Here's a short bit of set-dressing in the wake of my highly enjoyable Weird West campaign of Dogs in the Vineyard, about the adventures of Pseudo-Mormon Exorcists and Gunslingers. Here, Sister Sarah-Lynn Page, convert, survivor, a victim of sorcery, undertakes the final trial of her one-year apprenticeship at the Temple of Life - the first *real* step on her journey.
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The tree was backed by a sky bruised purple and green by angry thunderheads. It filled her vision as her teachers dragged her from the wagon and pulled the bag from her head, a gnarled black hand reaching up and out to squeeze her tight in its knotted, burned black fingers. The cottonwood—stripped bare of bark or leaves—sat bent over and swollen, alone at the peak of a hill surrounded by a stark white ring of pure ritual salt.
Somewhere beyond the horizon line, heat lighting danced out of view. Her teachers waited, Three in their Power, faces sour and impassive while the hopeful got her bearings. The young Pup had been roused from her bare barrack-room by expressionless, broad-shouldered Sisters with hard looks and padded gambesons in case she struggled too much. Even so, she'd gotten a few licks in. Wasn't ever about to let any folk get close enough to touch her unwilling without her sayso, and her elbows had certainly said a lot that night. A few of the Sisters keeping her steady had the bruises and bitter grimaces to prove it. Sarah-Lynn took some small pride in that, at least.
The center Third of her teachers (a woman; they'd done her that small courtesy at least) was not one she recognized from her intensive month of training. Her face was canyon-cragged with lines, with a long head of hair as white as the salt flats. Her skin was baked nut-brown by years of hard living, it seemed, and the Coat that marked her office looked as hard-used as the woman who wore it, and fit like a glove. Sister Sarah-Lynn checked, saw no ring on her finger or the ghost of a ring removed and felt all the better for it.
She was a lifer, then. One who finished her Circuit, and went out for another, then another, answering to no one but herself and the King of Life above. She stood at the center of her three teachers, hard-bitten Dogs the lot of them, Three in Their Power and so sure of herself and her power, so solid and grounded she reminded Sarah-Lynn of the great, massive King Oak at the center of Bright Falls Temple.
In short, everything Sarah wanted- no, *needed* - to be.
The woman caught her glances, kept her face stoic, impassive. Had Sarah-Lynn been looking for sisterly camaraderie, she'd found none waiting. The elder Sister's eyes were sharp and hard as flint, and her expression didn't waver once from its grim and granite countenance. That suited Sarah-Lynn fine. She was sick of pity. The lack of care, that hard look, meant she was just another Pup in the trials, no different than anyone else. Straightened her spine a little, to think on that, on why she was here.
Over the woman's shoulder, the trapped tree loomed.
One of the men spoke first. "It's time for your trial, Sister. The final step, before your inducement, before receiving Coat and Gun and Circuit, before you can leave this place in service to the King of Life," All three genuflected in the way of their faith, and Sarah-Lynn followed in the ways she was taught, palm out and fingers splayed wide like branches, "and shephard His Faithful along his branches. Are you ready?"
"What must I do, Brother?" A faint breeze kicked up some dust, but the grains of the salt circle remained still, undisturbed as if held in place by some cosmic magnet.
The other man, the youngest of the Three, took up the mantle next. The old woman simply watched, gaze unflinching.
"Within that Tree resides a powerful Demon, Sister."
She saw now the implements arrayed for her on a side table. Gun and Book and pot of holy river clay. She knew what they meant. A small twinge of acrid doubt curdled in her gut. Sarah-Lynn tamped down on it quickly. It was said the Dogs of her order could smell all sorts of lies and sins and personal failings. While she had never been inducted into those mysteries (if indeed they did exist), her every move was being evaluated, and she didn't dare show weakness.
"You will take up your tools, enter the Binding Circle, and drive it from this place," The Dog continued. The Gun was a heavy breech-loader, with hand-rolled powder cartridges that needed to be worked in with a leaver. Clunky. Slow. But powerful, with a heavy ball that could shatter bone and leave a hole in a man the size of a Territorial Authority quarter. The Book was her own, given the day she Converted; filled with scribbles and sketches, poems half-remembered. Some of the hymnals were even underlined.
"This is your final test. Should you succeed... you will become one of us, and your true journey will begin."
Sarah-Lynn met the eyes of the old woman, who nodded, once, and motioned for the acolytes to strap her gunbelt around her waist. There remained no flicker of sympathy. The test that came next was hers and her alone to succeed. The thunderheads bunched dark and angry along the horizon lines, a line of colts on a racing line. With a deep breath, one hand holding up the Book of Life, the young Dog-to-Be put one foot over the salted border.
With a crack of sulphuric thunder and the rushing howl of the wind bellowing forth a challenge, the tree on the hilltop burst into hungry flame.
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