Dead Trees

by Brent Saltzman

  Uh oh, she thought. Matthew had been naughty.

  She pocketed the letter and went back to work. At the end of the bed she found a storage cabinet. Inside of that, she found her prize: Matthew Hopkins’ leather journal, his initials carved into the front.

  Though she knew she probably needed to wait for John Gaule, she couldn’t resist. She set down her candle and flipped through the journal.

  And gasped.

  At first she did not understand what she was seeing. But then, after flipping through the numerous pages, she put the puzzle together.

  And it explained everything.

  H opkins and Gaule sat together in relative silence. Gaule finally broke it, tipping his mug. “Never thought we’d be doing this again, huh?”

  “I am very tired, Mr. Gaule. Please just tell me what you need to so I may retire in peace.”

  “Wouldn’t we all want that?” Gaule smiled. “For you to retire in peace. Never bother us again.”

  “This meeting’s over.” Hopkins stood angrily and started back toward his room.

  “Your father wouldn’t be proud!” Gaule shouted.

  Hopkins stopped. He turned around.

  “That is why you do what you do, yes?” Gaule asked. “To make daddy proud?”

  “Been talking to my brother, have you?”

  “Everyone talks, Matthew.” Gaule took a sip of beer. “But sometimes you have to really listen, to understand what they are trying to say.”

  “And what did my brother say, exactly?”

  Gaule knew he was getting to him. Truthfully, he had said nothing to his brother. He’d never even met the man. But Gaule, in his two decades of speaking to people through confession booths, had learned a thing or two about human nature. It was the most broken ones, he realized one day, that often felt they had the most to prove. And Hopkins struck Gaule as a man who felt he had a lot to prove.

  “Your brother,” Gaule said, “fears what his brother has become. And knows that your dear father would never be able to handle seeing you like this. Look at yourself, Matthew. The name Hopkins had once inspired hope, but now it just instills fear. Please. End this. You can still save your name. And your soul.”

  Hopkins was silent for a long, long time. But finally, and disappointingly, he let out a laugh. “That’s the best you’ve got?”

  Gaule shrugged. “My best shot.”

  “Never go into theater, Gaule. Your acting is terrible.”

  “The point remains, Matthew. Your father was an honorable man of God. What would he think of this?”

  “You’re not going to get the answer you want, Gaule,” Hopkins sneered. “But I will give you an answer. He. Would. Be. Proud.”

  Gaule glanced up to see Rebecca West quickly peer over the railing. Hopkins hissed something at Gaule then turned up the stairs. Rebecca West passed him and he gave her a vague look of recognition before letting her by.

  “Matthew,” Gaule shouted up at Hopkins.

  Hopkins turned and gave him a final, hard stare.

  “Never go into theater, either.”

  Hopkins waved him off and disappeared into his room, slamming the door shut. Moments later, there was a cry of panic from his room. This was accompanied by the sound of boxes and bags being flung about. Finally, Hopkins opened the door and emerged onto the balcony, looking enraged. He scanned the lobby, looking for Gaule and Rebecca West. When he didn’t see them, he kicked open the door to the room next door.

  It was empty.

  S ome ways down the street, in the attic of an old woman’s house, Rebecca and John Gaule sat around a small candlelight. Gaule had known the woman for many years and had made lunch with her on several occasions during his trips through Ipswich. Earlier in the day, she had agreed to hide Gaule and Rebecca from Hopkins.

  Rebecca had been apprehensive, fearing that the woman would turn them in. Gaule asked her to have faith, and luckily for both of them, it had been rewarded. When Matthew Hopkins banged on the door to the woman’s home as he searched every building in town for Gaule and Rebecca, the woman told him that she had never heard of them and even offered to let him look around. That moment, if Gaule was being honest, scared him. Luckily, Hopkins didn’t call the woman’s bluff and moved on to the next house.

  In the attic, Gaule caught his breath. Rebecca did not seem the least bit concerned as she sat cross-legged in front of the candle and handed Gaule the journal she had stolen from Hopkins’ room.

  “I also found this letter, from parliament,” Rebecca handed Gaule the worn letter.

  He looked over it. “Very interesting.”

  Apparently, Hopkins had indeed drawn the attention of parliament, enough so that they were actually requesting he come to London to “validate” his techniques. Apparently this didn’t sit well with the man. And Hopkins’ journal would unveil why.

  As Gaule prepared to open it, Rebecca’s rat appeared on her shoulder. He kept forgetting the thing existed until it appeared again. And it made him jump every time.

  “Don’t be frightened,” Rebecca said. “He knows you’re a good man at this point.” She pet the rat. “He would’ve bit you if you weren’t.”

  “I’m honored.” Gaule rolled his eyes. “It’s still just a bit weird of a pet, that’s all.”

  “Ah, a lecture on being weird from a man who carries around exploding pebbles in his pocket.”

  “For science.”

  “I’m sure.” She nodded to the journal. “Open it. It’s…not quite what I was expecting.”

  “I’m expecting handwritten tips on how to deal with witches and possibly the secret to what makes Matthew Hopkins tick. If it’s anything less, I’ll be disappointed.” Opening the journal, Gaule quickly cycled through its pages, his eyes lighting up.

  It hadn’t been handwritten tips on how to deal with witches. But it did reveal the secret that Matthew Hopkins had been hiding from all eyes other than his own.

  Gaule, needless to say, was not disappointed.

  -15-

  Angel Flames

  SEPTEMBER 1645

  One Day After the Arrest of Mary Lakeland

  M orning. The insects, frogs and birds that had made Ipswich their home hummed to life. Sunlight streamed in through the metal bars of Mary Lakeland’s prison cell, where together with the teenage Alice Denham, she was awakened by a guard. He was accompanied by one of the magistrates.

  “Alice Denham and Mary Lakeland,” the magistrate said. “We have come to a decision.”

  D ownstairs, in the reception area of the magistrate’s office, John Gaule argued with the clerk. “I have to see your superior! It’s important!”

  “It does not look important,” the clerk replied, flipping through Hopkins’ journal. “I do not even understand this.”

  “That belongs to Matthew Hopkins. And it proves that those women are innocent!”

  “How?”

  John Gaule explained the importance of the journal and its mysterious contents. The clerk still did not understand. Gaule was getting frustrated now. He knew the lives of Alice Denham and Mary Lakeland were at stake.

  Little did he know, that just outside, they were indeed at stake…quite literally.

  Rebecca turned her attention away from the men as they argued incoherently behind her. She stepped through the door, onto the sidewalk, and looked on as Alice Denham and Mary Lakeland were tied, back to back, against a pole in front of the town church. A crowd had gathered around to watch officials toss straw around the women, creating a mound so high that it nearly touched their knees.

  Alice Denham screamed and squirmed. Her face was red with tears. An official silenced her by tying a cloth around her head, covering her mouth. Somehow, Rebecca thought, it made it worse. Now, instead of shrill screams, she could hear only the muffled crying of the girl no older than herself.

  Mary Lakeland had been more resigned to her fate. She didn’t even protest. Instead, she just slumped forward. Nonetheless, the officials gagged her as well. If o
nly as a precautionary measure against what happened next.

  While Gaule, oblivious to what was happening outside, continued to argue with the clerk, Rebecca stared in a trance as the women’s bodies were doused with thick, black tar. Meanwhile, off to the side, a minister read last rites. When he had finished, the women were covered in so much tar that it was astonishing they hadn’t drowned.

  More straw was applied. Not at their feet, however, but on their bodies. Officials covered the women in straw, which stuck to the tar like glue, until they were barely recognizable as people anymore. Instead, they just looked like husks, like shells, like dolls made of straw.

  When the fire was lit, the two women were immediately engulfed in the beastly flame. Even with the muzzles, their terrified screams of pain ripped through Rebecca’s ears. It continued on for what felt like an eternity, before finally fading. The screams were replaced by the pops of their flesh and fat. As they melted, and their flesh sloughed away, the bones of their shoulders burned bright and hot. In the fire, Rebecca thought, they looked like angels.

  “Don’t look, child!” John Gaule, having realized what was happening, covered Rebecca’s eyes. “Don’t look.” He held Rebecca close and began to pray under his breath.

  The fire took only a few minutes to go out. When it was over, the smoldering remains of the stake and the charred bodies tied to it resembled a dead tree, the smoke of its soul ascending into the heavens.

  “He’s not getting away with this,” Gaule seethed, suddenly filled with anger. “I’m ending this. Now.”

  Gaule left Rebecca behind and took off in a full sprint toward the Windward Inn. He pushed through patrons and grabbed a dinner knife off a table as he rushed upstairs. When he reached the top, he gripped the knife tight and kicked in the door to Mathew Hopkins’ room.

  It was empty.

  He tossed over blankets and threw open drawers. Looking for something. Anything. He was blinded by fury.

  “He’s gone,” Rebecca West said, leaning against the doorframe. “He’s left, John.”

  Gaule took deep breaths. He dropped the knife, letting it clank on the floor. He exhaled. “He has to be stopped.”

  “Are you going to keep chasing him?” Rebecca asked.

  “Someone has to.”

  “There are other ways, you know.”

  “I’m all out of mercy.”

  “Nonsense, you’re a man of God.” Rebecca walked in and closed the door behind her. She spoke in a calm, almost motherly voice as Gaule sat on the floor and slumped against a dresser. “Men of God,” Rebecca said, “do not let rage guide them. A great man once told me that hate will only ensure more hate.”

  “What are you saying?” Gaule asked.

  “Maybe it’s time to go home. To Great Staughton.”

  “While Hopkins kills again?”

  “Hopkins is a rabid dog. A dying one, John. He’s by himself now. Parliament is on to him.”

  John Gaule nodded. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I can do more damage with my pen than I ever could…with this.” He looked at the dinner knife.

  “You’re a good man, John Gaule.” Rebecca grabbed his hand. “I admittedly know very little about this world, or about life, but I know this to be a solid truth. Maybe the only truth I’ve ever really known.”

  “Thank you.” Gaule sighed. “I just wish that I…I could have saved at least one.”

  “Hey.” Rebecca touched his cheek and looked into his eyes. “You did.”

  Downstairs, there was commotion. Someone was shouting, “It’s a miracle!”

  Curiously, Gaule and Rebecca went to investigate when they looked outside to see a crowd had gathered around a tiny home near the water.

  “What’s going on?” Gaule asked the innkeeper.

  “Not sure. Something about Edward Reade’s boy. The one who that witch Lakeland had given all those boils and rashes to.”

  John and Rebecca exchanged curious looks then darted out into the crowd. They pushed their way to the front where Edward Reade emerged from the house, smiling brightly. Behind him came his son, Henry Reade. However, unlike the red mess of rashes that had been described to John Gaule, Henry Reade looked clear as day. Not a single mark adorned his body and he looked to be the picture of good health.

  “The witch’s curse,” Edward Reade declared confidently, “has been lifted!”

  -16-

  Dead Trees

  AUGUST 1647

  Two Years Later

  J ohn Gaule finished reading the letter from Matthew Hopkins. After the initial surprise, he laughed it off, crumpled it up, and tossed it in a bin near his desk.

  “Well,” Daniel asked, “what did it say?”

  “He said he’d be paying us a visit, soon.”

  “And this, uh, this doesn’t concern you?”

  “Of course not.” Gaule picked up a few other letters on his desk. He started opening them, glancing at them, then tossing them back. “Mr. Hopkins’ activities slowed to a trickle months ago and he hasn’t been seen since. Most likely crawled back to Manningtree after the last village told him to take a hike. He’s not the bogeyman he once was. The killing of John Lowes was enough to scare most people off.”

  “When was the last time you saw him, exactly?” Daniel asked, crossing his arms. He could not hide the hint of concern in his voice.

  “Oh, two years ago now, in Ipswich.”

  “Ah, the case of Mary Lakeland. Tell me, was it not convincing?” Daniel asked.

  “Convincing?” Gaule stopped and peered at a letter that had gained his particular interest. “What do you mean?”

  “The boy. His wounds healed after the witches had burned. And the woman’s husband…he died on the same day she was arrested.”

  “Accused witches.” Gaule shook his head. “The boy was twenty-two years old and had probably picked up some fever. I’ve seen kids his age look like death one morning and a ray of sunshine the next. Believe me, neither Lakeland nor Denham were witches. Her husband, from what I understand, had been ill for months. His death was just…convenient.”

  “So, you believe Hopkins has retired for good?”

  “Yes. Reduced to sending out threatening letters. The final stages of a losing battle. I imagine he’s burned his last witch. After parliament’s crackdown, none of his malarkey will fly in the courts anymore. He’ll be remembered as a crazy old psycho. Nothing more.”

  “As long as you are certain.”

  “I am.” Gaule finished reading a letter from his dear Rebecca West. Apparently she was ready to celebrate her 18th birthday somewhere in Suffolk. When she finished, she was going to return to Great Staughton to continue her lessons.

  Gaule smiled. He had taken in Rebecca West as a student shortly after Ipswich. She’d excelled, racing past her other pupils in nearly every category. She seemed to take great pride in outperforming the male students, in particular.

  She worked at the church three seasons out of the year but spent her summers travelling. Every time, she’d come back with a different story about where she’d been or the people she’d met. The young woman, Gaule thought, was going to do remarkable things. He couldn’t wait to see her again. She’d become like a daughter to him, the one he always wanted but was never blessed enough to have.

  Perhaps, God was looking out for me after all.

  John Gaule had met many people in his journey through life, but very few struck him as sweetly as Rebecca West. She, in his eyes, was really, truly, a good person. One of the few genuinely good people he’d ever met, in fact. This thought comforted him.

  But he was wrong.

  H alf a country away, Matthew Hopkins sat in his master suite at the Thorn Inn. The inn he had purchased over a decade ago had become so sparingly-used that it was falling apart from the inside, not much more structurally sound than the ruins of the numerous medieval castles that dotted England.

  Outside, the wind howled. Rain drenched the little inn, leaking through the ceiling. Hopkins had been
ill for weeks. His skin was pale. It was suggested that he had picked up tuberculosis. A weaker man may have succumbed, but Hopkins would not allow himself to go without a fight. Despite his crippling sickness, he pressed on, writing letters to parliament, to Gaule, to whoever would listen to his increasingly-delusional rants and raves.

  When he was finished with his tour of East Anglia, 300 men and women had been sent by him to the gallows. Hundreds of sinners had been cleansed from the land. Yet still, he did not sleep soundly. Something had nibbled at his mind.

  Something was still not right.

  Hopkins had not spoken to another human being for nearly a month. Towns and villages no longer accepted his services. He had become an outcast, a symbol of dread with whom no one wanted to associate. He found solitude to be his only company, though he was now giving serious consideration to heading into town for a tonic to help with his illness.

  He had hoped it would die down soon. But it hadn’t. It had only gotten worse. He was worried that picking up anything else would be the end of his life as he knew it.

  I have been a warrior of God, he thought.

  He will not allow me to die of this.

  He will not allow me to die alone.

  As darkness settled over Manningtree, Hopkins took off his hat and prepared to go to sleep, hoping he’d eventually throw up whatever sickness was festering inside of him. But as he sat on his bed, he noticed something: a book on his nightstand.

  His book.

  It was the journal.

  Shaking, he picked up the book and looked inside. Though he hadn’t seen it in two years, since it was stolen in Ipswich, it was just as he had remembered it.

  Every page was blank.

  You must do what is necessary even at the cost of your soul, Matthew Hopkins heard the words of his father. Your mission will cost innocent lives. But they will serve a higher purpose and be welcomed into God’s kingdom. Hopkins closed the journal of blank pages. He gulped. He remembered his father’s final words. You must restore balance. You must keep our faith in control. Even if it is through terror. Even if it is through fear. God…will…forgive…