Inga Soborova
© Inga Soborova, 2024
ISBN 978-5-0064-8572-3
Created with Ridero smart publishing system
Greetings, dear reader. My name is Inga Soborova. I am the author of this collection of short stories. Named by the first story, «Aragon Masks».
Each story allows you to reflect on the world, on people, and on relationships in an interesting way.
Enjoy your reading, dear Reader.
Contents
ARAGON MASKS
Old woman:
Well, I’m an ancient woman, but only three times in my life I have taken the mask off my face. My first time happened as a girl when I drowned in the lake. The mask came off on its own. It was wooden and thick. I was left floating on the water. All the masks used to be made of wood. Glory to the first, I didn’t have time to see my reflection in the water without a mask.
The second time the mask cracked on me and fell down at my feet. I almost lay on the ground, I felt faint. It was good I found the second one in the bag. I put it on at once. Covered my shame.
Our family was one of the first in town to honor tradition. Ancient family. My grandmother gave me the mask. When my grandmother died, they took it off. They buried it in the salt mountain on the square and a year later, on the day she died, they took the mask out of the salt mountain and put it into a trunk. And the children’s mask of the grandmother’s youngest granddaughter is put on in public.
The child is standing there wearing his child’s mask. The Priest puts on the child’s mask immediately after the birth. He puts the mask on the child so quickly that neither mother nor those who help him can see the child’s face.
And when the child’s mask is changed at majority, a black cloth is thrown over the head, and the Priest changes the mask under the cloth. They throw back the cloth – everyone congratulates. She’s all grown up now. And the child’s mask – in the salt. And after a year you can put it in a trunk with masks at home.
So my mask, who knows how many generations passed on. Maybe my ancestors wore it when they were Firsts, Glory to them. That is why it cracked from old age. I knew the law well, «If the mask has come off you, put on the other one immediately. If there is anything wrong with the second mask as well, cover your face with your hands, and run home quickly, so that during your disgraceful run people could not see your disgusting shame.»
Then I was lucky enough to put the second one on. I don’t even stay home without the other one. And my second mask was older than all my masks. It was at the bottom of the trunk. The beetle must have drained it all away. I didn’t notice. I put on my second mask, and it was crumbling to dust, in little pieces.
I ran all the way, thinking only about the trunk with the masks.
The law says, «To change the mask at home for another, stay alone. Turn your face to the dark corner. Quickly change the mask. After that, you can go to the mirror.»
I ran into the house. Fortunately, there was no one there. Opened the trunk. The masks were in it. All wooden, heavy. There’s a small hole for the mouth, just enough for a little spoon to fit through. The smaller the hole is for the spoon, the more respectable the girl is. And now, the young ones, they put on masks made of straw and black glass. The holes for the mouth are as small as a fist. What a shame.
All sickness comes from wearing the mask in the wrong way. But those who honor the law, and remember every word of it, know, «Wear the mask not so tight that your face hurts. And not loosely, that the wind may blow beneath the mask. To attract sinful looks.»
In the past, masks in respectable families were kept in a trunk. Every single mask was kept in a salt mountain for a year. One by one. Now they hang them on the walls of the house. What’s that for? There’s no law against it, of course. But I feel this is not good.
Oh, and now they’re making masks of different colors. They say there was no prohibition on different colors from the Firsts. What’s that? They started bending the edges of the holes for the mouth upwards. We remember the edges have to go down. The corners of the eyes on the mask are also directed towards the ground. The earth feeds us and hides us. And it is proper to walk by looking into the ground.
But I’ve heard people say.
«Put on, darling, the mask you asked me to marry. Put it on, let’s remember the old days.», a wife says to her husband.
«No, I won’t. What was, is gone,» he said.
Then the wife took the mask, put it on the bed, and sat admiring it. The husband saw it, took away the mask and put it into the stove. She screamed and cried. And the husband saw his mask on fire and how he screamed. She looked at him and saw his mask was burning, and there was fire and smoke coming from under it. That’s scary.
Here the Priest was carried away. They buried him. He could not stand it. He was honored to become a Priest. But he didn’t endure.
I remember when they chose him. In the square, near Salt Mountain. Three of the oldest citizens of the city held fresh meat in their hands – no blood. And in the center was a wolf, in a wooden cage. A rope was tied behind the door of the cage. It is thrown over a dead tree and stretched to the top of the Salt Mountain. An innocent maiden stands on the mountain. Pull the rope, the door goes up. The wolf has not been fed for seven days. Comes out of the cage. Which old man he approaches, that one will give him the meat. And that old one will be the Priest. The wolf was deprived of life and put near the stone of Firsts, Glory to them.
I cried with happiness. I wasn’t the only one. The Priest does not only change the masks of the living. When the time comes, if someone dies, the Priest is called. One must take off the mask of Life and replace it with the mask of Death.
They used to be beautiful Death masks. No holes for eyes and mouth. They were decorated with broken glass and charcoal. When the people turn their backs, the Priest replaces it. And the mask of Life goes straight to the Salt Mountain.
If a Priest changes his first mask of Death and holds it, not lying next to a dead person, then he will be the Priest. Until his death. And if madness seizes him from such confusion, he will be placed in the honorary temple of Priests. People go to this temple to worship. If the Priest laughs under the mask – it’s for luck. Cries – expect misfortune. You can stand for a long time in the temple. To see if the Priest is crying mad or laughing.
Old Maskmaker:
For as long as I can remember, I’ve thought about masks. More than anything else. I used to make masks as a boy. My masks were quickly sold at the fair. Others nearby were selling masks too. But they took my masks all at once. I have a secret.
You blow on the mask and give a piece of your life to the mask. When my masks are ready on the shelf, I can always hear them whispering.
Wedding masks are clean and light. Always kept separate. Children’s masks are closer to wedding masks. Soldier masks are menacing, sturdy and heavy, away from wedding and children’s masks. Otherwise they will lose their fierce power. Then how can you fight wearing them?
The prettiest are for young women. I revere the law of the Firsts, Glory to them. But there’s no word that says you can’t adorn a mask with precious stones. And stones and gold around the edges.
But for a man, for every day, at the bottom of the mask, there’s a void. The beard that has grown back must be placed there. The law says, «Cut the beard that’s coming out of the mask.»
I don’t break the law. I don’t have beards coming out of my masks.
The Death mask I make when I’m in a special mood. It’s as if I’m fraternizing with Death himself. I feel triumph and majesty. The greatest demand