Tales from the Universe
Moral Dilemma: If pretending to be someone else makes you stronger, safer, and more successful, when does taking the mask off become worth the cost?
The mask maker refused to sell Orin anything.
“You don’t need one.”
Orin stood in the narrow shop while dozens of faces watched him from the walls.
Some were beautiful.
Some were terrible.
Some looked wise.
Some looked dangerous.
One appeared so kind that Orin found himself wanting to confess things to it.
“I have money,” he said.
“That isn’t the problem.”
The old mask maker continued sweeping.
Orin followed him.
“I need something frightening.”
“No.”
“Something commanding, then.”
“No.”
“Something people will respect.”
The broom stopped.
The mask maker looked at him.
“Ah.”
He leaned the broom against the wall.
“That I have.”
From beneath the counter he produced a plain wooden mask.
Orin frowned.
It wasn’t frightening.
It wasn’t beautiful.
There were no horns, fangs, jewels, feathers, or painted symbols.
It was simply the face of a man who looked as though he expected to be obeyed.
“How much?”
“One silver.”
Orin paid immediately.
The mask maker handed it to him.
Then he held on.
Orin tugged.
The old man didn’t release it.
“Take it off when you’re finished.”
Orin laughed.
“Obviously.”
The mask maker let go.
Orin wore the mask the following morning.
He had been ordered to negotiate payment from a merchant who had ignored three previous letters.
Normally Orin hated such work.
His voice became uncertain when people raised theirs.
He explained too much.
He apologized when no apology was necessary.
Sometimes he walked into an argument knowing exactly what he needed and walked out having agreed to something entirely different.
But behind the wooden face, nobody could see him hesitate.
The merchant shouted.
Orin waited.
The merchant threatened.
Orin waited.
The merchant explained why the debt wasn’t really a debt.
Orin waited.
Eventually the merchant stopped talking.
“You owe the guild forty-three silver,” Orin said.
The merchant stared at him.
Then paid.
Orin walked outside feeling ten feet tall.
He removed the mask.
The feeling disappeared.
So he put it back on.
Soon Orin began wearing it for difficult conversations.
Then important conversations.
Then meetings.
People treated him differently.
They stopped interrupting him.
When he entered a room, chairs were offered.
When he disagreed, people reconsidered.
His employer noticed.
“You’ve changed.”
Orin smiled behind the wooden face.
“I’ve improved.”
Within a year, he was supervising others.
Within three, he was running the guild office.
He bought better clothes.
A larger home.
A long table for dinners.
The mask became famous enough that people stopped asking why he wore it.
It was simply Orin’s face.
Only at home did he remove it.
At first.
One evening, Orin returned from work and found his wife setting the table.
He removed the mask.
She looked up.
Something crossed her face.
It disappeared quickly.
But he saw it.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You looked disappointed.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did.”
She continued arranging the plates.
Orin sat down.
“What is it?”
His wife sighed.
“You bring him home now.”
“Who?”
She pointed at the mask.
Orin laughed.
“It’s wood.”
“No. The other one.”
He didn’t understand.
“The man who wears it.”
“That man is me.”
“No.”
Her answer came too quickly.
Orin felt something tighten in his chest.
“Then who exactly do you think pays for this house?”
She stared at him.
There was silence.
Orin heard his own words again.
Not what he’d said.
How he’d said them.
He looked toward the mask.
Then away.
Dinner was quiet.
The next morning, Orin decided not to wear it.
He made it halfway to work.
Then he imagined entering the guild without it.
He imagined the clerks looking up.
The merchants.
The apprentices.
The other guildmasters.
He turned around.
The mask was waiting on the table.
He put it on.
Immediately, the anxiety disappeared.
Orin exhaled.
“There you are.”
Years passed.
His wife stopped asking him to remove it.
That bothered him more.
His son grew old enough to join the guild.
On the boy’s first morning, Orin found him standing before the mirror.
He had made something from scraps of wood.
A crude imitation of his father’s mask.
Orin laughed.
“What are you doing?”
His son turned.
“Practicing.”
“Practicing what?”
“Being like you.”
Orin’s amusement vanished.
“Take that off.”
The boy obeyed.
“Why?”
“Because you don’t need it.”
His son looked at the real mask hanging beside the door.
“Neither do you.”
Orin slapped him.
The sound shocked them both.
The boy stared at him.
Orin stared at his own hand.
His son walked out.
Orin remained beside the mirror.
Eventually he looked at his reflection.
The mask stared back.
That evening he returned to the old shop.
It was still there.
The same masks watched from the walls.
The same broom leaned beside the counter.
The mask maker was much older.
Orin placed both hands on the counter.
“I want it off.”
The old man squinted.
“Then remove it.”
Orin reached up.
His fingers touched wood.
He pulled.
The mask came away easily.
Orin stared at it.
“That isn’t what I mean.”
“I know.”
The mask maker returned to his work.
Orin followed him.
“I don’t know how to be without it.”
“Then you wore it too long.”
“You should have warned me.”
“I did.”
“You said take it off when I was finished.”
“Yes.”
“I wasn’t finished.”
The old man looked at him.
“That is the trouble with useful masks.”
Orin waited.
The mask maker said nothing else.
“What am I supposed to do?”
“I make masks.”
The old man shrugged.
“I don’t make faces.”
Orin carried the mask home beneath his arm.
The following morning he stood before the mirror.
Without it, he looked older than he remembered.
There were lines around his eyes.
His hair had thinned.
His face seemed strangely unfinished.
He raised the mask.
Then lowered it.
Raised it again.
Lowered it.
Finally he left it on the table.
At the guild, people stared.
A clerk failed to stand when he entered.
Orin nearly corrected him.
He didn’t.
During the morning meeting, two people interrupted him.
The first time, Orin felt heat rise into his face.
The second time, he said:
“I wasn’t finished.”
His voice shook slightly.
The room became quiet.
Orin continued.
Nothing terrible happened.
He did not throw the mask away.
That surprised his wife.
“You’re keeping it?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Orin considered the question.
“Because it worked.”
She waited.
“And?”
“And I don’t want to pretend it didn’t.”
He placed it on a shelf.
There were still days when he wore it.
Funerals.
Negotiations.
Once, when his son was badly injured and Orin needed to remain calm while everyone around him panicked.
But afterward, he removed it.
Years later, his granddaughter found the mask.
She put it on and marched through the house ordering everyone around.
The family laughed.
Orin did too.
Then the girl climbed onto his lap.
“Grandfather?”
“Yes?”
“Was this really yours?”
“It still is.”
“Does it make you brave?”
Orin looked at the wooden face.
“No.”
He thought for a moment.
“It showed me what brave looked like long enough for me to practice.”
The girl considered this.
Then she removed the mask.
“Can I keep it?”
Orin smiled.
“For a while.”
He handed it to her.
“Just remember which face belongs to you.”
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