10. BITTER GREENS

I run out of the castle. I run through town and don’t stop until I reach the great Makerhall in the town square. I think somehow if I can hear the High Makerman’s prayers or dip my hand in the light from the coloured windows, mayhap I can be clean again. I don’t know what else to do.

The road is full of folk in their white clothes on their way to noontide service. I push straight through, my breath all caught up in my chest. Forgive me, Ruth.

Ahead of me, I see the statues of Hagi Saul and Hagi Gabriel cut into the stone beside the Makerhall doors. I hear folk saying, ‘Peace to you,’ and the Makermen just inside the doors answering back the same way.

But before I make it in the door, there’s a sharp hiss in my face, then the crook of a Makerman’s staff an inch from my nose. ‘The sin eater will not defile the Maker’s house!’ a voice shrieks.

Folk stutter and spin away all around me. The Makerman jabs his staff forward, hitting me hard in the pocket of my shoulder. Another blow strikes my ear from the side. I look up to see a second Makerman raising his staff to strike. ‘Sin monger!’ he yells.

I turn to flee, but there’s too many folk coming in for me to move away. A man nearby starts yelling along with the Makerman, ‘Sin monger!’ Then, somefolk’s hat whips at my back, hard enough to bite. Another folk takes off his hat and hits me with it too. The cries of ‘Sin monger’ get louder than the ‘Peace to yous’ until they’re all I can hear. It seems everyfolk is yelling and hitting, shoving and herding me back from the door. I can’t see through the bodies and hats striking me, but suddenly I lose my footing, and I’m tumbling along with a young girl down into the ditch beside the road. The girl’s mother screams and pulls the girl up by the arm, swatting her across the bottom for shame and hugging her for comfort all at the same time. I wait in the ditch with my hands covering my head until I’m sure no folk are still striking me.

The crowd has gone quiet. I look up at the line of folk outside the Makerhall. They have turned away, shading their faces with their hands. None cry ‘Sin monger’ any more. A moment passes. I start to hear quiet ‘Peace to yous’ up by the door again. The queue begins to move. The folk file into the Makerhall until the road above me is empty.

Dirty water’s soaking up into my shift. I feel it cold across my left thigh and bottom. What I think is, I’ve no soap at Ruth’s house.

The other thoughts of guilt and regret and grief are there too, but for some reason it’s the soap that sticks. I swallow a little giggle. Soap.

I climb out of the ditch. I can hear the High Makerman starting the service inside. ‘O Maker, have mercy upon us miserable sinners.’

My lips move without thinking, along with the response, ‘May it be.’

I always loved saying ‘May it be’ at the end of each prayer. Hearing everyfolk uttering my name, May, like I was part of the Maker’s prayers and mysteries.

Outside the door, I look at the statue of Hagi Gabriel. His face is kinder than Hagi Saul’s, and his hands open at his sides in welcome. But there’s nothing welcoming here.

The High Makerman goes on. ‘Dear brethren, we assemble to give thanks for the great benefits we receive at the Maker’s hands.’ What benefits have I received? I can’t think of a one.

Every folk answers again, but this time, like Hagi Gabriel, I’m quiet.

The graveyard has lots of markers, some worn down, some with edges still square. One marker has a picture scratched on its back in white chalk: an x with eyes on either side. Witch’s markings, most like.

There’s just a small stone for Da. It was all I could pay for. I lie down on the green shoots of grass over his grave. My shift sticks to the back of my legs, and my cunny is wet with dirty ditch water. I lie for a long time. The sky above me becomes dark and cold. Stars come out through clouds that look like carrot tops. Lying above Da’s bones like on a bed, I understand why sin eaters were made. Carrying such feelings is too much for one little heart, too much for one body. There must be some hope of shedding regret, grief, sorrow, sloughing them off like a skin and going into death free and light. Else we’d never be able to live.

Night airs bring fever. I’ll wait for them to seep into my nose and eyes and ears. They’ll dry up my life, and I’ll leave this world. Whether I’ll go to Eve or the Maker, I don’t know.

The moon passes above me, lighting a beech tree thick with new leaves. I wait. But nothing happens. After days of filling my belly, I’m coursing with life, warm and sound, and itching to move. The Makermen wouldn’t help me. Now death won’t either.

I roll over so I can see Da’s stone. I stick my finger in our etched name. O-W-E-N-S, I trace the letters over. Grey grit gets caught in my fingernail. I trace the letters again. The wide O. The doubled-up W. The E and N. The S to finish. I do it again. And again. Over and over until my thoughts get plain. If I’m to live, then I need to fix this mess. I fold my hands.

Ruth, I pray, I vow to make this right.

I will prove myself Da’s daughter and repair things.

May it be.

May it be.

May it be.