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Four
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I write this on the twenty-second of June, the year six hundred and eleven.
Many times in ancient history men have wielded artifacts of great power. Some they carved or formed themselves, others were found of nature. Those artifacts went on to change society — and in every culture and custom there is the truth that masks are inherently powerful.
This is not a thing of chance. Masks to call the dead, masks to summon rain or fire, masks to appease the gods, masks to become gods among men. These things are ever present across the entire world, influencing every legend and religion. How many of them are fiction I cannot tell, but there are some which I have seen with my own eyes to be irrefutable.
That black key I gave to the Russian, for instance, is the golden key scarce referred to in Greek mythology, said to unlock hidden secrets and truths lost to ages. What it was meant for I cannot tell, but I have found it opening the way forward, whatever that way may be. It folds the world around me so quickly it is impossible to tell it has occurred.
The Finn, Herr Otto, has in his possession a sort of pipe, if one could call it that. It looks more akin to a pen jammed into the side of an inkwell, precisely because that is what it consists of. I saw him use it on the voyage over; the ghastly apparatus unfolded men’s minds like a picture-book, allowing him to write whatever he wants inside… Or erase whatever he desires. The Captain’s men were fully conscious during this ordeal, unable to stop him as the Russian held them down.
Mansel has only what he stole from those native to this continent. It resembles one of their horrible carved poles, but only partially. It has the eyes and hooked beak of a falcon or hawk, but the scowling eyes are covered by two massive dials, as if this creature is furious that it cannot see. Two tiny holes are the only way for one to glimpse through the mask, but Mansel seems to manage when he flies around with it. The brilliant colors it has been painted with are quite contrary to the rest of our attire, and he looks like a circus clown whenever he puts it on.
And there is Koba, who keeps clutching this little tobacco pouch strung 'round the front of him as if the treasure of heaven is hid inside. I have no idea what he could possess that convinced the Captain to bring him along, but I shall get it off him one way or another.
Myself I had convinced the Captain the key was all I had, and the sword I carry by my side is simply an heirloom of a family I once had. In truth, the sword is a katana, reforged from the legendary singing sword of Conaire Mór, some king of Ireland in song and legend. I believe this sword has tremendous power, and I have proven enough of it to myself to justify my depending on it.
On the second day we ventured further into the cold wood, hunting for an entrance thought to be unknown. I told the Captain we could not use the key, because then only the Russian would find the entrance, as we no longer traveled in the same boat. This is a lie, of course, but if he is willing to believe I am willing to make him believe.
Nevertheless, today we found the hole. It is a large stone structure built into the side of a descending slope, set at an angle and leading deep underground. No amount of torches could prepare us for how dark it is. I feel like the moment the sputtering flame held aloft by the Russian goes out, our expedition could take a very nasty turn.
And yet, the flame begins to die even as I consider the thought. “Kaur.” The Captain mutters as the flame disappears, and after a moment of tense silence she begins to glow, gently holding a velvet theater mask up to her face.
I am, as you may have inferred, completely bewildered by this. I stand there with my mouth hanging open like a taxidermied ape, giving her ample opportunity to smile at me with her despicable, wicked eyes. It is a fitting mask, at least, for it matches the rest of her vanity in her failure to hide behind it.
The Russian keeps moving. I see Koba feel over the pouch across his chest. He does not seem to notice the incision.
But I do.
—
The four looked out across the stars
At all the vast expanse,
Quite unaware that one of them
Had opprobious plans.
Time held the When, Matter the What,
Where, Space, and Spirit, Who;
And if Matter could hold them all,
He could become them, too.
"Touch not humanity at all,
"Did not our father say?
"But pray, perhaps they heed our call
“In some unheard-of way.”
"Let us make faces they can wear,
“And by our power tempt.”
Then did the four with peccant pride
Seal all of man’s contempt.
—
