Sin Eater

Molly Brennan raises her glass.

“Here’s to Alf Brennan, the cheapest, meanest, most unfaithful highwayman in all of England. You reap what you sew, Alf!”

Yelling, “Hip-Hooray!” the ragtag mob of half a dozen peasants guzzle down their drinks.

Fourteen-year-old Godwin stands next to his father’s coffin, fixated on the loaf of bread resting on Alf’s chest.

His mother joins Godwin, leaning against him in order to steady herself.

“I meant what I said about him,” Molly slurs. “He was no good to nobody but himself. I bet you won’t miss them beatins he used to give ya.”

“Why’s he got a loaf of bread on him?” Godwin asks.

“It’s a joke. Alf used to say that when he died, he wanted all of his sins to be absorbed by a loaf’a bread so that some kind soul could eat it, then he’d get into heaven. We’re gonna burn it instead, ‘cause his soul’s headed in the other direction.”

Godwin picks up the bread, biting into it.

“What you doin’, boy?”

Godwin swallows the piece of bread.

A dense mist rises over Alf’s coffin.

The roomful of happy mourners is stunned silent.

Molly crosses herself.

The cloud shoots down Godwin’s throat. His body tingles. His throat closes, and his stomach tightens.

Godwin drops to the floor, gasping for air.

When he comes around, the drunken crowd chants, “SIN EATER! SIN EATER!”

Molly nuzzles her son. “We all got a game in life that we can run. Looks like you found yours.”

***

Uta Baker watches her daughter, Sabine, take her last belabored breaths. Sabine’s two young daughters whimper as they hold each other for comfort. Sabine’s twelve-year-old son, Cyrus, tries to act much older than he is, holding back his tears.

Uta picks up a loaf of bread from the nearby table, placing it on her dead daughter’s chest.

Turning to Cyrus, she says, “Go get Godwin, the Sin Eater. And remember, boy, don’t look him in the eye.”

Cyrus walks through the thick woods outside of the village of Zenith, traveling in circles until he can get his bearings.

He finds the Sin Eater’s lopsided shack. Taliesins and crystals hang from the nearby tree, making tinkling noises as they swing in the slight autumn breeze.

Cyrus is about to knock on the weathered door when it's thrust open.

A dark-skinned man with a thick beard, mottled skin, and penetrating blue eyes stares at him. Remembering his grandmother’s warning, Cyrus looks away.

Twenty-eight-year-old Godwin says, “What do you want, boy?”

“My mother, Sabine Baker, has died. We want her spirit to rest in peace. Will you swallow her sins?”

“Do you have the ceremonial bread?”

“Yes.”

“Then lead on, boy.”

***

Cyrus enters the Baker’s hut first, nodding at his grandmother. Godwin follows. His bulky frame seems to fill up the room.

A fire burns in the hearth, creating a smoky environment.

Uta orders her granddaughters to the far end of the room, telling them to remain silent.

Godwin holds out his palm. Uta places several shillings in his hand. He moves to the center of the room, where Sabine’s corpse is laid out on a table.

Uta snaps her fingers, and Cyrus brings a stool for the Sin Eater to sit on.

Uta places a wooden plate with bread and salt on it, and a flagon of ale on a small wooden table next to the body.

Godwin picks up the loaf of bread, breaking it in two.

He speaks in a slow, weary tone as he dips the piece of bread in salt, eating it.

“…Tell me about Sabine’s sins…”

Uta clears her throat. “She was a wanton woman. She drank and had many lovers while she was married… But she did it to provide for her children. Her husband, Walden, was a useless vagabond, a minstrel. He played and sang in taverns for drink, often traveling on wild adventures, bringing nothing home except anger and an aching head. He would blame his lot on Sabine, and the two of them would have violent rows that left my daughter battered and bruised. One time, she was unable to leave her bed for a week, leaving me and poor Cyrus to care for the girls. Walden came home the last time with another woman, a gypsy, expecting us to feed her. So, Sabine did. She fed the two of them mutton from our last sheep. But it was bad, and Walden and his cuckold died in agony.”

Godwin downs the flagon of beer, signaling for more. Cyrus fills his glass.

“Did your daughter poison them?”

Uta glances at him, dumbfounded.

“I speak of the fate of your daughter’s soul. Don’t lie to me.”

“An investigation was conducted,” Uta admits. “It was concluded, wrongly, I must say, that Sabine poisoned Walden and his gypsy. My daughter was condemned to hang. But she chose her own kind of punishment. She ate porridge laced with poison. My poor child suffered the same slow death as her wretched husband.”

The Sin Eater grabs at his stomach. The pain quickly passes.

He finishes eating the bread.

“Rest easy now, Sabine Baker, and leave your suffering behind. I pawn my soul for you.”

***

As he rushes into the woods, Godwin passes a young boy carrying a box. The boy looks at him curiously.

Dropping to his knees, he retches.

He lies on his back, waiting for his stomach to settle, as the expressionless faces of the peasants whose sins he has devoured pass before his mind’s eye.

In the beginning, he never felt weak. But he has been eating the sins of others for more than a decade. Now the sins are too severe, too many for him to cope with.

His father appears to him in a dream, beating him over and over with a strap.

He walks to the outskirts of Zenith, close to his home, to a single grave marked by a weather-beaten plank.

The name Alf Brennan is etched across the plank.

Godwin gets sick on his father’s grave, feeling his strength return.

***

Godwin rolls over, jostled from his sleep by the banging on his door.

The young boy he ran past the day before looks up at him, clutching his wooden box.

“You’re not supposed to look directly at me. It can bring bad luck. Who are you?”

“I ain’t frightened’a you. Name’s Jasper Peregrin, and I need you.”

Jasper reaches into his tattered pants. Producing a shilling, he hands it to Godwin.

“I want you to take Cranberry’s sins.”

“Cranberry?”

The boy opens the box. “Me bird.”

Jasper puts the box on the ground. Reaching into the pocket of his holey jacket, he pulls out a bun.

The grimy-faced boy fights back tears. “I couldn’t get no ale, ‘cause I’m only seven. Can you help Cranberry get into heaven?”

Godwin looks at Jasper in wonderment.

“What’s the matter?”

“I never gave a thought as to whether pets got into heaven until now.”

“Why not? You believe in heaven, don’t you?”

Godwin hesitates to answer.

Jasper looks at Godwin in shock. “How can you eat people’s sins if ya don’t believe in heaven? You might as well think that St. Nick and fairies ain’t real either.”

He gives the shilling back to Jasper. “You’re right.”

“’Course I am. The world don’t make sense if you don’t believe in somethin’.”

Godwin picks up the box. “I think I can help you now.”

***

A few days later, Godwin is summoned to the home of Garrick Gregory, one of Zenith’s most fearsome soldiers.

Candles made from oil and fat create a pungent aroma in the modest one-room home, which consists of a few stools, some rickety furniture, cooking utensils, and a straw bed rife with bed bugs.

Garrick is dressed in his uniform and laid out in a simple wooden coffin in the center of the room.

Godwin eats a slice of stale bread, choking it down with flat ale.

“…Tell me of your husband’s misdeeds…”

Garrick’s church mouse wife, Lydia, speaks in a quiet voice. “He beheaded many men, our enemies. But he seemed to take too much joy in his work. So much so that he took to fighting in the taverns when he came home from the war. He would fight anyone at any time over any slight... He died senselessly in a brawl. He beat a man to death, whom he claimed had cheated him in a game of knucklebones. When he threw his last blow, the man’s brother came up behind him and ran him through with a sword…”

Garrick’s corpse lets out a ragged cough. His eyes open, and he stirs inside the coffin.

“It would appear that your husband is not yet ready to shed his mortal coil.”

Looking around the hut, Lydia quickly locates Garrick’s blood-spattered sword.

Summoning her strength, Lydia raises it over her head. She brings the blade down on her husband's neck, cleaving his head from his shoulders.

Garrick’s head hits the straw-covered floor, rolling into a corner of the hut.

“You may proceed with the ceremony.”

***

Godwin is returning to his home after Garrick’s ceremony, when Bishop Hockum’s extravagant horse-drawn carriage rumbles down the road, stopping alongside him.

A footman places a stool on the ground for the Bishop to step on.

Bishop Hockum is as elaborately dressed as his carriage. His alb tunic is made from fine silk. He wears a cincture that is heavily ornamented with silver and gold, a gold cross, and has several large rings with precious stones.

“What are you doing in Zenith?”

“Practicing my art,” Godwin replies.

“You know sin eating is illegal, punishable by death. This is the year of our Lord 1780, long past a time for such vile pagan acts. I could have you executed on the spot, but your perverted practice fascinates me.”

Bishop Hockum looks Godwin over.

“You do realize, Bishop, that to look a sin-eater in the eye, even for a mere second, is seen as a sign of bad luck.”

“Balderdash. Sensible peasants have turned their backs on pagan rites such as yours and have embraced Christianity. I am not afraid of peasant folklore.”

“Then you won’t persecute me if your holy water turns to steam or your wine goes rancid?”

Bishop Hockum lets out a hearty laugh. “Humor. That was unexpected. I am curious, Brennan. How did you become a sin-eater?”

“My father was of low birth. He stole and drank his way through life. He died as he lived, in a ditch, robbed of what few coins he had, his throat cut. Because of his low standing in life, none of your kind would absolve him of his sins, so I ate them for him.”

Bishop Hockum mutters “Pshaw” under his breath. “I heard when you conducted your first ritual, a witness saw a mist lift from his father’s body and go down your throat.”

Godwin rubs his beard, the corners of his mouth hinting at a smile. “I would expect a peasant to believe such a thing, but a holy man?”

“You are darkness, Brennan, I am light, which is why your kind must die out. The church provides confession, penance, salvation, forgiveness, and absolves sins. What you do is blather.”

Godwin points at Bishop Hockum’s gold-trimmed carriage. “I embrace the poor. You serve the rich. As you can see by my appearance, I don’t do this for money.”

“Then what moves you?”

“It is my calling. Just as yours is to serve a deity floating in the sky.”

“Do not blaspheme. Do not forget you exist because I allow it. I might cast a more favorable eye on your dark practice if some of the coins you receive find their way into the church collection box.”

“How does five shillings per month sound?”

“Not as good as seven.”

“Seven, it is, Bishop.”

***

Godwin breathes a sigh of relief, leaning against the door of his shack.

A soft voice calls out, “I’ve been waiting for you.”

Godwin opens his eyes to see Bronwyn lying across his bed. The raven-haired beauty has a buxom, curvaceous figure and alluring green eyes that have made her the desire of every man in Zenith. She was a handmaid in the Queen’s court until her son and heir took a shine to her. Now Bronwyn fends for herself.

“Associating with a sin-eater is believed to bring bad luck,” Godwin says.

“I believe we make our own luck. But you could certainly find a more secure, sensible position.”

“I assume that you fail to see the irony in what you just said. I’ve provided for you, Bronwyn. I give you all my money. You eat well, you have jewels, and the comfort of a nice home, while I’m considered an outcast, short of a warlock.”

“If you gave up being a sin eater, we could be like everyone else,” Bronwyn purrs.

“I don’t want to be like the others, living in fear of death.”

“Being a sin eater has made you old and haggard before your time, not just outside, but within. Perhaps the villagers are right that you are destined to become more and more horrible with each ceremony.”

“And yet you still desire me.”

“With all my heart.”

“You’re beautiful, Bronwyn, but a poor liar. I belong to my art, not to the flesh.”

“Have you forgotten the pleasure of my touch? You seemed to enjoy it.”

“We all have our moments of weakness. But I find the more I follow my craft, the more strength and determination I need.”

“Some rascal once told me, ‘If you don’t believe in it, you’ll lose it,’ Bronwyn says. “Guess he was talking about you.”

“I cannot give in to the pleasures of your body and still be successful.”

Bronwyn crosses the dirt floor, rubbing her voluptuous figure against him.

He closes his eyes, reveling in the warmth of her body.

“Now, do you remember pleasure?” Bronwyn asks.

“Yes…It’s much more agreeable than the pain the ceremonies cause.”

Suddenly, he pushes her away.

“You must go now. I’ll come to you when I have the strength.”

“What am I to do until then?”

“The village is full of men. I’m certain you’ll find a way to amuse yourself.”

“Finding amusement is easy. How am I to support myself?”

Godwin walks to his desk. Opening a small wooden box, he picks out several gold pieces, throwing them at Bronwyn’s feet.

She picks them up. Stuffing them in her blouse, she blows Godwin a kiss.

“Don’t forget about me, Godwin.”

“Oh, that I could.”

***

Godwin finds it difficult to swallow the bread that Nixie Post has baked for the ceremony. It tastes better than any he has eaten lately, but its thickness seems to increase as he tries to push it down his throat.

Godwin gulps at his glass of ale. Some of the bread remains in his throat, choking off his air, while the rest sits in his belly like a leaden stone.

Godwin looks at Enoch Post’s wide-eyed, slight widow. She looks away.

“…Tell me about your husband’s sins…”

“He seemed like a simple man. A cobbler, who provided me with an adequate living. He was a God-fearing man who served the church as an elder…”

Godwin sips at his ale. “Then why would they deny him last rites?”

“I’m getting to that… He would read to the children and come to bed early. Late at night, maybe two or three nights a week, he would get out of bed. I asked him why, and he said that he was restless, that he would walk through the village. I warned him that it was dangerous, that some devil was wandering through the streets, killing people.”

Godwin forces down more of the bread. The pain in Godwin’s stomach increases.

“Enoch would laugh every time I told him to be careful. Finally, one night, I asked him why he didn’t fear for his safety. ‘I’m the devil,’ Enoch replied. He was the madman who was trolling the streets, murdering people.”

Godwin coughs as a piece of bread lodges in his throat. Reaching for his ale to wash it down, he gasps, “How many people did he murder?”

“Fourteen. He had been doing it before we were married and never stopped until a man he attacked pushed him away. He fell under the wheels of a passing carriage.”

Godwin gags. A stream of mist issues from his throat.

“Is something wrong, Sin Eater?”

Godwin feels the bread expanding in his throat. He reaches for the flagon of beer, falling off the stool.

***

As the town constables wrap Godwin in a sheet, Bishop Hockum looks down at his body to make sure he is dead.

Nixie runs her fingers through her thick hair. “He choked to death in front of me! There was nothing I could do! I don’t understand!”

Bishop Hockum tries to contain his glee. “The sins of mankind have eaten the Sin Eater.”