Mask of Flies (23 page)

August 30, 1905

The knock door came
on a Wednesday. I saw, Tate, Aart’s good friend and coworker at the
grain elevator. The men usually came home on Friday. My insides felt
heavy. When Mother answered the door, Tate spoke softly. The only
word I could make out was “sorry”. The smile dropped from
Mother’s face completely; her skin turned the hue of curdled milk.

I approached the door.
“Tate, is something wrong?”

“Aart had an
accident. I’m so sorry Angeni. He’s gone.”

I don’t remember
crying, but my lips were wet tasted like salt when I spoke. “What
happened?”

Tate nodded slowly and
spoke into yonder, not daring to look me in the eye. “He had been
tasked with repairing damage to one of the lift hoists—it
transports material and personnel to the higher levels of the
unfinished grain elevator. A week earlier, some idiot had jammed some
beams on the hoist’s platform and sent it to the top level. The
length of the beams exceeded the allowable clearance and scrapped up
the hoist’s mast at the third story to the top level. The
construction fell behind schedule, repairing the damaged hoist took
top priority.

“Aart had been the best welder on
site; he just had an intuition about it. The boss chose him to lead
it up. He wielded the mast thinking that the hoist had been locked in
the highest position, out of service. But evidently, management had a
miscommunication. The workers above never stowed the platform
properly. Some men entered the hoist as Aart was working under it.
The platform derailed abruptly at the 8th story: the damaged mast
couldn’t support their weight. The pulley cable snapped, sending
the lift and men into a free fall. Aart got caught underneath.”
Tate apologized again.

After he left, I
locked myself in my bedroom. Mother tried to get me to come out, but
she gave up after being ignored for hours. As the hours passed,
different hands knocked on the door, family, friends, and their
condolences. I sobbed quietly and did not answer them. I was guilty.
I condemned my own husband to death on Ga’hai Hill? I thought of
High Hat’s laughter when I chose Aart to die. Perhaps this was all
a joke to him.

I called out to the
giant. No answer. I screamed his name, nothing. Then I remembered the
wooden mask—he told me to wear it if I wanted answers. The hideous
mask lay buried in the bottom drawer. I pulled it out and held it up
to my face.

In my room, I heard a
saw on wood. The sound came from the floor. Through the mask, I saw
puffs being thrown up from around the bottom of the chair in the
corner. I yanked the mask from my face, and the sawing noise and dust
ceased. I put the mask back on, and the sawing continued where it
left off. After a minute it stopped and something rolled out from
underneath the chair and fell underneath the bed. I had to stretch to
reach it: a perfectly cut circle about the size of a pocket watch sat
in my palm, wood from the floor. Sure enough, underneath the chair, I
found a small black hole cut out of the floor. I noticed thin etching
around it. I moved the chair out and tried to look down through the
hole, but saw only darkness. With two fingers in the opening, I
lifted upward. The flooring gave way with little effort. Exposed
underneath lay a narrow tunnel—a rope ladder with wood foot planks
ran down. I couldn’t see the bottom from where I stood.

Attempting to get a
better look down, I fumbled with the mask. It fell from my face onto
the floor, down the tunnel entrance. Or so I thought. Through my own
eyes, I saw the mask lay on the unmolested floor, as if the circular
piece had never been cut or removed. The tunnel only existed through
the mask.

Two rounded holes were
situated on the back of the mask. In my drawer of sewing supplies, I
took and cut a piece of braided leather cord and ran it through the
eyelets. With the mask secured to my head—through the eye—I could
see the tunnel once again.

With candle in hand, I
descended down the rope ladder. I climbed down for what seemed to be
hours, down innumerable footholds. Unnerved by the seemingly endless
void, I became weary and more conscientious of my movements, to the
point it became a hindrance. Overthinking a movement, I slipped, and
the candle fell, swallowed by the darkness. In the depths, I climbed
blindly and couldn’t tell up from down. Moonlight peered through a
crack above. I went towards it.

Reaching up into the
light, loose soil crumbled around my hand. I pulled my body through
the dirt and unearthed myself next to the familiar leather
corpse—within the large basswood—at the base of Ga’hai Hill.

Outside the root
enclosure, the stretched man in the awful top hat stood watching the
river. The full moon cast a spectral glimmer on the water, haunting
and beautiful. “You have found us through the darkness—no small
feat. Your mind is capable, perhaps magnificent. But things have
changed, and you must further your understanding of this change to
keep yourself.”

“Is this some kind of
sick game to you? My husband died today and you toy with me, have me
climbing around in the dark.”

“This is not a game.”
He smirked, looking almost human. “Our purpose is to simply make
you fully aware of the change that has occurred within you.
Channeling the flow of Abbadon is a paroxysm of your growing
darkness. You selected your husband out of three . . . Forgive us if
we seem aloof to your human emotion, we have lost touch.”

“This change in
me—what of it?”

High Hat stalked along
the bank as he talked, occasionally glancing into the water. “Born
with enhanced perception, you manipulated the underlying mechanics of
the natural world to your favor. The birth of your son triggered a
series of changes in your brain, resulting in a chemical imbalance.
Post–Partum Syndrome, not entirely uncommon in new mothers . . .
but you aren’t the average new mother. This imbalance shifted your
connectedness from the natural world to the source of the disease’s
origin, all diseases for that matter: Abaddon.”

This didn’t sound
like the white man’s Hell to me. “I don’t understand this
Abaddon, yet I feel it here.”

“Our insight is not
comprehensive, we do not know the full purpose of Abaddon, but we do
have a basic understanding of its function. The architecture of the
physical world has imbedded weakness built in by design. This open
vulnerability of all living things is defined as mortality—being
susceptible to the death side of the coin. Death of the old breathes
constant change into the physical world; this change seems to be
desired.”

I stared at him
blankly.

“Abbadon forcefully
exploits this weakness in all living things, keeps the momentum of
the world moving forward, consistently. Without its intervention, the
world would become overpopulated by redundancy. Look at death in the
context of the human perspective: it is not at the forefront of most
people’s minds, but rooted deep is the certainty that one day they
will die. This ingrained fact pushes people forward, providing a
limited timeline to find meaning to their lives. The builders build,
the lovers breed, and the next generation carries on where the dying
left off.”

“What purpose do I
play in all this?”

“The agents of
Abaddon are accustomed to looking in unnoticed. When you noticed, it
caused some consternation. Some of the agents wanted you destroyed,
but the ones that mattered thought your perception should be further
developed, that it would be advantageous to have a human emissary.”

“And you are one of
these
Agents
?”

“Yes, sent to guide
you. We beckoned you to this hill on the day of your pilgrimage. Our
purpose: to introduce you to the power of Abaddon through the mask.
Truth, reality is thinner on this hill. The great tree behind you is
very special, for it exists in two places at once—you will see.”
He pointed an elongated finger to my masked face. “A prospective
False Face carved that from the great tree over 150 years ago . . .
His initial vision broke him. You, on the other hand, have been doing
quite well.”

“Quite well?”

“Truth—like the
carver, your mind is in a delicate state. We fear you may perish if
you stay in Salamanca. It would be in your best interest to find a
location that offers a more complete understanding of your ailment,”
High Hat looked past me towards the enclosure of the great tree. “We
bid you farewell Angeni.”

As I began to wonder what the cause
for the abrupt closure was, some unexplainable force pulled me back
into the great tree’s enclosure, into the hole I emerged from. I
fell, and then stopped, suspended and weightless in the dark tunnel.
The force ripped me from stillness, upward. The speed much greater
than the rate I fell a moment ago. The darkness broke suddenly, and I
stared at the ceiling in my bedroom.

I gasped to fill my
lungs, and pulled the mask away. My face hurt. In the mirror, my skin
appeared red and agitated, as if my body fought the wooden appendage
like it was some new strain of influenza.

I looked at the
contours of my face, examining the symmetry and balance of my
features. I have been called “pretty”, sometimes “beautiful”;
these comments always embarrassed me. After the conversation with
High Hat, I knew of death, but what purpose did beauty serve?
Underlying reassurance that order and safety exists, or perhaps
simple distraction that everything will one day fall apart?

No mistaking that to
live, one must die; death pumps through the veins of the living
world. Now, I’m connected to its black heart.

I thought on the gift that took
Aart’s life, a simple exercise in channeling the flow of Abbadon.
High Hat left the hanging implication of Father or Joseph’s death
if I did not choose. A loaded choice, now blood is on my hands. If I
left it alone, to nature—then I wouldn’t feel like a murderer.

I looked at Joseph
sleeping the next morning and cried. He is now without a father and
his mother is broken. I need to find a way to fix myself.

The inscription on the
jacket of this journal trapped me. I stared at Roger’s address. In
Lily Dale there could be a doctor that familiar with the gift and a
practical medical background. If I can get proper treatment for my
illness, then, perhaps, I can return and be a real mother to Joseph.

I packed and left a
note for mother. Joseph lay relaxed in slumber. I kissed him on the
forehead and left out the door.

Oct 28, 1905

Lily Dale has been
home for almost two months, and I am hopeful here. I miss my family,
miss my Joseph, but I know this is the right thing. Roger introduced
me to the care I need to repress the darkness.

When I had arrived at
the address inscribed on the journal, Roger answered the door
surprised in night clothes. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and
looked at the door. “I don’t normally take guests at such late
hours but for you, my dear, I will make an exception.”

Inside he stylized the
interior with ornate furniture, crimson upholstery on dark wood.
Aart’s rough furnishings would look crude in comparison. He led me
into an expansive study, large portraits lined the walls, and white
light illuminated the room from fixtures on the walls.

“You have electricity
inside?” I asked.

He nodded in
affirmation. “Most of the new homes do—Tell me, what brings you
here tonight?”

I could no longer hold
back. I had told him everything that happened to me over the past
year: my secret family, High Hat, Aart’s death, and the depression.
I broke down in his arms.

“I have resources
here that will help you, but they will want service in return.”
Roger spoke softly. “I told you about the project I’m apart of
here: a group study on the human factors of gifted minds. We call it
the Farseer Project. There are prominent physicians and psychologists
working with us. If you participate in our studies, I’m sure they
would be more than happy to treat you.”

“What studies?”

“The tests are
simple, designed to separate the extraordinary from the mundane. Fair
warning, there are government interests at the table—The North
American League of Psychic Research—and they aim to find
applications for national defense. If that’s something your
uncomfortable with, I need to know now.”

“No, I need their
help.”

He upraised a large key
from a drawer. Its handle was decorated with a large eye surrounded
by serpent, etched in polished brass. He opened a false panel below
his desk and stood with a heavy book bound in oiled snakeskin. A
plate lock pinched the covers together. Roger fumbled the brass key,
unlocking the book on the second attempt. “The Farseer Project is
conducted in secrecy. Not even the board members of the Lily Dale
community have any knowledge of it.” He handed me the book.

Foreign characters
populated the inside, a language unknown to me. The scribble filled a
quarter of the book, the rest was blank.

“Confused—you’re
meant to be.” Roger bent down to the false panel and emerged with a
smaller book that had the same symbol, pressed on the cover, as the
key. Its contents matched each of the alien symbols with a designated
letter of the English alphabet . . . a cipher.

“You communicate in
code.”

“Yes, painfully. I
currently transcribe the meetings by hand, but I need to be free to
participate. The government brought a specially built typewriter—not
arranged in the traditional orientation for security purposes. It has
been impossible to find a seasoned typist that can navigate the
encoding. And I can’t keep up on it—have you ever typed before?”

I told him I didn’t.

“Good. If you learned how to type
in the cipher, the program would offer you a generous wage. We are
ramping up to three meetings a week; you would need to learn
quickly.”