapped. “They were mean-spirited, bigoted men who caused so much raucous after a pint at the local tavern that I’d have trouble even sleeping!”

  “They w
ere young.”

  “And stupid. And an interruption. Good riddance.”

  Hopkins glared. “You sound like a man who wanted them gone.”

  “I want no one gone. But if God wills it, and it just so happens to benefit me, then I won’t complain.” Lowes left one oil lamp lit, as was his tradition, in case he had to return to the church in the middle of the night.

  It was dark inside.

  Dark enough for the eyes of Matthew Hopkins to glow in the flickering light of the single lamp. Eyes that stared at the old vicar like a bull at the red cape of a matador. “John Lowes,” Hopkins barked, “you have been formally accused of conspiring with the Devil to cause the untimely deaths of those you deemed less worthy.”

  Lowes’s eyes went wide. “Lies! I would never stoop to such a thing!”

  “Fourteen experienced seamen perished over a mistake an amateur would not have made!” Hopkins approached the old vicar, producing a set of iron handcuffs.

  “They were drunken fools!” Lowes eyed the cuffs with fear. “Their fate was brought upon themselves by their own decisions!”

  “I don’t believe you,” Hopkins growled.

  Lowes, his body long past the era of its youthful flexibility, fell to the ground and tried to crawl away. But it was no use. Hopkins grabbed the old man by the shoulders and flipped him onto his back before forcing the handcuffs over his bony, wrinkled fingers. Lowes stopped struggling and wailed in agony as Hopkins picked him up, slinging him over his shoulder like a sack of spice.

  Outside, John Stearne was waiting by the carriage. He was stunned to see Matthew Hopkins carrying back not a random churchgoer, as he had expected, but a man dressed in holy robes.

  “Matthew!” Stearne whispered with panic as Hopkins opened the back of the carriage and slung the fainted vicar inside. “What madness is this? A priest?!”

  “No one is above the law of God.” Hopkins slammed the carriage door shut and locked it tight. “Not a priest. Not even a witch hunter.” He gave John Stearne a threatening look. “Now, are you going to relieve yourself of your concerns, Mr. Stearne, and join me as I take this prisoner to Bury Saint Edmunds, or are you going to let your behavior instigate a search of your body for Devil’s Marks?”