by S. L. Horne
When she had arrived home that evening to place the scope in her daughter’s room, she took a moment to look into the glass again. The colors were brilliant and patterns slid across her vision as she turned the end. Mesmerized by the scope, she attempted to go through all the patterns to see what it included. As the small triangles and diamond shapes, colors and images moved, the patterns disappeared and turned into real images. A scene played, a chubby weasel-faced child dressed in gold and burgundy clothes holding an ornate mask to his face, he stood in front of a mirror and smiled wickedly when he took it away.
Excited, she ran to gather her husband and share her discovery. He took the glass up to his eye, twisted the end and promptly removed it. “This is beautiful, but it’s just a kaleidoscope, Dear. I don’t see any images besides that of the simple patterns in all normal scopes.” He turned to resume his work in the study, but eager to share the magical experience with her beloved, she pleaded with him to look again. “I don’t have time for these games. I have to work!” He closed the door behind him and stormed off down the hallway.
At first, this incident had escaped his mind. His wife’s insistence had set him on edge though, and he insisted there had to be something wrong with her. It was him who had eventually gotten her committed to the psych ward. She had spent her final few months of pregnancy there and suffered immeasurable abuse and neglect from the staff. After all, no one would believe a crazy person. The worse the abuse, the less someone would believe her. She had tried to get out of the hospital, telling her therapist even, that she no longer believed the scope to be magical. When they tried to take it away from her, though, she refused and wailed, more often resulting in her being sedated again.
Peering into the glass, the long hours of the night passed away as she watched her daughter sleeping on the other end of the beautiful golden piece. Rocking in her chair, a sense of peace overcame her, and she began to not care where she was. Refusing to ever give up the glass, the woman spent her days rocking back and forth, no longer speaking to anyone. She refused visitors and sat quietly in her corner, twisting and looking into her only possession.
Chapter 11
Elara needs a break from her life. She’s feeling stuck in mud up to her eyes with questions and an overwhelming sadness. She battles depression by painting, but lately, it hasn’t been working. She leaves her apartment to go for a walk, instead, with the evening sun going down as she starts.
Not going in any particular direction, she gets drawn toward a bridge and sees large amounts of graffiti underneath. Interested in getting a closer look, she exits the paved path and slides down a small embankment. Underneath the pass is a hidden community of people. At first glance, she thinks it wise to return to the path, but something inside her tells her everything will be all right. She sees a metal bin with a small fire burning inside, and people standing around it, talking amongst themselves.
On a slanted wall nearby, she sees a boy around her age, adding to the colorful graffiti.
As she comes up next to him, he glances her way but continues his work. “
You’re really good,” she says admiring his talent. His art is bright and cartoonistic, in addition to being detailed and well proportioned. His lines do not run, and he smiles graciously.
“Thanks.” Shaking the can, he continues his work. Elara puts her hands in her pocket and pretends to act as if she belongs. “Can I help you?” he asks.
“I’m just admiring. I’ve never actually seen anyone do art like this before. It’s really captivating.”
“Are you being a smartass?” He turns to glare at her as if offended.
“No, no, of course not! I’m an artist myself, although I haven’t ever shown my work. This is just one of those moments, you know? Sonder and all.” She holds her hands up, warding off his angry stare. “But like, artistically.”
“What the fuck is ‘sonder’?” He stops painting now, seemingly unsure of what to make of her uninvited arrival.
“Sonder is like when you realize that other people have complex lives, too. It’s more than that, but that’s the gist. Except, this is with art. You know, the back story of the work itself? Most people never know what the story behind a picture is, they just see the final piece. Similar to when you see some random person. You don’t know their story, just the bit you’re in right at that moment,” she explains. “If that makes any sense. It does in my head, at least.”
He looks over at her, his eyes reflecting that he’s still unsure of her, but less affronted. “Oh, well, I guess.” He tosses the can on the ground where it joins a litter of others. “There’s plenty of space, want to give it a go?”
Hesitantly, she picks up a can of black and paints a rudimentary face; the colors running down. She goes with the flow and sprays reds, yellows and oranges above it, letting the colors run down the black. The result resembles a melting face screaming in pain from the heat.
“Wow, powerful. And kinda, creepy.” He laughs, and a sparkle in his eyes glint in his smile. “People call me Tag, for obvious reasons. And you?” Reaching out, he shakes her now paint-covered hand.
“Elara.” She smiles.
“That’s a pretty name. Your parents must have been astrology nerds,” he jests with her.
“Actually, it’s not my given name. I kinda changed it a while back.” She looks down, unsure why she told this stranger anything at all. She could have just stopped at her name and he wouldn’t have known the difference.
“What was it before? Was it that bad? Like Ethel or Gertrude?” He pauses, overdramatically stroking his chin. “Ah, I know, something like Helga.”
“Very funny. No, actually the name itself wasn’t bad. It’s the personal meaning that got attached to it. A bad one, you could say.” She feels now that mentioning it to him was an awful idea and wants desperately to go back in time and not have mentioned it at all.
“I can respect that.”
Elara’s surprised by his response.
“You’re not going to press me to tell you what it is?” Before she can filter the words from her mind to her mouth, she blurts out her question.
“No, not unless you want to share. It’s none of my business. You didn’t ask me what my real name was, why would I press you for yours? Besides, the look on your face kinda says it all. Bad shit happened, or something, and it’s best to leave the past in the past. I know all too well what that’s like.” This boy was turning out not to be what she expected, in a good way.
“Thank you. It’s just… Most people practically pull my teeth to find out. I’m not used to someone just accepting me not answering. Truth be told, I stopped telling others what my real name was or that I had even changed it. I’m not sure why I told you,” she explains.
“Something’s probably on your mind, am I right? Most of the time that’s when people say things they normally wouldn’t. Can I ask though, have you changed it legally?”
“No, not yet. I filled out the paperwork but it costs like two hundred dollars, and I don’t have that yet. I’m saving up for it.” She looks down at her feet, unsure why she feels ashamed.
“Whatever. I think your name is what you say it is. Fuck what papers say. You can always take care of that later.
“Thanks,” she says, feeling good that Tag seems to understand.
“So, if you say paintings have such a back story, what is this one’s?” He points at her dripping face on the concrete wall, the colors still running slowly down the wall. She feels crazy, but the story comes easily to her; it plays out in her head as if telling itself.
A man looks at himself in the body length mirror before him. Turning side to side, he moves his long gold and burgundy embroidered cloak to admire his shiny shoes, his outfit made in the colors of his house sigil. Brushing his fingers through his beard and over his smooth trimmed mustache, he smiles wickedly. Today would be the day, he was sure of it, for who could resist his handsome features, grand wealth, and soon-to-be status as lord of his own land?
Pompous he is as he sweeps through the curtains separating his dressing room from his vast chambers and strolls into the dining room.
An hourglass shaped, voluptuous maid gathers her plain colored skirts and rushes by. “Stop there,” he orders, holding his hand out to halt her path. “What do you do in this castle?” he asks.
When the woman looks up from her flowing hair, the sire gasps rudely in her face. Beautifully large emerald colored eyes stand out from an otherwise worn face. A large wart rests on her chin and her face holds wrinkles beyond her years. “Never mind, never mind,” he says, “go about your business.” Put off by her face, he quickly puts the maid out of his mind. She continues on her way and rushes to tend to the soon-to-be lord’s younger siblings.
The castle sits atop a large hill, with many trails winding up to it. Paths for a horse and carriage, footpaths, and even tracks for the animals that often come in and out of the peaceful castle and its surrounding forest. An isolated place, its history is old and long kept within the Rao family. War had broken out with a neighboring kingdom, though, and every lord was to supply their fair share of men to fight. The war had stretched on and threatened to take many more lives before seeing its end. Scared for the fate of his own children, Lord Daman volunteered himself in the stead of his three boys and one daughter, only never to return. Five years having now passed, the family has declared him officially dead so his eldest son, Taradhish, can receive the title. However, tradition states the eldest would lay claim to the title only when he has a wife by his side.
Being a self-important man, the eldest son refused to receive any wife below his standard of perfection. And when tales of the beauty of one particular girl reached his ears, he would have nothing else but her. He scoured his land, even far-reaching lands, only to have come up short of the one woman he truly wished to find.
The emerald-eyed maid has her hands full and keeps herself busy. She tidies after the two youngest sons, one daughter, and the mourning Lady Lajja of the late Lord Daman’s castle. The daughter is the youngest, a bright-eyed and kind child. The boys of the late lord, however, are wicked and selfish, and the mother too steeped in her sorrow to correct their behavior.
Now, Taradhish was soon to hold the title of lord and would choose a wife for himself. Ladies across the land were hiding their faces, for fear of being chosen, for the eldest was the worst of all the male heirs. Cruel in nature, no one wished to be his bride, knowing no title or wealth was worth his hand in marriage.
“Quickly now, I haven’t all day!” Taradhish barks at the stable boy. “What do I pay you for if you can’t do this simple task?” The child falls roughly to the boarded floor from the blow of his sire’s hand. “Get up, you weak child. Have the horse and carriage ready by the time I get back or your job will be given to someone capable!” He spits on the boy, and his cloak flourishes in the air as he turns to leave the stables. Scrambling to his feet, the stable boy hurriedly finishes preparing the horse.
In a foul mood, Taradhish crosses a grassy field to see his siblings out in the sun. The man is closing in on his twenties, but his younger siblings all stand below the ages of ten. Being the youngest, and kindest, his sister is often the target of her older brothers’ brutality. As he approaches, the maid is lifting the little girl from a thick mud puddle and wiping the tears staining the child’s face with her own dress.
“You again!” he shouts and points at the maid. Dropping her face from view, she continues with her work of helping the small girl. Before he can say anything else, his sister wraps her arms around the neck of the maid and her eyes plead with her eldest brother, who although a cold-hearted man, holds a weak spot for his sister, even if he does not stretch that kindness far. “Your face disgusts me,” he says to the maid. “Turn it when you see me.”
Grabbing the maid’s face, the little girl’s tiny hands turn it to hers. “I think you are beautiful, Zara.” Sternly and assuredly she smiles at the maid.
“Thank you, Lady Aashi,” the maid replies with a voice so beautiful, even Taradhish turns back from his parting path to stare. Seeing him looking at her, the maid pulls her head from the grasp of Aashi and looks down at the ground. Remembering himself, and the maid’s awful looks, he grunts and strides off once more.
Evening comes, as the castle staff begins preparations for the nightly grand dinner. Zara feeds the siblings and prepares them for bed. Taradhish often enjoys his dinner with much wine and as he likes to have his meals in the company of adults only, he long ago banished children from joining him at the dinner table. Music fills the halls, but this seems to calm his siblings, them having become accustomed to this routine after their brother claimed his right to the castle. They bath and tuck into bed without hesitation, happy to lie in their rooms, listening to the music enter from their open windows.
Done with her tasks of the day, Zara retires to her chamber. Sitting down in her small room, she looks tiredly into her worn vanity mirror. Feet aching, hands sore, and worn from the misbehaving children’s antics, she sighs in relief. Reaching over to lock the door, she returns her gaze to the mirror. Running her hands along the wrinkles set into her face, she stops at the line of her jaw. Slowly, she takes her nail and slips it into a seemingly deep crease. Pulling at it, the aged skin comes away from her face, and before long she holds its entirety in her hands. Setting the mask down on the desk, she dunks a cloth in a basin and washes her face. Water drips from smooth skin she pats away with a towel. The mirror now reflects a woman so beautiful that she looks out of place in the dingy old maid’s room. Picking up a brush, she combs through her long black hair, then wrings out her washcloth and sets it out to dry from the window sill.
Sitting on the chair next to the tall window, she lets her true face bask in the moon’s light and hums a lullaby her mother used to sing to her as a child. Unknowingly to her, Taradhish is outside, having just returned from the stables where he left a weeping boy with a red mark set into his face to cry with the horses after having been fired from his position. The master’s mood has been lifted from this encounter and he’s excited about the dinner that evening. A humming coming from above catches his ear, and he stops to look up. The maid’s emerald eyes are closed as she offers her face up to the stars and moon. He drops his jaw in awe of her beauty, and without a second thought, takes off in a sprint to find the woman’s chamber.
Zara draws the curtain to her window and returns to her desk. She knows she should not risk removing the mask, but despite her fear, she takes a few moments every night to feel the fresh air on her youthful skin. Using the mirror as a guide, she places the mask on again and unlocks her door before walking out into the hallway to sneak a peek at the evening party. She runs straight into Taradhish.
“You again!” he snarls, disappointed by the face he sees coming from the room. He could have sworn this was where the gorgeous face had been! He slams a fist against the wall behind her head and storms off. Heart pounding, Zara swiftly returns to her small chamber, setting aside her thoughts of the party about to take place below.
The following day sends the castle into an uproar. The new master is determined more than ever to find the face of the woman he saw the previous night. Rooms get tossed, guards storm chambers, and they bring every woman in the castle before him. The day is a disaster as one after another he sends each woman out of the grand hall with increasing frustration. Gossip spreads fast, and fear hangs in the air.
Zara attempts to keep her head low and do her job. Frustration fills the corridors and Taradhish takes it out on everyone he sees. Night could not come fast enough for her to slip into her chamber and wash away the day’s worries from her face. The maid slips off the mask, but instead of washing her face, this time she climbs into her bed and weeps. Hiding below her heavy covers as to not let the sound escape, she does not hear her door open.
The second eldest son of the late Lord Daman creeps into the room. Grinning from ear to ear, the weasel-faced little boy instantly spots the mask laid c
arefully on the vanity. Holding the ornate item up to his face, he stands there, looking into the mirror. He smiles wickedly when he takes it away, and glances over his shoulder to the shuttering covers that hold the weeping Zara. The thought of her being so upset fills him with soul-warming satisfaction and he slips out of the door without a sound.
He had entered the room to steal something from the maid he hates, but he never imagined finding this! The mask looks to be of great value and he cannot wait to throw it into the fire and laugh until his stomach aches.
The following morning, the maid climbs out from under the covers, having fallen asleep from exhaustion due to her crying. Moments later, a scream echoes through the corridors as Zara discovers her empty-topped vanity and her door left ajar. The evil little boy laughs loudly in the hall, having waited all night for the old biddy to discover his deceit. What he does not expect when he opens her door to tell her what he has done, is the disheveled but goddess-like face that meets his nasty and chubby self.
The moment of pause that ensued was long enough for Taradhish to make his way to the chamber with curiosity. How he loves a distressed situation! As his younger brother had not expected what he saw, neither did Taradhish. Standing before him, attempting to hide her face is the woman of his dreams.
