The Sin Eater

By David Longhorn

 

He lived in a hut on a bleak hillside, and was despised.

Nobody knew his name, or how old he was, or where he even came from. If he'd ever had family in the neighborhood, they were either long gone or kept quiet about their link to the outcast. When people met him on the roads or in the fields they turned aside, some saying a prayer, others mouthing a charm passed down from an older tradition. Children sometimes taunted him, the braver ones even threw stones, but only till an adult came and drove them away. Everyone knew it was bad luck to lay eyes on the nameless man, to spend even the briefest time within sight of him.

The Sin-Eater was one of many boogeymen invoked by weary parents to keep fractious children quiet. He just happened to be real.

He had only one function, and when he was needed, the people of the district did not need to seek him out. Some uncanny instinct told the Sin-Eater when he could enter a home where a wake was being held. It was his role to eat a simple meal from a wooden bowl placed on the chest of the corpse, and to take upon himself all the sins of any dead man, woman, or child. It was believed this would speed the passage of the deceased through purgatory to paradise. Once he had finished his meal, the Sin-Eater would return to his hovel, and the ritual would be complete.

The bowl, especially crafted for the occasion, was always burned afterwards.

"He is the last of his kind," mused the parish priest, with a sad shake of the head. He often regretted the passing of the old ways, although they clashed with his own beliefs. More than that, though, he wished he could in some way improve the lot of the outcast on the hill, the meanest of his flock. As things stood, he did what little he could.

It was customary for the parish priest to leave food and drink for the Sin-Eater by the churchyard gate on the first day of the month. The Reverend Monckton stood, now, awaiting the nameless man, feeling it is his duty to make sure that the provisions were not taken by just any passing vagrant. A thin rain fell, the last remnant of storms over the Welsh hills to the west.

"I really think you are indulging these people's superstitions," grumbled the squire, who had come to chat with his old friend and disliked all concessions to the old ways.

Sir John Prescott was a forward-thinking man, an advocate of science, education, and progress. He had been instrumental in bringing the railway and the telegraph to his remote corner of Herefordshire. Not surprisingly, Sir John felt sin-eating, like witchcraft and fortune-telling, was a worthless relic of the Dark Ages. This was the Year of Our Lord 1889, a time of enlightenment. With the British Empire engaged in spreading civilization to the four corners of the globe, no decent Victorian gentleman could overlook the backwardness of the English peasantry.

Thanks to his forward-looking attitude, Sir John's tenants had been provided with clean water and their offspring with proper schooling. The squire had even tried to vaccinate them, desisting only when the priest warned him he might face an open revolt over the issue. There had already been ominous mutterings when a steam-thresher was introduced at harvest time. Reluctantly, Sir John had postponed the vaccination program.

"You are a little hard on these people, my friend," said the priest, taking up the well-worn topic. "They cling to familiar customs in a fast-changing, uncertain world. We all need reassurance, and the less power we have over our fates the more we need. And remember, it is essentially tradition that keeps us in our privileged roles in our little community. Just as it keeps that poor soul in his."

Monckton nodded towards the hills, and Sir John looked out into the drizzle. Sure enough, the Sin-Eater was coming. The man moved like a living scarecrow, a painfully thin figure clad in rags, limping along the muddy country lane that led past the church. He kept his head down, so that the brim of a slouch-hat shaded his face, most of which was concealed by a wild growth of hair and beard anyway.

"Disgraceful!" snorted Sir John. "Such a poor, deranged simpleton should be in a hospital or asylum, not living wild in the hills!"

The landowner turned away in disgust and went inside the church. The priest stayed in the porch, sheltered from the rain, watching the nameless man eat and drink just outside consecrated ground. Monckton knew the Sin-Eater, his status lower than a leper, could never trespass on a holy place. Indeed, the pariah could enter no place where decent folk dwelt, except at the one special time when he performed his role in rural society.

The outcast finished his simple meal then stood upright, facing the church porch where the priest stood looking on. The ragged slouch-hat shadowed the man's face, but Monckton caught the slight glimmer of two deep-set eyes.

Does he believe it? Monckton wondered. Does he really feel the sins of the dead entering his body, his soul, when he eats that meager meal? Heretical to even think it, of course, but still, his faith must be at least as strong as mine. Ah, but the poor devil!

The priest wanted to go to the gate and talk to the Sin-Eater, ask him about his life, his torments, perhaps offer some spiritual solace. But he knew better. His parishioners would know and attendance at his services would drop. Monckton would lose face, perhaps even be ostracized by some of the older folk. It had happened before to unwise clergy.

The nameless man who ate the sins of others was a thing of evil, by definition. How could he be otherwise, with such a burden of wrongdoing all locked up inside? Talking to him would be polluting oneself with the sins he bore. So instead, the priest raised a tentative hand in greeting. At first, the man outside the churchyard gave no sign that he had seen the gesture. Then the Sin-Eater nodded, turned, and walked back the way he had come. Soon, he was out of sight, and the priest went into the church to join his friend.

"Scuttled back to his burrow, eh?" asked Sir John, rising stiffly from a bench. "Gone to earth like an animal! Pah!"

"No matter how wretched he may be, he is still a man, a child of God, with an immortal soul just like you and I," chided the priest, gently.

For a moment, the squire looked as if he would take offense at being likened to a ragged halfwit at the bottom of the social ladder. But Sir John could never be angry with his friend for long. He grinned and punched the priest lightly on the shoulder.

"Of course, you're right, Philip," he mumbled in embarrassment. "I sometimes forget my Christian duty. You do your best for that poor fellow, just as I try to help the villagers. It's not easy to improve the lot of people who seem so mired in medieval superstition, though."

"Let's change the subject, John," said the priest, leading his friend through to the vestry where they could sit without fear of interruption. Monckton produced a bottle of whiskey and poured out a couple of glasses, to 'keep the chill out', as he always put it. A few moments' silence followed as they contemplated the single malt.

"Now that is what the Scots call 'a good swalley'," observed Sir John.

"Indeed," said the priest, refilling both glasses, "sometimes a nice, hot cup of tea is not enough to satisfy the inner man."

Sir John, whose mood had brightened after taking the liquor, frowned.

"No, but strong drink does a lot of harm, Philip, let us not overlook that."

Monckton sighed. Another difficult topic had reared its head.

"I take it that Victor is not faring well in his medical career?" he asked.

The squire's nephew, adopted after the boy's parents perished in a shipwreck on their way back from India, had long been a source of anxiety to Sir John. As an old bachelor set in his ways he had struggled to raise his younger brother's son with the right balance of kindness and discipline. Sir John had tried to make Victor honest and hard-working, while Monckton had tried to make him a good Christian. Both had failed. Before Victor had gone to London, there had been several ugly incidents involving servant girls that had cost Sir John a fair sum to smooth over.

The priest recalled Victor's eyes. They were cunning, malign, and somehow inhuman, like the eyes of a reptile that had been raised to human intelligence. He shuddered.

"It's kind of you to put it so tactfully, Philip," said the squire, gazing into his whiskey glass. "But the boy seems to have sunk further into depravity. I know he neglects his studies. I had a letter from the teaching hospital, telling me he will be thrown off the course for non-attendance of lectures. Instead he writes to me for money and spends it in the East End on Lord knows what. Judging by his handwriting, he's a drunkard. Or worse."

"We're both men of the world," said Monckton, trying to be tactful. "We know the young must let off steam in some way or another. We did, after all, in our different ways. And there are far worse things to do in London than get drunk."

Even as he spoke, the priest realized that he had blundered. The squire's brow furrowed. No doubt he's thinking of London's other snares for unwary young men. I should change the subject.

"Perhaps Victor is simply not cut out to be a surgeon?"

Sir John laughed.

"An unfortunate turn of phrase, there, but I fear you're right. Last week, I wrote and told him that he must return here and face me, tell me what he does want to do. He should be arriving tomorrow, by the midday train. Perhaps you could do me the favor of calling round in the afternoon, provide me with a little moral support?"

The priest nodded, forced a smile. He had no wish to be reacquainted with Victor, but he would do his best for his friend.

"Try not to lose your temper with the lad, John. It's not easy for a boy to become a man these days. The young are under terrible pressures, of a sort we were spared in more sedate times."

Squire and priest talked a little longer, then parted amicably. After locking up, Reverend Monckton paused at the gate of the churchyard to check on the remains of the Sin-Eater's meal. A few crusts of bread and pieces of fruit-peel lay in an earthenware bowl. An old, chipped jug that had been filled with rough cider was empty.

After a moment's thought, the priest smashed the bowl and the jug against the gatepost. Just in case anyone was watching.

 

***

 

The next afternoon, the priest walked to the manor house from his parsonage, hoping to find uncle and nephew reconciled, or at least on speaking terms. His route took him through the village, and as usual he greeted members of his flock as they went about their business. At first, he didn't notice anything unusual, but then Monckton realized that there was a general movement along the main street, in the same direction that he was taking. What's more, people were wearing their Sunday best on a Saturday, the women in fine bonnets and skirts, the men in black suits. One laborer, a talkative old chap, noticed the priest's puzzled expression and fell in beside him.

"You haven’t heard the news then, have you, Reverend?"

"About what, Jethro?" asked Monckton.

"Squire's nephew has died!" replied Jethro with relish, pleased to be the bearer of bad tidings.

"Aye!" chimed in a woman, falling into step with them. "Lad were found dead by the ticket inspector when the train arrived at Hereford! Laid out on the floor of the carriage, he were! Police brought the body to the hall just afore midday!"

My poor friend, thought Monckton. His only blood relation, his sole heir, dead!

"Excuse me, I must hurry!" he said, quickening his pace.

The priest arrived at the manor ahead of most of the villagers, but there was still a line of men and women standing outside the Grange, waiting to pay their respects as was the custom. To his credit, Sir John was standing on the steps of the fine portico, speaking to each of his tenants in turn. Monckton felt a wave of sympathy for his old friend, knowing how much the squire must have wanted to lock himself away from the world at this moment.

The gathered locals stepped aside to make way for the priest, murmuring polite greetings, doffing caps. They were watching, of course, and Monckton was careful not to betray any feeling before the villagers. He and Sir John exchanged nods, shook hands, then the squire said,

"Please, go inside. He is in–"

Sir John stopped, began again with a catch in his voice.

"His body is laid out in the drawing room."

Monckton went inside, leaving his friend to receive more condolences from his tenants. A servant ushered him silently into the library, where the curtains had been drawn against the afternoon sunshine. Oil lamps and candles cast a sickly light over the body of the young man. The priest leaned over to look at the pale, clean-shaven face.

Even in death there is no repose, he thought. He always seemed such an unquiet soul, unable to relax. One can only hope that he has now found solace in the bosom of Our Savior.

Monckton said a brief prayer, made the sign of the cross over the corpse, then walked out into the hallway of the manor. As he did so, he heard a commotion outside, voices raised in surprised, alarm, perhaps even fear. He hurried to the doorway and looked out.

The number of people waiting to pay their respects to their squire had grown, with nearly a hundred men and women gathered outside the Grange. The crowd was parting, now, just as it had done to let the priest through minutes before. But this time it was not out of respect that the villagers moved. No, they stepped aside hastily, some colliding or stumbling, every man and woman afraid to come too close to the Sin-Eater.

The outcast walked slowly up the drive towards the great house. He moved painfully, limping, and Monckton saw that the man had no shoes, merely rags wrapped round his feet. His clothes were filthy and torn. The broad brim of his hat again shadowed his face.

Sir John did not stand aside for the Sin-Eater.

The nameless man limped slowly up the three deep stone steps onto the portico, then stopped in front of the squire. Monckton hurried forward to stand next to his friend, took Sir John's arm. He felt the quivering tension in the squire and, afraid that violence might ensue, he whispered urgently,

"Please, John, let the man in, I beg of you! He can do no harm!"

Sir John looked around, his face bloodless with shock.

"Philip, how can I let that – that thing near the poor lad?"

The priest gripped the squire's arm even more tightly.

"You must, John! They will not forgive you if you do not! Do this for me, John, if you won't do it for yourself!"

A long minute passed as the two men stared unblinking at each other. Monckton heard whispering among the tenants. The Sin-Eater stood still as the scarecrow he resembled. The priest wondered if the man could speak at all. After all, he had had no-one to talk to for decades.

"Very well," said Sir John, and the priest released his grip. The squire turned and strode inside, ordering a servant to prepare a plate of cold beef, then take it to the priest. His way clear, the Sin-Eater limped inside and, without being told, went straight into the library. Monckton followed to find the man standing over the body, looking down with his customary lack of expression.

"The meal will be along shortly," said the priest. There was no indication the Sin-Eater had heard him. What seemed like hours passed as the priest wondered why Sir John's kitchen staff was taking so long to prepare a simple repast. Monckton became aware of the pounding of his own blood in his ears. He also noticed an unpleasant smell, one of sweat and worse. It was the Sin-Eater, a man who had gone unwashed for years, if not decades.

To his relief the cook appeared with a plate heaped with cold meat, handed it to the priest, and then hurried away without looking at the nameless man. She was a local woman. The priest walked up to the table where the body lay and placed the plate carefully on the young man's narrow chest, then stepped back.

The Sin-Eater didn't move.

Monckton wondered if there was some invitation he had neglected to make. But none of the accounts he had heard mentioned a form of words needed to begin the meal. I can hardly say Grace, he thought.

More time passed, and the priest wondered if he should simply leave. Perhaps his presence as a man of the cloth was blocking the ritual? But leaving the Sin-Eater alone with his friend's nephew felt like a betrayal, somehow. Undecided, he stood looking down at the plate of unappetizing flesh. Again the sound of his own heartbeat filled Monckton's ears.

And then he heard something else. The sound of a woman screaming. Perhaps it was coming from outside, one of the village women having hysterics? Then, just as suddenly as they had started, the screaming stopped.

Monckton looked around the room, seeing nothing, then back at the Sin-Eater. The man had raised his eyes from the corpse and was looking straight at the priest. For the first time, the outcast's face had a clear, recognizable expression. It was utter despair. The deep-set eyes were those of a damned soul, and for one timeless moment, the priest questioned all his most cherished beliefs.

What if it's true? Perhaps he does take sins of the dead onto himself, he thought. If so, this man must be in Hell here on earth!

Monckton took a step back, and half-raised a hand as if to ward off an assault. The Sin-Eater smiled, then, his mouth barely visible through a tangle of untamed beard. Then the nameless man stooped over the corpse and began to scoop up the meat with dirt-blackened fingers. The priest looked away, tried to block out the sound of chewing and gulping.

No, it's all nonsense! Absurd to be so affected by this, he told himself. Of course one must not despise the beliefs of the lower orders, but one must be firm on matters of faith. This is all pure superstition!

Soon the ancient ritual was over, and the Sin-Eater stood silently for a moment, licking grease off his hands. Then he left, passing the priest without a backward glance. The villagers stood aside again as the pariah walked down the driveway and out of the grounds. He had taken on yet more evil, had become even more despised. There was a collective sigh of relief as the Sin-Eater disappeared along the road that led to his hovel in the hills. Chatter broke out, quiet out of respect for the dead, but obviously tinged with relief. The ritual had been followed. Priest and squire had shown respect for the most important of the old ways.

Monckton raised his hands for attention, put on his best Sunday service voice as he spoke from the top of the steps.

"Good people! Thank you for coming to offer your condolences to Sir John. He is most grateful for your kind thoughts, but hopes you will forgive him if he spends the rest of this sad day in private prayer and contemplation."

The local left, approving the sentiment, and the priest reflected that Sir John might find it easier to innovate in future. Perhaps he'll even get them vaccinated next year, he thought. Going indoors he sought out of his friend, and found him in the drawing room sitting before a dead fire, contemplating a heap of luggage.

"His things?" asked Monckton, pointing at the bags.

Sir John nodded.

"Do they know how he died?"

The squire looked up, and his eyes filled with tears.

"The police found a bottle of poison when they searched the railway carriage. It had rolled under the seat. It was easy for him to obtain it from the medical school."

"Suicide? But no, surely he wouldn't–" began Monckton.

Sir John stood up, not looking his friend in the eye.

"Philip, look through his things for me. I can't bear to. My brother's son, I swore to protect him! Perhaps you'll find something that will explain this terrible incident."

The squire's voice broke, then.

"If you can't, I will have to assume that Victor killed himself rather than face me, my anger, my lack of understanding. Please, find another explanation."

For a while, the priest sat alone, contemplating the small heap of worldly possessions. Then he opened the first traveling bag and began to search through it. He found no diary or letters, nothing to fill in the story of the young man's final days. The second bag was no more helpful. All that was left was the medical bag, which of course contained only surgical instruments and vials of drugs.

No, there's something else here.

Monckton reached into a side pocket and found some folded newspaper clippings. He unfolded it on a small table and began to read. It was not difficult to work out the common factor. Even here in the backward west of England there had been widespread fascination with the biggest news story of the last twelve months. The priest scanned the all-too-familiar headlines.

 

HAS WHITECHAPEL KILLER CLAIMED NEW VICTIM?

 

'SHOCKING MUTILATION' OF MURDERED WOMAN

 

POLICE TAUNTED BY 'JACK THE RIPPER'!

 

Monckton looked up from the clippings. Then he leaned over the medical student's bag again and, moving very carefully, took out one of the instruments he had glanced at a minute earlier. He stood up and took it closer to the window, turned it over in the sunlight.

There were flecks of brown matter on the narrow steel blade.

"Proves nothing," he muttered. "Victor had a morbid imagination, that's all. Young men are often prone to such things."

He put the scalpel back into the bag, locked it. Then he picked up the newspaper cuttings and shoved them into his coat pocket.

"We will never know why he did it," he declared to his reflection in the mirror above the fireplace. Then, more firmly,

"Some things we were not meant to know, John. But we do know that God is merciful to us all, whatever our sins. That must be our consolation in times of trouble."

Monckton took a deep breath and prepared to go in search of the squire. Then something stopped him in his tracks. He recalled the moment when the screams had filled the library, before the Sin-Eater took his meal as payment.

Took on his newest burden.

"Proves nothing!" the priest repeated. "Nothing whatsoever!"

He tried not to think of the nameless man taking onto himself the sins of a monster in human form. So many years of taking on the petty wrongdoing of humble peasants, the commonplace lusts and envies and rages of village life. And he tried not to remember his last sight of the Sin-Eater's face, the eyes like those of a reptile, devoid of all human feeling.

"No! The idea is absurd, unscientific, irreligious, and I will not countenance it!"

Again, his reflection looked unconvinced.

* * *