Aragon Masks

© Inga Soborova, 2024

ISBN 978-5-0064-8572-3

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

Greetings, dear reader. My name is Inga Soborova. I am the author of this collection of short stories. Named by the first story, «Aragon Masks».

Each story allows you to reflect on the world, on people, and on relationships in an interesting way.

Enjoy your reading, dear Reader.

Contents

ARAGON MASKS

Old woman:

Well, I’m an ancient woman, but only three times in my life I have taken the mask off my face. My first time happened as a girl when I drowned in the lake. The mask came off on its own. It was wooden and thick. I was left floating on the water. All the masks used to be made of wood. Glory to the first, I didn’t have time to see my reflection in the water without a mask.

The second time the mask cracked on me and fell down at my feet. I almost lay on the ground, I felt faint. It was good I found the second one in the bag. I put it on at once. Covered my shame.

Our family was one of the first in town to honor tradition. Ancient family. My grandmother gave me the mask. When my grandmother died, they took it off. They buried it in the salt mountain on the square and a year later, on the day she died, they took the mask out of the salt mountain and put it into a trunk. And the children’s mask of the grandmother’s youngest granddaughter is put on in public.

The child is standing there wearing his child’s mask. The Priest puts on the child’s mask immediately after the birth. He puts the mask on the child so quickly that neither mother nor those who help him can see the child’s face.

And when the child’s mask is changed at majority, a black cloth is thrown over the head, and the Priest changes the mask under the cloth. They throw back the cloth – everyone congratulates. She’s all grown up now. And the child’s mask – in the salt. And after a year you can put it in a trunk with masks at home.

So my mask, who knows how many generations passed on. Maybe my ancestors wore it when they were Firsts, Glory to them. That is why it cracked from old age. I knew the law well, «If the mask has come off you, put on the other one immediately. If there is anything wrong with the second mask as well, cover your face with your hands, and run home quickly, so that during your disgraceful run people could not see your disgusting shame.»

Then I was lucky enough to put the second one on. I don’t even stay home without the other one. And my second mask was older than all my masks. It was at the bottom of the trunk. The beetle must have drained it all away. I didn’t notice. I put on my second mask, and it was crumbling to dust, in little pieces.

I ran all the way, thinking only about the trunk with the masks.

The law says, «To change the mask at home for another, stay alone. Turn your face to the dark corner. Quickly change the mask. After that, you can go to the mirror.»

I ran into the house. Fortunately, there was no one there. Opened the trunk. The masks were in it. All wooden, heavy. There’s a small hole for the mouth, just enough for a little spoon to fit through. The smaller the hole is for the spoon, the more respectable the girl is. And now, the young ones, they put on masks made of straw and black glass. The holes for the mouth are as small as a fist. What a shame.

All sickness comes from wearing the mask in the wrong way. But those who honor the law, and remember every word of it, know, «Wear the mask not so tight that your face hurts. And not loosely, that the wind may blow beneath the mask. To attract sinful looks.»

In the past, masks in respectable families were kept in a trunk. Every single mask was kept in a salt mountain for a year. One by one. Now they hang them on the walls of the house. What’s that for? There’s no law against it, of course. But I feel this is not good.

Oh, and now they’re making masks of different colors. They say there was no prohibition on different colors from the Firsts. What’s that? They started bending the edges of the holes for the mouth upwards. We remember the edges have to go down. The corners of the eyes on the mask are also directed towards the ground. The earth feeds us and hides us. And it is proper to walk by looking into the ground.

But I’ve heard people say.

«Put on, darling, the mask you asked me to marry. Put it on, let’s remember the old days.», a wife says to her husband.

«No, I won’t. What was, is gone,» he said.

Then the wife took the mask, put it on the bed, and sat admiring it. The husband saw it, took away the mask and put it into the stove. She screamed and cried. And the husband saw his mask on fire and how he screamed. She looked at him and saw his mask was burning, and there was fire and smoke coming from under it. That’s scary.

Here the Priest was carried away. They buried him. He could not stand it. He was honored to become a Priest. But he didn’t endure.

I remember when they chose him. In the square, near Salt Mountain. Three of the oldest citizens of the city held fresh meat in their hands – no blood. And in the center was a wolf, in a wooden cage. A rope was tied behind the door of the cage. It is thrown over a dead tree and stretched to the top of the Salt Mountain. An innocent maiden stands on the mountain. Pull the rope, the door goes up. The wolf has not been fed for seven days. Comes out of the cage. Which old man he approaches, that one will give him the meat. And that old one will be the Priest. The wolf was deprived of life and put near the stone of Firsts, Glory to them.

I cried with happiness. I wasn’t the only one. The Priest does not only change the masks of the living. When the time comes, if someone dies, the Priest is called. One must take off the mask of Life and replace it with the mask of Death.

They used to be beautiful Death masks. No holes for eyes and mouth. They were decorated with broken glass and charcoal. When the people turn their backs, the Priest replaces it. And the mask of Life goes straight to the Salt Mountain.

If a Priest changes his first mask of Death and holds it, not lying next to a dead person, then he will be the Priest. Until his death. And if madness seizes him from such confusion, he will be placed in the honorary temple of Priests. People go to this temple to worship. If the Priest laughs under the mask – it’s for luck. Cries – expect misfortune. You can stand for a long time in the temple. To see if the Priest is crying mad or laughing.

Old Maskmaker:

For as long as I can remember, I’ve thought about masks. More than anything else. I used to make masks as a boy. My masks were quickly sold at the fair. Others nearby were selling masks too. But they took my masks all at once. I have a secret.

You blow on the mask and give a piece of your life to the mask. When my masks are ready on the shelf, I can always hear them whispering.

Wedding masks are clean and light. Always kept separate. Children’s masks are closer to wedding masks. Soldier masks are menacing, sturdy and heavy, away from wedding and children’s masks. Otherwise they will lose their fierce power. Then how can you fight wearing them?

The prettiest are for young women. I revere the law of the Firsts, Glory to them. But there’s no word that says you can’t adorn a mask with precious stones. And stones and gold around the edges.

But for a man, for every day, at the bottom of the mask, there’s a void. The beard that has grown back must be placed there. The law says, «Cut the beard that’s coming out of the mask.»

I don’t break the law. I don’t have beards coming out of my masks.

The Death mask I make when I’m in a special mood. It’s as if I’m fraternizing with Death himself. I feel triumph and majesty. The greatest demand for these masks. If someone wears this mask, there’s no one else to give it to.

But there are those who do not want to wear the mask. They put a closed mask on them, Glory to the First Ones. They take the key of the mask to the middle of the lake and throw it there. These rebels leave the city. They wander 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 the Priest’s house. Since he became a Priest, nobody comes near his house much. Even old friends cross to the other side of the street to avoid bumping into him. It’s always like that. Respected and feared very much.

I’d like to talk to him. After all, he’s seen other people’s faces. Dead, of course. Kind of scary to go to him. Will he talk to me? Maybe he’s already mad about his position. I’ll look in his window. Is he at home?

Glory to the First Ones! He stands in front of the mirror without his mask. He’s drawn the curtains, but there’s a slit left. Now I’m even more afraid. He put the mask on. I’ll knock.

Priest:

I began to think. Maybe we don’t need masks at all. I was thinking that if I died, no one would know that the mask was useless. I should tell someone. They will put on a closed mask. The key goes in the lake. It’s the worst thing for me, now I know that it only obstructs me.

Aragon:

The Priest opened the door for me. He let me in. He stands. Silent. I must have tied my mask badly. I bowed to the Priest. And the mask fell off me. I picked up the mask and wanted to put it on. But the Priest stopped me. Came close. Looking at my face without the mask. I thought he’d call for the convoy.

But the Priest says, By the power vested in me, Glory to the First Ones, I command you, come to the mirror. Behold your face. The time has come!»

I came to the mirror. I forgot that I had to pretend to see my face for the first time. I stood there and looked. The Priest realized it wasn’t the first time I’d looked in the mirror. I felt I had not come to him in vain. I stand before him without a mask. I look into his eyes. I see he’s crying.

«I’ve seen you through your window. I’ve seen you looking in the mirror,» said I.

The Priest took off his mask. And then it was so funny to both of us. We both fell down laughing. Good thing the curtains on the windows were well drawn. Since then, I began to visit the Priest often.

Old Maskmaker:

I began to make Masks of the Firsts. Somehow my feet took me to the quarry. I found two stone blanks. Took them home. Started making them. It was as if I was back in my fantasies. My hands, as if they were making the masks themselves. I only watch.

Aragon:

I come to visit the Priest, and on calls, too. I began to accompany him. He needs support, I am just curious. When he changed the Mask of Life into a death mask, everyone who was there turned away. I did not. I looked at the dead man. His face was exactly like mine and the Priest’s. Only pale. And his eyes are closed.

That’s the news!

Old Maskmaker is dead. Now all the masks he has in his house, by law, will be brought to the Priest’s house. And he’ll put them on for whoever needs them. Until all the masks run out.

Helped the Priest move the masks from the house of the old Maskmaker. Glory to the First. What I found in his bags in his room! Away from the shelves with the masks, these bags laid. The Masks of the Firsts were there!

We took them to the Priest’s house. I dread even thinking what would happen if anyone found out. And the Priest, though he’s old, he’s funny. And brave. «Come on, try the Masks of the First Ones,» he says. I even got scared at first.

We got these masks of stone. It’s hot all around, but the masks are as cold as ice. Leather straps instead of ropes. Where did the old Maskmaker get them? Did he make them? Glory to the First Ones!

Old Woman:

A great holiday is coming up. The Day of the Firsts. According to the calendar, on this day hundreds of years ago, the Firsts left us. Now once a year, at the foot of Salt Mountain, we wait for them.

As a child, I was very afraid to go to this festival. Between Salt Mountain and the stone First Ones is a huge bonfire. The crowd. All the people of the town are at the bonfire. Those who can not walk, they are brought. Children with babies in their arms. No one must stay in the city. Whoever has a cracked or broken mask is thrown into the fire. The masks burst with different colors in the fire.

They say if the mask flashes yellow in the fire, it means a good man wore it. If it’s green, he’s cheerful. If red, that person’s love is strong. But if smoke goes black from the mask and sparks, then evil thoughts of the one who wore it. People see all this. They are silent.

If the mask is cracked, only into the fire on the First Day. If you bury it in the ground or hide it somewhere, all the worst that has been and will be will happen at once.

I feel if the Firsts come back, changes might happen. I’m afraid to think about it. I don’t want it to happen on my time.

It’s getting dark. All the people of the city are slowly making their way to the bonfire. I came before the others. I have plenty of time. And I love this holiday. It’s beautiful. The priest stands by the fire. In front of the face of the Stone Firsts.

Whoever brings a cracked mask, gives it to the Priest first. And goes back to his place. The Priest shouts loudly, «Glory to the First Ones!» And the mask goes into the fire. I almost cried then.

The fire burns. The flames are higher than the Firsts. That never happened before. The priest is gone.

What is it!!! The first ones are back! I can’t get off my knees. Glory to the First Ones!

The First Ones:

Here we are, all who waited for our return. All of you have honored the law. The day of the Great Change has come. By the power of the First, today at the Great Fire, under the city wall, each of you must remove the mask in front of the oldest Mirror, that of the city orphanage. Behold your face and throw the mask into the fire.

Those who have taken off the mask, have seen their face, and have not overcome their horror, can put on the mask again. And exactly one year later, repeat this trial.

Those who comply with the order and remove their masks forever leave the Old City. Just beyond the city wall, you must build a New City.

Each year, on the Day of the Firsts, this trial will take place again. Until not a single inhabitant of the Old City wears the mask. Then the wall between the Old City and the New City will be destroyed.

Aragon:

That is how it turned out, as I intended. The city now consists of two parts. Every year, some of the inhabitants move to the New City. Fewer and fewer people remain in the Old City. The postmasters of the Old and New City put letters in the hole in the wall every day. It has become easier for criminals to escape legal punishment. Underneath the wall in secret places are undermines. In the subterranean tunnels are rooms underground. They contain masks, weapons, and food. They go in and out now.

Old men are the only ones left in the Old City. Old men are always the most obedient to the law. It’s hard for them, but every year they come to the mirror in the square

Old Woman:

I was alone in the city. I was lonely as it was. I’ve been lonely as it is. The law is the law. Though it’s not easy for me, the law is the law. Several times on the First Day I wanted to pass the trial. I’m in the mirror now. Now I’ve taken off my mask. But I can’t open my eyes. I remember when I opened my eyes, I don’t know what I had seen. At home, I only woke up in my mask again. I must not be destined to go to the New City.

Aragon:

The last Priest is dead. The City of Masks does not exist. An old woman lives there.

I’m leaving this place today. I wandered the streets of the Old City. The orphanage where my childhood was spent. Old Maskmaker’s house. Salt Mountain. Stone of the Firsts. Mirror. Leaving. I will look from afar at the walls of the Old Town. There is a sentry on the wall.

Shouting something. I hear it, «The Old Woman is dead!»

SWAN HEART