“What’s so funny?” Rebecca West asked.
“Stand back a moment.”
“Excuse me?”
“Please, humor me.” He motioned for her to take a few steps backward. She reluctantly did, though she made her suspicion clear with her facial expression.
When there was a good amount of space between them, Gaule put his hands in his pockets and pulled out what appeared to be two silk bags of pebbles. He took two small handfuls of these pebbles and then hurled them at the ground as hard as he could, where they erupted in a green flame that popped and sparkled into vibrant reds and yellows. The spectacle lasted only a moment before it was gone, the colors fading into embers that died on the floor.
“What on Earth was that?!” Rebecca’s eyes were wide. “Was that magic?! Real magic?!”
“Not the slightest,” remarked Gaule. “It was simply a trick of fire. Chemicals in the stones reacted in such a way to produce colors of light. The Chinese used these fire tricks a thousand years ago to ward away evil spirits. Now they are used to create illusions.”
“Well, it looked like magic to me!”
“Magic is but a trick that science has not yet found an explanation for, Rebecca.” Gaule put his hood back on and stepped outside. “There’s nothing left for me here. I need to find Hopkins.”
Rebecca followed him out into the rain. “Mr. Gaule, you never answered my question. Does this mean that you do not believe in witches?”
“I believe that when people are scared, when winters such as this have destroyed crops and spread sickness, that people will find someone to blame. Even if they have to make that someone up. It is an unfortunate trait of human nature that we must always find outside influences to disparage before looking within ourselves. We are, sadly, the only species on this planet to blind ourselves from the truth for the sake of our own selfishness.”
Rebecca smirked. “You’re a fascinating man, Mr. Gaule. You seem well-educated. I do not see a wedding ring. A bachelor?”
“You could say that’s the path I’ve chosen. At least now, anyway. Married twice. Divorced twice. To the same woman. I’ve decided that a life of solitude is a life of simplicity.”
“Ha,” Rebecca laughed. “So you learned your lesson the second time around?”
“You could say that.” He shook water from his hood as thunder rumbled amongst the swirling gray sky. “Here is some advice, Ms. West. When someone shows you who they truly are, believe them the first time.”
“Wise words from a wise man.”
“Words from a man who was a fool.” They reached his horse and he hopped on. “I appreciate your assistance, Ms. West. I understand that Mr. Hopkins is on the road. I hope to catch him and have a little chat.”
“Wait!” Rebecca pleaded. “I want to go with you. I have a horse!”
“Nonsense.”
“It’s not nonsense!” She ran in front of his horse, blocking it. “Hopkins killed my mother. My father’s been dead for years. I don’t care about any of the people in this village. These are the same ones who cheered at my mother’s death. There is nothing left for me here. Let me travel with you. Let me help bring Hopkins what he deserves.”
“Do not let vengeance poison your heart, child,” Gaule said. “I can assure you from experience that it can turn you into the very monster you wish to hunt.”
“It’s not just for my mother!” Rebecca exclaimed. The rain grew heavier. It cascaded down her shoulders. She brushed her soaked hair out of her eyes and looked back up at Gaule. “It’s for everyone who died that day. And for every person Hopkins will send to the gallows between now and whenever you bring him to justice. Perhaps that time can be shortened if you have a companion to help.”
Gaule finally sighed. “You have a horse?”
“And money. I won’t ask you to pay my way, I just want to ride along. Help if I can. It’s all I’m asking for. Please. My life means nothing here. Maybe it can mean something out there.”
After several moments of contemplation, John Gaule finally gave in. “Fine.”
Shortly afterward, the pair set off through the countryside on their horses. Racing to catch up with Matthew Hopkins before he sent more innocents to their deaths. They were, as Rebecca had put it, the witch hunter hunters. Little did they know, however, that by the time they finally reached Hopkins, his path of destruction would have already grown.
-8-
Living Wages
JULY 1645
A n enormous tree sat like a god in the town square of Chelmsford. The tree was centuries old with a trunk as thick as a giant’s thigh. Its spindly dead branches hung low. On this cool, foggy morning, the shadows of corpses were draped across the town square. 23 women had been accused of and executed for witchcraft thanks to the efforts of Matthew Hopkins and his partner John Stearne. But instead of gallows, the magistrate had decided to execute all witches at once using excess rope and the tree in the center of the village.
It had been quite the show. Since there were only two executioners in town, a number of volunteers had been pulled from the crowd of villagers who had come to cheer on the deaths of the witches and the end of their troubles. In unison, the executioners and volunteers pulled on the ropes that lifted the 23 women to their deaths. Almost all of them went painfully and struggled as they were lifted, shortly before dying of asphyxiation.
23 women killed at once. For the crime of having convened with the Devil.
For the crime of being accused.
The weight of an accusation was so heavy that the conviction rate of accused witches was incredibly high. Even though a confession was needed to formally convict, they could in theory imprison and torture you for life if you didn’t confess.
And the money, at least for Matthew Hopkins and John Stearne, was good. In fact, one town had even begun to issue a tax on its citizens just to help pay for Hopkins’ services.
“Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one,” the Chelmsford treasurer counted out coins to Matthew Hopkins. “Twenty-two, and twenty-three.”
Hopkins eagerly bagged the coins and tipped his hat to the treasurer.
“Sir,” the treasurer said before Hopkins could leave. “A word, first.”
“Why, of course.” Hopkins smiled. “Are you not satisfied with the scope of our work? Twenty-three accusations and twenty-three convictions. Can’t do much better than that.”
“No, no, that’s understood,” the treasurer assured him. “Actually, we are more than happy with the work you’ve done, Mr. Hopkins. Which is why we’d actually like to ask for another service.”
Hopkins was intrigued. “Oh? I’m afraid we don’t hunt vampires or werewolves, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“No, of course not. Vampires and werewolves belong in fairytales,” the treasurer said. “But we would like to ask you for something we find to be of great importance, Mr. Hopkins. And we will pay handsomely.”
T he campfire crackled on the outskirts of Chelmsford. Matthew Hopkins had parked his carriage and horses just outside of town, on the edge of the forest. It was here that he and John Stearne had set up a small camp.
Sitting on logs around the roaring fire, John Stearne sloppily ate the chicken he’d been roasting over it. “So,” he said with his mouth full, “he wants us to put on a show?”
“Hmm,” Hopkins shrugged, “I would say more of an educational presentation.” He was flipping through his leather journal. “The local magistrate knows that witchfinders of our caliber cannot be everywhere at once, so he’d like us to teach the villagers how to repel those ghastly creatures so they never become a threat in the first place.”
“Right! Brilliant!” John Stearne frowned a moment later. “Wait a minute…do we know how to prevent witches?”
“It’s all in here,” Hopkins gestured to the journal in his hands. “Don’t worry, John. It’s all under control.”
Stearne stared at the journal. “How come you never let me see that? You don’t think it wouldn’t be a good
idea for us both to be up to speed?”
“It is in the best interest of neither party that all knowledge is shared,” Hopkins snapped, closing the journal. His journal had been their guide since they had begun witch hunting. Hopkins claimed that it contained all of his father’s notes on witchcraft, a trove of information that made them the best at what they did. But Hopkins never let Stearne touch it.
“That makes no sense to me,” Stearne said.
“If both sides know everything the other side does, then there is no need for two sides then, is there?”
Stearne took a moment to think about it. It made odd sense. If no one knows everything, then they have more motivation to stick together…and not betray each other.
“It’s not that I don’t trust you, my friend,” Hopkins said sweetly. “It’s that…I don’t want to have to kill you. It would break my heart.”
“Sure it would.” Stearne rolled his eyes. “I’m retiring.” He stood up and headed to his tent on the other side of the carriage. “Let’s put on a good show.”
“We sure will.” Hopkins chuckled. “We sure, sure will.” He looked down into his journal, which he coveted so deeply and violently protected from the eyes of others.
For the journal not only contained the techniques to finding and preventing witches, but also a secret that could, if exposed, change the world forever.
-9-
Gophers and Rabbits
JULY 1645
T he next morning, a drizzle engulfed the town of Chelmsford. At the town magistrate’s office, John Gaule was having a chat with the clerk. At the moment, he was naming off every victim of yesterday’s execution. Gaule was looking for one he recognized, but it never came.
“Is twenty-three the most you’ve ever hanged at once?” Gaule asked.
“We can be a little theatrical. Like to make a ceremony of it. Leave them up for a few days as a warning to others.”
“I see. And instead of humanely using the gallows to snap their necks and cause instant release, you chose to string them up like hides in a butcher’s shop, strangling them till death?”
“That is correct,” the clerk said smugly.
Gaule sighed and cursed in Latin. “Fine,” he said. “At least point me in the direction of one of their homes so I can see what this Mr. Hopkins may have found there.”
“Why don’t you ask Hopkins yourself?”
“Excuse me?”
“He’s still in town, you know. About to give a presentation on keeping witches at bay.”
Gaule was taken aback. He thought Hopkins would be far out in front of them by now. Perhaps, he thought, it was a blessing. “Where? And when?” Gaule demanded.
“I, uh, I think right now.” The clerk nodded to the window. “Right up the street.”
Gaule ran outside and looked up the road, where there was indeed a crowd gathering. He found Rebecca beneath the tree in the town center. She was sitting in the grass, looking up at the 23 corpses still dangling from its branches. Their bodies twisted in the breeze, picked at by birds and insects. The dead formed a forest of corpses beneath the tree.
“They look so peaceful in death,” Rebecca said, staring upwards. “Do you think they are?”
“It depends,” Gaule replied.
“On what?”
“Well,” he shrugged, “on where they believe they deserve to be.”
A rat suddenly appeared on Rebecca’s shoulder, squeaking and tugging at her hair.
“Um, Rebecca…” Gaule stared at the rat.
“Don’t worry, he’s friendly,” she said.
“Has it been travelling with us the whole time?”
“He certainly didn’t fly here.” She smiled.
“Right.” Gaule leaned in and squinted at the rodent. “I’ve always understood that rats were much more intelligent than we give them credit for.”
“Yes, but please don’t pet him. I can’t assure you he won’t bite. He doesn’t know you yet.”
“Noted.” Gaule stood up. “I think I will have no trouble avoiding petting him…Now, let’s go.”
“Where are we going?” Rebecca got up and brushed the grass off her clothes.
Before he replied, he started up the road as quickly as he could. Rebecca stumbled behind him, eventually catching up. “Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”
“It appears,” Gaule said, “that Mr. Hopkins is not the ghost I was beginning to imagine he was.”
They stopped at the edge of a large crowd that had gathered around a stage usually reserved for displaying vegetables on offer from local farmers. A sign was hung over the stage, adorned with the word “Demonology” written in faded ink.
On stage, Matthew Hopkins was already speaking. Gaule caught him mid-sentence:
“…indeed there are a number of ways to make my services redundant.” Hopkins walked back and forth on stage as curious villagers looked on. “The best way to stop witches, is to prevent witches. Luckily, there are a number of techniques that one can use to help keep the demons away.”
Hopkins turned to Stearne and snapped toward his shoe. “Please let me borrow your boot, Mr. Stearne.”
“Um,” Stearne wasn’t quite expecting that. “Alright…” He took off his boot and tossed it to Hopkins.
“The shoe,” Hopkins said to the crowd, “is with us all day. In the winters, all night. We have a bond with them. Our essence imbued in the leather. Put this shoe in your chimney. It will attract the witch there, where she will be stuck and die slowly.”
There were nods of approval in the crowd. One man raised his hand and asked, “Sir, what if the witch is more cunning?”
“Ah, then we resort to stronger means,” Hopkins said. “In this case, we may want to use a witch bottle. I have taken the liberty of having Mr. Stearne prepare one earlier.” He nodded to John Stearne, who handed him a ceramic vase. Hopkins shook it. A liquid sloshed inside. “This bottle represents the bladder of the witch. If you feel you are being stalked by one of those vile creatures, targeted, perhaps, then fill it with your own urine. There exists a link between the fluids of the witch and her prey. By filling the bottle with your urine, you are creating a link with her bladder. Simply fill the bottle with nails…” Hopkins did so, letting some bent, rusty nails fall into the urine. “And now you have the witch in pain so excruciating that they will leave you to be.”
More hands went up. More questions. Hopkins answered every one with the confidence of a snake oil salesman. He was a true showman.
And showmen, as Gaule knew, were also always liars. And he was determined to prove it.
When the show had ended, Hopkins answered a few more questions from individual villagers and collected tips in his hat. When the crowd had dispersed, he packed up his winnings and headed for a local tavern.
“Stay here,” Gaule told Rebecca. “I’m going to go have a chat with our friend.”
“And what am I supposed to do?” she whined.
“I don’t know. Keep yourself occupied.”
“Maybe I’ll just whore myself out for the afternoon.” There was clear sarcasm in her voice.
“Whatever.” Gaule shrugged.
“Wait, what? You’re supposed to tell me not to do that!” Rebecca scowled.
“Child, we were a historically matriarchal society up until recently. The whole idea of witches was invented by insecure men not wanting women more intelligent than them upsetting the newfound patriarchy’s foundations. So as far as I’m concerned, Rebecca, if you can exert control over someone else using what little resources society hasn’t stripped of you, then go for it.”
“Um…alright.”
“Stay here.” Gaule jogged across the road and disappeared into the pub, leaving Rebecca alone in the center of town, staring up at the hanging corpses swinging beneath the enormous tree.
M oonlight Inn housed Chelmsford’s premier tavern. It was where what could best be called the nobility of Chelmsford drank. Judges, magistrates, bankers. And on th
is day, they also hosted the esteemed Witchfinder General, who sat at the bar alone, downing a flagon of beer.
“Bit early for the drink, is it not?” John Gaule took a seat at the bar next to Matthew Hopkins.
“Nothing in the Bible against it,” Hopkins replied grouchily, clearly having no interest in entertaining company.
“Is there not?” Gaule ordered a pint. “It is my understanding that wine mocks those who use it, with the drink bringing nothing but woe and sorrow.”
“‘And in the end, it bites like a snake and poisons like a viper.’” Matthew Hopkins rolled his eyes. “I take the warnings as recommendations, not rules. And besides, I revel in woe and sorrow.” Thunder rumbled outside. The rain picked up. A draft from outside swung the oil lamps. “You’re a man of God, clearly.”
“I am.” Gaule took a sip of beer. “Are you?”
“Of course I am,” Hopkins growled, noting the clergyman downing the alcohol with the pace of a common sinner.
“Could have fooled me.”
“Did you not see the tree?” Hopkins nodded to the door, where outside the large tree in the center of town awaited. “Twenty-three traitors to God sent to Hell. All thanks to me.”
“Well, congratulations. I hope your soul is clean.”
Hopkins stared the vicar down. “Who are you?”
“John Gaule. Perhaps you’ve heard of me.”
“I have.” Hopkins smiled. “You’re the one who’s been spreading rumors about my work.”
“Hmm.” Gaule raised his eyebrows. “From what I’ve seen of your little travelling show, the ‘rumors’ painted you in a much better light than you could ever possibly deserve.”
Hopkins laughed. He looked at the innkeeper and ordered two more drinks. One for himself and one for Gaule. “Do you want to hear a story from my childhood?”
“I imagine that’s not a depressing tale at all considering we are sitting in the shadows of twenty-three corpses you are somehow proud of putting there.”
Dead Trees Page 5
