Sin Eater

Written by my good friend, who we call Hurricane.

I’ve always been interested in religions, and I happened across a bit of information once about a practice long ago called “Sin Eating.” A Sin Eater was usually a local beggar, and when someone would die he would be invited into the home of the deceased, and there would be offered a piece of bread (sometimes called a death cake) and a mug of mead or ale. The bread and ale would be handed over the body or coffin of the deceased, and the Sin Eater would consume what was given, symbolically absorbing the sin of the deceased person into himself.

This was in mainly in Great Britain, but it was practiced in other places as well, generally in Christian homes. It was practices, apparently, into the early 1900s, but it goes back a great deal further than that.

I told a friend of mine about it and said that I thought it was interesting, and he told me I should advertise myself in the paper as a Sin Eater and see if I got any calls. It was all very funny to him, of course, but I did it, just to see what would happen. But I never expected to get a call.

A family called me and requested my services. They were a Catholic bunch, and it was the father of the house who had died. I told them what I required, just improvising as I went. I told them I needed a full meal of roast and potatoes and bread and some sweet red wine. They said that would be fine.

When I left home I was nervous. It was springtime, and I could hear a choir of frogs in the nearby swamp, and crickets too, making a din in the night. There were a few puffy clouds, a big, fat old moon and the lights of the condos of Orange Beach across the bay lit up the water and the sky. It was hot and humid but, fearing what was to come, I’d put on my trenchcoat just in case.

Of course, I knew the corpse would be in there before I arrived, and it was. The coffin was up on a stand, right beside the dining room table, which had a plate on it and bowls filled with the food I’d requested. There was that painting of Jesus praying hanging on the wall; I’ve seen it a million times, but it’s never had the impact it had that night. I didn’t even take off my trench, I just sat down and began eating as fast as I could, because I knew if this went one way, something bad was about to happen. It really depends on which way they do it, there are several ways, but of course, they did it the hard way.

I ate as much in as little a time as I could, and guzzled about a quart of wine, and I could tell the family were all itching to be done with me. They hovered in the doorway, the wife and mother and three children who were all but grown, a brother (I presumed) and an old woman who must have been the mother of the deceased. Anyway, all of five minutes after I sat down and hunched over my plate and began shoveling food in, I could tell they were already done with me. I practically leaped to my feet, my trenchcoat flaring out around me, and they all gasped with surprise. I turned and put my hands on the coffin, seeing the stack of gold dollars that I’d told them I would accept as payment. I guess I just thought gold coins would be more romantic than asking for a check or cash; I told them explicitly to give me one dollar coins and nothing else. I grabbed up the pile of coins and dropped them into my pockets and then turned to the door.

My heart was pounding in my chest, and for good reason. The family opened up a lane to allow me to pass through into the living room, and I could see they already had fistfulls of food, ready to pelt me as I came by. I ran through their gauntlet, my arm raised to protect my face, as they hurled boiled potatoes and what must have been gravy-soaked bread at me. I went straight to the front door, which was open, and some of the more hearty members of the family followed me right out into the night, still throwing food at me.

I got into my car and drove straight home, and even after the thirty minutes it took me to make it back home, my heartbeat was still racing with excitement. I’d never done anything like that before; little did I know then that it wouldn’t be the last time, either.

Now the word spreads by word-of-mouth; people call about four or five times a year, and the fee has gone up to fifty dollars, still in gold coins, of course. One man actually gave me gold coins marked CSA, 1868. I keep all of them, fearing that if I spend them then I’ll have to atone for all the sin I’ve taken in. I know, it’s crazy, but the people who hire me believe in it, and I always figure–who am I to judge?

The procedure is always different. Sometimes they don’t pelt me with food at all. They just stand aside and let me leave, letting me take the sin outside with me. I always wear the trench, though. Since I’ve been doing this it’s become like a suit of armor. Once I walked into a home and the man who’d died was lying on his back on the kitchen table. There was a slice of Wonderbread on his chest and a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon in his hand. I ate the bread and drank down the beer and walked out without ever seeing anyone else in the house.

Once a widow lady fed me over her husband’s corpse, and then she stripped and made love to me on the floor beside him. I’m not sure if that was her way of giving him one last kick before she tossed him out, her way of saying “Thank God he’s gone,” or if she was symbolically making love to him. I don’t know, and don’t really care, either.

I give each family what they need, and that’s enough for me. I do not take advantage of any of them. I don’t even spend the money they give me, I put it in a box that I keep hidden away, like a pirate’s chest. Maybe one day I’ll take it out into the swamp and bury it, draw myself an arcane map and hide it away somewhere just to see if someone might find it.

When asked if I believe in any of it, the answer is both yes and no. I have seen proof that there is a paranormal element in the world. Whether or not I’m actually absorbing the sins of a life though, I can’t say. It’s not something I would risk though, by spending the money they gave me or by going to an Eating without wearing my armor.

My life sometimes seems like it’s in a conflict between worlds.