Writers of the Future, Volume 29 (41 page)

She's still breathin', and some of the fog's gone outta her eyes.
“Alexis,” she whispers, “you remember, I done the best I can.” Her eyelids start to
close.

“Mama,” I say. Her eyes open a bit. “You know I love you, right?”

She don't answer, but she smiles a little, and then she's gone.

J
osh comes barrelin' in the door
to find me with my dead mama, and Daddy in a bad way. Turns out he called 911 soon
as he heard the gun go off. He helps me put pressure on Daddy's wounds 'til the
ambulance gets there. Daddy's sorta out of it, but he tries to give me a smile as
the paramedics load him into the ambulance. They let me sit with him on the way to
the hospital.

They whisk my daddy away once we get there, and make me stay in the
waiting room. I still got his blood on my clothes, and Mama's. Smells strongly of
copper and antiseptic.

After what seems like forever, someone comes for me—a lady in green, a
surgical mask 'round her neck. Her sneakers squeak 'gainst the linoleum.

“Your father's going to be fine,” she tells me. “He lost a lot of blood,
and he's going to have scars, but he'll be up and about in no time.”

I sink into the chair with a sigh. She starts to leave, but then turns
and looks at me, like she just seen the blood all over me.

“Are you okay?”

I don't even know how I'm s'posed to answer that question. I'm not okay,
not sure I'm ever gonna be. I'm thinking 'bout how I maybe only got four years, how
I had to kill my own mama, how I'd rather put the gun to my head than be a
dreameater. But then, I might not be a dreameater, I might have more control'n Mama,
or Daddy's brother might come up with a real cure. “I ain't hurt,” I say finally.
It's close as I can get to the truth. She gives me a quick smile and leaves.

I lean my head back, lookin' at the white ceiling panels and the
fluorescent lights, their pattern stuck into my head. They swirl in front of me,
like snow bein' blown by the wind. Been a long night. I close my eyes, intending to
open 'em a second later, but I don't. I'm in a blizzard, but I ain't cold at all.
I'm grabbin' the flakes as they pass me by, and they gather on my fingertips,
glowin' bright as the moon. I can't stop laughing—it's the craziest and most
beautiful thing I ever seen.

For the first time in my life, I'm dreamin'.

Master Belladino's Mask

written by

Marina J. Lostetter

illustrated by

TIFFANY ENGLAND

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

The open skies and dense forests of the Pacific Northwest are ideal for growing speculative fiction authors—or, at least, Marina J. Lostetter would like to think so. Originally from Oregon, she grew up with a mother whose idea of a great family outing was half a day at the bookstore, a father who placed
The Hobbit
in her hands when she was nine and a brother who insisted that she'd publish one day—even before he'd read anything she'd written.

Now she resides in Arkansas with her husband, Alex, who is the most supportive and understanding partner in the world. After Marina graduated from Southern Oregon University with a history degree, she expressed a desire to do something crazy: write fiction for a living. Alex insisted that she jump right in, and Marina has been writing full time ever since.

This marks Marina's third finalist story in the Writers of the Future Contest, as well as her second professional publication. Her work has also appeared in
Orson Scott Card's InterGalactic Medicine Show, Mirror Shards: Volume 2
and
Penumbra.
You can visit her online at
lostetter.net
.

ABOUT THE ILLUSTRATOR

Tiffany England works from Los Angeles doing freelance illustration and art restoration. She is a recent student of Jim Garrison and Laguna College of Art & Design, where she received her bachelor's in illustration. Her work has been shown at the Society of Illustrators Student Competition as well as at galleries from coast to coast. Artistically, she takes her inspiration from various styles of artists from the Golden Age of Illustration, such as Arthur Rackham, Edmund Dulac, and Gustaf Tenggren. Classically trained, Tiffany finds that art history provides a firm foundation for her technique and illustrative ideals, making it possible to combine elements of representational form with effective storytelling and design sensitivity. Recently she has been apprenticed by Aleksei Tivetsky in the fine work of icon painting and construction, using old master techniques and materials. Currently she is creating a secular illuminated manuscript, an amalgamation of her knowledge of character and story with the delicate work of writing an icon.

Master Belladino's Mask

T
he chiming of the store's bell smacked of luxury, like everything else in the city. Bells in the country always tinkled with a tin echo that indicated they were made of lesser things, just like the country people: their rolling drawl was the calling card of an unrefined upbringing.

Melanie was all too aware of this when she opened her mouth to address the clerk. “I'm interested in a mask,” she said, as crisp and clear as possible.
And saving my mother,
she silently added.

His dull eyes traced her from mud-crusted skirt up to moth-eaten best hat, his lips maintaining a scowl the entire way. He had a long, lithe torso, with the limbs and nose to match. When he answered, he answered slowly. Melanie wasn't sure if it was because it took a long time for the words to climb out of his lengthy chest, or if he considered her dull-witted.

“You are in a mask shop. I'd expect you're interested in a mask. What kind?”

She sneaked glances left and right. On the walls hung carvings of every possible shape and design. Bright and dark colors made sweeping patterns, twisting together to tell a variety of stories. Exotic animals displayed gaping maws. Demons grinned through grotesque, asymmetrical features. Human likeness twisted into caricatures through exaggerated expressions.

She hunched her shoulders, shrinking from their cold, empty stares. They watched, waiting expectantly for her to choose.
So many dead faces
. A shiver crawled up her spine.

“A healer's mask. His name was August Belladino. Is he here?”

The clerk grinned, as if he knew something she did not. A private joke, perhaps. “He is. Were you looking to rent, or buy? The knowledge of Master Belladino does not come—” he frowned deeply—“cheap.”

What did he consider cheap? Any sort of magic carried a hefty price in the country. But city and country definitions of “expensive” weren't the same.

“I'd like to rent,” she said, reaching into her purse. She pulled out all but a few vials of minutes. “Is this enough?” In the country the ratio was usually 60:1. One hour of use for every bottled minute.

She glanced down at the time, a little guilty. She could have given it to her mother. But, no, that wouldn't be proper. What were a few more minutes of agony when she could have years of health?

The store bell rang again, and Melanie glanced over her shoulder at the new patron. He was a dark-skinned young man, about her age. He looked as if he belonged in the city—all sharp edges and clean lines.

Her cheeks grew hot. Melanie felt embarrassed to have her exchange with the clerk overheard.

The clerk glowered, and his annoyance intensified. He opened his mouth to say something to the man, but seemed to think better of it. Instead, he counted up Melanie's minutes. “Enough for a day and a half.”

Her heart sank. “I'd hoped for three. The healer in my town said I'd need three.”

“Then come back when you have the full fare.” Impatiently, he drummed his fingers against the countertop.

“Please,” her voice shook. She gulped. “I don't have time to raise more.” She dumped the rest of the bottles from her purse. The last minutes were meant for the innkeeper, but the mask was more important. Melanie and her mother could sleep on the streets a few nights, if they had to.

“Still not enough,” he said coldly.

Smooth skin brushed past hers, and a dark hand laid a generous pile of time beside hers. “That should cover it,” said the young man.

Deep, black eyes held Melanie's gaze for a moment. She opened her mouth, but didn't know what to say.

“I told you not to come in here again,” the clerk said. “You scare away my customers.”

“I'm not scaring anyone,” he said indignantly. “I'm helping her pay. I'm giving you money. Are you refusing to rent to her?”

Without another word the clerk stomped from behind the counter and over to the far wall. Taking great care, he lifted one of the wooden masks from its hook—one of the animal effigies. “Master Belladino's mask,” he said, offering it to her. “Covered for a week.”

“It's so light,” she said, balancing it delicately. In the country people had to carve their death masks out of cedar or pine instead of imported balsa, and no one she knew could afford paint, let alone enchantment. Clutching it to her chest, she turned to the young man. “Thank you,” she said, “I'll repay you, somehow. I'll come up with the time—or I can work the minutes off straight. I might not look it, but I can plow fields all day, or clean house, or—”

“We'll come up with something.” His face was gentle, but his expression stern. “Where are you staying?”

“The inn at—” In her sudden elation, she'd forgotten. Her eyes strayed to the bottles.

He read her mind. “I'll cover that, too. I work at the Creek Side Inn; I can get you a room, if you'd like.”

“That would be wonderful. Thank you so much, Master—?”

“Leiwood.”

“Melanie Dupont. I'll get my mother and we'll be right over. I can't, I mean…” She was so happy she couldn't get her tongue to behave properly. “It's just, I didn't think—” She shuffled her feet, wanting to be off as quickly as she could.

“Go. I'll see you this evening.”

Giddy with excitement and gratitude, she skipped away. Before she could cue the bell's tinkling once more, Master Leiwood caught her by the shoulder. “Be careful,” he said darkly. “Keep your guard up.”

She nodded absently, her hand already on the door.

As she left, Melanie caught the beginning of a new conversation between Leiwood and the clerk. She paused outside the door to listen.

“You didn't explain it,” Leiwood said.

“It's a healer's mask; she'll be fine.”

“Not like me?”

“Not like you.”

The conversation ended, and she hurried on. Melanie was too happy to wonder what they'd meant.

M
other. Mother, look.” Melanie turned her mother's pale face toward the mask. “Isn't it beautiful?” The focal point was a tree frog—the full frog, climbing up a vine, looking over its shoulder—and around it were leaves, branches, and a couple of small exotic birds. The frog's eyes had been cut out for the wearer.

Melanie wanted to put it on this instant, to learn Master Belladino's healing techniques as soon as possible.

But she forced herself to wait, just until they moved to the Creek Side Inn.

Using the board they'd brought, Melanie was able to leverage her mother out of bed and partially onto her feet. She buckled her into a harness, then looped the straps—like those on a traveler's pack—over her own shoulders.

Limply, her mother hugged her from behind. “Good girl. My good girl,” she breathed.

Melanie slowly took her mother's full weight onto her back. “You feel lighter today,” she said, worried.

“Easier for you to carry, that way,” her mother said. “Soon you won't have to worry about me anymore. You'll be able to live your own life, as a young woman should.”

Yes,
Melanie thought,
but not for the reason you think
. “You'll feel better soon,” she said.

Her mother sighed. “Yes, I'm sure I will.”

Melanie gathered up the rest of their meager belongings, then hobbled out of the room.

I
s this acceptable, Mistress Dupont?” Master Leiwood asked, but not of Melanie. He was addressing her mother.

No one had spoken directly to her mother in a long time. They always acted as if she couldn't hear, or as though she weren't there at all.

“Fine,” Dawn-Lyn Dupont whispered, snuggling into the covers. “It's a lovely room.”

The tables and wardrobe were polished mahogany. Fine sheets—so fresh that Melanie wondered if they'd ever been slept in before—covered the feather bed. These were posh lodgings.

Master Leiwood nodded and came away from the bedside. “For her?” he asked Melanie, nodding to the mask which sat on the windowsill, propped against the pane.

“Yes. She has the muscle illness. The one that makes everything quit moving. Even the heart, in the end.” She dropped down onto a chaise, and looked out the window to the bustling afternoon street below. “I asked every healer I could find to have a look at her. In the end they kept telling me, ‘You need August Belladino.' When I learned he was dead, I was sure he must have a mask—a real one, an enchanted one. An expert craftsman wouldn't let his knowledge disappear when he died.”

“Some experts can't afford to enchant their masks,” he said, “and some would rather cash in their time, live it out.”

“Yes. But luckily, Master Belladino could…and didn't.”

He sat down beside her, keeping a respectful distance.

“You own the inn, don't you?” she asked suddenly.

“I do,” he said.

They were quiet for awhile. Eventually Dawn-Lyn's breathing evened out. Melanie could tell she was asleep.

“Would you like to go to the lounge?” Master Leiwood asked. “Let your mother rest?”

She nodded and followed him out and down the stairs.

T
hey sat at a small table, bent over full mugs of beer that neither touched. “You sounded concerned when I left the shop,” Melanie said.

He laughed in a caustic sort of way. “I had a bad experience with a mask.” He nodded toward the bar. “It's on the wall there. Would you like to see it?”

She wasn't sure she would, but he got up and she trailed behind. Several masks decorated the room, but the one he indicated was different from the rest. It looked like a crow, with a long black beak and shining metal feathers—and it was hewn in half.

“My father's,” he said. “We had an…
unhealthy
relationship. When he died I thought I'd be able to understand him better if I bought his mask and wore it for a little while. Turns out that wasn't a good idea.”

Twisting a fold in her skirt, she waited for him to explain. He didn't look as if he wanted to—more like he
had
to. “My father was a bad man. And for the short time that I wore his mask, so was I. Thankfully, I don't remember much of what happened, and no one got hurt. Once the mask came off, I was me, and the memories of being in his mind drifted away.

“That's why I hang around the shop. I try to warn people. It's not just knowledge that gets transferred, it's personality, too. Maybe even more than that…” He put his hand over his mouth, as if he were about to be sick. “Just be careful. Stay yourself and stay strong. I don't know much about Master Belladino, but they say he was a genius. And sometimes geniuses have a funny way of looking at the world, be it good or bad.”

Melanie patted his hand. “Thank you. For warning me, for everything. I better get back; mother will be hungry when she wakes.”

“Sure. If you need anything, my room's at the top of the stairs.”

T
he sun and her mother had both gone down for the night when Melanie decided that it was time. She lit a candle, then pulled out her inkpot, a pen, and a roll of parchment.

With slight trepidation roiling in her gut, she turned the mask over, laying it carving side down on the table. It was padded inside, with a silk lining—very inviting. She slowly slipped it over her face, letting it settle against her features. Then she tied the black ribbons under her hair and waited for the magic to take hold.

The quill was in her hand before she recognized what she was doing. Words, processes, formulas—an ocean's worth of information came flooding through. It felt as if it bypassed her brain and splattered straight onto the paper. She saw the words appear, and they turned in on themselves, again and again. Soon she had a collection of giant, worthless inkblots.

With her left hand she grabbed her writing wrist and wrenched it away from the page. She drew several deep breaths, steadying herself. Her heart seemed to be running a desperate race, and her fingers and toes twitched with barely subdued energy. Everything was trying to escape the mask at once. Too much information was being channeled through her. She had to figure out how to control the deluge.

One word at a time
. She told herself.
Concentrate. Focus on the muscle illness. What needs to be done?

Her writing hand tried to get away, but she reeled it in. Only letting one word seep out at a time, she continued. Her mind began filtering more and more. She caught wisps of ideas, portions of equations. A list of ingredients sprang from amongst the rest, and she patiently wrote it down.

Why had her local healer told her it would take days? All of the information was here, now. It took only moments to fall out of the mask.

But getting a tight grasp on the process was taking longer.

Yes, I remember
. She recalled everything the ailment required to be canceled. For the first time she realized that medicine and potion-making were all mathematical, with the illness on one side and the cure on the other. Both sides of the equation had to balance, to cancel each other out. The ending answer always needed to be zero.

To cancel the muscle illness…

She made notes next to each ingredient. It was slow going, writing and making her calculations. The characters came out at an agonizing pace, but if she didn't hold back, the words would be illegible.

The muscle illness didn't behave the same in each person, so the makeup of the medicine was always slightly different. She had to recall all the specifics she could about her mother's sickness. Retrieving the memories was difficult—Master Belladino, with his overwhelming mental faculties, didn't want to share her consciousness.

Melanie worked through the morning, only stopping when her mother asked for food. She went to the kitchen to order her a meal and some water and bread to last out the day. The boy who wrote down her request deftly ignored the mask.