3 November 2010
Behind the Mask
“You are an abomination,” said the elder, “In the eyes of God and of man.” The fourteen prelates seated beside him nodded in silent agreement, and from behind his shoulders the eyes of God glared sternly down. “You are no longer worthy even of a name. Your name henceforth shall be Unloved and Unpitied, and no one will take any notice of you.”
The temple always seemed cold and drafty, but this afternoon, especially so. The man named Unloved shivered as the sentence was pronounced. He would not be dismissed, he knew: to the eyes of the world he no longer existed. As the elder and the prelates arose to leave, their eyes panned past him as if he were invisible. They carefully avoided looking directly at him. “Was there not a man here, a minute ago?” said one of the prelates to another. It was a ritualized question, meant only to underscore the man’s loss of identity.
“No,” said the other, in an equally ritualized response, “There are no human beings here but we of the council; what you imagined to be a human being was only a trick of the wind and the light.”
The man whom they no longer saw rose shakily and walked out through the wide gate of the temple to the street. The entire city already knew what had happened. It was dusk and the streets were full, yet no one even so much as glanced at him as he walked. The flow of the crowd parted around him like a river around a rock; no one would dare to touch him, even by accident. One woman, walking past, lifted the iron charm against evil that hung around her neck and held it up between them, as if to block her face from his sight. Some men spat at his shadow, but even they avoided looking at him directly. By day, at least, this was true; by night, some might be bold enough to attack him. If they did, they would not be considered guilty of any crime.
The blacksmith had once been a friend of his. As he passed by the smithy, the ring of a hammer on metal called to him, drawing him into the shop. It was deserted except for the smith, who looked up from his work and then looked quickly down again. “Strange,” said the smith, loudly enough to be heard in the street, “I thought a customer had entered my shop, but now I see that it was only the wind in the door.” But as the man turned to leave, stung, the blacksmith said more softly, “And, how pleasant that evening breeze is after a long day of work.” The man stayed.
The blacksmith went back to his work, studiously oblivious to his presence, and the man began to wander around the shop. On one wall hung iron talismans for sale, like the one the woman in the street had held up against him. They were made of delicate iron knotwork, the metal pounded thin and then shaped into interlocking loops and spirals. They were beautiful, actually, a whole wall of frozen metalic flowers, and no two were alike. The smith took great joy in the beauty of his work, although of course he could not admit it, any more than those who bought his work to adorn themselves or their houses could admit to wanting the charms for anything more than their utility in driving away evil spirits. Vanity was a sin, after all.
Looking at the charms set the man thinking, and the blacksmith, whose thoughts had often mirrored his own, spoke. “I’ve often wondered,” said the smith, “yet how silly I feel saying this out loud to myself, I’ve often wondered if these iron talismans truly have any virtue or power against evil. They say if a man cursed by God were to touch one, it would burn him like fire, or sting like a thousand wasps, or perhaps, if the skill of the blacksmith were great enough, it would kill him outright.”
The man called Unloved had been wondering the same thing, and in fact had been wondering far more than that: was the God who had cursed him even real, or was this all a human invention? The face in the temple was only a head made of clay, the work of a potter, painted and decorated. It could do him no harm, but what reality lay behind the mask? He did not know. But surely if people could invent with their hands a face of God, they could also invent with their minds a God who would stamp divine approval on their own dislikes, their own curses. As he looked at the iron knot, it became a sort of test, a challenge to him: if he could hold the metal and not be harmed, then perhaps this God was also a lie. And then the curse, the anathema pronounced against him, would be no more than a human invention. Compelled, he reached for the largest, most intricate knot and lifted it from the wall with both hands.
He gasped at the cold and nearly dropped it, panicking for a minute as a man might panic who has lifted up a fallen loaf of bread only to find it crawling with maggots or with biting ants. But the cold he felt was only the natural coldness of the metal, which quickly warmed up as he grasped it more firmly. He had not realized until that moment how firmly he had believed, despite all that his mind could rationalize away, that the metal would indeed be fatal to him.
The blacksmith was still talking to himself. “Of course, if such a man were to touch the metal unharmed, it would not necessarily mean that the talisman had no virtue against evil. Instead it might mean that the man, although cursed by the world here below, was not in fact cursed from Above. Such a man might find iron to be, not his bane, but his protection. But of course these frilly superstitious knots would not help him. He would need something that would discourage even those without faith from seeking his life.” The blacksmith, who still had not looked directly at the man or acknowledged his presence, turned to look toward the back of his shop. “Strange,” he said, “this morning, I thought I bought ten bars of iron. But now I see eleven. The merchant must have given me an extra one in error. But perhaps I have counted wrong. If in the morning I only count ten, I will not consider it a loss.”
The man walked over, hesitantly, and took the gift from the pile. The bar was not much more than an inch thick, and less than three feet long, but it was very heavy: a crude cudgel, a weapon for breaking bones. He was not the sort of man who had ever been in a fight since he left the days of his boyhood quarrels and games behind, and he had no great desire to fight anyone, even now. But such a weapon, swung by a man with nothing to lose, would make most fighting unnecessary. The treat of it alone would be enough to protect him. He carefully concealed the weapon beneath his cloak, bowed deeply to the blacksmith, and departed.
Night had fallen. He pulled the hood of his cloak over his face, to avoid recognition. He had no home, and no plan, and no shopkeeper would offer him food or a place to stay even if he had money to pay. Wandering aimlessly, he found himself walking past the temple. The scene inside arrested him suddenly. Lit from below by a hundred candles, the glowering pottery mask of God was frightening, almost demonic. But under it, in an attitude of reverence and devotion, a frail old woman knelt. She was silhoutted from behind by the candle flames, and the same light that turned the God-mask savage lit up the wisps of her gray hair and turned them into a crown of fire. It was not one of the days when worship was required. The temple was left open at all times for whoever wished to come and offer prayers freely, but few did so. Who would offer such devotion to such a cruel God?
An image flashed through his head that left him reeling with sickness and horror: a vision of himself walkign into the temple, bringing the iron bar crashing down on the old woman’s unprotected head. But he would not do it. He would not become in truth the monster that they had made him in name. The cumpulsion and the vision seemed to come from the mask, which now beamed down hungrily at the woman as if it would love to swallow her alive. Somehow the bar of iron was in his hand. “No,” said the man, “I won’t do it,” and with a great effort he wrenched his eyes away from the awful face and ran, fleeing into the darkness of an alley.
The air tasted fresh and the murderous impulse was gone. He lay panting and shivering in the cleft between the buildings. He had escaped, somehow, and his horror turned to anger, and the anger brought to his mind another vision, an unspeakable vision. But what this image urged him to do was not against his conscience. And even as he shook with terror at the thought of it, he knew that the unspeakable deed must be done. But he would have to wait until the very darkest and loneliest hour of the night. He wrapped his cloak about him and settled down to wait.
He must have drifted off to sleep as he waited. When he woke, the stars had progressed several hours in their circuit, and it was time. He shifted his legs to restore his circulation. His foot struck a small bundle, wrapped in cloth, that had been placed beside him as he slept. It rolled away and unwrapped to reveal a loaf of bread. He was still only half awake, and his reality still seemed to blend with his dreams. Had there been an old woman in the temple, helpless before that flaming face? He thought he recognized the cloth wrapping the bread: it was the scarf she had worn. Too hungry to worry about poison, he took the bread and ate. Then, with the iron cudgel safely concealed under his cloak, he stood up and walked toward the temple.
It was unguarded except by fear: what sort of man would steal from a temple or defile the dwelling of a god? The candles still burned, and the face was somber, kingly, and strict. At the sight of it the man’s hands shook and all the strength seemed to drain from his body. “You are a lie,” he said, “You are an invention. You are nothing.” But it was hard for him to believe it. Holding it in both hands, he swung the bar of iron toward the face, but fear gripped his heart so strongly that pain shot through his chest, and he faltered. The weapon glanced lightly off the side of the head, only chipping the paint.
It was strange that no matter how confident his mind was in its unbelief, his heart and body were still afraid. The man who had been called an abomination had to turn his back on the god, to gather his courage. Then like a man chopping wood, he brought the iron bar up over his head and spun around, bringing it down with a loud shout. As it fell he closed his eyes in fear.
The pottery shattered. He had not realized it until that moment, but the thing was hollow, like a clay jar; how else could it have been fired in a kiln and not cracked? His one blow had broken it into many fragments, scattered among the candles, mixed with fire and spilt wax.
Then something moved among the shards, and he leapt backward. The cudgel dropped from his hand and clanged against the stone floor. But it was not a monster rising from the ruin of the idol. It was a bird, fluttering in sheer terror, seemingly unable to fly. Had he injured it? The hollow head must have been its nest. He could see, mixed among the shards, the twigs and feathers of its nest. Its beating wings were carrying it dangerously close to the flame of the candles. The man who had felt no remorse at striking a god was now filled with compassion for this helpless creature he had wounded. Automatically, his hands leapt out to gently rescue it from the fire.
He held it cupped in his hands, and saw, that it was a chimney swift, a young one. “Oh bird,” he said, “Bird, why would you live inside such a monstrous thing? Did you no know what it stood for?” She did not respond, but lay still in his hands. He could see her chest rising and falling with her breath, and her rapid heartbeat trembling the feathers. “Perhaps,” he said, “You simply had no other place to stay. And now you are homeless, just like me.”
Then he heard a shout, and the sound of running feet. He had been discovered. Soon the guards would arrive. Carefully, he wrapped the bird in the old woman’s scarf, and nestled her down in the pocket of his cloak. If he escaped, perhaps he could nurse her back to health. He turned and fled from the temple, fled from the city, fled from the plains into the craggy foothills.
When he had crossed the first mountain ridge and the watchfires of the city were hidden from view, he stopped to rest. He was utterly exhausted. The sky was still dark - how long this night had been! The man-catchers would come for him soon, but he needed to rest before going further. He needed water, too, but he knew there would be none here; the army had stopped up all the springs in the foothills, lest they nourish any lawless wanderer.
Carefully, he brought out the scarf and unwrapped the bird. She was still alive, and he could see no obvious marks of injury. He placed her on a rock, willing her to fly, but instead she just looked at him, her mouth open in a plaintive expression. It was the first time a living creature had met his eyes since the anathema, and he treasured the contact, the affirmation of his existence. “I’m sorry, Bird,” he said, “The sun will never rise again, and there will not be any water, either. You see, I killed God.” But the bird did not seem worried.
And when he awoke, the sun had indeed risen at last. In his dreams he had walked through a desert, but had found an oasis, where water bubbled over rocks in a tiny stream and a lone chimney swift wheeled and flickered overhead, flashing in the sun as she danced through the air.
Now as he woke the bird remained, and so did the sound of water. Rubbing his eyes, he stood up and saw, right near where he had slept, the chimney swift perched on the edge of a pool of water, beneath a spring that flowed clear and bright out of the rock. Surely it had not been there the night before. He would have noticed it. Or had he simply been too weary with despair to believe that it was there? The swift was ducking her head in the water, and shaking the droplets off her feathers.
“Thank you, Bird,” he said, for somehow it seemed the right thing to say. The swift ruffled her feathers and looked pleased with herself, as if the spring had indeed been all her own doing. Then he knelt down and drak handful after handful of water from the spring. Beside him, the bird drank as well. The water was delicious after a night without any, and satisfied a bit of his hunger, along with his thirst.
“Now,” he said, I suppose we must continue running. It’s daylight, and the man-catcher will have no difficulty following my tracks.” He was afraid she might be crushed while traveling in his pocket, so he lifted the berd up to perch on his shoulder instead. It wouldn’t be right to leave her here for a weasel or hawk to find, flightless and vulnerable. And he felt that he owed her his protection, for as long as she wished to remain with him. “Stay here until you feel well enough to fly,” he told her.
The sun was setting, and he had lost count of the peaks and valleys, streams and meadows he had crossed. There had been no food, or at least no plants that he recognized as safe to eat. Nor had they come across a spring as clean as the one the chimney swift had found; the streams they crossed were all shallow and brackish. The bird still perched on his shoulder, and although she showed no sign of regained flight, she seemed to be recovering. Her grip on his shoulder had not faltered even as he scrambled up and down the steepest slopes.
Now, his imagination was filled with the smell of food. There was a wisp of cloud above the ridge to his right, and as he approached it seemed that the cloud was in fact the smoke of a cooking fire. It was too much to hope for; no one lived in this wilderness, and anyone who did would be a bandit or outlaw, more likely to kill him than to offer him food. But then again, wasn’t he an outlaw too? The swift looked at the smoke and chirped excitedly, and he decided to take the risk. Turning, he climbed up the ridge toward the source of the smoke.
As he approached the place, he thought suddenly that if there were any chance of danger ahead, he ought to first find someplace safe to hide the bird, so that even if he were harmed she could escape. But then he reached the edge of a clearing and saw that there was no need. At the far end was a little hut, and in the doorway sat an old man, feeling carrots. He was a hermit, a holy man. Despite his hunger, the man named Unloved instinctively made the hand gesture identifying himself as anathema, to keep the old man from unknowingly polluting himself by speaking to him.
But the hermit only laughed, and looked straight into his eyes. “I see you, young man,” he said, “And I do not recognize that gesture you are making. But if you want a place to stay for the night, please come help an old man with these carrots.” At the sound of his voice, the chimney swift leapt from the young man’s shoulder and fluttered over toward the hermit. Something was still wrong with her wings; they did not catch the air right, and she was barely able to keep aloft. She landed at the feet of the hermit, whose eyes had lit up with wonder and joy at the sight of the bird. He lifted her carefully and said to her, “There is a warm place for you by the hearth, sister, and for your friend too for as long as he wishes to stay.”
The stew turned to contain much more than just carrots, and chopping the vegetables with the hermit’s little knife was a slow task. But an hour later, the three of them sat around the hermit’s table. The young man and the old man each had a bowl of stew, and on the table between them perched the chimney swift, drinking from a little saucer of broth. “Now tell me,” said the hermit, “What did you do to receive their curse?”
And the young man, still half unbelieving that his own hands had smashed that face of clay, could think of nothing to say in response but, “I killed God.”
The old man, halfway through a spoonful of stew, sprayed broth all over the table as the laughter burst out of him. “I say,” he chortled, “That’s quite an accomplisment. Bird, did you hear what he said?” And ruffling her feathers and hopping about, the little bird did indeed seem to be sharing in his merriment. And at last the man who had killed God could not help but join their laughter as well.
“Oh, well done friend, well done,” said the hermit, wiping the tears of laughter from his eyes. Then he became a bit more somber. “I did the same, and so must all holy people. But when I did, I found that we cannot destroy God; all we can do is destroy the masks that hide God, the prisons that we have bound God within. And that is always a victory. It opens the path for us to find a truer God, who cannot die. Bird, do you think that God is dead?” And the bird very solemnly stretched her wings upward, displaying all her feathers. “No more dead than she is,” interpreted the hermit. And for the first time in many years, the young man hoped it was true.
And for the first time also in many years, he slept soundly. But with morning light came a knock on the door, and all his fear came flooding back. The old hermit arose to answer the knock, but first he put a hand on the young man’s shoulder and smiled sliently at him. Then he unbolted the door and opened it, and stood in the doorway with a hand on either doorpost, barring entry. “There is nothing here that concerns you,” said the hermit. But someone shoved him inward with such force that he landed among the pots on the hearth with a crash of broken pottery, and did not stir. And the man-catcher stood in the door.
He was dressed in black except where metal gleamed: on his gauntleted hands and steel-clad boots, and the scabbard that held his sword. Even his face was swathed in black, so that only his eyes showed. As the old man fell, the bird flew up from the mantle, fluttering deperately. Idly, as if brushing aside an insect, the man-catcher swatted her to the ground. The young man leapt forward to protect her, to sweep her out of harm’s way. But the man-catcher stamped down with his heavy boot and crushed her. The young man could do nothing but cry out in shock and futile anger. “Indeed,” said the man-catcher, “be afraid. You will pay for the crime of murdering God.”
But the young man stood up stright to face him. He was horrified now beyond all fear, and he was surprised to hear in his own voice nothing but deadly calm and conviction. “No,” he replied, “You are the one who has murdered God.” Then the mailed fist struck him across the jaw, and he tumbled into darkness.
It was night. Why was it so often night? He was bruised and stiff from two days and nights of being carried and dragged, bound hand an foot, through the mountains and back to the city. But the worst would come in the daytime. They would stone him at noon, he knew, when the sun stood high and unforgiving and all the city could gather to watch.
The cell was bare except for a narrow window and a mask bolted to the wall, a God-mask made of iron. Its maker had not seen fit to add any nuance to its expression: it was pure, naked cruelty and wrath. This was a face he could not shatter or damage with any blow. The window faced east. This was intentional: through it he could watch and wait for the sunrise that would signal the beginning of his final day. Noon would be all too swift in coming.
The moon had set, and the utter darkness terrified him. Some light within him that had still burned even after the curse and the crime and the flight to the mountains had been extinguished when he saw the bird crushed under the man-catcher’s foot. Now that place within him was entirely blank, and he yearned for light, any light. So even though he knew the day would be his last, his eyes kept looking to the eastern horizon, thirsty for the light, waiting for the sun to return and rise again.
The darkness in the east became a pale glow. The sun leapt into the sky: a crack of light, and then a blaze on the horizon. He looked at the iron mask and thought that if he were the one who commanded the stars and planets, he would tell that blaze to grow and grow until it filled the whole sky and ignited soil and air, and burned the world of priests and prelates and man-catchers to nothing. But today the sun was merciful.
The wind arose. In the distance it picked up one fallen leaf, which fluttered and floated, silhouetted against the sunrise. As it remained in the air he thought it was a bird, and not just a dead leaf. And then it flew closer and he saw that is was indeed a bird, flying straight toward him out of the sun. And then it darted and flickered and flashed in the sunlight, and he realized that it was not just any bird, but a chimney swift, and it was flying across the courtyard toward him. Then it shot through the bars of his window and he saw that it was not just any chimney swift, but the chimney swift, alive and restored to flight. “Bird!” he cried, “Bird, it’s you!” And he believed.
The bird perched on his shoulder, just as she had before. “But how,” he asked, “how are you alive again?” Her only answer was to leap into the air and circle the tiny cell, rejoicing in her new wings. “Bird,” he said, “they are going to stone me at noon. They are going to kill me.” At this, the bird swooped down and perched on one of the brackets that held the iron mask. “No, he objected, “Don’t go there. It is evil.”
If he had not already in his thoughts been walking the line between the living world and the next, it might have seemed more strange. But even so it was a shock. As he reached out to the bird, hidden behind the savage mask, suddenly the metal melted and softened into an entirely different expression, and the mask began to weep tears that corroded the metal and left long streaks of rust down its cheeks. “You!” he shouted, in relief, “So you are the reality behind the image. But if you are the face behind the mask, then surely I have nothing to be afraid of, come what may.”
He looked out the window. The sun was rising in the sky. But he was not afraid.
