Clerical Error

“It’s just a piece of wood, two by two and two cubits long. It doesn’t have any power save the ability to hold up a tired man’s body on the trail,” Feyman said as the Paras prised the intricately -carved staff from his fingers. 

Ever since The Great Collapse, or Big Gray, as some called it, paramilitary groups had sprung up in rural areas between big cities to “keep the peace.” But, in reality, they kept a piece of whatever travelers dared to carry through their territory. With the veneer of civilization peeled back by Big Gray, the ancient arcana that was always hidden underneath rose again to the surface.

“With all them symbols on there?” the one with a weedy red mustache answered him. “That’s the devil’s alphabet and that makes you a witch.” Feyman reached out to grab his staff back. “Don’t worry, old man. We’ll tie your body to a post so you don’t get tired while you burn to death.”

“I am not an instrument of evil, merely a weary traveler.”

“Relax, witch. The only place you’re traveling is straight back to Hell.”

The biggest of the three paras had intercepted Feyman, grabbed him with his huge sausage fingers and tied his hands in front of him with a length of frayed rope.

“Whut should I do with this?” Red mustache asked, holding up Feyman’s staff.

“Hold on to it, Jesse. That’s our evidence. We need to show it to the Parson when we take him in for his trial so we can get our share of his belongings when they burn him,” said the one with deep-set blue eyes wearing a tattered cowboy hat.

“You got it, Deacon,” Jesse responded.

Deacon led the group, pointing his rifle forward, followed by the big guy leading Feyman like a dog on a leash, with Jesse bringing up the rear. The road was dirt and gravel scabbed with the remnants of long-eroded asphalt. Soon one-story brick buildings with collapsed roofs sprouted out of the roadsides. A steeple loomed above an old church wrought from brick and wood. Above the front door “The Law” was painted in lurid red strokes.

“Is a church no longer a refuge?” Feyman asked as he was led inside. At the end of the aisle, behind the altar, a man clad in black with a white clerical collar and British barrister’s wig sat on a colossal wooden chair.

“Witch!” he bellowed, “State your sins!”

“Pride and lust,” Feyman said as he twisted his fingers into a sigil which enabled him to transmit his consciousness into the weak-willed. His eyes grew dazed-looking while simultaneously Jesse’s grew sharp and focused.

“Why am I tied up!” Jesse screamed through Feyman’s mouth.

Feyman gripped the staff through Jesse’s hands and enchanted a permanent bond to this new body. He did not intervene as his old one was burned, naked and screaming in agony, on the Justice Pyre behind the church.