Sin Eater
The third and final book in the "Death Shall Have No Dominion" companion novel series
In the rolling hills of 19th-century Pennsylvania, “Sin Eater” weaves together the lives of two unconventional families, exploring themes of love, redemption, and the weight of secrets across generations. Sin Eater centers on Osborn Roche, neuro-divergent, renowned Civil War photographer who retreats into isolation following his wife's death. He assumes the role of a "sin eater," a person who ritualistically consumes the sins of the deceased, providing him a unique position in society.
Parallel to Osborn's journey is the tale of the Fenn family, particularly Charlotte Fenn, a "weeper" who professionally mourns at funerals. Both find their lives intertwined in ways they never imagined. As they navigate the complexities of family, forbidden love, and long-buried truths, they discover that redemption can come from the most unexpected places. As the plot unfolds, it reveals the intricate connections between the Roche and Fenn families, particularly through Osborn's son Ishmael and Charlotte's granddaughter Dierdre. Their budding romance is complicated by family interference and misunderstandings, leading to years of separation and setting off a chain of events that forces long-buried secrets to surface, challenging the characters to confront their past decisions and their consequences.
Set against the backdrop of a changing America, from the aftermath of the Civil War to the dawn of new technologies like the telephone, "Sin Eater" paints a vivid picture of a society in transition. It delves into the customs and superstitions of the era, particularly the practices of sin eating and professional mourning, using these as lenses through which to explore deeper human experiences of grief, guilt, and redemption.
With rich historical detail and unforgettable characters, "Sin Eater" is a tale of love that defies societal norms, family secrets that span generations, and the healing power of acceptance. As the past and present collide, Charlotte and Osborn must confront their deepest fears and greatest hopes, learning that it's never too late to rewrite your story.
Although each book can be read independently, Author Greg Morgan concludes his "Death Shall Have No Dominion" companion novel series with this third and final novel, "Sin Eater." The first in the series, "Weeper," introduced readers to the intricate, multigenerational tale of two 19th-century Appalachian families: the Trues, a clan of "warners" (early funeral directors), and the Fenns, a family of "weepers" (paid mourners). The second in the series, "Collodion," delves deeper into the macabre world of the 19th-century death industry as it intertwines a charming romance with the unsettling practices of postmortem photography and embalming. Like Weeper and Collodion, Sin Eater will stay with you long after you've turned the final page.
The Prologue from the novel "Sin Eater"
PROLOGUE 1871
The sin eater rode toward the farmhouse perched atop a mule like a scarecrow on a fence post. His long legs dangled low enough for his boot heels to nearly scrape the dusty path. A tangled gray beard cascaded over his chest, matching the unkempt mane that shrouded his shoulders. The air around him hung heavy with the pungent musk of stale sweat, a vapor that preceded him like a foul herald.
Shadows pooled beneath the brim of his open-crown hat, a black void that seemed to swallow what little light dared venture near his eyes. He pulled it even lower as he reached the farmhouse fence. With a grunt, he swung his leg over the mule’s back and awkwardly slid off it.
The mourners standing outside stared at him, making him nervous. From the depths of his pocket, he retrieved a brown cloth, its edges frayed with time and use. He pressed it to his nose and mouth, inhaling deeply. The cloth, a token of a moment stolen in time, had been spirited away from his late wife on the second day of their acquaintance. She had used it then to cleanse her hands and arms, a simple act rendered intimate through memory’s lens. The scent of it, the essence of that moment, soothed the ever-present anxiety that gnawed at his edges. With a sigh, he allowed the cloth to fall from his face, his fingers twisting and weaving it in a dance of nervous energy, a habit he could not stop even if he wanted to.
Shoving the cloth back into its home, he silenced the murmuring crowd as he lumbered toward them. They parted for him, pushed back and aside by the sin he carried like dirt from a plow. Children darted behind their mother’s dresses and father’s legs. A woman fell back, tripping on someone’s shoes behind her. The sin eater paused patiently as a man pulled her up.
The sin eater breached the farmhouse threshold without wiping the mud from his boots or removing his hat from his head—such niceties held no sway over a sin eater. The interior greeted him with a somber embrace, every window and mirror shrouded in black linen, a traditional gesture of mourning. Flickering flames from the hearth and scattered candles waged a gentle war against the gloom. He stopped in the center of the crowded room, not confident where to go. Those still standing outside pushed in behind him, sucking the air out of the space.
The crowd parted like a black sea, revealing the deceased lying face-up on a long table. With the hesitant gait of a chastened child, eyes fixed on the worn floorboards, the sin eater threaded through the crowd and plopped down on a bench, back to the wall. Before him lay the corpse, and he settled in to wait, as patient and inevitable as death itself.
“Jenny?” A voice from the crowd summoned forth a woman, plate of food in hand. She approached the table, positioning herself across from the sin eater. Her gaze, heavy with sorrow, drifted from the offering to the gaunt figure before her, finally settling on the still face of her husband—father of three, now dressed in his Sunday finest, shoeless for eternal comfort. With trembling hands, she extended the plate over her beloved’s body.
His thin, bony fingers claimed it, hovering the dish above the deceased as he stammered out in an old, gravelly voice, “I give, I give peace and rest to you, rest to you, dear man. Go now, go now into the waiting arms of your savior. And for thy peace, I pawn my own soul. I pawn my soul, yes.”
He set the plate down with reverent care and breathed in the smell of roasted chicken, its skin crisped to perfection, the warm, soft bread, and the mashed potatoes all covered with the bitter gravy of sin. His fingers, unburdened by the niceties of cutlery, tore into the meat with a fervor, each piece disappearing into his mouth like a man starved for days. The gravy smeared over his lips, and crumbs of bread and tiny flecks of chicken found refuge in his unkempt beard.
The sin eater savored every bite and sucked the grease from his fingers before licking the plate. Slowly and delicately, he set the plate down before loudly belching a cloud of sin. The mourners flinched and stepped back in disgust. He wiped his mouth and beard with his shirt sleeve before he stood, pushing the bench back, its legs squealing across the aged floorboards.
His eyes landed on an unbuttoned button patiently waiting for him on the dead man’s waist coast. He needed to button it. He could not leave without buttoning it. He reached down and did so, eliciting a gasp from a woman in the corner. His eyes didn’t leave the button until, after several moments, he pushed up the hidden spectacles on his nose and cleared his throat.
“Oh. Jenny, the bag,” said a man in the crowd, his cue to begin walking out, the crowd parting for him again. Jenny used a broomstick to hand him the canvas bag as he made for the door. He swiped it off without a glance. The mourners filled the doorway to watch his stooped frame climb onto the waiting mule. As awkwardly as he dismounted, he pulled himself up on his stomach and threw a leg over. The sin eater cleared his throat again before giving the mule two kicks with his boots and two clicks from his tongue.
Ungracefully bouncing on the mule’s back, the sin eater trotted toward the forest across the golden grass field. There, tall pines waited patiently for him like guards of the gallows. As he entered their custody, their trunks closed around him like the bars of a prison cell, swallowing his form from view.