A Service at St. Martha’s

Incense is thick in the air; a redolence like Gaoler’s Rose. The Heterodox Hierophant preaches the Commentaries, as is his wont. His mysticism does appeal, though the laity tends towards the classics – to swords and holy vengeance, rather than his complex thoughts on the most recent addition to the Holy Writ.

So clergy fills the cramped wooden pews at St. Martha’s. Priests, the occasional nun, and even a bishop{if The Almost Bishop of Anceleisle = 1} – the Shepherd of Apple Down, not your old rival{endif}. The Hierophant’s preaching is just outside the orthodox teachings of the church – too far for him to ever leave his small parish, but not so far that a listener might fear censure.

Two elderly priests whisper with each other, overjoyed to be tinged with such scandal, but most are focussed on the Heterodox Hierophant and his musings. {if The Almost Bishop of Anceleisle = 1} As are you. Your political ambitions demanded that your theology be conservative and that your time be focused on talking and scheming rather than on the deeper mysteries of the faith.

But the Hierophant has been something of a mentor to you, a rock in tumultuous tide and an assurance even as you faltered in your faith. He catches your gaze and for a moment his sermon stops. Clear relief brightens his face and then he continues.

The two of you meet in the sacristy after the service is over. ”It is good,” he says, ”to see you again. And to see you alive. How has the Sea been treating you?”

You try giving him the short version, but he is having none of it. Soon you are answering his questions about piracy and sharing sacramental wine straight from the bottle.

”And are you keeping chaste these days?” he asks during a lull in the conversation.

You answer with a violent cough, spraying the grey stone floor with foaming red.

”I’m not soliciting confession,” he says, ignoring the puddle and taking a deep swig of his own. ”The opposite, really. Though I wonder...”

He lets the silence hang before clearing his throat. ”But that is between you and the Lord, and I shall not pry. Let me tell you a story instead. My first parish was a Saltisle. Maysand, deep out in the Seeking. Nice people, but strange. None more so than this one woman. She lived alone at the edge of the village in a hut that seemed eternally at risk of being swallowed by the tide. And I’d never seen her enter the church, not until I held my first funeral.

She entered then, after the mourners, carrying her own chair, and seating herself next to the coffin. I had not expected her – well, at all. And I certainly did not expect her to come to the front, and to sit closer to the altar than I stood.

They are called Sin Eaters. And I know that you never cared much for soteriology, so I won’t bore you with comparisons to the intercession of the Saints. I shall simply describe what they do, and you may come to your own conclusions.

There were cakes placed on the coffin’s lid. I had thought them decorative, or an offering maybe, but in the hopes of the humble islanders they have the ability to take on the sins and faults of the deceased. And then the Sin Eater takes them into herself in turn.

And...” He pauses to drink and then leaves the silence to linger. ”And I have oft wondered if we aren’t more alike to them than we’d like. Not quite saints and not quite healers.” He laughs. ”I know that you no longer preach, my friend, but that might in truth be better. You have seen sin and folly, out in the world. Out at Sea. And I care not whether you partook, but I know that you know. That you can help. Better than I ever could, an old man, alone with his books...”

He pauses, lost in thought. ”A confession then. My confession. I am old and I am a fool. Unwise to the world, but called to offer what meagre help I can. Even though that help does taste selfish, honeyed crumbs staining my lips with sin. I have not kept chaste.”

You do not preach, but you do offer to hear his full confession and to offer absolution. He, laughing and wine in hand, follows you to the booth.

”It’s ironic,” he says, his voice flat behind the wooden slats, then clears his throat. ”Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I have lived an impure life. And I have led innocents, I have led our sisters in the cloth down that same thorny path. And I have done so in this very confessional.” He laughs. ”It’s ironic.”

You mutter some pious-sounding prattle.

”You are right, of course,” he says. ”I am gilding the truth, and there is no such thing as a noble lie. I don’t think. We have needs, priests and nuns alike, and this giant, dead City keeps us alone. They miss the succour sisterhood offered, or they never did partake. And they’d never give me dispensation to marry.” He sighs. ”And besides, I am too old now.”

You clear your throat.

”Not too old to fill their throats and cunts, that much is true. We all have needs, and my charges are forgiven by the very act. I eat their sin as they eat...” He coughs. ”As I now lay them upon you. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

You impose the expected penance, but you save yourself the trouble of vain admonishment. He will go and sin some more. And you sense that he has more to say, more than mere confession.

”Thank you,” he says after mumbling the needful prayers, and after the following moments of too-long silence. ”For everything. For your understanding. For hearing me out.” He pauses again. ”I will make no demands, and I shall make no enquiries. But people have come to rely on my – on my help.

Travel will take me away from this parish, and there is no one else to ask. They will come in the afternoon, and they will come for – for succour. You know where I keep the key, and you know the words. There is no one else. No one but me – and you.” He swallows. ”Thank you. For everything.”

The door on his side opens and he, head held low, hurries away from you, back inside the sacristy. You indeed know where he keeps the keys.

You have passed a few wine-sotted hours in his company

{if The Passage of Time > 95} Your Time in Barenhaven is running out {elseif The Passage of Time > 80} Your Time in Barenhaven is coming to a close {elseif The Passage of Time > 60} You have some Time left in Barenhaven {elseif The Passage of Time > 50} Your Time in Barenhaven is half-way over {elseif The Passage of Time > 30} You have quite some Time left to spend in Barenhaven {elseif The Passage of Time > 15} You have a lot of Time left to spend in Barenhaven {elseif The Passage of Time > 5} Your Time in Barehaven has just begun {else} You are now spending Time in Barenhaven {endif}

{else} Even you cannot help but feel impressed with his ability to find truth hidden among inanity and falsehood. The Priest-In-Rags, your companion on this evening, has a differing opinion: ”What prattle,” he hisses, ”all that learning laid to waste by the poisonous touch of our mother church. To think what his mind might be able to glean if only he understood what you understand. What we understand!”

The two of you have met again at the site of your first meeting. You knew you’d find him here, despite the venom in his words. He buys his supplies in bulk to avoid leaving that stuffy apartment of his, but he never misses the Heterodox Hierophant preach. These naive sermons set the two of you on the path of true knowledge.

The Priest-In-Rags had been a drunk who had long since lost his parish, a warning for unruly seminarians such as you. But he was always sober at St. Martha’s. And when you compared buildings, stars, and organs his eyes shone bright with understanding.

He listened when no one else would. He pooled his money with yours and together you purchased the services of your first whore. And he counselled you to take to the Sea when you learned that you would not receive a parish.

You shake his gnarled hand and he leaves as soon as the choir starts singing. He still has his old apartment, and he looks forward to your next visit.

The service ends. Not much time has passed.

{if The Passage of Time > 95} Your Time in Barenhaven is running out {elseif The Passage of Time > 80} Your Time in Barenhaven is coming to a close {elseif The Passage of Time > 60} You have some Time left in Barenhaven {elseif The Passage of Time > 50} Your Time in Barenhaven is half-way over {elseif The Passage of Time > 30} You have quite some Time left to spend in Barenhaven {elseif The Passage of Time > 15} You have a lot of Time left to spend in Barenhaven {elseif The Passage of Time > 5} Your Time in Barehaven has just begun {else} You are now spending Time in Barenhaven {endif}

{endif}

And up on the altar, St. Martha’s eyes burn silver in the light of a distant moon.