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The Deacon of Somerset
by Robert Drake
Thomas Mather leaned back against his chair and gently moved the candle sitting upon the oaken table closer so as to bring its dancing light and shadow more fully upon the papers in his lap. At the far end of the small and cozily decorated room sat his wife, Alice, by a spinning wheel. The rhythmic beating of the long wheel as it pulled thread from her hand went unnoticed as Thomas pulled the parchment from his lap and began to read.
The young man’s eyes went back and forth across the page not unlike a farmer plowing a field. It was many moments later when he sighed deeply.
Alice looked up, “My husband? Is something the matter?”
Thomas lowered the parchment and peeked over at his wife, “Deacon Baxter has written another panegyric on vigilance.” His face creased with weary.
“A very suitable topic I should think, but if such things bother you then let us retire for the evening.”
Thomas shook his head, “If this man is to be the preacher of Somerset I should become acquired with his writing. Do not let me trouble you over deep. In that your vigilance may drop.”
Thomas smiled curtly, but Alice had returned to spinning. Then Thomas turned his head abruptly. Beside the table and chair at which he sat, against the wall, was a small window. It was boarded up and the two large shutters were fastened shut by a nail slid through the pinholes of a metal clasp. While dutiful at keeping out the wind and most severe weather, it served quite poorly to block the view as a long slim crack ran between the two shutters offering a mostly unimpeded glipse of the forest beyond.
Slowly Thomas stood and opened the window. It creaked dreadfully and again Alice stopped her spinning, “My husband? Did you spend your time upon the firewood to waste the heat?”
“I saw something.”
“You are most peculiar this evening, Thomas.”
Thomas stood at the window looking outward. Dusk had settled upon Somerset. That time, neither aligned to day or night, is conducive to foul shadows and eerie occurrence, but is particularly nefarious when present about the edge of an old and untamed forest. Such was the view that presented itself to the young farmer Thomas Mather.
To his wife, Thomas’s voice was tempered, “A second of air will do me good.” To his mind he held a conversation of a different tone, “I saw something. I wonder what it was? It did not look like a deer, but I suppose it was.”
As his mind considered the perplexing contrast between what his eyes saw and the mysteries of dusk, a second figure crossed his view. This man was clad in a brown coat and wore a black steeple hat.
Thomas stared outward, “There is a man out there.”
“Again with your fancy, Thomas? Let me warm some milk and then let us retire for the night. Your labors have wearied your mind even if your body retains its vigor.”
“I say to you my wife, there is a man in the forest.” Thomas leaned out the window and yelled, “Good traveler. Why for do you traverse the land at this hour so soon to night?”
The traveler turned. His eyes were wide and, even in the dusky shadows, his face appeared creased in scorn. He looked ragged and his voice was raspy as if the rigors of travel had taxed his throat as greatly as his body.
“Remain in your lodgings dutiful farmer.”
“By the wind that even now causes the trees to rustle, the night promises to be a terror. Come inside traveler and enjoy the heat of my hearth.”
Slowly the traveler removed his hat, “I am no traveler. I am known to you and yours as Richard Baxter. I thank for you hospitality. I would expect no less from as goodly and Christian a family as your name suggests, but I must sadly decline. I have seen evil moving about this forest and intend to confront it.”
“If such be your task Deacon Baxter, allow me to join you. Two would better in such a pursuit,” quoth Thomas Mather.
Deacon Baxter nodded silently, “Come forth then."
Thomas closed the shutters and grabbed a long brown cloak. As he put it on his tall and wiry frame he bid his wife good night, “Sleep without fear my wife.”
“Why do you leave me at an hour such as this?” whispered Alice softly.
“I suspect we are chasing naught, but a deer. Say thy prayers and I shall return soon.”
Thomas closed the door behind him and joined Richard Baxter who was standing about the edge of the forest staring into its darkened depths, his eyes keenly searching.
“Deacon Baxter?”
The deacon turned to Thomas, “Prithee follow me. We have much to do.” Baxter strode forward with singular purpose. Thomas followed close behind, his arms deep within the pockets of his woolen coat.
“Stay close Mather. Great evil infests these woods. My learning will protect me, but I fear for your own.”
“I will be cautious, but what are to be searching for?”
“I would not trouble you with such things. Suffice it to say that all is not well in our fair town of Somerset. I have seen it on the faces of the children. Age has not lined their souls, but when I look at them I see their apprehension. They fiddle on Sundays when our good preacher talks. Such is a sign that, even in their youth, they feel the weight of God’s shame upon them. Only a pervasive and unholy evil could cause such a thing. I fear many children are already lost, but we must find this evil and bring the light of judgment upon it.”
Thomas frowned, but walked forward ducking under a tall limb, “How do we find such a thing? I fear I do not understand.”
“I apologize good farmer. My words are the product of erudition and learning. I could not expect a farmer to be versed in such things. Quite plainly, we seek witchcraft in our midst. I was saying my prayers at my window many hours ago. The children were returning from their schooling to their homes and I saw them distraught. Just then I caught movement at the edge of the forest. I knew then my task. Now come along.”
“This…witch…is ahead of us. There are no tracks. How are you to find it?”
“I am driven by sacred blessings. We will catch up with her easily if we are vigilant and remain dedicated. She is not driven by the same light as men such as. She will feel wearied sooner than us for grace does not reach her. Come!”
Deacon Baxter broke into a stride going deeper and deeper into the forest. Birds cackled overhead as they flew to their roosts.
Thomas Mather pushed through a tangle of vines and stepped over a fallen log. Deacon Baxter stormed forward seemingly inattentive to the forest around him. It did not take long before his arms were scarred from passing branches and his coat covered in leaves.
Despite this the Deacon maintained his purpose, occasionally exhorting his companion to make good speed and persevere. It was in this manner the two traveled for many hours. Finally the two companions came upon a river.
Thomas Mather leaned against a tree, panting. Darkness has descended fully upon the forest and only the shards of moonlight reflecting off the water could be seen.
“We have been walking as the moon goes over us, Deacon. Perhaps there is nothing? Surely this witch, if there was one, has escaped us.”
Deacon Baxter stared forward unwavering, “We must be ever vigilant of trickery. We are no doubt closing in on her foul coven.”
“How so?”
“By what strange coincidence do we find a river upon us? It is well known that witches cannot pass over water, such is agreed upon in every treatise. Why would a witch run towards the water she loathes, unless this river is but a trick, but witchery?!”
“I’ve fished from this river, Deacon. I’ve never known there to be witchcraft.”
“Simple minds succumb easily to the tricks of magic. Go home Mr. Mather and pray. I shall continue my hunt until the end of time. My vigilance shall not fail.”
“My good Deacon…we have walked for hours. Night has fallen. Come to my place and renew your search tomorrow.”
The Deacon ignored Thomas Mather and marched along the length of the river leaving Thomas Mather behind.
“Deacon? Baxter!”
“Go home, Thomas.”
Thomas Mather watched Deacon Baxter disappear into the forest. Mather turned around and slowly returned home. It was only hours before first light when he reached his cabin home.
The next day Alice asked him about his walk.
“The Deacon continued onward.”
“He went on alone?”
“Yes. I tried to get him to return, but he didn’t want to. I am most sorrowful for what may have happened to that man. As unlearned as I am, he did not appear in command of his faculties.” Thomas spoke quietly with a marble frown upon his visage.
“You are too worrisome, Thomas. His dedication to his pursuits is very admirable. He will have great successes in this life and great rewards in the next.” Alice smiled sweetly and went about her morning chores.
Thomas was silent and soon left for the fields.
It was the day after Thomas returned, Sunday, when the Deacon’s disappearance was first remarked upon. He had not returned from his travels nor left any sign of his return or even of his intended destination. Thomas told the congregation of his night meeting, but the matter remained unsolved.
A few days later the Deacon was found. A hunter was returning from an extended foray and came upon a body. The corpse, though already decomposing, was emaciated from lack of water. Curiously enough he was only feet away from a stream. Even stranger his boots were nearly worn through and his legs swollen. The hunter returned his remaining possessions to the town of Somerset and relayed the tale. A party was then sent to bring the body back where it was given a proper funeral. The preacher gave a rousing speech on the piousness and diligence of the young Deacon.
The entire town showed up and full respects were paid, but there was some argument as to whether that was proper. It was brought up by one farmer who lived near the forest that the man had died of thirst when near water and thus appeared to have committed a type of suicide. Ultimately the debate subsided as the harvest season arrived.
Though mostly forgotten there still sits a small granite tombstone near the church of Somerset. For those whose interest compels them to look closely, the time-marred writing on that stone tablet can still be read Thomas Baxter, Deacon of Somerset, Ever-Vigilant.
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