Religious Quests : Shadows from the Forests Edge

EXT. SALEM VILLAGE – NIGHT – JANUARY 26TH, 1692

That winter night.....

A group of people—about twenty to thirty—walked slowly down the snowy path. They were known as the Puritans, dressed in long black coats and thick wool cloaks to keep out the cold.

Their black horses snorted loudly, as their hooves crunched and cracked the ice with every step.

Their faces were pale and serious, and all of them held something in their hands—big old bibles, a cross or burning torches that lit their path.

They chanted as they walked, their voices rising high:

"In nomine Domini, eicite daemonia!"

As they passed the edge of the village, the dirt road thinned, growing narrow and becoming all bumps and dips under their horses' hooves, making every step a little off-balance.It curved along a line of bare trees, until it opened near a small, crooked cottage that sat alone by the woods.

The leader of the Puritans, Madame Ginevra, riding at the front, tugged gently on the reins of her black horse.

Her face was pale, drawn taut over high cheekbones with a long, angular face.

Deep lines run from the sides of her nose to the corners of her down-turned mouth, while on the top of her head was a tight black bonnet, her eyes were dark and slightly sunken. She wore a rigid black cloak that covers her shoulders and falls heavily down her front.

Her black horse let out a low grunt and slowed its pace. The others behind her—the riders in dark cloaks—followed suit, their horses slowing down and snorting, until they all came to a halt.

No one spoke.

Madame Ginevra's eyes were fixed on the cottage ahead.

It didn't look like the others back in the village. Its walls were made of dark wood, uneven and rough, not painted nor cared for. The windows were shut tight, and there was no candlelight behind the glass. No smoke came from the chimney.

She didn't say a word, only tilted her head just slightly to the side, listening.

A few seconds passed.

Then—THEY HEARD SOMETHING ! ! !

Madame Ginevra flinched. Her gaze dropped quickly to the ground.

From beneath a thorny bush near the edge of the clearing....

.....a few mice darted out, scurrying across the frozen road. They disappeared into another patch of dead leaves and vanished.

That was all.

Behind her, the other Puritans shifted in their saddles, some adjusting their posture, others glancing around the trees, already getting bored, as usual no dare to question her.

Only Thomas Jefferson Junior, one of her most loyal riders, cleared his throat softly.

His black-gloved hand reached down to adjust the leather strap on his saddlebag, more out of nerves than needed. He nudged his horse forward a few paces.

The animal obeyed with a snort.

Thomas wore a stark black coat with a high collar and a broad-brimmed hat, typical of Puritan ministers. He looked up at Madame Ginevra, careful to keep his voice respectful. "Madame?" he said.

"Is something the matter?" His eyes followed hers to the cottage, but all he saw was a quiet, crooked building with nothing particularly strange about it.

To him, it looked old, yes—but harmless.

Ginevra didn't answer right away.

Her dark eyes stayed on the windows—shut tight, wooden slats slightly warped by weather. Still, she stared at them and was curious to know what lay behind the glass.

She'd seen too much to trust the outer layer of things. Madame Ginevra turned her head toward him and finally spoke.

"The Lord abideth not in this house, Thomas."

Thomas narrowed his eyes in confusion.

And with that, Madame Ginevra dismounted, her boots touched the snow. The leaves beneath her feet were damp, stuck with moss and bits of frozen bark, which clung to the hem of her long black coat.

Some of the other Puritans made uneasy glances at one another, as she continued walking forward, slow and calm, eyes never left the house. She reached the porch step, lifted her hand, and was just about to knock—

Then came a voice.

Low and Deep

"Madame...."

Every head slowly turned toward the edge of the forest. The Puritans stopped what they were doing, their eyes fixed on the trees. Even Ginevra, who was rarely surprised by anything, turned her gaze to the dark line where the forest began.

There was a moment of silence.

Then, from beneath the wilderness, a figure began to appear. At first, it was hard to tell what it was. It moved slowly. Bit by bit, the figure stepped into the light, and everyone stood frozen, watching.

A tall horse stepped into the light—brown and white, and it stood quite still, like frozen in time or something. The hooves made almost no sound on the frozen terrain.

And upon it, sat a figure draped entirely in black.

He was tall, sitting proud on his horse. His coat was long, dark, tight and buttoned to the throat. Snow clung to his shoulders and sleeves. Black gloves, looked freshly oiled and perfectly fitted. His wide-brimmed hat dipped forward, casting most of his face into obscurity—until he lifted his chin.

And revealed those grey eyes.

He pulled the reins gently. His horse moved forward slow and calm.

Sir Malevich of Catan II

Thomas eyes widened.

Sir Malevich looked around at the group of Puritans in front of him. He saw every face and he didn't turn his eyes, not even for a second.His eyes moved from one to the next like he was counting them. His smirk remained.

Then his eyes landed on one person—Madame Ginevra, who stood tall, hands folded, just staring at him.

Malevich stopped. His horse stood still now. He leaned forward a little.

Then, with his dry, rough voice, he spoke.

"It's almost dawn....."

He paused, looking at everyone slowly again and addressed them.

"I… suppose I must say, it's truly an honour to stand among such great Ministers."

He let out a smirk.

"It is something, isn't it? I've heard the stories — the fine, noble tales."

He gave a quiet laugh.

"And yet… not one of them quite matched the truth of it."

He turned then, his smile growing as his gaze settled on a particular face.

"Not even my old friend here," he said, locking eyes with Thomas.

"Failed to mention that you're also quite the… 'laggard'"

He added

"never quite on time, are you?"

Silence.

A deep, heavy silence.

Thomas moved his horse ahead, placing himself between the Puritans and the rider in black. "How did you find us, Malevich?"

Malevich tilted his head. Smiled wider and mocked him.

"Seek… and ye shall find, Thomas"

Letting out a tiny laugh.

Meanwhile, the snow kept falling even faster this time. It landed on cloaks, on bonnets, on the lantern glass as the wind itself moved gently shaking the leaves of tall trees.

Thomas said absolutely nothing, he stood completely still, his eyes were fixed on Sir Malevich, his jaw was clenched. Behind him, the other Puritans began to feel uneasy.

They did not speak aloud, but only whispered.

A few looked at each other with wide eyes.

Thomas gaze remained, before breaking to the side and uttered calmly. "Right now..... There's a lot of good, you could do for yourself, Malevich," Then faced him again. "Turn around. Take your cursed horse. Go back to whatever pit you dragged yourself out of."

Silence followed.

Malevich didn't smile this time.

He slowly folded his arms across his chest, then tilted his head, watching Thomas — the way a predator watches its prey before the strike.

Then, in a soft tone, he spoke.

"You see, Thomas…"

He leaned forward in the saddle. "I will not the deny the fact that I'm quite delighted to see you stand firm now—how noble you look—surrounded by cloaks and scriptures" He paused, eyes scanning the frozen crowd behind Thomas.

"But where was this voice… when Salem needed it the most.....huh?"

He waited for a few seconds and continued.

"Where was this courage… when children screamed behind barred doors? When mothers begged on their knees, clutching the bodies of their kin?"

His voice grew heavier. "Do you know how many names were carved into stone, Thomas? Only because you refused to listen to the prophecies that were given to you"

Another pause, longer this time.

"And after all of it… after all the blood that was shed…"

He looked around again—at the faces.

"This town has the guts to welcome you back as their own with open arms. You got their forgiveness, their trust and prayers."

His tone was calm, but you could sense the anger that was beginning to build up.

Silence arose

A few of the Puritans started turning to Thomas. Their faces were drawn and tight. Suprisingly, some started to frown and squint, trying to make sense of what was being said.

Though they didn't speak. But Thomas felt every small weight of doubt crawling across every single one of them.

He knew what they were thinking.

And Malevich… he knew it too.

He gave his usual smirk and whispered.

"What's the matter, Thomas?"

He added with a louder tone "Didn't you tell your brothers and sisters in the Lord about your Inner-Judas?"

Sir Malevich turned his gaze to the crowd.

"How all you did that night... was run and escape. Leave the people of Salem behind while you clung to survival. But let me tell you something quite valuable, Thomas. Sometimes in life, surviving could be the worst mistake a man could make, especially when his demons still chase him."

He paused.

"I told you what I saw. I begged you to listen. The prophecies weren't just dreams… they were warnings. Night after night, I shared them with you. The burning sky. The screams. The blood. But you brushed them off, didn't you? Like they were just the ramblings of an insane psychopath."

"And now…"

Malevich's tone got softer as his gaze drifted to the small gowns tied carefully on the side of his horse. They were quite faded and merely stitched together. "His own family," he whispered, "his own blood... is nothing more than dust beneath his feet."

He turned back toward the Puritans. "The very ground he walks on remembers them better than HE—the one who swore to protect them."

A single tear slides down his cheeks. Then he lifted his eyes. "You think that faith has softened me?" he asked, and let out a small laugh.

"Absolutely not."

"Yes, I have found religion… but...."

His eyes locked on Thomas.

"Some debts… are way too deep for forgiveness."

Thomas said nothing. He simply stared at Sir Malevich, his expression was unreadable. Maybe it was pity… or maybe it was nothing at all.

Then, without a word, Malevich dismounted. His cloak followed behind him as his boots touched the snow.

Thomas followed suit. He moved slower. Once on the ground, he reached behind his back and drew his sword.

The crowd backed away. No one dared speak.

He held the blade steady.

Two souls

One Past

"This is your last chance, Malevich," Thomas said. "Back away or else nothing shall actually remain of your bloodline."

Sir Malevich stared at Thomas for a few seconds, then slowly, deliberately, he turned his head. His gaze fell upon Madame Ginevra, who stood a few paces away. Without taking his eyes off her, he spoke. "Listen to me, Thomas... If I was craving for your blood, I wouldn't have waited four long years to make my move."

Thomas then narrowed his eyes and raised his swords upwards and asked "Then what makes you stand in front of our path....?"

Sir Malevich shook his head. "The Chief Priest awaits your declaration"

He turned now, facing the gathered Puritans once more. His cloak shifted slightly with the motion, revealing the insignia of the Temple etched into black leather. "While you all were absent for the Congregational synod in Danvers—the church of Salem has suffered once again....."

Silence

"And…why..so....?" A Puritan asked, stepping forward from the fringe of the group.

Sir Malevich didn't reply. Instead, he stood in silence for a long moment, and then he continued with the same slow rhythm. "The Reverends of Salem are furious. And so is the Chief... who grows impatient with each passing day"

He glanced back at Madame Ginevra.

"He calls for you, Madame."

His tone louder now."And for four days now, you've wandered these same woods with no explanation."

Silence followed.

Somewhere in the woods, a wolf howled.

Malevich took a deliberate step closer.

"And now," He continued with a low voice, "you are hours from dawn… and still no declaration has been made."

Malevich's gaze hardened.

"If the sun rises, and your tongue remains still..."

He looked around at each of them—every man and woman. "…then know this: the wrath that shall descend upon you will be devastating. It will pass through your whole entire bloodline. Your children's children will speak your names in curses for the plagues that shall befall them"

Silence followed once again.

No one moved at first.

Then, one of the Puritans—an older man with a grizzled beard—shifted in his saddle and turned his horse around. Without a word, he began down the path, hooves crunching softly on the frozen terrain.

Another followed. Then another.

One by one, they glanced at each other, unsure, but the choice was made. None dared argue with Sir Malevich. Let alone wait to face the Church's wrath.

They walked their horses away, slowly, their black coats fading into the mist behind the trees.

Thomas stayed still.

He hadn't moved.

His hands were tight on the reins. He watched Madame Ginevra—still looking at the wooden door.

He swallowed, then gave a single, slow nod to no one in particular. He kicked his horse gently and began to ride off. He didn't look back at her.

Sir Malevich remained where he was, still standing and watching.

The Puritans passed him one by one, without a word

Only Thomas remained now.

His horse slowed as it neared Malevich. He pulled it to a stop just beside him.

Thomas looked at him.

Malevich stared back.

The two men said nothing. Malevich sighed and turned his head slowly and looked back at Ginevra once again, who was still staring at the door.

Thomas let out a short breath, tightened his grip on the reins, and rode off without another word.

After a few seconds

"The evil spirit you sense will still be here tomorrow night…"

Malevich paused, his grey eyes fixed on Ginevra.

"…but you won't be—if you're not present tonight."

He didn't wait for a reply.

With a quick pull of the reins, he turned his horse. The animal reared slightly, then broke into a gallop.

On the other hand, Madame Ginevra finally turned at last to see no one behind her, she looked back at the cottage and slowly walked back to her horse. Mounted cleanly, looked at the wooden cottage for a few seconds once again, the hem of her coat sliding neatly around her boots, and without a word, she tapped her heels to the sides of the horse.

It moved.

And then it galloped.

Behind her, the old wooden cottage stood still.