The Crimson Mask

Beneath the deep blue sky shimmering with stars, a shepherd-girl walked the lone path up the hill, far from civilization. With deliberate strides feeling the cool, wet earth beneath the soles of the feet, she had the gait of one who knows every rustling leaf and flying fox that inhabited those lands. Near the top she came upon a small stream with a dimly lit cottage by its banks—an irregularity. She slowed her pace to a walk, and approaching the cozy cabin, knocked on its door betraying her curiosity.

A man of middling age had just prepared his meal for the night in the cottage-on-the-hill. Hearing the knock, he got up and wore a light steel mask of crimson hue which he picked from a nail on the wall. Cautiously opening the door, he inquired of the shepherd-girl, “Are you sure you're in the right place?”. The girl, quite unperturbed by the appearance of a man in a mask, looked into the eye-holes and replied, “Why, yes of course! I live near the bottom of the hill and quite regularly need to graze my cattle around these lands. Every now and then, I need to make a walk around here to find where the new grass grows. This place has been empty forever, have you just moved in here?”. The air around the girl had a certain surreal quality to it, like being bathed in a glowing, mesmerizing aura.

As if under a spell, he replied, “Finished fixing this place up for living a couple days ago, need a few more days for all the minor repairs. Would you like to come in?”. She entered slowly, taking in the diffused shadows cast by two oil lamps hanging from the ceiling. The crimson mask looked somewhat foreboding.

“Wow, why do you wear a mask?”

“It's something I started doing long ago, over time it just became easier to live like that.”

“Why would you form such a habit?”

“Do you like stories?”

“Oh yes, of course!”

“Why don't you join me for dinner then? I think I have enough for two, I'll lay out the table. I could use the company.”

He laid out a table with plates of meat and bowls of stew, and began his story as they both sat down.

“As a young lad, I took up a job as an apprentice to a blacksmith. My master was a skilled craftsman and specialized in making armor. He taught me how to hammer steel and iron into shape using a forge and combine a series of parts into one whole piece. I was an eager, quick learner and was well liked. My master was growing old and he was more than glad to have me around. We had a dedicated clientele which appreciated and supported our work. I did not wear a mask back then and was fairly cavalier in my speech and thoughts. I had a twinkle in my eye whenever I worked on the next great helm or cuirass. In a few years, as I learned and word spread, the demands were enough for us to seek help from a man of books. My master and I were both craftsmen who knew precious little about managing money.”

“The man of books made sure our finances were in order. But the dedicated clientele was not enough for him. He told us, if we open a different shop on the other side of the town, we would be much better off. The master was excited and jumped in on the idea; in due time we spread out to two shops and then to four. I was hugely overworked, my hands were red and the twinkle in my eyes was gone. The work held little fulfilment and satisfaction of days past, and the delighted, joyous face became a lined stony visage looking well beyond my years. My master did notice and told me to train new apprentices now that I was skilled enough. However, none of them had the twinkling eye and the penchant for quality; and through no fault of theirs, because of the kind of patrons and work we were getting. More and more soldiers of the Azure King had started pouring in, who generally favored cheap uniformity over ‘tailored sophistication’, as they put it. Our old, dedicated clientele was slowly diminishing over complaints of shoddy workmanship. In older days, each breastplate and visor had an identity of its own, tailored to the individual, something we could no longer keep up with.”

“In addition, the Azure King ruled that his workers all wear azure colors, and seeing as we had slowly become the main armor suppliers for his soldiers, the ruling applied directly to us as well. That was when I started wearing an azure mask. It was very uncomfortable, but had its advantages. Now, people wouldn't recoil seeing my stony, lined face; in fact a lot of them didn't even realize that I had a mask on. Inside however, my face was free to take whatever color it wanted, and it was already becoming a brownish gray.”

“You are probably aware of the series of events happening next, but they impacted my life much more than I expected. A group of people wearing azure on their chest but crimson in their heart gained entry into the Azure King's chambers. Very little details are known outside of that, but within the night, the Azure King was slain and the Crimson King took charge.”

The rusted chains of prison moons
Are shattered by the sun.
I walk a road, horizons change
The tournament's begun.
The purple piper plays his tune,
The choir softly sing;
Three lullabies in an ancient tongue,
For the court of the crimson king.
- Peter Sinfield, et al. “In the Court of the Crimson King”

“Erstwhile supporters of the Azure King were persecuted in huge numbers. Fortunately for me, the azure mask was easier to discard than the azure heart of countless others. But I still had to flee, for the mask wasn't visible to everyone. My old master however, was not so lucky. I heard they got to him in the night, when he was sleeping, just like the king.”

She detected a note of pain in his voice then. As if in response, he got up and started clearing the dinner plates and bowls. Once done he opened the door of the shack and walked outside to a small patch of trimmed grass and sat facing the sky. Giving him a couple of minutes, she tentatively followed him out and settled herself in the same patch.

“I'm deeply sorry for your loss. They say time heals everything, but it doesn't make it easier to deal with.”, she added.

“We had our differences, but he was a person who taught me my skill, fed and took care of me for years. He did not deserve what happened to him. We all have to give up on certain liberties and wear masks in order to live in a secure state. But what of those who get caught in the middle of the crossfire in someone else's ideological conflict? What kind of security do they get? They are not ones whose names are wrought in history books, they're just ordinary people trying to make a semblance of life.”

“Well, we aren't particularly known for our empathy and kindness in general, if history is to say anything. I'm sorry, that probably doesn't help…”, she trailed off.

“That's fine, it is what it is. This crimson mask was the last artifact of our forge. I closed it down and journeyed into the country, hoping to get lost. I came upon this dilapidated cottage some days ago, and since the place looked reparable, I started tending to it using whatever tools I could salvage.”

“Can I make a small request?”, she asked.

“Sure, tell me.”

“Could you take off your mask for me?”

“Now why would you want that, really?”

“Well, you are practically a neighbour. It is so much easier to talk to a person if their face can be seen. Secondly, this is far off country where azures and crimsons rarely make a difference; well even if they do, you can still wear it while facing others.” Her glowing aura hadn't quite diminished under the stars.

“Well, all right then”. He held the mask with both his hands, and slowly prised it off his face. Quite without warning, the girl raised her hand and touched his pale gray, and deeply lined face with the tips of her fingers. The man felt a warmth spread from them across his lined cheeks. “What…?”, he had barely time to exclaim as the warmth spread to his mouth, making him momentarily speechless, up to the nose, eyes and forehead. All he could see for a while was a blinding white light. When it had passed, he felt a familiar sensation of lightness across his face, which had now been restored to its young, pristine state—complete with the twinkling eye. The girl however, had simply vanished.

Towards the northern side of the deep blue sky, a lone star shone radiant white.

On soft grey mornings widows cry,
The wise men share a joke.
I run to grasp divining signs
To satisfy the hoax.
The yellow jester does not play
But gently pulls the strings
And smiles as the puppets dance
In the court of the crimson king.

Cover art by Nathan Anderson