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1
Believ
I follow in the wake of a man whose footsteps clatter on the gravel. The atmosphere is clammy and heavy, not helped by the fog that surrounds us. Only the sharply angled roof manages to cut through the suffocating clouds, revealing the age of the building almost entirely covered in bright red Virginia creeper. Despite the mansion's breathtaking appearance, an oppressive, inquisitive, and suspicious feeling pervades.
“It's this way,” says the man without so much as a glance, as he had stared at me unabashedly when I entered his property.
Although he does his best to conceal it, his unease is palpable. His gloved hand trembles as he points to a narrow staircase that presumably leads to the basement. He's terrified.
How can you blame him?
Everyone knows that it’s forbidden to use a Sin Eater. And the penalty for offenders isn’t anecdotal, but pure and simple death.
How could we at this point go back and legitimize such radical penalties?
Just a few decades ago, it was abolished in favor of more proportional, humane, and reversible penalties. Why is the simple act of seeking the repose of departed souls such an unforgivable sin that those who do so must be deprived of their most cherished possession?
No matter! Both he and I are risking our lives in this hazardous undertaking, which even the hostile climate seems to seek to discourage. And yet, both of us are determined.
I give him a vague nod that he doesn't even perceive, so tense is he in his collar, his gaze fixed on a redeeming horizon, before slipping down the stairs, making sure to leave the door ajar.
I've barely descended a few steps when a terrible musty smell catches in my throat, accompanied by unfamiliar ferrous odor. Has the body begun to decompose? How could this be? I moved as soon as the news of his death reached me!
Given the magical channels used to contact me, I deduce that the deceased was a particularly important person, or at least one with sufficiently extensive connections for my Brotherhood's hierarchy to dispatch me as a matter of urgency.
It's not unusual for Sin Eaters to be mobilized by dreams. What is unusual, however, is for the request to be accompanied by such eagerness. In any case, last night's dream led me straight here. It's a good thing I was only a few hours away, and that my motorcycle posts the speed limits!
I slip and catch myself in extremis on a prominent stone in the wall. I could have grabbed the rope rail, but the protocol is clear: I mustn't touch anything, leave no trace of my passage. I don't know why; that’s just the way it is. And ever since I took up the profession, I've endeavored to adhere strictly to the rules, even if I have my doubts about their effectiveness.
The faint glow that filtered in from outside is now a distant memory, and I'm so immersed in darkness that I can barely see my feet. I redouble my caution, refusing to sprawl downstairs because I've missed a step or slipped on one.
Groping my way along, step after step, I realize how uneven, worn, and smooth they are, a testimony to centuries of intensive use that suddenly arouses my curiosity. Who could have gone down there? What were these isolated places hiding? Was there food storage or a crypt? Or, worse still, was it once the headquarters of a sect?
I'm rambling, which obviously won't help me.
I approach the bottom of the stairs with relief, betrayed by the faint glow of dancing torches. You have to admit, they've got theatricality down pat! Did the owners ever think of installing electricity? The terracotta floor oozes, as do the damp walls that reflect the flickering flames.
The body is there, laid out in the center of the room, barely concealed by an immaculate sheet upon which shadows dance. Why on earth do these torches give the impression of being in a draft, when this room has no openings except the one I used to come downstairs?
Although impatient to get it over with, I linger a few moments to stare at him. He's a young-looking man, despite the mask he wears, frozen in eternity. His features are harmonious, and it would be no exaggeration to describe him as ravishing. I feel no more injustice in working with someone who has been struck down in the prime of life than with an octogenarian. Rather, it's the idea of officiating over the dead that still makes me uneasy, especially as I don't believe a word of this Bible that never leaves my side. But I promised. And by force of circumstance and without really having chosen it, I swore an oath to the Brotherhood. I must honor my word, and the only way to do so is to follow protocol and respect every detail, no matter how repugnant.
I reach into my rucksack and pull out the pouch belonging to Eltz, my predecessor. I open the ebony box it contains and arrange the components with almost surgical precision, right next to the body. There's no need to refer to the manual; I'm used to doing this by now.
I place the bread on the torso of the deceased man, just above the small leather purse intended to remunerate my intervention, and sprinkle it with a pinch of salt. I remove Eltz's notebook from the box, place it on the floor, and open it to the page marked by a modest wooden crucifix. According to eyewitness accounts, each of these crosses used by my colleagues contains an authentic fragment of Christ's cross, giving them a divine aura that ensures the effectiveness of our task.
I place it delicately on the dead man's forehead, once again covered in his shimmering shroud, and begin my incantation in a timid whisper that nevertheless ricochets between the stone walls.
“Stop...”
A strange lament spreads through the empty room. I freeze for a moment, glancing around. I can't make out anything but those damn torches, whose wild flickering is seriously beginning to tire me.
I resume in a slightly louder voice.
“Please... stop...”
Again? Have I gone mad? Leading this strange life of mine, it wouldn't be surprising. Without paying any further attention, I concentrate once again on my prayer, which I intone in a more pronounced manner, determined to get to the end of it as quickly as possible.
“Leave me my sins...”
