The Psychic Chronicles Book 1 - Illusions

CHAPTER ONE - THE WOMAN IN THE WHITE HAT

                                                CHAPTER ONE – THE WOMAN IN THE WHITE HAT

 

 

15 YEARS LATER.

The night sky was moonless, leaving the Meracian landscape darker than usual. Only the starlight guided their path as the three horsemen rode through the old forest. All was quiet except for the sounds of hooves hitting the cobblestone road and the clamber of metal saddles and supplies. As they rode forward they could see in the distance the forest opening up to reveal a dull glow of a church, its solitary cross standing atop the crest of its highest tower.  All three of the horse riders stopped for a moment, first one rider, then the others who followed behind. Without exchanging a single look, they all knew that this had been their destination.

 The one to the right was an unknown character in a long violet cloak. He was immensely large and hunched. Through the cloth which draped his body one could see the outline of a thick solid spine. Neither his face, nor demeanor could be seen beneath the hood of the cloak, giving him the appearance of the reaper of death travelling through the night preparing to collect his souls.

 The rider to the left was the only rider with her cloak’s hood pushed back revealing her face. She was a woman of beautiful stature, with rosy cheeks and almond eyes. Her skin was pale as the winter snow and her hair flowed in waves of golden brown upon her shoulders. Her lips could be seen even in the darkness, bright red, with a luminous grin. Both riders watched their leader carefully as his breath steamed heavily in the night.

This was a man unlike any other. His very aura radiated energy. His will could be felt even from a distance without any words to carry it. There he watched the old church, patiently contemplating. He was a thinking man, cunning and strategic. His hood only partially revealed his face, showing a short stubby beard, a thick jaw and one menacing eye. Unlike the others his hands were bare, without gloves to protect him from the chill in the night. His fingernails were painted a dark red, the color of spilled blood, so dark it looked black under the light of the night sky. He looked down to see a crow pecking at seeds in the dirt. He grimaced at the bird scathingly.

“Filthy animal.” Gripping firmly the rope of his horse, he began to trot again, towards the old church, the glowing light beckoning him. Without hesitation the others followed. 

The old church was smaller up close, no longer behind the view of the forest to project its image. Here the group stopped once more as they took note of the faint sounds of light music. The signal was given. They dismounted and walked up to the large mahogany colored door, its worn paint chipping off.  The leader, giving the others a confirming look, pushed the large doors open, which reverberated with a loud bang from the other end. There in the church stood several men and women chanting in a circle beneath an immensely large cross. One man, the priest, stood outside the circle atop a raised pedestal leading the congregation’s chant. Simultaneously they all turned to witness the trio walking into their chamber all clad in violet cloaks.

          “What is the meaning of this?!” the priest shouted as he stared upon his uninvited visitors angrily. “Leave at once!”

          “We have come to atone for our sins, father,” spoke the man teasingly.

          “We have nothing to offer to bandits, this is God’s home,” said the priest with a hint of fear in his voice. “Please leave our humble congregation alone.” 

          “Surely you jest? A man of the cloth cannot turn away strangers! It is his duty to open God’s home onto strangers. Is it not?” he said. The red lipped woman chuckled in a high pitched laugh.