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.
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, ofwhom 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”?
“And you, did you believe in ghosts before you became one yourself?”
Excellent question!
“I don”t know. I have no memory of who I was before.”
Saying this out loud makes my chest tighten, as if the tingling inside me has suddenly become more tangible. This is my real problem: I don”t know who I am. As for my death, it too remains a mystery.
“Don”t you remember anything?”
It”s my turn to shake my head, in the grip of too much emotion.
“Not even your nearest and dearest, your family?”
Once again, nothingness comes to me. Oblivion has seized every last shred of memory, obliterating my past existence and no doubt the one to come.
“How can this be?” she murmurs, incredulous. “Perhaps your death was so tragic that your mind preferred to conceal it...”
Her guess makes sense. But I like to stick to the facts. And the fact is, I don”t know anything about anything—or almost anything—including that which concerns me directly. All I retain are vague recollections that blend different eras and general knowledge.
“Who are you?” I ask, suddenly realizing that I still don”t know her first name.
“Believ.”
“Mmm, nice.”
Although I don”t know what I look like at this moment, I try to give her a smile.
“And entirely appropriate,” I add, now convinced that our meeting was no accident.
Who better to assist me in my quest than someone called Believ? It”s providential.
“Believ, I need you.”
“I can”t help you. I”ve got to get back to work,” she says, clearly preoccupied.
She pauses, deep in thought, and finishes,
“I used to do all this out of obligation. Now I know it”s useful. All the more reason for me to continue my mission, you understand? Besides, I don”t really have a choice...”
There”s always a choice.
“Helping me will be useful too. Something”s not right here. I need to understand what happened, and I can”t do it without you to help me investigate. Can you imagine me asking questions?”
“Not really.”
“This shouldn”t take too long. You do a little research, and I”ll get out of your way. Deal?”
“Okay. I give up. I have only one demand: you must obey me without question.”
She”s my only chance, and I”ve got to take it.
“You can count on me.”