Religious Quests : Shadows from the Forests Edge

EXT. SALEM VILLAGE – DAY – FEBRUARY 2ND, 1692

It was dawn....

A rooster crowed somewhere in the distance. The scent of the damp earth and smoke drifted from the chimneys of wooden homes.

In the dirt paths between thatched cottages and worn fences, a group of children ran barefoot. They roamed freely, chasing one another with bursts of energy, weaving between villagers and chickens that clucked in defense.

Some played ninepins, rolling carved wooden pins in a dusty lane while others took turns knocking them down with a smooth, worn ball.

A few girls, skirts lifted above their ankles, skipped stones across a shallow stream at the edge of the woods, counting each bounce. Near the meetinghouse, a small group played hoop and stick, guiding wooden hoops with long sticks, racing each other with grins on their faces.

Others gathered in circles for Jackstones—an early form of jacks—using small stones or sheep knuckle bones, tossing one into the air and scooping the rest from the ground before it could fall.

Even in those innocent games, there was always the presence of watchful eyes—from mothers at their doorsteps, from ministers preparing sermons. But for now, in those early hours, the children were free—before chores began.

Meanwhile, the adults and older youths who weren't tending the fields or fetching water could be found helping their families whitewash the cottages with a mixture of lime and lamb's blood—carried in simple wooden pails or woven baskets lined with cloth. It gave the homes a deep, ruddy tint that kept away rot and pests, and most importantly, it drove the bad spirits away.

At one such cottage, a young man—barely twenty years old—stood shirt-sleeved in the morning sun, brushing the thick, crimson wash onto the boards with slow, even strokes.

His hands were stained, and sweat darkened the collar of his homespun shirt. From across the path, an older woman approached, her bonnet slightly askew, her eyes fixed on the boy.

Likely his mother. She paused a few steps away, her face expressionless at first. Then, barely noticeable, a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, but it was quickly gone again.

She spoke without fanfare. "Give me but a few minutes. I must go to the market square."

The boy didn't turn to her at first, just nodded, his hand still moving with the brush. "To fetch something for our nooning meal, I believe?"

She gave a quiet hum of affirmation, wiping her hands on her apron before taking it off.

He finally glanced over his shoulder, half-grinning. "What'll it be this time? Rat meat again?" He smirked, dipping the brush back into the pail. "And you've no bags to carry your goods, Mother."

She gave him that same brief smile again. "Remember the back door too," she said loudly, turning away with a slow gait, her skirts brushing the dust behind her.

And with that, she disappeared down the lane, past the well and the church.

She continued.

She strayed far from the village path, moving past narrow lanes lined with timbered homes and unkempt hedgerows. The market square, bustling as ever with the shouts of vendors and customers, she passed without a glance, keeping her head bowed and her cloak drawn close as she went quietly beyond the edge of the settlement—into the woods.

She stepped carefully over roots and damp leaves. After some distance, her eyes caught the thing she sought: a dark canvas tent nestled in a hollow between two leaning oaks.

She exhaled.

Crossing to the tent, she murmured a short prayer under her breath—and crouched to duck beneath the flap.

Inside, there was this particular scent, which was that of herbs and wax. The space was far larger and abnormal than the outside would allow, impossibly so. Glass bottles cluttered shelves, each filled with murky liquids or things better left unnamed.

Numbers of charms dangled, and what caught her eyes the most were the misshapen dolls hung in clusters, sewn from scraps and bound with twine. None had eyes.

At the center of the room sat a man robed in faded black, his back turned as he chanted low in latin. His wide-brimmed hat shadowed his face, though strands of long black hair peeked beneath it. When he finished his murmurings, he turned slowly toward her, he had something close to a smile, actually.

Lifting his hat just enough to reveal his greyish-set of eyes, he said in a calm voice.

"Greetings."

The woman shifted on her feet. Her hands were knotted together, her eyes moved uncontrollable.

"Morning," she replied awkwardly.

Sir Malevich stepped forward, hands clasped together. "And to what do I owe this visit?" he asked, his tone polite.

She hesitated, her hands trembling as she clutched the edges of her shawl. "I… I've come to ask what the future holds for my son," she said, eyes darting between the charms and the floorboards.

"He's of age now, and—he's strong, but the world's growin' darker by the year. I only wish to know what path lies ahead for him. If there's good in it... or danger."

Sir Malevich's smile remained. He gave a slow nod and turned toward the center of the tent. With a deep breath, he closed his eyes and began to speak in an unknown language:

"Korai vidura no shigan itabeki arumora gozuraihasu."

A low hum began to vibrate through the tent walls as a black circle began to form at their feet, pulsing outward in waves, surrounding them both.

The charms swayed violently, and an unnatural wind whipped through the space—though there were no openings, as she had closed the tent after she entered.

Grace stumbled back, gasping as her bonnet was nearly blown from her head. She clutched it to her scalp and watched, wide-eyed, as the man's chanting deepened in tone.

Then he opened his eyes.

They were no longer the gray of moments before, but bright red, glowing intensely. His face had gone expressionless.

He raised his left hand slowly, palm open.

Then he spoke.

"Grace."

She gasped and looked him straight in the eyes. She had not told him her name, neither did she offer it. She had heard whispers of this man—seen his tent in the distance on occasion—but never dared approach, until now. How did he know?

He smiled.

"You may wish to hang on," he said, voice was low. "...For his future holds immense weight."

And with that, the wind brought with it dead branches, as they filled the tent, and the black circle on the ground began to rise—slowly, like mist, wrapping around them both.

Then, the wind stopped as suddenly as it had begun.

Grace sat frozen in front of Sir Malevich, whose palm now emitted a faint red glow. He gave a subtle signal—two fingers, a flick of the wrist. Grace hesitated, standing at the edge of the strange blackened circle, looking to him, unsure.

"Step back," he said quietly.

Though she didn't understand why, she obeyed. So did he, taking three careful paces in retreat.

Then it began.

From the center of the black circle, something stirred, it was like a black liquid, writhing in silence, coiling and uncoiling, as it searched for a form.

Slowly, it started to shape itself—not in color, but in black and white lines, forming the outline of a figure. A vision suspended in monochrome as the details formed themselves into being: hair, limbs, a face and a tree.

Grace crossed herself instinctively, her eyes fixed on the apparition. Malevich watched, his eyes narrowing.

The first image had emerged.

First Vision:

A tall, ancient tree stood at the edge of a cliff, its roots thick and deep, clinging to the stone. The wind roared around it, yet it stood firm. Beneath it, a boy—Grace's son, strong of frame and clear-eyed—placed his hand upon the bark, and the tree stopped trembling. Then, without warning, a sharp silver axe, held by no visible hand, came down and struck the base. Bark split. The tree groaned. Before it fell, Grace caught a glimpse of the face who carved into the trunk—one she did not recognize.

The tree toppled and fell into a bottomless gorge.

---

Second Vision:

A fine ceramic plate sat alone in a wooden cupboard. Slowly, insects began crawling from the corners—spiders, ants, beetles—all swarming toward it. As they touched the plate, they turned to ash, one by one. Yet more kept coming. Then the cupboard burst open from the inside and became dust. While the plate tumbled and broke.

---

Third Vision:

A single white goose walked along a frozen lake. On its back was a satchel, small and glowing faintly. The goose was calm, proud even. From behind, Grace saw a woman running toward it—herself—but the ice cracked beneath her with each step. She reached out, but the goose leapt into the air and flew, high and safe, leaving her behind. The ice broke entirely. She did not fall in—but sank slowly, feet first, as though being pulled downward by unseen hands. The satchel remained in the air, floating away like a lantern.

The image dimmed. The visions faded. Malevich lowered his hand, and his red eyes returned to their natural gray. He exhaled long and slow.

Sir Malevich spoke:

"The visions have spoken, Grace."

He stepped slowly around her, gathering a black cloth and wiping his palm clean.

"Your son… is meant for something greater than you can see. The tree—strong, rooted, was his bloodline. But the face in the bark? An enemy unknown. Someone amongst you—will try to sever what you and your kin have built. He must be ready."

He glanced at her, letting that warning settle before continuing.

"The plate and the insects… Your son, John is the plate. He will remain whole, untouched by harm, yet surrounded by decay. Others will fall around him, and he shall be left standing—alone and left broken."

He turned to the last, his voice softer.

"And the goose… your son again. The satchel he carries is the gift of life. You chase him, but your path breaks beneath you. He flies, and you sink. You cannot follow where he is going, nor can you stop him."

He paused, folding his hands.

"I want you to remember something very important…" He points at her chest and smiles.

"The hero in every story is not always the protagonist."

Grace was hardly breathing as the last of the visions faded. Though her cheeks were pale and her hands twitching, her lips slowly pulled into a smile—small at first, then fuller, bittersweet.

Her eyes, glassy with unshed tears. It was clear she feared what she had seen—who wouldn't? Especially the last vision, which made it clear that her time was coming to an end, but… her son would live and thrive. That alone made her knees steady beneath her once more.

She pressed a hand to her chest, whispering, "That's… the best news I could've hoped for. I'd rather bear the weight myself than have it fall upon him."

Malevich regarded her quietly, giving her a faint smile."I… wish my case were the opposite sometimes," he said, his voice went lower.

He turned his gaze toward the far corner of the tent, where two small gowns—one pale blue and the other soft yellow—spread neatly across the floor.

Grace followed his eyes and saw the little gowns, delicate and small, and something in her face changed too. She moved down onto her knees slowly, reverently, as though in prayer.

She sighed.

"I'm sure they're in a better place now," she said gently.

"Can only.....hope"

For a long time, neither of them spoke.

Then Grace reached into the folds of her apron and pulled out a small cloth purse. She took out a few worn coins and held them out in her cupped hands, offering them to him with quiet sincerity.

"For your time… and your kindness, Sir" she said, looking down.

Malevich looked at her hands for several seconds, as though considering the meaning behind the gesture.

Then, without a word, he reached forward and gently pushed her hands back. "You can have your coins, woman," he said softly. "I've taken enough payment from the world."

Grace looked at him.

He added:

"May the Lord be your strength."

She nodded, smiled faintly, and stood up slowly. She wrapped her shawl around herself once more, gave him one last look—a look of genuine gratitude—and stepped out. The tent flap fell closed behind her.

Malevich sat still for a moment, his eyes were still on where she had just been. Then he turned back toward the corner of the tent and crossed the space slowly.

He picked up the two little gowns, one in each hand, and cradled them against his chest as the thought of his daughters came to his mind :

Anais had just turned five that night, while Tiana was ten.

He took a deep breath and exhaled

He continued folding the gowns with care, placed them at the top of a large leather satchel, and began to pack away the contents of the tent.

Bottles, charms, the tools of his work—all methodically placed and secured. When the tent was empty, he stepped outside and gave the fabric one last pull. The entire tent folded into itself, shrinking down until it was no larger than a heavy cloak. He bundled it tightly and fastened it beside the other contents of his satchel.

He paused, standing tall beneath the trees, and looked around as though expecting something. Then he placed two fingers in his mouth and let out a low, sharp whistle.

At first, nothing.

Then—hoofbeats.

The brown and white horse trotted into view from between the trees, eyes alert. Malevich approached it calmly, placed the leather satchel upon its back, and tied the two gowns behind it with a strip of cloth, letting them rest gently over the saddle

With practiced ease, he mounted the horse and adjusted the reins. For a moment, he remained there—still, watchful—gazing out at the woods and the path ahead.

Then, without a word, he gave the horse a gentle nudge.

And with that, they galloped forward, out of the woods

Sir Malevich rode into the village center, his cloak trailing in the wind.

Villagers stepped aside as he passed, their eyes wide, lips tightly sealed. The clatter of chores and quiet chatter fell away one by one — paintbrushes paused mid-stroke against wooden cottages. All turned, watched, but none spoke.

For it was rare — unnervingly rare — to see Sir Malevich roaming the streets of Salem in daylight. No one dared meet his gaze, let alone greet him. Not out of courtesy, but out of respect and fear.

Children stopped mid-play, hoops rolling off into the grass, sticks dropped. A woman standing at her doorstep crossed herself pulling her child closer.

Sir Malevich said nothing.

Just walked right past the cottages.