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She shelters her machine under the tin roof and sits down on a bale of hay, unpacking the inside of her miraculously still-dry bag. With obvious respect, she opens the black box adorned with a mother-of-pearl skull and reveals its contents: a loaf of bread, a split wooden bowl, a can of cheap beer, a dented flask, an old leather notebook with a small wooden crucifix, a battered telephone, and the leather purse from the cellar.
I'm by no means a specialist in Sin Eaters, of whom I was previously unaware, but I doubt these utensils are the ones traditionally used, if this institution is as old as it seems. Anyway, as long as it works, esthetics are of limited interest.
She grabs the loaf and is about to bite into it. But what’s she doing? Has she already forgotten our meeting? And the words we exchanged?
“You've got a short memory!” I exclaim, incensed at her betrayal.
“I beg your pardon? Show yourself, I can't stand talking to a wall,” she orders me in a tone that brooks no contradiction.
I don't know how, but I materialize in front of her. She stares at me, dumbfounded, as if she hoped she had just dreamed me up.
“Why are you eating that bread?” I repeat dryly.
“It's probably escaped your notice that, unlike you, I have to comply with my body's physiological constraints if I hope to live a little longer. Eating is one of them.”
“Because you're concerned about staying alive? The way you drive, I doubt it. As for that bread, it belongs to me, and I can't remind you enough of your oath.”
“My oath?”
“To leave me my sins. Have you already forgotten?”
“Come on, relax! How do you expect me to absorb your sins when there are dozens of kilometers between your body and mine?”
Is that how it works?
“You mean this meal won't have any effect on me?”
“None. On me, on the other hand...”
She doesn't have time to finish her sentence before her stomach makes a loud protest. Indeed, her hunger isn’t feigned.
“Forgive me, but I'm just discovering all of this. And as you can imagine, it's quite disturbing.”
“Logical. You'd have to be a little bit touched to find the situation normal.”
I stare at her, bewildered. Is she touched?
“Don't look at me like that. What I mean is, if the existence of Sin Eaters has remained relatively confidential over the centuries, there must be a reason. I take it that most people can't handle such information.”
She has a point there.
“The ghost story, while more widespread, is no more widely accepted. These are tales for children. Well, most of the time. And for Sin Eaters, obviously...”
I can see that something is troubling her.
“You've never met one before, have you?”
She nods feverishly.
“Did you believe it?”
This time, she shakes her head. No, she didn't believe it, despite her involvement in a secret brotherhood dedicated to ensuring the repose of the dead. I don't get it.
“Please explain.”
“Let's just say that my vocation fell into my lap. I didn't choose to become a Sin Eater; I just did.”
What do you mean, you “just did”?
