The Sin Eater

by Sarah Rayne

  But it was half past four, and unless he wanted to be late for his five o’clock tutorial, he would have to put Fergal aside for the next two hours. He shut the book in the desk, then remembered he had not eaten since breakfast, so he crammed a wedge of cheese and a couple of biscuits into his mouth, after which he assembled his notes and his thoughts. He had set up a small discussion group of first years and today they were going to consider the use of diaries and letters as narrative in nineteenth-century literature. They were a bright, enthusiastic bunch and it was a lively session, although a note of high comedy was provided halfway through by Wilberforce finding the unwashed pan of mushroom soup and dislodging several plates in order to get at the remains. The plates fell off the drainer, precipitating Wilberforce into the washing-up bowl, much to his annoyance. He retired crossly to the radiator shelf to dry off, and Michael swept up the broken plates and returned to the analysis of Ann Brontë and Wilkie Collins.

  The students left shortly after six. Michael threw away the ruined saucepan, and returned to the Abbot and the entry into his story of Fintan Reilly.

  Fintan, it appeared, had the habit of turning up at St Patrick’s unexpectedly, generally when he was broke, hungry, running from an irate husband, father or brother, or – on a couple of memorable occasions – running from the law. And there had been a particular night midway through a tempestuous November evening in 1878 when he had arrived at the monastery, his appearance unannounced, as it always was.

  ‘A dark and wild night it was, with the rain lashing against the windows and rattling them like the bones of the restless dead, and the wind screeching across the ocean like the voices of souls trapped in purgatory,’ wrote the Abbot, and Michael read this with delight. Oh, Fergal, why didn’t you take to writing purple fiction, he thought. Or maybe you did. Maybe you were really Bram Stoker or Sheridan Le Fanu. He considered this concept of allotting shadow personas to well-known novelists for a moment in case it might make an interesting essay subject for his students, then resumed reading.

  We had two guests that night, for N.S. was visiting us as well. N.S. had left us three or four years previously, to take a curacy in a parish on the outskirts of Galway. He had written to me, describing his work with enthusiasm, and I was starting to hope my early fears about him had been unfounded. This was the first time he had returned to St Patrick’s, however.

  It was after supper when Fintan unfolded his tale. Fintan always told a tale when he was given food; he considered it a form of payment, I think.

  ‘I’ve a tale to spin,’ says Fintan, on this November night, and there was a small, pleased murmur. The ordinands – we had six at the time – looked up hopefully.

  ‘Once upon a time, and a very long time it was,’ says Fintan, ‘the devil, walking the world in his greedy, prideful way, thought he’d put some of his powers of persuasion into the rocks and stones and gems of the world. “Aha”, thinks he, “there’ll come a time when men will chisel out these rocks and stones, and make objects to adorn their houses and their shelves. And I’ll be inside those things, and that’ll be yet another way for me to get into their souls.”’

  Here Fintan paused and took a refreshing draught of the mulled wine at his elbow. (Readers will be familiar with St Paul’s dictum about a little wine for the stomach’s sake, although to be fair, Fintan’s measures could not be called little.)

  ‘I’ve a friend now, in service at Kilderry Castle,’ says Fintan. ‘A very particular friend she is, and a good girl, diligent and willing.’ This was a perfectly acceptable remark for any man to make; the trouble was that Fintan accompanied his words with a sly wink to the monk seated next to him. The monk happened to be our cellerar, Brother Cuthbert, who was seventy-five if he was a day, and although he’d know in theory about willing girls, he’d been in the monastery for fifty years, so the practice would be a dim memory.

  ‘My girl at Kilderry Castle has a deep concern,’ said Fintan, and for the first time since I ever knew him, his voice had a serious ring to it.

  Somebody further down the table observed that there would always be a deep concern about anyone inside Kilderry Castle, for wasn’t the Earl known as the boldest sinner ever.

  This was putting it kindly, for the Black Earl, as he was often called (although not in his hearing) was said by some to have trafficked with the devil. People said that, like Faust, he had sold his soul to Satan for power over men and women. Mesmerism, they call it nowadays, and it’s a subtle power and one you’d certainly expect Satan to have in his gift.

  ‘That’s as maybe,’ says Fintan, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. ‘But the Earl’s been good enough to my girl and he’s been good enough to other servants as well.’

  There was a slightly awkward silence at this, for Gerald Kilderry’s particular brand of ‘goodness’ was generally believed to take a very particular form, although if only half the rumours about him were true you’d at least have to admire the man’s energy.

  ‘So now,’ says Fintan, ‘there’s this room in Kilderry Castle lined with books and manuscripts and all manner of fine things for learned gentlemen to browse among of an evening. And in that room, also, is a set of chessmen – you’ll all know the game of chess, of course, you being learned people, never mind monks.’

  A murmur of assent. I saw N.S. lean forward, his eyes bright and alert.

  ‘The chessmen,’ says Fintan, lowering his voice the better to infuse it with a thrilling note, ‘were hewn from those very rocks that old Satan threaded through with his evil charm – and it’s a charm that will talk men into doing whatever Satan wants. Imagine how it might be if an ordinary human got hold of that power. If men – even women – were able to crook a finger and point to a victim and say, “You. You come to me on such and such a date, at such and such a time”.’ He demonstrated by crooking his own finger and several of the monks looked startled.

  ‘Those chessmen,’ goes on Fintan, ‘are as black and as bad as Satan’s own horns. And there they sit, in the library at Kilderry Castle, and Satan’s power trapped within them.

  ‘And my girl at the castle tells how there are times when the Black Earl has sat in that room any length of time, that his eyes take on a look that terrifies them all. A hungry look,’ said Fintan. ‘As if his eyes could eat a man’s soul.’

  He sat back and surveyed his audience, clearly pleased at the effect his words had created. For good measure (he could never resist the extra flourish), he said, ‘And you’ll remember, all of you, that Kilderry Castle is no more than three miles from this very building.’

  It would be untrue to say we believed Fintan’s story, but it would also be untrue to say we disbelieved it. There are curious things in the world – you chance on them from time to time. Objects or houses – even people – that possess extraordinary powers.

  After supper, Brother Cuthbert and I retired to my study, and Fintan followed us.

  ‘There’s more to tell,’ he said, seating himself comfortably in a chair.

  ‘I thought there might be. Speak out, Fintan.’

  ‘Father Abbot, my girl in Kilderry Castle says the chess pieces are frightening them all to death.’ His face was serious, and for once there was no trace of his customary flippancy.

  ‘In what way?’ asked Brother Cuthbert.

  ‘There’s always been nights when some of the servants have seen the shadows of the chess figures creeping along the castle corridors, and peering out from behind a curtain,’ said Fintan. ‘But while the chessmen were unused – while they stood quietly on their table – nothing ever happened. But a few months back, the Earl used the chess set. A man came to the castle and challenged Kilderry and the two of them sat playing for hours and hours. My girl believes that during those hours something woke in the figures – something that had slumbered more or less harmlessly for a very long time. And now – you’ll think this is absurd – but she’s in fear and terror for her sanity and her soul. And for the souls of others.’ He studied us for
a moment. ‘I see the mention of souls hits you in the consciences,’ he said. ‘I thought it would.’

  ‘You thought right,’ said I drily. ‘What is it you’re wanting from us, Fintan?’

  His eyes gleamed. ‘I’ve promised my girl that I’d ask would some of you come up to the castle when the Earl’s away.’

  ‘Why?’ This was Brother Cuthbert.

  ‘To destroy the chessmen and vanquish the devil’s power, of course.’

  As the good Lord is my witness, when Fintan said this, a cold, dry breath of wind ruffled its way across the small, fire-lit room and I felt it brush my skin like icy claws.

  I said, firmly, ‘Fintan, if you’re suggesting we perform an exorcism . . .’ I broke off, frowning. ‘That isn’t something that can be undertaken lightly. We’d need the Bishop’s permission at the very least.’

  ‘There’s no need for exorcism,’ said Fintan. ‘All I want is for you to come up to the castle with me and burn that devilish chess set so we can tip the ashes into the ocean forever.’ He regarded us. ‘And tonight,’ he said, ‘the Earl is away, and the castle empty.’

  Cuthbert and I sat over the dying fire, discussing what to do.

  ‘Do we believe that rogue?’ I said. ‘For he’s the world’s most extravagant storyteller.’

  ‘I believe him,’ said Cuthbert. ‘People forget the devil is extremely clever – they also forget that he’s extremely ancient. When he lays his plans he doesn’t think in terms of a few years, you know; he thinks of the age of an entire world. And he adapts to the worlds he prowls. There’s the popular image of him as a persuasive gentleman with horns and a forked tail, but if he went around today looking like that, people would think he was dressed-up for a costume ball.’

  I said, ‘Cuthbert, you constantly amaze me. What would you know about costume balls?’

  ‘I wasn’t always a monk,’ said Cuthbert, injured. ‘I’ve had my small adventures, Father Abbot. And I know Fintan Reilly’s an unlikely instrument for the good Lord to choose, but if he really has stumbled upon an ancient pocket of evil, it’s for us to help him fight it.’

  As he said this, a breath of wind gusted down the chimney and stirred the glowing peat fire in the hearth. I said, with more assurance than I was feeling, ‘I think we’d better go up to Kilderry Castle and see this chess set for ourselves. But it’s a task for younger men.’

  Cuthbert, slightly aggrieved, said he hoped he could still say a prayer over a fragment of evil as effectively as ever.

  ‘Yes, but it’s three miles to Kilderry Castle and a steep haul up the hill, and you with the arthritis in both knees,’ I said. ‘So I suggest—’

  It was at that point someone tapped softly on the door.

  It was N.S. He came in with an air of faint apology, and took the seat offered him.

  ‘I won’t prevaricate, Father Abbot,’ he said. ‘It’s about Fintan Reilly’s story.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Are you going out to Kilderry Castle to destroy that chess set?’

  The directness of this disconcerted me somewhat. ‘I don’t know,’ I said, slowly. ‘Why do you want to know so particularly?’

  ‘If you do,’ he said, ignoring my question, ‘Would you take me with you?’

  ‘You? Why would we take you?’

  N.S. stared into the fire. ‘I have some knowledge of that old legend, Father.’

  ‘But,’ said Cuthbert, ‘you surely don’t believe Fintan’s story?’

  ‘Evil exists,’ said N.S. ‘And if you mean to confront that particular evil, you should have with you someone who understands it.’

  ‘Do you understand it?’

  ‘No. But I’ve encountered it.’ He looked up at me. ‘Father Abbot,’ he said. ‘I was the man who played that chess game with the Black Earl of Kilderry. I was the one who woke the evil in those figures.’

  It was an uncomfortable journey we made to Kilderry Castle the next night, and it was not made easier by the blizzard that was raging everywhere.

  N.S. and I were wrapped up against the cold; Fintan, a hardy soul, wore only his customary greatcoat with the deep inner pockets. A poacher’s coat, of course, but I’d have to admit that if a plump hare or two found its way to the monastery kitchens, or a side of salmon appeared on our table, we accepted them and asked no questions.

  Fintan had acquired a small cart with a donkey to pull it – when asked whence it came, he murmured vaguely about it belonging to a pedlar who had been glad to loan it for a day or two. It was a rickety old thing; Brother Cuthbert, standing at the monastery door to bid us farewell, was shocked to his toes to think of Father Abbot riding abroad on such a contraption.

  ‘You’ll be jolted like an unset junket after ten feet,’ he said, ‘and your insides scrambled out of recognition, I shouldn’t wonder. It’s not fitting, Father Abbot.’

  ‘It’s not fitting that the Earl of Kilderry should be harbouring the devil’s arts,’ said I. ‘I shan’t mind a bit of jolting in God’s work.’

  ‘It’s a short enough ride anyway,’ said N.S.

  But it turned out that Fintan – or possibly the pedlar – had spread a thick rug on the cart’s floor and the journey was not, in the event, too uncomfortable.

  I carried the large crucifix from our chapel, and we each had a phial of holy water, blessed by the Archbishop on his last visit. I had the missal bestowed on the monastery at its opening and had marked the Ninety-First Psalm – “Whosoever dwelleth under the defence of the most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty . . .” It’s a powerful prayer against Satan’s minions, that prayer.

  Fintan carried an ancient blunderbuss which his grandfather had used at Waterloo. He appeared to think that if discharged in the face of any evil adversaries that might be prowling the castle, it would banish them there and then. Cuthbert, seeing it, said it did not look as if it had been fired since Waterloo and he would be surprised if it made more than a splutter.

  It was almost eleven o’clock when we finally reached Kilderry Castle, and very dark it was, with the moon behind clouds most of the time.

  Kilderry Castle stands on a small hilltop – it’s a brooding, squat place, with frowning battlements and mullioned stonework adorned with gargoyles. I think former Earls liked to keep a watch for enemies sneaking up the hillside, and fire off arrows at them. On the crest of this thought I said, ‘Fintan, you are sure Himself of Kilderry is away at the moment?’

  ‘I am,’ said Fintan, who was hunched over the reins, encouraging the little donkey by means of various epithets.

  ‘He’s often away,’ said N.S. casually.

  As we went through a belt of trees, a sharp spiteful wind stirred the leafless branches, causing them to reach down as if they intended to snatch up any stray enemies of the Lords of Kilderry. A faint dank mist rose from the ground, and I shivered. Beside me, N.S. drew the hood of his cloak over his head.

  ‘We’ll leave the cart here,’ said Fintan, when we were about two-thirds of the way up. He sprang down and tethered the donkey’s reins to a tree stump covered with a thick mat of ivy. ‘The path’s not wide enough for the cart from here. Will I bring the carpet bag with me?’

  ‘Why would we need that?’

  ‘To conceal the blunderbuss,’ said Fintan, as if it should be obvious. ‘For I’m not shouldering it and carrying it up there for all to see.’

  ‘Bring the bag,’ I said.

  As we walked warily up the slope, the old castle lay deep in shadow, although several times I thought lights glinted in the narrow windows. As we climbed the steep slope I thought something huffed its sulphurous breath into my face, and a low voice, like the crackling of brittle leaves or snapping bones, whispered in my ear.

  “Better to go back while you still can,” said this voice. “For you won’t beat the One you’re going to confront . . .”

  ‘Oh yes I will,’ I said, very softly, and N.S. glanced at me in surprise.

  Kilderry Castle, when finally we stood in its
courtyard, was the most ramshackle place I ever saw in my life. Ivy covered parts of the grey walls and weeds thrust up between huge cracks in the courtyard. The gargoyles leered down like very demons themselves.

  Beside me, N.S. said, very softly, ‘It’s as if there’s something sick and evil dwelling in there, and it’s oozed its malignancy through the stones until they’re decayed and rotten.’

  (The reader will see from that remark why I ascribe too much imagination to N.S.)

  There was a massive portcullis at the centre of the castle’s front, its great iron teeth clamped firmly down. A rusting bell twist hung down at one side. It was a relief when Fintan indicated a more conventional door set into the outer wall further along. ‘Eithne said she would leave that door unbolted for us,’ he said.

  ‘But you should be careful,’ put in N.S. ‘For there’s a murder hole just inside.’

  ‘A . . . ?’

  ‘An opening in the ceiling for the inhabitants to use for shooting at unwanted guests, or even for pouring boiling liquid on to them. The Kilderrys,’ said N.S. rather drily, ‘believe in defending what’s theirs.’

  ‘Dear God. Fintan, are you sure the Earl’s away?’

  ‘Didn’t I tell you already he was?’ said Fintan. ‘There’ll be nothing lying in wait.’

  But there was.

  NINETEEN

  I am not very accustomed to entering castles. I am certainly not accustomed to doing so in darkness, in company with a rapscallion poacher armed with a blunderbuss, and with the intention of sending a fragment of the devil’s powers to the rightabout. But it had to be done.

  I’d have to report, though, that N.S. went through the door as if he had done so a number of times before, and as casually as if he was entering the henhouse at St Patrick’s. Fintan, who cared nothing for any man’s rank, did the same. I followed.