around the world.
Aragon:
I have a child’s mask. It’s beautiful. The head teacher gave it to me for my birthday. He bought a new one. We went with him to the Maskmaker’s shop. He has many beautiful masks. They whisper to each other. But the teacher doesn’t hear. I recognized my mask at once. And it recognized me, too. I hear someone calling me. It’s my mask.
In one mirror, the mask looks like mine. And in the other, it looks like someone else’s.
In this, the other mirror, I’m not allowed to look at. Old nurse saw herself in it without a mask. They say it was an accident. That’s all she’s talked about ever since. Even in her dreams.
When the teacher and everyone who lives in the orphanage lose sight of me, I go to the mirror. I looked at it for a long time. Even once, it seemed to me that someone was standing behind me. When I turned around, no one was there.
I scratched my face under my mask. Scratched and moved my mask a bit. My skin is white under the mask. Beautiful. Soft. They say my cheeks are there.
I put a piece of sugar in my mouth under the mask today. Not in the mouth hole. The mask let me do it. But I can’t tell the teacher. He’ll scold me. But, Head Teacher, if he finds out, he will bind the mask so tightly for the day so you can’t eat, drink, or even breathe.
I saw my mouth in the mirror, my tongue in it. Turns out to be a big one. Sometimes, when someone shows his tongue in a mask, through a hole, only a little piece can be seen.
And I could see teeth. Like white beads. I got a lot of them.
I’ve been told I breathe through my nose. I want to see. What’s it like?
The aged nurse, in that mirror, behind my back, told everything about what she saw under the mask. I am used to seeing this nurse in the mirror all the time. She’s wearing the kind of mask no one wears nowadays.
I saw my nose. It is very ugly. It’s not even pretty. I’m afraid to lift the mask any further.
I saw one of my eyes. It’s beautiful. Like a goat’s, only smaller. The white skin covers the eye, and it’s as if it doesn’t exist. The hairs on this skin are small.
If I lift the mask, I only lift it from the edge. Either my mouth, or my nose, or my eye. You can’t see them all together.
Today I and all the children in our orphanage went to worship the Firsts. The Stone Firsts. They are wearing masks of stone. There are two of them. Their masks are special – square.
No one is allowed to wear square masks. Today at school we were taught, «As soon as you think of a square mask for yourself, pray at once, Glory to the First Ones, Glory forever and ever! And immediately those thoughts will go away.»
Today is a big celebration. All of our city’s young men who have come of age will take off their «child» masks and put on their «adult» masks. The city council gives masks to those who live in the orphanage. We don’t have a chest of masks that are passed down from our ancestors. Maybe that’s a good thing. The masks are new. Smells like fresh wood. They’re all the same. The law says, «Everyone can decorate his own mask. But modestly, in the same color.» This is to distinguish a thief from a good citizen.
I am an adult now. When I build my own house, I will no longer live in a shelter. I won’t have long to look in the forbidden mirror.
I go to the mirror every day. Yesterday I got scared. I looked at myself in the mirror and I didn’t have my mask on. Two eyes, like a yard dog’s, looking at me, my face white, and two cheeks at once. And this scary nose. And my mouth is open. I ran away.
It reminded me a lot of what I had seen in parts under the children’s mask.
Priest:
Now what I feared the most. I was one of the three oldest residents of our city. The two that were older than me left just before the Election. Lucky for them.
The day the Priest was chosen, they came for me at dawn. They led me. I walk slowly. They did not rush me. Even the convoy knows where they’re taking me.
Three of us. All had known each other since childhood. We had a silly saying, «I wish you became a priest.»
Sitting. Me and two other old men. Meat is in hand. A wolf is in a cage. The crowd is in the square. The first stones are standing. Wolf, if he pounces instead of meat on a man, he will not be a Priest.
They lifted the bars. The wolf came out. Slowly so. He headed in my direction. He grinned. Either the wolf would bite me, or I would become a Priest. I threw the meat into his mouth. The crowd screamed, «New Priest! Glory to the First Onest!». As if it was not with me all this. I look at the Firsts. Praying. Hope no one dies.
Adulthood. They call to replace the mask. Convoy brings the Priest and takes him home. That’s not surprising. The legs do not carry me there, nor back.
They gave me the holiest veil of the Firsts. For centuries it has covered faces during the removal of the mask. I covered the young man’s head. I untied the ropes of his mask. I took off the child’s mask. I put on a new adult mask under the veil. I touched his face. Almost made me vomit. It’s soft. Wet. Still feel sick to my stomach. Tied the ropes. Got me home.
The day had come. The death mask must be changed. Why haven’t I died yet? I’m standing next to a dead man. The mask of life is on him. I have to take it off. I can take it off, but how to not see the face. I wish I could take off this mask of life and die at once. It would be a good ending. Glory to the First Ones! Then the convoy must cover the dead man’s face with a cloak. And so bury him. The convoy, they’ll take him out of the city gates. And they’ll forget forever.
I did it. Strange. It’s not scary. It even feels like I’ve seen it before. Maybe in a dream. I know the face that reveals itself from under the mask. Not the man himself. But so. To see a face. Put on the mask of death. They took me away.
Aragon:
«I take my mask off every day now. I got a good look at myself. I wonder what other faces look like under the mask?»
Priest:
I take my masks off for others. I’m used to it. Why was I so afraid? But I do not show that I am not afraid. I walk, I can hardly drag my feet. Whimpering like a fox in a trap. That’s better.
What if I took off my mask and looked in the mirror? I have nothing to lose. If madness takes hold of me, they’ll put me in the Honorary Temple of Priests. In honor I shall live out the rest of my days. And if I die of fear, let it be so. I am very old.
The mirror is old. It’s muddy. It’s from my great-grandmother. It’s good that it’s cloudy. Maybe it won’t be so scary.
Glory to the First Ones! Just like a dead man’s. Only the eyes are open. It’s just the same. I’ll put the mask back on. Anyone else will see it. I covered the windows in the house before I did it. I shut the latch.
Old Maskmaker:
Different masks I have made. In each mask I left a piece of my soul. When I made a wedding mask, I imagined myself as an innocent maiden. When I made a mask for a battle, I imagined myself as a fierce and sullen soldier. No mercy, no pity. But when I made the mask of Death, I was Death himself.
Terrible thoughts come into my head now. I’m afraid to even think. Glory to the First Ones!
I wish I could make a square mask of the Firsts. But I’m afraid to even think about it. More and more often I imagine myself carving a square Mask of the Firsts out of gray stone. Here are the squares for the eyes. Here is for the mouth. So many times I have imagined it, that it seems these masks are already on my table. Glory to the First Ones!
Aragon:
There’s