“But we must win this fight,” he said, “and to do that we must survive this day.”
The plea was obvious. As was my response.
“I will help,” I said, “but only upon your oath that you will free any slaves you yourself own.”
“On my honor,” he said. He placed his hand solemnly over his heart. “When the time is right.”
“And neither you nor your men will impede me,” I added, “in anything I do. Be it here, or in the colonies to the South. I will have your dispensation in writing.”
His eyes widened, but then he slowly began to nod.
“It may not do you as much good as you hope,” he said.
“I will take what I can.”
“Then you shall have your writ.”
“Then you will have your fog,” I said.
He strode to the desk, took up a quill, wrote out a writ in his own hand, and then handed it to me. I folded it and tucked it in my pocket.
“I will see myself out.”
The squadron outside fell in around me as soon as I left the tent. The fog had already begun to form by the time they escorted me beyond the edge of camp.
I took to the wind with my mind troubled. I knew the truth the General had implied. The distance between the words on paper and those realized was vast.
But as I soared, free upon the breeze, my thoughts began to calm. There was much I could still do, both now and in the tomorrows to come. I would have to find the men that believed those words in that Declaration. Who believed freedom applied to all. Those men I could help, in ways beyond what it might take to win this war. I could also exact more promises from the General as the fighting went on. Surely, over the winter, my abilities would serve well and be worth a noble price.
Benny’s wisdom came back to me. Freedom from the King. Then freedom for the slaves.
The words of the Declaration had gotten me off my farm. Out of my comfortable bolt hole in the north. The fog that had filled my mind had lifted. A spark had ignited. With my abilities, I could do so much more. The mask and Washington’s writ would protect me from my enemies.
And then I could change the world.
Author’s Note:
Between August 27 and 29, 1776, the British Army almost had George Washington and his army trapped in Brooklyn Heights. Strong winds kept the British ships from entering the East River and completely cutting them off. Then rain followed by fog allowed Washington’s army to escape before the British realized they were fleeing across the river. Had they not escaped that day, the Americans would have most certainly lost the Revolutionary War.
A fourth generation Coloradoan, Edward J. Knight only left the Denver-Boulder area long enough to learn how to put a satellite into orbit. Four satellites (and counting) later, he’s returned to both the mountains and to writing fantastical fiction. Along the way, he met the love of his life and became the father of two wonderfully curious kids. He’s a huge fan of tightly constructed universes and smart plots. He’s also recently become a fan of historical “what ifs”—the little details like weather that alter the universe. Sometimes that detail is “magical,” such as in his Mythic West novels. His most recent, Gunslinger: The Dragon of Yellowstone, is now available through WordFire Press. More of his work can be found at edwardjknight.com.
Faces of Death
Ed Burkley
Visages de la Mort, they called it. Faces of Death. Those in his circle, what he liked to call the “explorers of the macabre,” had suggested he visit the shop, but they had offered him little more than a cryptic name and a crude drawing for directions.
“Well, that’s just great,” Lucas cried out, his voice seemingly devoured down the maw of the alley. “You think it would be impossible to get lost nowadays.”
He wanted a GPS location. His phone showed no signal.
“Really?”
No one took notice of his protest. In fact, there didn’t seem to be a living soul in sight. “Well, that just puts the cherry on my already crap-of-a-day.”
Perhaps he should call it quits and head home. Perhaps he should leave it to fate. Then he turned around, and there it was, the place he had ventured so far to find. It was a little shop a person could find only in a city such as Paris.
Most flock to Paris, the “City of Light,” to partake in all the wonders that it alone can offer. However, for Lucas, it wasn’t the crepes outside Notre Dame, the macarons of Ladurée, or the Mona Lisa in the Louvre that drew him to the city. Lucas had experienced all those clichés before. No, Paris was so much more for Lucas. To him, it was the City of Dark Things. His desire to see the city’s more nefarious offerings had led him to this little shop tucked away in a far corner of Montmartre.
After all the buzz the shop had garnered, it was rather demure. In fact it looked very much like any other he had seen in Paris, with the exception of what was displayed in its windows. Behind the glass panes that bowed onto the sidewalk sat six plain white porcelain masks, each propped up on a metal stand.
So far, he was curious but not impressed. He had learned one axiom in his many adventures, and that was that things were not always as they first appeared. He put his reservations aside and entered the shop.
“Bonjour,” Mr. Arkwright, the proprietor, said as Lucas stepped over the door’s threshold. He was a tall, pale, spindly-looking man with a long-toothed grin.
“Hi there,” Lucas replied.
“Ah, a fellow American,” Arkwright said, “Welcome. Please look around. I hope you enjoy my little museum. If you do, I warmly accept donations.” He pointed to an antique glass container on a pedestal next to the entrance.
A museum, Lucas thought as he looked around, his eyes slowly adjusting to the dim light. The shop was little more than a single room with a counter at the rear. The walls were lined with dark, ornate wood craftsmanship. The smell was musty but pleasant, reminiscent of one of the many old bookstores Lucas liked to frequent. Dust flakes danced on sunbeams that streamed through the store’s windows.
Along the wood-paneled walls white masks were lined up. They were similar to the ones in the display window, only they looked older. Very old, in fact. The porcelain of each mask showed all the signs that come with old age. Many were stained yellow and marked with the tiniest veins of cracks, like the faces of antique children’s dolls.
“I too lived in the States—for a time,” Mr. Arkwright said as he stood behind the counter at the back of the shop. “That is where I began this little collection.”
Lucas leaned close to examine one of the masks, then gazed around the room at all the others. As far as he could tell, they all looked identical other than the minor variations in wear. They were not like those masks from New Orleans or Venice, so fancifully and uniquely decorated. No, they were just simple porcelain masks, no one more remarkable than the other. But as Lucas peered more closely at one of the masks in front of him, he noticed a small brass nameplate below it that read Charles Bentley. It wasn’t a name with which he was familiar. Maybe it was the name of the mask’s original owner.
“What exactly are these things?” Lucas asked. “I mean, I know they’re masks. Or at least they look like masks, but not like any I’ve seen before.”
“Quite right you are,” Arkwright said. “They are death masks. But no ordinary ones, I assure you.”
Lucas looked back at Arkwright, eyebrow raised. He had heard of death masks before—casts made from a person’s face following their demise. He had even seen pictures of a few online. But what is so unusual about these?
In response to the look on Lucas’s face, Arkwright said, “Very few have properties like the ones you see before you.”
Arkwright’s use of the word properties struck Lucas as odd. Other than referring to ceramic, what exactly did he mean? He pursed his lips and said, “All right, I’ll bite; exactly what properties are those?”
Arkwright smiled gleefully as he stepped from behind the counter. “Well, you see my good friend, housed within the
mask’s ceramic skin are the most enthralling of memories, for the mask captures a person’s final experience right before he or she died.”
Lucas offered a half-smile in disbelief but decided to humor the old man. “So how did you come across all these special masks?”
With the enthusiasm of a schoolboy telling his friends the latest gossip, Arkwright said, “Well, while collecting these masterpieces I encountered what would come to be the last remaining person to know the secret art of the masks. I persuaded him to teach me, and my collection grew. Afterward, I sought out the collections of others, including independent pieces, all to supplement my own. And now it is as you see it today. But I am always looking for additions. No piece is unwelcome, from the mundane to the spectacular.”
Lucas nodded. “You say the person who taught you was the last to know how these masks work, correct?”
“Indeed, in all my travels I found no other, save me, who wielded the art. It seems I alone now possess the craft.”
Lucas scanned the room and said, “Well, it’s quite a collection.”
“It took me most of my life to amass,” Arkwright said. “I searched the world over for the ones you see before you. Although on the surface they all appear to be alike, I assure you that each mask is unique. Under each is a name to discern the particular owner and its memory.”
Lucas returned his gaze to the nameplate before him. “So you say each mask holds the actual last moments of the person whose name is underneath? Like this Charles guy here.”
“That is correct.”
“So … why Charles Bentley?” Lucas asked, turning to face the shop owner. “Why not display a mask for Charles Dickens, Charles Darwin, or King Charles?”
“Yes, I know not all in my collection can be the great ones,” Arkwright replied. “Other museums house grander trophies than mine, from Henry VIII, Beethoven, and Napoleon to Chopin and Nikola Tesla. But I have my prizes too.” He leaned in toward Lucas, put his frail hand to his own cheek and whispered, “Did you know that two masks were made from President Lincoln, and I have one of them?”
“You don’t say,” Lucas said sarcastically.
Arkwright’s smile dropped from his face and he stepped back with hands folded, took a deep breath, and then said, “Like many who first see my collection and learn of the mask’s special properties, as well as from your demeanor, I can see that you have been humoring me.”
Lucas shrugged his shoulders and smiled as if to ask, Well can you blame me? It was a pretty big pill to swallow.
“I see by your expression that you want proof,” Arkwright responded. “Well, to see is to believe, is it not?” Then he pointed to the wall of masks and added, “Please, be my guest, see for yourself.”
“All right,” Lucas said somewhat hesitantly and picked up the mask of Charles Bentley. “So how do these things work?”
“Like all masks, one simply needs to put it on.”
Lucas turned the mask over in his hands. It looked perfectly normal, so he put it up to his face and peered through the eyelets. What he saw took the breath from his lungs.
Instead of seeing Arkwright standing before him or the wood-paneled shop surrounding him, he gazed out across a vast cityscape. And it wasn’t just what he saw that made the air catch in his chest, but what he felt, too. The sun felt warm against his skin, the breeze cool. It was like he was actually someplace else, only the sensations were a bit muffled. It’s like a dream, he thought, or a memory. Yes, as Arkwright had said, it was like he was reliving a memory. Only it was a memory from someone other than himself—it was from this Charles Bentley.
From the view and the strong breeze, it was clear that he was outside and up high. Really high. It was then his gazed shifted down, not by his doing but by that of the memory, and he saw work boots walking across steel girders. He—or more precisely, Charles—was atop the construction site of an impossibly tall skyscraper.
Where—or when—was this, Lucas thought, and what building am I on? I need to make out something I recognize.
Because he had no control over what he was seeing, he had to wait until the gaze returned upward. But when it did, Lucas saw a familiar landmark in the distance.
Is that … the Chrysler Building? Hey, I’m in New York City, and that means this building is most likely the Emp—
In muffled tones he heard a voice yell, “Charles, watch your head!”
The view spun around, and before him he saw an I-beam barreling toward his face.
Duck! he tried to scream.
The view panned and he saw the beam dash past overhead.
Man that was close, Lucas thought. You should be more careful, Charles. Stop looking out at the city and pay closer attention to what’s happening in front of you.
Then Lucas caught himself. Having been swept up in the experience he had forgotten what the memory actually depicted. A death.
Suddenly, he could see that he—or, actually, Charles—was standing up waving to a group of men close by as if to say, That was a close one, but I’m okay. Then, in rapid succession, there was a turn on the beam, a stray rivet on the girder underfoot (what was that doing there?), a slip, and a view of the sky with wispy clouds receding into the distance. His head turned over his shoulder, the wind howled and tore at his face, making his eyes water. Twisting mid-fall, he could see the intermittent reflection of Charles in the building’s windows as they raced past. In the street below, the people and objects that had been so small only moments before grew large, their faces more clear. Lucas could see the look of horror in the eyes of the bystanders in the final moments of the memory as Charles slammed into the ground.
Lucas gasped and pulled the mask from his face, his eyes wide.
“That was—” he stammered as he tried to catch his breath.
“Enthralling?” Arkwright said. “I know. Mr. Bentley was a steel worker from New York City. He was one of the many who unfortunately fell to their death during the hasty construction of the Empire State Building.”
“I was going to say terrifying, but … yeah, it was an experience,” Lucas said as his pulse returned to a normal pace. “One I never thought I’d have—one I hoped I’d never have to personally experience.”
“But now that you have … and lived?” Arkwright asked with a glint in his eyes.
Lucas gazed at the rest of the masks that filled the room. A hunger grew behind his eyes.
“There is no shame in wanting to experience more,” Arkwright consoled. “It is the same reason people fill amusement parks, haunted houses, and theaters. The same reason they stop to gawk at an accident or murder. It is human nature to want to experience death … if only vicariously. Locked in our homes, behind police barricades, warm in theater seats, buckled securely in roller-coaster rides, we feel we are safe from death’s reach.”
Lucas respectfully set the mask of Charles back on its mount and looked at all the other masks of memories. So many people, he thought, lifetimes of experiences trapped within each mask. He was curious as to what lay hidden behind their eyes.
“Would you like to try another?” Arkwright asked, arm outstretched, motioning him to sample from the wall of wonder.
Lucas looked at each one. From nameplate to nameplate he went, reading each. So many; how to choose? I guess anyone is as good as the other. With eyes closed he stretched out his arm, and when he felt his finger land on a cool brass nameplate he opened his eyes. It read Stephen Stermer. He shrugged his shoulders, picked up the mask, and placed it on his face. Here goes nothing.
BOOM!
What the—
“Let’s move, move, move,” a voice hollered out to others. Bullets screamed by as soldiers darted behind blocks of decimated buildings.
Oh man, it’s a war, Lucas thought. I wonder which one?
In the distance, he could see a large building on top of a hill. It looked like an old fortress. At the bottom of the hill stood a town.
“The German forces are holed up behind the abbey,”
a soldier said as he approached. “What should we do?”
Germans. This must be a battle from World War II.
Clouds of dirt sprang up as more bullets missed their intended targets, hitting earthen mounds instead.
“It pains me,” said a voice that came not from those around him, but from the person Lucas now embodied, “but I think we should blow up the abbey. Go set the charges and let’s do this so we can advance.”
The other soldier ran off as large clumps of earth erupted behind him and to his right. To his left, Lucas could see soldiers being torn apart by artillery shells.
This is fucking nuts.
Suddenly there was a white flash, the sound of ringing in his ears, dirt and smoke filling the sky. He felt a dull pain in his side as he hit the ground, knocked from the safety of his hiding place by an explosion. Then a hand reached out—his hand, or rather Stephen’s hand—and grabbed his helmet, which had been knocked to the ground. More percussions of exploding earth rained down on him and then a gust of wind cleared the view, revealing a structure behind which he could shield himself. It was a few paces out through open, unprotected territory. He scurried up from the dirt and made a dash for the shelter, but halfway there he felt a sharp burning in his leg, followed by another in his stomach, chest and shoulder. His view scanned down, and he saw bullet wounds peppered across a body—his body.
This is too much, Lucas thought, and reached up to pull the mask from his face. But before he could, a thundering boom erupted, and everything went dark—silent.
He slowly slid the mask off and set it back in its place.
“Stephen Stermer,” Arkwright said solemnly, “was a soldier from the 34th Infantry Division at the Battle of Monte Cassino during World War II.”
As if still reeling from watching an intense action film, Lucas was motionless, his senses overwhelmed as he desperately tried to reorient them to their natural resting state.
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