In the shadowed heart of Sélestat, Alsace, beneath the roof of Heinrich Kramer’s ancestral home, a gathering unlike any other took shape. Under the timbered ceiling of a room thick with the scent of old parchment and burning wood, a secret clandestine assembly convened.
Members from the Spanish Inquisition, shrouded in their ominous presence, sat with stoic faces. Beside them, envoys from the Holy See exchanged quiet murmurs that mingled with the nervous breaths of a group of Separatist soon to depart for an uncertain future in the New World. Christian French zealots, eyes ever-watchful, shared space uneasily with other clerics and holy men whose lives were devoted to rooting out heresy.
At the head of the oak table sat Nathaniel Mather, member of the prestigious Mather family, Cotton Mathers brother, his austere countenance betraying no emotion. With a deliberate gesture, Mather raised his hand. The murmurings ceased; all eyes turned towards him. “Holy men,” he began, his voice resonating with authority and conviction. “Thank you for allowing me this meeting, we are united not by our methods or even our beliefs but by a common threat that endangers us all,” Nathaniel paused for effect, “Witches.”
In the dimly lit chamber, the fire’s glow cast dancing shadows across the walls, echoing the quiet unrest that filled the air. Nathaniel Mather stood at the head of the room, a man whose reputation for piety and fervor in combating the occult preceded him. His piercing gaze swept across the faces of those gathered before him, delegates from far and wide, each touched by witchcraft’s blight in their own lands.
“We stand on hallowed ground,” Nathaniel declared, his voice steady and imbued with an undercurrent of zealous passion. “Here, in this room, in the house where Heinrich Kramer, author of the Malleus Maleficarum, The Witches Hammer, was born and grew up; I proposed that we unite, not as adversaries but as brethren bound by a sacred duty to protect good Christian people from the darkness that festers in secret corners and open fields alike.”
He paused, allowing his words to settle like a weight upon the assembly. The delegates from Paris, Rome, London, and beyond sat rigid in their chairs, their expressions taut with anticipation. Nathaniel’s next words would be the fulcrum upon which fates would pivot.
“It is clear that our individual efforts, while valiant, have not sufficed to stem this unholy tide,” he continued. “The scourge of witchcraft knows no borders; it mocks our attempts at containment.”
Nathaniel surveyed the chamber, noting that each person hung on his every utterance, precisely as he had intended.
“But what if we joined forces? What if we shared our knowledge and resources?”
A murmur rippled through the room. Eyes met across the divide of nationality and creed—some with skepticism, others with a realization of potential.
Nathaniel raised his hands to quell the burgeoning whispers. “I propose a covenant—a holy order, a court of the highest king, a group of men dedicated to stamping out the infernal scourge of witchcraft. A brotherhood forged in truth and resolve to pursue these malevolent forces to the ends of the earth.”
In the corner, shrouded in a brooding silence, sat Javier de Zayas, one of the inquisitors for Spain. His presence was as formidable as the institution he represented. His eyes, dark pools of unwavering conviction, fixed upon Nathaniel Mather with an air of supreme confidence.
“We have not crossed treacherous seas and left our sovereign lands to bow before another’s command,” Javier spoke, his voice a low rumble that resonated with centuries of inquisitorial power. “The Inquisition has purged Spain of heretics and witches without the aid of foreign…..witch hunters. Our methods are proven; our resolve is unbreakable.”
A hush fell over the assembly as all attention shifted to the large Spanish man. The tension hung thick in the air, a tangible thing that threatened to fracture the tentative unity Nathaniel had striven to create.
Nathaniel met Javier’s gaze with a calm that belied the urgency thrumming in his veins. “Señor de Zayas, your reputation precedes you, as does that of the Holy Inquisition,” he acknowledged with a nod of respect. “Indeed, your triumphs are spoken of far and wide. But we face an enemy that does not respect borders or fear individual might.”
He paced slowly before the assembly, words measured and deliberate. “Consider this—each land brings its own unique perspective, by combining our strengths, we do not show weakness but wisdom.”
Javier’s lips pursed slightly, his brow furrowed as he considered Nathaniel’s words. Around him, delegates from other nations watched keenly, sensing the pivotal nature of this exchange.
“The witch’s web is vast,” Nathaniel pressed on, “and they draw power from dark sources we can scarcely fathom alone. Together, however, we can unravel their sorcery and strike at the heart of their covens with unparalleled force.”
He paused before Javier, extending an open hand in a gesture that bridged more than just physical space—it was an offering of partnership among equals.
“Join us,” Nathaniel implored, his voice soft yet laden with gravity. “Lend us your strength so that we may fortify our own. In unity lies our greatest weapon against this shared scourge.”
Javier remained motionless for a moment that stretched long and taut. Then slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, he inclined his head—a silent concession to the possibility of alliance.
As Nathaniel Mather’s proposal hung in the air, a sense of reluctant agreement began to weave its way through the assembly. However, within the throng of solemn faces, a ripple of discord stirred among one group. The Separatists, their features etched with the trials of their faith, exchanged uneasy glances. The idea of a covenant bound by shared purpose was one thing, but an alliance that brushed shoulders with Catholicism was quite another.
“We seek refuge from persecution, not to sup at the table with those who might as easily turn their holy wrath upon us. Many of my brothers and sisters have already journeyed to the new world to be away from them!” voiced Elijah, a grizzled elder amongst the Separatists. His voice, tinged with the bitter memories of religious strife, resonated with the murmurs of agreement from his brethren.
The Separatists stood apart, their plain garments a stark contrast to the rich vestments and intricate robes of the other delegates. They were people of the Book, unyielding in their convictions, and wary of the very institution that had so often sought to bend them to its will.
Nathaniel Mather turned his attention to the Separatist. He knew well the deep chasm that lay between these devout men and women and the Catholic delegates who sat among them. “Friends,” he began, his voice suffused with a sincerity that reached out to touch even the most skeptical heart. “Our quest transcends our earthly quarrels over doctrine and rite.”
He stepped closer to Elijah and his followers, his eyes searching theirs for an ember of common ground. “Some among you have fled across oceans to practice your faith freely. Among them, my brother’s, father and other relatives, you know I would not lead you into darkness. Yet here we stand, threatened by a darkness that cares not for our divisions but delights in them.”
The room stilled as Nathaniel’s words found their mark. He spoke not only to their minds but also to their spirits—a call for unity against a shared enemy that respected no boundary nor creed.
“We need not forge bonds of faith,” Nathaniel continued, his voice soft yet fervent. “But let us consider a truce against a greater evil—a union in purpose if not in prayer.”
Elijah’s weathered face softened as he considered Nathaniel’s words. His eyes drifted towards Javier de Zayas and then back to his own people. They were pilgrims in truth—searchers for sanctity in a world mired in shadows.
“We shall join,” Elijah finally said, his voice steady as if fortified by newfound resolve. “Not as Catholics or Protestants but as guardians against the night.”
A barely perceptible smile graced Nathaniel Mather’s stern visage as he watched the assembly reach an accord. Unity, albeit fragile, had been forged in the crucible of shared adversity. He cleared his throat, the sound cutting through the whispers like a ship’s prow through calm waters.
“Brethren,” Nathaniel announced, “our truce is timely. For I bear grave tidings that demand our immediate counsel.”
Heads turned, eyes narrowed in anticipation. The fire crackled, its flames casting an ominous dance upon the faces of those gathered.
“The witches,” he continued, his voice a low thrum of urgency, “are not content to fester in our towns and villages. They hunger for virgin lands where their malevolence might grow unchecked.”
A collective intake of breath filled the room. Nathaniel waited a moment, allowing the gravity of his words to sink in before delivering his final blow.
“It is believed they have acquired a ship. Their intent: to voyage to the New World.”
The murmurs erupted into clamor. Javier de Zayas rose from his seat, his expression as dark as the omens foretold.
“We must scuttle their plans,” he declared. “If these agents of darkness reach untouched shores, who knows what power they might amass?”
Nathaniel nodded gravely. “Indeed, Señor de Zayas. We must act swiftly and decisively.”
Elijah’s eyes blazed with a fervor equal to any Inquisitor’s. “My brothers left our home to escape such evil,” he spat out. “We cannot allow it to take root in new soil.”
From across the room, voices ascended in a cacophony of agreement and outrage. Plans of interception were proposed; strategies debated with heated intensity.
Nathaniel raised his hands for silence once more. “This council was convened not merely to discuss but to act against this threat,” he reminded them. “We have among us resources and knowledge that span continents.”
The delegates turned towards him once again, their faces set with determination.
The chamber fell silent, every ear attuned to Nathaniel Mather’s voice as he prepared to disclose the heart of the matter. “Our intelligence suggests,” he began, his voice cold and steady, “that the ship is being built in Amsterdam. We must burn the shipyards of Amsterdam to the ground,” he declared, his hands clenched as if he could already feel the heat of the flames.
The assembly recoiled at the audacity of the plan. The destruction Nathaniel proposed was not just an attack on the witches but an assault on Amsterdam itself. Yet, as they considered the gravity of the witches’ potential departure to new lands, a grim agreement settled upon them.
“We must act without mercy,” Nathaniel continued, “for mercy is what they exploit. I care not for the collateral—the craftsmen, the merchants, anyone who stands with them is against us.”
Whispers swirled around the room like leaves in a tempest. The Spanish inquisitors exchanged dark nods of approval; their history was one written in fire and blood. The other delegates, though initially shocked by Nathaniel’s callous disregard for innocent life, could not deny the chilling effectiveness of such a strategy.
“But what of those who have no hand in this?” questioned Elijah, his voice strained with conflict. “Must we condemn all for the sins of a few?”
Nathaniel’s gaze was unyielding as stone. “It is a sacrifice for the greater good,” he insisted. “A necessary purging to prevent a greater evil from taking root.”
The room was thick with tension, each man wrestling with his conscience. To strike such a blow would be to embrace darkness in pursuit of light—a paradox that left even the most devout amongst them unsettled.
“Amsterdam is a hub of commerce,” pointed out another delegate, his voice tinged with pragmatism. “Such an act could bring repercussions upon us all.”
Nathaniel acknowledged this with a slight incline of his head. “Our actions will indeed echo through history,” he said. “But consider what legacy we leave if we allow these witches to escape and thrive.”
A collective breath was drawn as each man pondered Nathaniel’s words and it was decided, they would burn the ship yards to the ground.
Author
