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  DEAD TREES

  Brent Saltzman

  Text copyright © 2017 by Brent Saltzman

  DEAD TREES

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.

  To L

  In 1645, England is in the midst of a civil war.

  Disease, famine, and death stalk the land.

  People are desperate.

  People are scared.

  And people are looking for someone to blame.

  -1-

  Devil’s Marks

  March 1645

  F laming shadows of a dying fire danced upon the stone walls of Elizabeth Clarke’s tiny home. The winter had not been kind to her village, nestled within the heart of Essex on the eastern border of England. This war has been kind to no one, Elizabeth reminded herself as she heaved a log into her fireplace, throwing up a light cloud of ash and embers. Indeed, the civil war that had been ravaging the country had already hit the nation’s citizens hard. Disease, famine, and violence had been rippling through the land for months. The cold seemed to claim another life at least once a week.

  These were dark times.

  But I am here, Elizabeth Clarke would tell herself.

  The fact that she was alive and healthy was a testament to her perseverance. At 80 years old, she was already well past the age that many poor were expected to live; even the nobility rarely reached 70. On top of that, her right leg had been amputated years ago—in fact she could no longer remember how long it had been. She had been using a flimsy wooden prosthetic for so long that she no longer noticed how it clacked on stone floors or left splinters in her bed.

  As Elizabeth Clarke sat down and prepared to retire for the evening, she was greeted by a tiny visitor in the form of one of the several stray cats that occasionally wandered into her home. She let it affectionately rub against her wooden leg then gave it a pat on the head before tossing it a piece of cold beef. She didn’t mind the cats. While a woman who preferred the silence of solitude, she was still prone to the occasional bouts of loneliness. The stray cats helped keep those feelings at bay. Besides, she preferred them over the company of other people. Elizabeth Clarke hated other people, and they hated her because she had little qualm with making her feelings known…quite frequently.

  Which is why she found herself so annoyed when a gentle knock on her front door scared the stray cat into fleeing out of sight.

  “Who’s there?” Elizabeth Clarke asked, taking no caution to hide her sour tone. She really, truly, did not like visitors. Especially at such late hours.

  There was no answer.

  Grumbling, Elizabeth Clarke clambered over and put her ear to the door. On the other side, she heard low, muffled singing: “There was a ship that sailed, on the Lowland Sea. And the name of his ship, was Golden Vanity.”

  “Who’s out there?!” Elizabeth Clarke called again.

  The singing continued. “And we feared she would be taken, by the fearsome enemy. As she sailed through the waves, of the Lowland Sea.”

  Frustrated now, Elizabeth Clarke grumbled and opened the door. Behind it, standing out in the cold night, was her beautiful 15-year-old neighbor, Rebecca West.

  “Good evening, Ms. Clarke,” Rebecca said with a smile. Elizabeth Clarke hated that smile as much as she hated the girl. “It’s quite chilly.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I’m afraid we’ve run out of flour. My mother has asked if we’d to borrow some. She promises to replenish you at the market in two days, with extra.”

  “Fine.” Elizabeth Clarke went to retrieve the flour from her cupboard while Rebecca West followed her inside. Clarke didn’t like the young woman, nor her mother, Anne West. She didn’t like how she was always parading around with young men from the village; a different one every week, it seemed. God does not approve of harlotry. Nonetheless, Elizabeth Clarke wasn’t completely heartless, and also knew the faster she sacrificed some flour, the faster the pretty young thing would be out of her house.

  Rebecca West had what one might call a delightful disposition. She was always cheery. Always smiling. Always radiating innocence.

  Elizabeth Clarke didn’t like it.

  There was something artificial about the girl’s smile. Something sinister. She knew the girl was simply disguising her sinful behavior behind a veil of purity. But Elizabeth Clarke found comfort in knowing that one day the girl would answer to God.

  And God sees past every mask.

  Elizabeth Clarke finally retrieved the flour but nearly leapt off her foot when she saw the large, gray rat perched casually on Rebecca West’s shoulders. The rodent gently tussled the girl’s hair.

  “Vermin!” Elizabeth Clarke shouted, clutching her chest. “Get that filthy creature out of my house!”

  “He’s harmless,” Rebecca assured the old woman. She reached up and stroked her pet rat’s fur. Rebecca West had kept the rodent as a pet for years and was rarely seen without it, but Elizabeth Clarke was certain that the young woman would have the common decency not to bring such a disease-riddled creature into her home.

  “It’s vile! Take your flour and get out!”

  Rebecca thanked the old woman and left, leaving her alone. Elizabeth Clarke sat, still coming down from short breaths, clouds of frosty air escaping her lips. I’m 80 years old, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say she was trying to scare me to death with that ghastly beast!

  After a few minutes, she finally managed to calm down, before there was yet another knock on the door.

  What does she want now?!

  Elizabeth Clarke swung the door open, fully expecting to see the infuriatingly-nubile face of Rebecca West. Instead, she was met by the charming smile of a bearded man in a top hat and cape. He could have been no older than his late 20s, though his rugged physique may have suggested otherwise. His eyes twinkled like the Devil’s himself in the moonlight as his long black coat extended down toward his tall boots. He carried a leather satchel that reminded her of the doctor’s bags they carried when they made house calls.

  He was dressed like the kind of dashing gentleman Elizabeth may have pursued in her younger days. And he spoke like one, too, “Good evening, ma’am.” The man tipped his hat. “I do hope we are not disturbing you.”

  “Who are you?” Elizabeth looked over the man’s shoulder. Behind him, another man stood. This man was ten years older and balding. He was accompanied by four women, all in coats, who looked like teenagers.

  “Ah, how rude of me!” the young man exclaimed cheerily. “My name is Matthew Hopkins. This is my associate, Mr. John Stearne, and our four lovely assistants, Ms. Mary Phillips, Pricilla Briggs, Frances Milles and Elizabeth Hunt. Elizabeth is such a pretty name, don’t you think, Ms. Clarke? Or do you still prefer to go by Mrs? I understand that you are a widow, and I shan’t wish to offend.”

  “I go by piss off,” Elizabeth Clarke said as she attempted to slam the door shut.

  However, Matthew Hopkins coolly placed his satchel in position between the door and the frame, preventing her from closing it. “I’m afraid,” he said, the facade of sweetness quickly fading from his voice, “that we have official orders from the magistrate. You have two options, Ms. Clarke. You can cooperate and get this finished quickly so we can all curl up and go to sleep on this cold night. Or you can resist. And make this evening much more difficult for all parties involved.”

  After a few seconds, Elizabeth Clarke relented and opened the door. “What do you people want?”

  “May we enter your home, Ms. Clarke?” Matthew Hopkins asked, the devilish smile returning.
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  “Guess I’ve got naught a choice if the magistrate’s involved,” she muttered. “Come in. But don’t get too comfortable. I’m tired.” She hobbled over to the fireplace and put on another log as the six visitors filed in, closing the door behind them.

  Matthew Hopkins calmly placed his satchel on Elizabeth Clarke’s table and opened it wide, shuffling through its contents as he spoke. “Are you aware of the strange happenings around the village lately, Ms. Clarke?”

  “I’m aware of the strange happenings across all this bloody land,” she replied grumpily. “Young people killing each other over disagreements on how to worship God. Ridiculous.”

  “Perhaps.” Hopkins shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps not. How one chooses to worship God is of no consequence to me. However, what is important to me is that one is not communing with the enemy of God.”

  Elizabeth Clarke went cold. She gulped, suddenly realizing who these people were. Their silence only confirmed the truth of which she was suddenly, and horrifyingly, aware.

  “Do you understand what I am saying, Ms. Clarke?” Hopkins asked as he pulled a razorblade, glinting in the moonlight that shined in through the windows, out of his bag. He handed the deadly-looking blade to one of the female assistants.

  “Answer him, you demon!” John Stearne barked, his voice like gravel, no doubt ravaged by decades of tobacco and alcohol.

  “Now, now, John,” Matthew Hopkins looked at his associate, “aggression is the enemy of progress.” He turned to Elizabeth Clarke. “Ms. Clarke, you have been formally accused of witchcraft.”

  “I’ve done no such thing!” she seethed. “Magic and hocus pocus is fantasy!”

  Matthew Hopkins smiled. “Ms. Clarke, you seem to have an archaic understanding of what I mean when I say ‘witchcraft.’ I speak not of broomsticks and potions, here. No, no. However, it seems that several villagers have the sneaking suspicion that you have made a deal with the Devil to get your way. And this is treason, ma’am. Not only against your country, but against your God.”

  Elizabeth Clarke was shook. She knew exactly what they were talking about. “The…the child…” she said, her words trembling as the realization struck her swiftly and painfully. “The child…but…I swear, I had nothing to do with it! It was just…it was just coincidence!”

  Matthew Hopkins clasped his hands together, nodded to his assistants, and grinned at the old woman. “My dear, there is no such thing as coincidence.”

  Elizabeth Clarke’s eyes darted back and forth in a panic as three of the four women grabbed her and held her down. John Stearne approached and began ripping off the old woman’s clothes until she was completely nude, her frail body exposed to the cold.

  “Let go of me!” she cried as loudly as she could.

  “Cooperation will ensure speedy proof of innocence, Ms. Clarke,” Hopkins said as his last female assistant approached the old woman, brandishing the razorblade.

  “Are you going to kill me?!”

  “Heavens, no!” Hopkins almost looked offended. “We’re not savages! We kill no one, not even witches. We leave that for the courts to decide.”

  The assistant with the razorblade, who Elizabeth Clarke recognized as Mary Phillips, approached slowly but purposefully. She held the blade high. There was a bloodlust in the young woman’s eyes. A sadistic grin crossed her face.

  “Now,” Matthew Hopkins said, approaching the old woman, “it is my sincerest belief, Ms. Clarke, that you are an innocent woman. So, give us a chance to prove your innocence. Please, do not squirm.”

  Mary Phillips raised the blade to Elizabeth Clarke’s neck. The old woman closed her tear-filled eyes and began to pray in Latin as the young assistant pressed the razor to her skin and ran it down her neck, slicing off a patch of thin, graying hair. Mary Phillips worked like a surgeon, going over every inch of the old woman’s body and removing any shred of body hair she could find.

  “You see, Ms. Clarke, as you are hopefully unaware, one that is in league with the Devil and thus is guilty of the crime of treason and witchcraft never works alone. They must use agents, usually in the form of small animals, to assist with their evil bidding. These are called Familiars, as, again, you hopefully do not know. And they cannot subsist on the normal food like bread or meat that you or I partake in. Instead, these Familiars require sustenance in the form of life energy, which they are given by their host witch.”

  Matthew Hopkins slipped on a pair of glasses and leaned down before Elizabeth Clarke, who was beginning to look defeated. She stared at the ceiling, crying in agony as Hopkins examined her body.

  “When the Familiars feed off their host witch, they leave behind a mark. A Devil’s Mark. Just…like…” he found a small mole on Elizabeth Clarke’s thigh. Four of them, in fact, all forming a peculiar circle. “…these.”

  “I’ve had those forever!” Elizabeth Clarke protested. “Please, sir! I’m not—”

  Just then, there was a commotion at one of the open windows. One of the stray cats, whom Elizabeth Clarke had regularly fed, leapt inside to escape the chill of the outside world. Then another, and another, until four cats looked on curiously at the strange visitors to the domain they often called their own.

  Hopkins’ eyes went wide. “Four Imps [alternative to Familiars, often used interchangeably], four marks.” He smiled and looked at Elizabeth Clarke. “Do you still want to tell me that this is just coincidence?”

  “They’re just strays!” Elizabeth wheezed.

  “What are their names?”

  “They don’t have names!”

  “All witches give their Familiars names,” Hopkins said. “Please, humor me.”

  “I’m not a witch and they don’t have–”

  “What are their names?!” Hopkins exploded, shouting in Elizabeth’s crying face, grabbing the razorblade from Mary Phillips and holding it to the old woman’s neck.

  “I don’t know! Please!”

  Hopkins looked back at the cats. They looked confused but not overly alarmed. Hopkins found their lack of fear, frankly, insulting. He turned back to Elizabeth. “Names. Now.”

  Panicking, Elizabeth looked around the room and named the cats. “Vinegar Tom, Sack and Sugar, Jamara, and, uh…”

  “Name the last Imp, witch!” Hopkins squeezed the blade tight. It trembled in his grip.

  “Holt!” Elizabeth cried. “My last Imp’s name is Holt!”

  Hopkins smiled and stood up, glancing at his compatriots. “Did everyone hear that?”

  “Aye,” John Stearne nodded. “She admitted they were her Imps.”

  “That she did.” Hopkins licked his lips menacingly. “That she did.”

  Minutes later, after allowing Elizabeth Clarke to dress, the witch hunters dragged her out into the cold and stuffed her into the back of their carriage as she cried in dissent. Then, they began the short trek across the village to Colchester Castle, where the poor old woman would be imprisoned until her trial for witchcraft.

  A trial that would set in motion a chain of events that would change the world forever.

  -2-

  Bells and Incense

  AUGUST 1647

  T he girl could have been no more than seven years old. She lied in bed peacefully surrounded by family as her last breaths came in long, difficult gasps. Sweat beaded down her forehead, the final stages of the deadly fever as it prepared to take her life. On one side of her bed, her father held her sobbing mother. On the other side sat a man in formal clergy robes. He was one year from 40 and clean cut with short brown hair and a strong build.

  The minister, John Gaule, stroked the child’s head and sang to her a ballad from his childhood.

  “I’m afraid,” the child said, her voice weak.

  “I know,” John Gaule replied. He took his free hand and grabbed one of hers. He held tight. “But you don’t need to be. The world, the one beyond the veil, is a beautiful world. Full of colors and light and love. Have you ever heard the story of the princess and the peasant?”r />
  The little girl shook her head. She was fading. Fast.

  Her parents knew it. The husband held his wife tighter as their child prepared to take her final breaths.

  John Gaule told the story. “There was a princess. She was beautiful, kind, compassionate. But she had a secret. Every night, she would lock herself in her tower and not emerge till the following morning. No one knew why she did this, but no one really cared. Everyone loved her. Especially a lowly peasant. But the peasant knew he could never be with her. So he kept his distance. Never getting too close.

  “Well, one night, a sparrow came to the peasant’s window. The creature seemed friendly, so the peasant followed it into the woods where, as the sun rose, it transformed into the princess. See, the princess had been cursed long ago. She was doomed to live as a sparrow every single night.

  “But there was a way to lift the curse, you see. The peasant, if he so chose, could have the curse transferred unto him, thus taking on its burden and freeing the princess.”

  “Did he do it?” the little girl asked.

  “Yes,” John Gaule said. “He took her curse and freed her.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he loved her. And this love, this unconditional care for another, is something that you are surrounded with right now. And in the next world, you will feel it always. God will take care of you. He will take on your curses, child. He will take your sickness. He will take your pain. And you will live in His kingdom forever, and you will be happy.”

  “Do you promise?”

  “Yes,” Gaule said. “I promise.”

  T en minutes later, John Gaule left the little girl’s bedroom at her parents’ home and stepped out into the hall. It was here, away from the prying eyes of others, where he slumped to the floor and cried. It was never easy watching someone die. Especially a child.

  What a waste, he thought.

  Here was a life, full of promise and potential, extinguished before it had a chance to blossom into something wonderful.