mask I Elliot Kampmeier

mask

Elliot Kampmeier ‘21

but Sun felt utterly miserable. Barely sixteen, but already sentenced to eternal prison under the iron grip of the magistrate.

Just the thought of him made Sun recoil with revulsion. He was a head shorter than her and even pudgier than Appa from excessive alcohol parties and roasted meat, not to mention at least three times her tender age. His beady little eyes were calculating and greedy, roving over her virgin body with the craze of a feral wolf.

Needless to say, the gilded city of Tanmei liked to hide its disgusting underbelly. Here, exploitation was a game and a competition. Beauty was a currency. To become the property of a man, particularly a wealthy one, was a conquest each girl was taught to pursue.

In this city, the magistrate’s mere existence was almost legendary. He had transformed Tanmei into a city ft for fne women. Women in colorful silk scarves, fitting through the city like the springtime butterfies. Women draped heavily in gold trinkets, the glittering paraphernalia threaded through ear holes and headdresses, laced across foreheads and willow-slender waists, and circled around pale white wrists and ankles. Sun knew better than to fall for his lucrative trap, but she simply had had no choice.

Standing on the rickety tiles of her roof, where the sun-dried paint cracked and peeled with her every step, Sun scanned the shining city, smiling ruefully as she held her tanned hands up against the midday sun. She looked nothing like the molded butterfies of her city. Her golden eyes and dark skin were exotic and alluring, and as much as her rugged appearance differed from the city’s colorful fower maidens, she drew curiosity and attention, not excluding, unfortunately, that of the magistrate.

The jangle of gold trinkets threaded through the luscious manes of Ferghana horses sounded through the street.

Clip, clop, clip.

Each hoof against the packed sand road counted down the seconds until Sun’s marriage sentence.

All at once, the procession, led by a magnifcent palanquin, came to a stop. A gong rang loud and clear, echoing through the street in waves of resounding doom.

“ e magistrate has arrived!”

The announcer’s reedy, whining voice buzzed through the still air, and he glanced upwards with distaste at the girl atop the roof, who stared down at the parade with ferce defance.

Numb with dread and resignation, Sun watched as Amma rushed out, her best jade bracelets clinking sharply against one another. Appa strolled out behind her with measured steps, a mask of false calm layered over his ruddy cheeks as he hid his twitching fngers behind his back.

Through the silk fappings of the palanquin, smoke curled upwards in thin tendrils. With a surreptitious sniff, Sun detected the sickening, hazy euphoria of asa hemp. How utterly revolting. With a soaring