The Sin-eater

 THE SIN-EATER

In the British Isles and in other areas of the old world there was a well known character in many small villages called the sin-eater. This person, usually a begger took it upon themselves to eat the sins of the dead and dying for a small fee. Often they where treated like leapers and the last know sin –eater was A local legend in Shropshire, England,  Richard Munslow, said to be the last sin-eater of the area I have included the picture of his grave. This short piece is part of a new book of short story’s I am writing concerning the darker things in writing and local folklore. It has not been edited and as I am a poet has a ting of poetry to  it. I have decided to put it on the hub to see what response it gets. Excuse my spelling and mistakes for e the time being.

Enjoy!

 

THE SIN-EATER

by Colin T Mercer

 

 

The whole village was akin to it yet within there borders it would not enter but for the day when the dead cake was prepared.

The Sin-Eater his or her age or being unknown to every soul that held and told from story carried safely down packaged in the saving brown paper of fear kept in the hearts of every God fearing household.

And so the day of the Sin-Eater to arrive had come and the corpse was taken dressed in Sunday best yet as in its usual dark attire it lay protected with a wooden coat and always faced with the complexion of cold white marble the skin and forehead seemed to glint pale even from the dulled grey light of heavy clouded Irish days.

On the brier the Box intact filled with corpse and without lid was laid and with next of kin they placed directly on the centre of the body’s chest the hand made breaded dead cake.

The ritual maga-bowl of maple filled with ale was held by them aloft the lifeless casket for seconds in time that for us seemed to last eternal as we watched.

Slowly forward bent or rather stooped in dark and dank clothes a hooded figure would appear from beind the old rot iron gate without a face the sin-eater moved slowly in to take its place.

With trembling arms and wet faces the next of kin lower the bowl into what now we could see where two grey and withered hands with blackened nails. It arms unveiled blue veined wrists. An inward gasp was held silent as we all inhaled for fear of wrath we prevailed to keep the silence nailed.

Then with a voice so misplaced to what we faced so soft like velvet high almost child like and dare I say angelic these words were said.

“ With this bowl I drink your sin and easement bring to soul within”, the bowl half disappearing within the hood the sound of gulping ale filled the ears of every present witness.  Then throwing leftward the bowl rattled and rolled to hit the ground the only sound like a hollowed empty spent bottle hitting a wooden pub floor it resonated the ground. Now those hands moved downward and both came to rest and covered complete the dead cake on the chest of the deceased. The silence cut like a razored knife through the weeping of the women in the gathering site.

“Hear me now the words I say and as I eat away your filth of sin. Come not down the lanes nor in our meadows tread of this our world and for thy peace with this bread I pawn my soul consumed for evermore your sins. Now rest, in peace and slumber for I, the eater of your sins and hidden earthly beasts absolve your spirit into flight.

 Amen”. We bowed our heads and a sixpence that was set on either eye of the corpse was no more, taken as payment for arrangement and trade of eternal life.

 

The square stood silent almost as if frozen in time for just this rhyme as the sin-eater the dead-cake full did eat and with a single somewhat struggled gulping swallow turned then once again in stooping walk with same incline walked away towards the place from where in came. Then it seemed that all at once the gathering opening up a path of body dress in black with fright like a long blackened gate adorned with white faces opened to its plight.

They watched the crippled form until it disappeared over the hill lined with drywall stone just beyond the cottage wear the dead once had their home.

The narrow road twisted and rolled too far of hills were rocky homes still stood and one of which to it belonged that dark and dank figured stooped inclined with hood.

The place seemed all at once as free,  like a silken sheet thrown up above a double bed that would for just an instant float to rest full abreast and cover both feather pillows for pleasing heads at night.

We stood there all around and the sound of silence filled our  heads and a lightness in the air revived us. I breathed relieved and a bird in tree  of were I know not but it seemed that what they just had born witness to was a worked magic true for now everything was restful, peace was in the air and we seems blessed just as the dead was clean and clear its chest of anything that would rest upon it smart attire now seemed almost ready for a wedding it was smartly cleanly dressed..