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He seems to consider the question but remains silent. It's never easy for a man to rely on a woman. The fact that I'm a Sin Eater makes no difference. Unable to support him physically, I offer encouragement, while trying to remember the way back to the tunnel. This building is a labyrinth, especially the basements, which seem to spread out even farther than the abbey above ground.
From alcoves to nooks and crannies, we reach the passageway that conceals our exit door. Now that I've wandered these corridors a little, I realize that it's just like the dozens of others that line this place.
“Wait for me here, and I'll come back for you. Do you understand me?”
Ember, who seems to have regained his composure, responds with an annoyed grunt.
“I won't be long.”
I don't know why I feel the need to justify myself and brood over him. I agree that he's dead, but I'm not responsible for his fate. I can't help it, as if his future now depended on mine.
Before walking away, I grab the Swiss Army knife-shaped key-ring where the key to my motorcycle hangs and trace a small cross in the bottom of the door, a discreet way of distinguishing it at a glance in case of emergency. I've hardly taken a few steps when my heart sinks. What if I fail? What will happen if the monks succeed in destroying his body? Will he disappear with it?
I slip into the still deserted corridors, taut as a string, on the lookout for the slightest noise that might betray a presence. For the moment, the monks are still asleep, but for how much longer? As far as I know, they're the kind of people who get up before the sun. But from where I'm standing, it's impossible to see the slightest ray of it. And, of course, I don't have a watch handy.
Suddenly, I freeze. Footsteps sound on the cobblestones. I brace myself against the wall and move away as they approach, accompanied by a flickering light: a lantern. Really? Couldn't they have installed electricity? That said, it's picturesque and immersive, a surprising return to the roots of my profession.
A door opens.
I venture a peek, hoping to detect a clue to the visitor's destination. What I see stuns me: a dozen men are lined up in front of the door. One by one, they step inside after uttering what I imagine to be a password. The appearance of the last of them catches my eye: like me, he's dressed in an ordinary leather outfit for a biker. But that's not all! From his neck to the back of his skull unfurls an undulating tattoo: the mark of the Sin Eaters!
What's he doing here? Why go undercover like that and take such ill-considered risks? He's walking into the lion's den here!
When the door closes, I move closer. I've got to find out what's going on here!
One morning, however, reality hit me in the face, and I realized that Christy hadn't exaggerated the threat.
I arrived on the outskirts of a village where I was planning to officiate, when I spotted the remains of a man hanging from a tree. I approached, slowing down my motorcycle. It was so improbable that at first I thought it was a kid's prank, but it wasn't Halloween. The realism of this horror sent shivers down my spine. Blood was still dripping, forming a scarlet stain on the grass at the corpse's feet. A few birds were circling the remains, probably disturbed by my presence.
It was real.
There was a poor man, savagely butchered before being exposed, in tatters, for passers-by to see. Barbarism, pure and simple.
I was so absorbed in contemplating this horror that I didn't hear a young boy come up beside me. He gently tapped my elbow to attract my attention. The apparent indifference of his boyish face surprised me. He was neither shocked nor disgusted by this atrocious spectacle.
“Gross, huh?” he asked.
“It's monstrous, yes,” I replied, retching.
I'd become accustomed to finding myself in the presence of lifeless bodies, but this one was just too bloody.
“You don't seem surprised... Does that happen often around here?”
“It happens... They just have to stay home! Don't invade us! Because of people like him, the Lord could condemn us!”
“The Lord?”
“Well, God!”
“But what could he have done to deserve such a sanction?”
“He thought he was Christ...”
“I don't get it.”
“He's a Sin Eater! Look, his tattoo's hanging right there.”
He then pointed to a piece of skin that had turned brown, a waving dragon still visible beneath the barely dried blood. Shocked by the relentlessness to which this body had been subjected, I hadn't noticed the flap on display on the tree, pinned up like a poster. An unambiguous warning to Sin Eaters, apparently.
