The Maskmaker

He bursts through the rickety door. The sounds of the storm and pursuit fade behind him, leaving the much louder thunder of his own heart as the only rhythm in his ears. He doesn’t know why he’s here. Well, he does. He just can’t believe that he is. Chasing fairy-tales, the most foolish of which is salvation. As footsteps pass by outside they rock him out of his reverie and he hurries down the steps. They lead him down to a second door. He takes a deep breath, ignoring the protests of his burning lungs, holds his wet hand near the knife hidden in his belt and reaches out his other to turn the doorknob. Behind the door lies darkness, seemingly infinite. The only breaks in it are two candle stubs, flickering at the two edges of a table lined with wood carving tools and masks. So many masks. And in the middle of it all, two long, thin arms, with the palest skin he’d ever seen, stretching out from the darkness, just a bit too far, calmly carving away at a new mask beneath two glinting reflections of eyes, peeking from an invisible face. A click sounds. Then another. Then a reedy voice emerges from behind those cold eyes, that flash up from the mask to him. “I presume you’re wanting a mask? What are you going as today?” He feels the raindrops slowly sliding down his face and cannot believe what he’s seeing. Fear and awe mix in his gut, but it is only his practised anger that you can hear as he growls out “I don’t care man, just give me something. I’ve heard what your masks can do. I’ve got money. Just give me anything.” – as he pulls out a wad of moist cash. His anger slowly bleeds from pretence to reality. The click sounds again. He can’t tell if it’s a mechanical or an organic sound. It sends shivers travelling down his spine with the raindrops. “No money.” He’s getting infuriated now – “Look man, I don’t give a shit for your voodoo, hippity-dippity crap, I’m taking one of these masks whether you want it or not!” – He reaches out to grab the nearest mask, but in a flash of motion two reedy arms shoot out of the darkness, grabbing his wrists and holding him in place. He gasps as he sees that the thing’s arms haven’t stopped their carving. It’s two other arms. He feels his knees go weak as he hangs in its grip.

“You will get a mask, Mark.” Click. “That one would have never fit you.” Click. “A good mask fits one face only.” Click. “Who are you, Mark? Why are you here? Pay me and you will get your mask. Give me a truth.” Click…Click…Click… “I’m running. I need your help. I did a horrible thi…” CLICK. This one was much louder, like teeth clattering violently against each other. “A truth, Mark. No lies.” Those eyes pierced him “I…I…I killed a man” – he felt the weight of the truth settle on him. He had killed a man. Tears rolled down his cheeks, mixing in with the rain. God he hated rain. It was so melodramatic. “I killed a man because he threatened my boss.” CLICK “He was gonna hurt him!” CLICK “I had to!” CLICK “Fuck you and your clicking and your masks! Fuck this rain and this city and all of this shit! I never asked for this! I never wanted to be here! I never wanted this job! I was poor, man! I had fucking nothing! This entire system’s fucked and it fucked me! You can’t blame me!” CLICK “Truth, Mark. I just need one truth from you” ClickClickClick. Incessant, soft, hungry clicking. “I didn’t want to…” Click. This one, almost gentle. He could feel his strength draining. He had come here looking for salvation. He needed to get out. He didn’t want to get out. Deep down he knew. He could hear the clicks before they came now. His voice came out in a whisper. “I didn’t come here for a mask to help me disappear. I want to bite them back. I did what I did because it was right…” CLICK “ALRIGHT FUCK YOU, I DID IT BECAUSE I WANTED TO! I LIKED IT! AND I’D DO IT AGAIN!”

The only thing that met his words was the emptiness where a click should have been. He hung in that shameful silence for a second before the cold, white hands let him slump to the ground. Mark was dead. He knew he didn’t deserve to live any longer. He lay there, unable to move as the creature finally finished what it was working on, the shape of the mask finally becoming clear – a sharp snout and pointy ears, fur sticking out in all directions, a single, red eye staring out of the snarling visage. It reached a long arm over to Mark’s corpse and placed the mask tenderly over his cold face, raindrops and tears disappearing beneath the smooth wood. This new face didn’t cry. The Wolf stood up. He wouldn’t run. All he knew how to do was hunt. As he left the Maskmaker’s home, knife in hand, the sound of steel scraping wood renewed. The Maskmaker felt no shame. For what greater kindness could he give than trading a truth for a beautiful lie?

Radoslav Serafimov.