Phebe Faulkner Cooke

Hunter slayer of the Faulkner (Lancastrian) bloodline (House of Faulkner), known as The Iron Spindle. Craft: Long-Watch Tracking.

Phebe Faulkner Cooke was born in 1733 at Andover, Massachusetts, the younger daughter of a printer and a dairywoman, and she grew up with the smell of lampblack and warm milk in the same house. Called to the work of a vampire slayer in 1758, she became known to the Faulkner Red Ledger as The Iron Spindle, a name that suited both her trade as a herbalist and the thread-thin patience with which she followed her quarry across the hills of Essex County. She never married and had no children, and she died in 1802 at sixty-nine, the last of her household. Andover in the 1730s was a farming town of long stone walls, orchards and a meetinghouse on the green whose bell ruled the day. Her father, Ezekiel Faulkner Cooke, born in 1704, worked as a printer, which in a country town meant almanacs, broadsides, mortgage forms and the occasional sermon set in cramped type. He was ink-stained to the elbow and given to reading proofs aloud in the kitchen. Her mother, Rosamund Hamilton, born in 1699, kept a dairy of a dozen cows, made cheese for the Boston market and, in the quiet years before her daughters were grown, quietly worked as a slayer under the alias The Gentle Kestrel. Phebe therefore grew up in a house where one parent handled type and the other handled silver, and where a hatful of shot in the pantry drew no comment. Her elder sister Rebecca Faulkner Cooke, born in 1732, was the first to be told what the family did. Phebe was taught by watching. She spent her girlhood carrying pails to the dairy, sorting type from the case for her father and learning to sit still for hours on a stone wall with a wool cloak around her while her mother listened to the dark. It was from Rosamund that she learned the beginning of what she would later call Long-Watch Tracking: that most creatures are found not by chasing but by waiting for them to make a small mistake in a place where the mistake can be seen. Her father died in 1746, when she was thirteen, of a lung complaint that ran through the town that winter. Her mother followed in 1756, worn thin by years of night work, leaving the two sisters to carry on the dairy and the press together. Phebe turned to herbalism in her twenties. It gave her a reason to be out on the hills at dawn and dusk with a basket, and it gave her a trade that neighbours respected. She dried and sold tansy, feverfew and horehound, and she made a salve of comfrey and beeswax that was carried as far as Salem. The plants also served as cover. A woman gathering yarrow at the edge of a burial ground draws no notice. Over time she became careful about where the yarrow grew and which graves the soil had settled on, and she kept notes in a small book of receipts that mixed plant lore with a private tally. Her calling came in 1758, during a funeral. She had gone with a neighbour to the burying of a young farmer at a hillside plot outside town. The mourners stood in a cold drizzle while the sexton and two men lowered the pine coffin, and when the lid was lifted for a last farewell, as country custom allowed, the box was empty. There was no shroud, no disturbed earth and no explanation, only a tidy hollow where a body had been laid out the night before. The mourners fell to whispering about resurrection men and a hasty burial, but Phebe stood at the edge and looked not at the coffin but at the ground around it. She saw a line of small marks leading up the hill and understood, with total clarity, that she was looking at a trail and that she could follow it. She went home that night, took her mother's long rifle from behind the loom and began her first hunt at twenty-five. What she built from that night was a method. Her craft, Long-Watch Tracking, was slow and almost dull to observe. She would pick a barn loft, a churchyard wall or a ferry landing and sit there through the entire night, in cold that cracked her lips, until the thing she was looking for moved. She used a long rifle loaded with silver-cast shot, cast in her own kitchen by candlelight, and she fired rarely and never wastefully. The Red Ledger credits her with a modest number of kills by the standard of her cousins, but nearly every entry carries a note of how many nights she waited beforehand, which earned her the name. Spindle, because she drew a single thread out of the dark and wound it in; iron, because she never broke. The years of the war with France passed around her. Massachusetts sent regiments to the northern frontier, and the road through Andover carried recruiting sergeants, wagons and, once, a column of Acadian refugees. Phebe took no part in the fighting, but she noticed that the disorder of the times helped her quarry, for bodies turned up on the roads and nobody counted. When the Revolution came she was in her forties and sold her herbs to the militia surgeons at the camps around Boston, which put her within reach of a great many suspicious deaths. Through those years she moved between the apothecary and the graveyard, and the ledger entries in her hand are precise and short. She did not marry. The reasons are not recorded, and family accounts differ, some saying she considered the hunt a full-time calling and others that she simply preferred her own company and her sister's. Rebecca, who lived nearby, remained her closest confidant and the one person to whom she would confess a missed shot. Phebe's dealings with the Proctor relations were courteous and competitive. She once wrote to a Proctor cousin in Pennsylvania about the Guest of Towton, that unresolved vampire on which both families lay blame, and received a reply of four polite pages that said nothing at all. She kept it in her herb book for the rest of her life as an example of Yorkist manners. In old age she lost the sharpness of her eyes but not her patience. She continued to sit out the occasional night until the winter of her sixty-ninth year, when a chill settled in her chest and she did not rise. She died in 1802, of old age, in the house that had once held a press and a dairy. The Red Ledger carries her final entry, and the Faulkners of later generations kept her rifle, which passed down the line to Kentucky. In the Slayerverse she is remembered as a hunter who proved that the craft did not require speed or fury, only the willingness to wait longer than the dark did.