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I put my artifacts back in Eltz's bag and rush up the stairs, determined to get away before I change my mind—as if running away from this unlikely scene would make it any less real.
Before heading off into the darkness, however, I have one final word of caution.
“Behave yourself, understand?”
Nearly four weeks ago, three of my children—Amy, Hugo, and Jack—died. All swept away by the terrible epidemic that has struck our state. They suffered a thousand deaths, slowly bleeding to death, their organs inexorably liquefying. I watched over them with devotion until the end in the vain hope of alleviating their torments. Only Elsa survived. And me. Now it's just the two of us.
Before it was time for the funeral, old Alma, who lives alone on the outskirts of the village, came to visit me. Our community has always thought of her as a poor, confused woman. I thought so too for a long time, I confess.
That day, however, despite the insanity of her words, I wanted to believe her. She was talking about a secret society that worked for the peace of souls... and the living. The “Sin Eaters.” She claimed that this brotherhood of Welsh origin dated back hundreds of centuries and that, thanks to their perseverance, the cycle of reincarnations went on without a hitch. It also prevented the dead from haunting those who remained.
I've never been much into all these questions of soul survival, religion, sin, hell, and heaven. But coming so close to death made me think about it a little more.
My poor children died far too young and most likely don't have such terrible things to make up for. However, I can't help imagining that perhaps Alma is right and that they risk damnation and perpetual wandering.
I have to find a Sin Eater, to protect my children in the afterlife. How do you locate this kind of person? What might they look like? How could I recognize them and request their services? Alma told me she didn't know. She only told me that when her husband died, her brother-in-law had brought one home—found in a filthy pub—who had officiated for the peace of the survivors. And that it had apparently worked. She wasn't quite sure and didn't offer any proof, but she seemed convinced, nonetheless.
Eltz's journal
2
The Ghost
Who is this arrival? How is it that the few words she uttered awakened me from my torpor and brought me back to a relative existence?
I was wandering in the void, drowned in an anesthetic cocoon. Not unpleasant, but not exactly comfortable either, an incomprehensible form of nothingness where a few snatches of nonsensical conversation reached me.
The fall into that sordid cellar felt like an icy shower, while the fragments of formula disseminated by her pale lips pierced me like sharp blades. What a paradox to feel so much suffering for a bodiless being like me!
I'm looking at a... woman. At least, it looks like one. You can't make out much in this gloomy place. To make matters worse, she's dressed all in black. I can barely make out her shape. Her face, fine and graceful, sports an austere countenance that doesn't sit well with the astonishing hair revealed to me by the flickering candle flames. It wasn't easy to get her to admit my presence, let alone distract her from her work. I imagine it's an important responsibility, since the peace of the living depends on the repose of the dead. There's no doubt that surprise was my ally in convincing her. And amazement too, I imagine.
Now what do I do?
My body is preserved for a while longer, and my sins belong to me until someone realizes that they haven't been taken away. How much time does that leave me? In this form, time seems relative and difficult to quantify, so how do I conquer it? Where do I begin to understand who I am and discover the tragic circumstances of my disappearance?
How can I investigate when I don't know where to start? As for getting answers, I'm not in a position to solicit them, at least not without terrorizing people. But I've given my word; I can't risk harming...
Who is she, anyway?
How is it that a frail, innocent-looking young woman like her belongs to the Sin Eaters? Although I'm not familiar with the term, I'm not totally unfamiliar with it either. I've intercepted her in a state of uncertainty, a sign that someone has taken on the task of guiding her to my bedside. Yet she clearly doesn't fit the profile!
I can't let her go like this. She's the only one who knows of my existence and, if I'm to honor my promise, she's also the only one who can help me. I follow her up the stairs, blowing out the torches that lit up the cellar on the way.
Once I've reached the threshold, I step through the door she's just closed and set off after her, despite the pouring rain. She may have tiny legs and vision limited by the precipitation, but she moves fast. Without a backward glance, she makes her way back to the wrought-iron gate that opens in her path. It's as if the locals were impatiently awaiting her departure.
She pulls into the plane tree alley and jogs toward the road, before stopping in front of a sleek black motorcycle. I would have rather imagined her piloting a pastel yogurt tub, not a racing machine, although her dark leather outfit and hulking backpack should have tipped me off.
She dons a matching matte-black helmet, contrasting with her moonlight hair from which only the now-dripping loose braid protrudes, and starts off with a bang.
I mustn't let her out of my sight!
Without really knowing how, I attach myself to her, forging a kind of psychic bond between us, fleshed out by the promise I've made to her. Whatever happens, our fates are now linked.
Wherever she goes, I go.
Despite the torrential downpours, she moves like the wind. Fearless. Unaware, above all! Is she trying to break her bones?
Suddenly, she slows down and turns onto a muddy path leading to a dilapidated barn. What a brilliant idea! Once the bulk of the downpour has passed, we'll be able to resume our journey in more favorable conditions. And be less suicidal about it.
