Tales from Macabria: The Sin Collector
Tales from Macabria: The Sin Collector
For the first time in many years, the gates of the old Macabria cemetery creaked open.
The sounds of many wings flapping from the gateway arch made Scootaloo shrink to the ground, where she watched the half dozen yellow-eyed birds fly away into the distance.
Many days and nights had passed since she and her friends had come to Macabria to learn the ways of the dark world and the magic that was practiced there. From the moment she arrived, Scootaloo knew that she wanted to be a spirit medium. A living link between life and death. Ever since she had seen her parents in the Ponyville cemetery, she wanted them with her always. Even though she knew that they could never be together, she found a way that she was always able to call on them when she needed them the most. Of course, they would never replace Rainbow Dash.
It was the thoughts of Rainbow Dash that made her decide to do what she did that dark day in Macabria. Ever since she started learning the art of mediumism, she found that it was extraordinarily difficult to even understand or comprehend. Such things were never taught in Ponyville, or anywhere in Equestria that she knew of. And if they were, they were always done as a novelty or a party trick. And if Rainbow Dash knew a way to really summon or communicate with spirits, she wouldn’t let something as simple as a lack of understanding stop her. She would learn by doing.
The gate creaked again as it inched slowly open.
Scootaloo looked into the cemetery, noting the sheer number of the ancient headstones. A sea of chipped, weather-worn markers, commemorating the deceased beneath them. Far as she could see, they all went on and on. On the hills in the distance, grand mausoleums stood overlooking the rest of the graves, like Canterlot castle overlooking Ponyville.
Reminding herself that the safest place to go to escape evil was a place where good souls were buried, Scootaloo walked past the cemetery gates onto the path between the headstones. The gates creaked loudly as they swung shut, closing with a loud clang that made Scootaloo spin around.
As soon as her eyes laid on the gateway arch, those yellow-eyed birds came back to roost, looking down on Scootaloo with a mischievous glint. Somehow, Scootaloo thought that they were laughing amongst themselves, taunting yet another living among the dead.
“Oh yeah! Well, your mother was a feather duster!” Scootaloo retorted to the imagined jeering.
The birds all cackled at once. The largest of them swooped down over Scootaloo’s head, making her yelp as she ducked in cover. Afraid the bird may dive again, she ran for cover among the tombstones.
She didn’t know how long she had been trotting through those graves. Only that when she stopped, she didn’t hear any more flapping of wings. But the sounds of the cackling birds were still faintly calling in the distance, daring her to go in further.
Scootaloo sighed as she held her beating chest. She hadn’t been in the graveyard for five minutes, and she was already facing troubles. And they didn’t stop.
Looking up, Scootaloo saw a terrifying face looming over her from the headstone. She gasped and quickly rolled to her hooves to face the vile thing. Only to find that it wasn’t nearly as terrible as she thought.
On her first excursion to Macabria, Scootaloo had learned about gargoyles. What was just a decoration back in her home was a living, breathing creature in the dark world. Startled by them at first, she quickly learned that they were among the most caring, protective, loyal creatures, which were easily domesticated if they chose to bond with another creature. And there one sat on that headstone, overlooking the grave before it. Seeing that, Scootaloo remembered something else that she had learned. How gargoyles lived for centuries, while most of their owners didn’t. How if someone who it had bonded to passed away, they would often stay by their dear friend’s side, even in death.
Scootaloo watched the way that the gargoyle turned its gaze from her, back to the grave it sat upon. A twinge of pity sparked in Scootaloo’s mind. How deeply one thing could care about another to never leave them. It was something that she hoped she would know one day.
Wishing the gargoyle her best, she went on walking her way through the headstones. She had lost the path since those birds had chased her, and could see no sign of the gates, or even the fence that bordered the cemetery. Now was as good a time as any to try and practice her mediumism, even if it was to find a way out.
She walked to the nearest headstone, and tried her best to read the name upon it, which had weathered away like much everything else in that cemetery. Remembering the lessons that she could make sense of for communing with spirits, Scootaloo stood a respectful distance from the grave marker and didn’t look directly at the grave.
“Hi. I can’t read your name, but you must have been a good creature to be buried here,” Scootaloo began.
Nothing happened.
“Um...I don’t know if you can hear me yet. I’m training to be a spirit medium, but I just started doing it,” she continued.
Still no answer.
“I always heard that experience was the best teacher. So, even if we can’t hear each other, could you give me some sign that you’re there?”
Scootaloo didn’t know what she expected. The only thing that happened was the wind picked up a little bit and the sounds of the birds’ mocking carried on it.
“Horse apples…” Scootaloo said, suddenly realizing she may have said something wrong. “I don’t mean horse apples to you. I mean for not being able to be a medium. I’d never talk bad about the dead.”
One of the first lessons she learned about spirits was to never speak ill of the dead, lest they come back to haunt you. If ever there was something bad to be said about them, it was best to not name them. For that fact, she supposed she was safe.
Another gust of wind blew, and the dead leaves that littered the ground whirled past her. The wind whistled loudly through the headstones, sounding like a low moan from somewhere beyond her sight.
Scootaloo quickly turned her back to the gust, having heard somewhere that the wind to her back was better than at her face. When she turned, she saw something else.
Up on one of the hills, where a mausoleum stood grandly, a dim light flickered. A stroke of luck if she ever saw one. In that lonely, dark place, only a dark spirit would make its home. A lonely spirit of pure darkness that would love to have the company of another soul. That in mind, Scootaloo began striding toward that hilltop house of the dead, all the while with the wind at her back.
As she trotted through the headstones, Scootaloo was met by another sound that she could only hear faintly over the howling wind. Something that she couldn’t make out at first, but the closer she came she realized that it was music. From an unseen guitar, she could hear only the faintest of melodies. And the closer she got to the hill, the clearer the music became.
When she reached the base of the hill, she heard the music clearly, though distantly. Low, yet somehow lively, she could hear somebody singing in tune with the guitar. Curious, yet somehow also afraid, she began climbing the hill to try to solve the mystery of the phantom music.
The higher up she went, the more she could make out the voice. Halfway up, she could hear the lyrics clearly.
Up that hill did Scooter go,
There sat the ghost in chains,
He steeled his will an’ he did say,
“Sir, how can I ease yo’ pains?”
That ol’ ghost a-turned his head,
Stared on eyes all cold an’ dead,
His ol’ rot mouth did open,
An’ his ol’ rot voice a-said,
If by morn the cock don’ crow,
An’ by eve the bulls don’ blaw,
I’ll show ya where my gold is, Scooter Law
Oh, I’ll show ya where my gold is, Scooter Law
Half expecting to see a spirit clad in chains, Scootaloo peered around the tree at the top of the hill, and there was the answer to her mystery.
Sitting by a small fire, there was a man. One of the dark creatures, who was not at all clad in chains. Instead, he wore tattered old jeans, shirt, coat, and shoes that looked like they had been soled and resoled at least a hundred times. He didn’t look terribly old, but his stubbled face showed a wizened quality of someone who had seen and done much in his young life. Laid on his lap was a guitar, carved from some darkened wood, strung with strings that gleamed like silver.
He held no pick in his fingers. Instead, he strummed the guitar with his elongated claws. And despite how his sharp fangs grew past his lips, he sang clearly in a voice that sounded as silvery as the strings of his instrument.
The musician picked the last few chords of his song, and Scootaloo unconsciously leaned further out of hiding.
The solid red eyes of the musician swiveled upward, and locked directly onto Scootaloo, making the filly freeze. She watched as the musician’s mouth curled into a wide grin.
“Well, as I live an’ breathe. I nair ‘spected to see night mare in this abode of the unlivin’,” the musician chuckled.
Scootaloo said nothing. She just stared at the musician, watching him as he took a saucepan full of coffee off of the tiny fire.
“S’alright, li’l filly. I grew up ridin’ night mares with my ma an’ pa. I ain’ about t’hurt ya.”
Scootaloo continued staring as the musician poured himself a serving of coffee into a very tall mug.
“I know what. I reckon I may just have not put one o’ my sugarcubes in my coffee,” the musician said as he shuffled through his duffel bag.
“Thanks. But, I don’t think I want any sugarcubes right now,” Scootaloo said.
The musician froze and his eyes went as wide as they could go, fixed completely on Scootaloo.
“Butter me up an’ call me cornpone. A talkin’ night mare. If that don’ beat all,” the musician laughed. “Li’l honey, if you are by chance under any enchantment, I suggest ya find a witch. I ain’t got no power to turn ya normal an’ help ya back to yo’ herd.”
“I’m not enchanted. I’m-- well, it’s complicated,” Scootaloo said, deciding against telling him that she was a light-dweller.
“Don’ bother me none. Nair does it bother you, I s’pose. Come on an’ sit a spell. Gets awful lonely in these dark places. Without livin’ company, that is,” the musician said, strumming his strings.
All her life, Scootaloo had been warned against trusting strangers too readily. Still, there was something odd about the lonely musician who had decided to set up camp in the abandoned cemetery. Not the bad kind of odd that made her turn away from something. The kind of odd that made her curious to learn more about something.
She walked closer into the fire, allowing herself into the light. For a moment, she thought she saw the musician scowl at her. Trusting her instincts, Scootaloo sat beside the fire, and a half pan of fire-baked bread was offered to her, along with a small tin of butter.
“Name’s Gatlin Silver, by the by. Though mos’ folks call me Gat,” the musician said, slowly strumming his strings.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Silver. I’m Scootaloo,” Scootaloo said, buttering a slice of bread and trying not to meet the gaze of her company.
Gat was silent as he strummed his guitar again, playing a low tone that somehow made Scootaloo glance up for just a moment, before quickly looking at her slice of bread.
“Scootaloo?” Gat said, “I don’ know if ya heard my song jus’ befo’, but it was ‘bout a man named Scooter Law.”
“I did hear it. It was a really good song,” Scootaloo said, not sure of what else to say, before eating her bread.
“It’s an ol’ favorite o’ mine,” Gat said, strumming his guitar again, stopping Scootaloo mid-bite, “It’s jus’ yo’ name: my ol’ pa would o’ pronounced it Scoota-law.”
“Really?” was all Scootaloo could think to say. Perhaps any other thought she could have had was stifled by another strum of that guitar.
“Really so,” Gat said, never taking his eyes off of the filly. “Now that we know one another, I feel I have to ask you what a li'l filly is doin’ in these parts.”
“Maybe you could tell me the same,” Scootaloo said, glimpsing up at Gat.
“I’ll tell ya mine, if ya tell me yo’s first,” Gat said, slowly strumming his strings again.
Scootaloo raised her eyes again, this time focusing wholly on his guitar. Something about those vibrating silver strings made her fix on them. Past the strings, there was something even more peculiar. Within the hole beyond the strings, something else lurked. Dark and terrible things both seemed desperate to escape, yet content with its confinement.
Shaking her head slightly, Scootaloo decided to answer.
“I’m here because I need to learn more about mediumism,” she said.
Gat clapped his palm over his strings, silencing his instrument.
“Mediumism?” he asked.
“Yeah. I mean, I just started. But, I really think I can get it if I start really doing it. That’s how I learned to ride my scooter,” Scootaloo said.
“Is that right?” Gat said, his face somehow lighter, “Guess that means ya ain’ here to collect after all.”
“Collect what?” Scootaloo asked.
“Scootaloo, if yo’ gonna be a medium, ya gotta learn some o’ th’ ins an’ outs o’ communin’ with th’ departed,” Gat chuckled, merrily strumming the strings on his guitar before stopping them. “Fo’ starters, I wanna apologize fo’ suspectin’ ya. Jus’ it ain’ natural fo’ a night mare to talk. An’ when I harked upon yo’ wings, I thought fo’ sho’ you was here to stir the restful dead.”
“It’s alright. Lots of night mares like me have wings. But, why’d you think I was here to disturb the dead? I know that the spirits don’t like to be summoned without a reason. I just wanted to see if I could try talking to one,” Scootaloo said.
“Seems like ya could o’ just talked to someone ya know. Or don’ ya know anyone departed?” Gat asked.
“I did summon my parents once, but that went kind of wrong,” Scootaloo said.
“Summonin’? That’s a right foolish thing for a beginner medium to do.”
“I know. I almost ended up trapped in the spirit world when that happened. But, my parents saved me.”
Gat chuckled heartily, which made Scootaloo smile for a reason that she couldn’t understand.
“Even beyond the grave a ma an’ pa never stops a-lookin’ out fo’ their filly. That’s the stuff o’ great ballads. Maybe one day I’ll belt that tune on my ol’ guitar here,” Gat said.
“Yeah! And me and my friends can be your backup!” Scootaloo said.
“Someday, Scootaloo. Someday,” Gat said, strumming his guitar again.
Scootaloo almost stood up and started tapping her hooves to the tune of the guitar, but stopped when Gat turned his head and started strumming a lower tune. When he did, she could see the things past the silver strings stirring within the guitar’s body again.
“They’re here,” Gat gravely said.
“Who’s here? What are they?” Scootaloo asked, fearing to ebb toward the hill or toward Gat and his monstrous instrument.
“You remember when I said I thought you was here to collect? Welp, it seems the real collectors have come a-callin’,” Gat said, his gaze turned up.
Scootaloo dared to follow his eyes, but it was what she heard that startled her the most. The sounds of flapping wings filled her ears, mixed with the cackling of dozens of birds. When she looked up, there they were. Against the light of the moon, Scootaloo saw the sky filled with the dark birds from before, their glowing gaze pelting down like some terrible hailstorm.
From within the cloud of birds, something more terrible emerged. An enormous shadow circled like a buzzard, flapping its great wings so hard that the dust on the ground raised. It circled downward and landed atop the mausoleum glaring down at Scootaloo and Gat.
By the light of the fire, Scootaloo saw the ugliest bird she ever had the displeasure of seeing. Fangs grew far past its wickedly curved beak, which was set on the front of a completely featherless face like a vulture’s. The head of the thing swayed back and forth upon its long, seemingly boneless neck. Talons the size of Scootaloo’s head gripped the edge of the mausoleum, threatening to tear through the aged stone as a low hiss escaped its throat.
Scootaloo cowered by the fire, hoping against hope that the ugly bird would fly away. Instead, it sat there watching her, daring her to run. A dare that Scootaloo nearly obeyed.
A mellow, yet somehow lively tune started strumming from Gat’s guitar. The musician simply sat strumming, not once turning to face the things above them.
The bird hissed again, this time directly at Gat.
The young musician did nothing but play his guitar. And Scootaloo watched how the things inside stirred to life the more he played.
O, the graves stand a-silent,
An’ the birds have come to roost,
Best that they tread lightly,
Else they find they cook their goose,
The bird on the mausoleum snapped its beak at Gat, who simply continued to strum his guitar. When Gat didn’t react, it swiveled its head high into the sky on its waving neck and called to its brethren above. The other birds all swooped down to the mausoleum and began pecking at the stone doors.
Scootaloo ran for cover by Gat’s side, and watched as the birds all broke open the doors. Each of the doors fell inward, revealing the dark inside of the house of the dead. The birds all flew in, and Scootaloo swore that she could hear screaming. Screaming not from any living thing.
Li’l bird, why’d ya have to try an’ break that stone,
Stronger birds befo’ you jus’ got bloodied beaks an’ bones,
That ol’ stone was meant to mark the final rest,
Of that woman from the mountains, one that I loved best,
The more Gat sang, the more Scootaloo could see the birds tearing apart at the souls of the departed in the mausoleum. How tormented they were even in death by the terrible flock. Suddenly, her back grew cold.
She turned around and saw the things in Gat’s guitar come crawling forth. Like a mist and a liquid both, the things drifted quickly from the guitar to the mausoleum. As if they were overtaken by a flood of fire, the birds all started squawking loudly. Loudest of all was the ugly bird atop the roof. It flapped its wings and snapped its beak threateningly, though it seemed hesitant to leave its perch.
The birds began flying out of the mausoleum. Far fewer than had entered, as it seemed to Scootaloo. From the spirits within, more of that devilish mist came flowing from their eyes and mouths, mingling with the mist from Gat’s guitar, until it was fully assimilated.
The ugly bird on the mausoleum hissed loudly as it too was overtaken by the mist. It flapped its wings over and over, resisting the pull of the mist.
Li’l bird, you got no power here,
Now leave the restin’ dead,
I done what I came to do,
Their sins are on my head
With one last flap of its wings, the ugly bird broke free of the mist that enveloped it. It circled once, hissed at Gat, then flew off into the distance.
Scootaloo watched as the bird flew away after its brethren. She turned and saw the spirits in the mausoleum fade from existence, just before the devilish mist set the doors right with a solid thud. Slowly, the mist crawled back across the ground, and back into Gat’s guitar. Though it had assimilated so much more from the spirits, it seemed no smaller or thinner inside the instrument.
Gat silenced his guitar and sighed loudly, sweat pouring down his forehead.
“Scootaloo,” he said, his voice weaker than before, “Fetch me my canteen from my duffel.”
Scootaloo did as she was told and got the canteen, which Gat readily drank from.
“What was that?” Scootaloo asked.
Gat finished his drink, wiped his mouth and answered.
“Scootaloo,” he said again, his voice still weak, “Bein’ a medium ain’ always about sayin’ goodbye one las’ time, or findin’ somethin’ ya once los’. If you become a medium, ya gotta be prepared sometimes to take the sins of another on yo’self. That devil bird’ll be back. It always comes in some form, or another. Whatever ya do, look after the dead. No matter how evil, no soul deserves to join that flock.”
A chill shivered from deep within Scootaloo all the way outward. Whatever she had learned about mediumism in Equestria had missed the mark almost completely. Even in death, a creature’s unlife was in danger. From being preyed upon for the evil they did in life, or from being disturbed by a group of ponies who were having fun with a ouija board. And there was only the mediums to help them along and ensure that their final rest was undisturbed. Her thoughts went to her parents, and to the unknown creature whose pet gargoyle resided on his headstone. Who would look after them?
“I...I can do that. Wherever I see that ugly bird, I’ll send it back where it came from,” Scootaoo said, feeling somehow bolder for actually saying it.
“That’s right decent of ya,” Gat said, lethargically strumming his guitar. “How’s about helpin’ me pack up, so’s we can leave the rest of these souls to their eternity?”
It took only minutes for them to pack up Gat’s camp, put out his fire, and find the path to the cemetery gates. Once they were there, Scootaloo opened the gates with a creak that never sounded better to her ears. She followed Gat back to the more populated areas of Macabria, where he stopped at a coach terminal.
“This here’s where we part ways, Scootaloo,” Gat said, taking a seat on the bench.
“You’re leaving? But, you just got here. Can’t you stay a little longer and teach me more about being a medium?” Scootaloo asked.
“Aw, honey,” Gat chuckled, “I’m afraid I’m previously engaged elsewhere. This here stop was jus’ another job fo’ me. But, wherever I go next, I hope there’s another Scootaloo a-waitin’ fo’ me.”
Scootaloo smiled both inside and out. She craned her head to the side when she saw Gat reach into his duffel bag at his side. When he saw back up, he offered her what looked like a hempen lace with a pendant, which though it appeared so bright it didn’t glow at all. On its surface, it appeared to have what looked like an aurora had started waving across it and suddenly froze, making it stand with its shades of blue, pink and green in eternity.
“That there’s pure mother o’ pearl. I’ll advise ya to take care o’ it. Long as ya do, the spirits closest to ya will always look out fo’ ya,” Gat said, hitching his packed up guitar a little closer.
Scootaloo stared transfixed at the pendant, feeling suddenly as if somepony she had known from when she was very young was looking back at her. A warm, loving presence that she had only known when she was adopted by Rainbow Dash.
She looked up to thank Gat, liable to hug him before he left, only to see that he was already boarding the coach that had pulled up to take him away to who knew where.
“I gotta head out now. Jus’ remember that if ya ever do take on the sins of another, turn ‘em into somethin’ others can love,” Gat said, patting the guitar at his side.
As the coach rolled away, Scootaloo trotted after it and stopped after only a few steps. She then stood and watched as her new friend rolled out of her life.
“Goodbye, Gat! I’ll always remember to look after the spirits. And whatever bad they do, I’ll make it right,” Scootaloo called.
She never knew if Gat heard her. She never knew if she would meet him again. All she knew now was that she was on the path to her destiny. Always watching after the spirits. And from around her neck, the spirits watching after her.
Author's Note
And that is that for Scootaloo's adventures in the dark world.
Looks like I'm back after all to chronicle the adventures that the other Cutie Mark Crusaders have during their training in dark magic. In this case, we follow Scootaloo as she learns how to become a spirit medium.
This story itself was inspired by a somewhat obscure and almost forgotten stories of a pulp author named Manly Wade Wellman. Specifically, the stories of his character, Silver John (or John the Balladeer). The character of Gatlin Silver was directly inspired by Silver John. The Appalachian accent, the guitar strung with silver, and the ability to cast magic through the use of his silver strung guitar. The only major difference here is that Silver John is a witch, while Gat is a medium.
Other references to Silver John is the bird that comes to prey upon the sinful souls. That was inspired by Wellman's first Silver John story, O Ugly Bird. Won't say much else, in case any of you feel like tracking down one of those books to read. They're worth it.
The entire premise of sin collecting is one that has roots in American traditions. In some rural parts of the US hundreds of years ago, communities would assign one person to be a collector of sins, and would sit by the grave of a deceased sinner on the first night that they were buried to pray and ward off advances of the devil and his minions to collect the sinful soul. After that, the sin collector would have the sins of the dead upon them channeled outward in some kind of expression of virtue to cleanse themselves. Such as feeding the poor, or pouring your heart into a labor of love.
The first song that Gat sings is based on an Irish (or possibly Scottish) folktale about a man named Largo Law, who finds a shackled ghost haunting his sheep's grazing grounds at night. Largo confronts the spirit, who tells him that if he helps it, it will show him where it's gold is buried. But first, Largo has to commit a few sinful acts to do it. The similarities between Largo and Scootaloo's names when you replace Largo with 'Scooter' was too good to pass up.
Once again, I apologize for anyone who is not able to make a tune out of the songs that are sung. If I were a musician...Well, I certainly wouldn't be writing stories, would I?
I don't know for sure if mother of pearl is in any way associated with spirits or mediumism. I don't have as ready a source for learning about mediumism as I do about witchcraft. If anyone knows a thing or two about mediumism, I'd like to hear it.
That's all for me. We've done Apple Bloom. We've done Scootaloo. That just leaves Sweetie Belle. Rock on as we wait for her story \m/
