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The Masque
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"Beneath this mask, there is more than flesh.
Beneath this mask, there is an idea"
- V is for Vendetta
“Many people feel that in the contemplation of nature
and in communication with other living things,
they become aware of some kind of force,
or something, behind this apparent mask
which we see in front of us,
and they call it God.”
- Roman Kroitor
Excerpt from a conversation with Warren S. McCuloch
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One-Eyed Willie tapped the top of his head and nodded toward the bow of The Brew D’Agon. Seaman Stan knew what he meant; Willie needed to use “the head”. Used as a nautical term, "the head" refers to the location on a ship where urinary & excremental needs are addressed. Utilitarian sailors originally chose the netting beneath a ship's bow for this purpose because the ocean waves breaking against the prow would wash the area clean. Stan grabbed Willie’s arm to get his attention.
"Aboard dis ship, dey ain't be callin' it ‘the head’, dey be callin' it ‘the toilette', ya gots dat, broekie?"
Seaman Stan explained. Willy nodded.
"Aye."
Stan decided Willy didn’t understand. The friends were the same age, with the same number of years at sea, but One-Eyed Willy had far more experience on the water. Willy had grown up on a Dutch schuyt, an inland river boat, so he was the one who more often pulled his partner out of desperate situations at sea. Still, Seaman Stan felt naturally protective of his shorter, monosyllabic buddy, and often called Willy “broekie”, Dutch for “rookie”, “youngster”, or “stupid kid”. Seaman Stan sighed, shook his head paternally, and pointed One-Eyed Willy towards the poopdeck. It was time to teach the kid another lesson.
Now, you are probably familiar with the word "poop" as a more socially acceptable alternative for the word "shit". This word, "poop", comes into modern English usage directly from the nautical term "poop deck", and not vice versa. The poop deck is a raised platform at the rear of a ship, thus the modern association with the human ass. The purpose of the poop deck was, originally, simply to shield the helmsmen from the elements and enemy missile fire, but its placement provided an ideal observation platform for a ship's officer. The poop's function has evolved through the ages – on The Brew D’Agon, the poop deck is, at the stern, the roof of the captain’s cabin; the deck’s fore section still serving the original purpose of shielding the helm. The deck’s name has remained the same despite the evolution of purpose. Believe it or not, the poop deck derives its name from the same source as "puppet", "puppy", and "pupil". This source word is Pupa, the Latin word for the small idol or dolls, which superstitious Phoenician sailors placed in the stern of their ships to ward off evil spirits and placate the sea gods.
Seaman Stan didn’t know all the history above – such knowledge was beyond his level of education or curiousity – but he knew what he knew. Stan pointed aft at the strange metal skull raised up on an altar-like pedestal set in the far aft of the poop, directly above the captain’s cabin.
"Oi! See dat? Right dere? Aye, dat right dere. Don't be fergettin'; aboard dis ship, dat's Da Head. And da netting under da bowsprit where’s we shyte? Dat's da toilette. Don't be gettin' da two confused. Ya ain't wantin' Da Head to be castin' his eye on ya. It ain't good hearin' dem voices in yer head. Trust me, broekie. Ya be endin' up like Louis da Loon unless ya learns ta shuts dem out. Least dat's wot I been told."
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The First Mate smiled and nodded approvingly
"That's it, lad. Keep her steady on that heading. And don't forget to breathe."
Louis exhaled an aspirated affirmative.
"Aye, sir."
The color visibly returned to Louis' white knuckles as he relaxed his death-grip on the ship's wheel. Christian laughed and as he gave Louis a fatherly pat on the back. The ocean's waves crashing into the ship's hull, the hustle and bustle of the crew — their shouted calls and replies, their screamed curses, their sing-song chanteys, the metallic and wooden banging inherent in nautical professions — the moaning timbers, creaking ropes, snapping sails, and other assorted sounds of The Brew D'Agon herself: all worked together to prevent Louis from hearing the verbose pontificating of The Right Honourable Reverend Doctor as he paced the poop deck above them. Perhaps if Louis had had more time for thought about anything outside his present duties at the helm, he would have suspected a conspiracy where there wasn't one. Not that there wasn't a conspiracy,— there was (more than one, in fact) — but there was not a conspiracy to keep Louis unaware of The Right Honourable Reverend Doctor’s words, not at this moment at least. No conspiracy is needed to cause what happens naturally. However, purely coincidentally, The Right Honourable Reverend Doctor Heronimus Jones was speaking about a very real conspiracy that really did revolve around Louis. This did not change the fact that Louis de Lyon's inability to hear The Reverend Doctor was the result of environmental happenstance and not due to the intrigues of a cabal. Louis’ immersion in his triumphant moment at the helm was so total that he didn't even realize he couldn't hear The Voices.
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Steady as she goes
- The Raconteurs
Steady As She Goes
Steady,
watch me navigate
Haha haha ha
- The Gorillaz
Feel Good Inc
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The Right Honourable Reverend Doctor paced the poop deck, circling around the metallic head as if The Head on its pedestal were the sun and Heronimus but a planet. It was not The Head's physical presence – the meat or the metal – that temporarily ensnared Heronimus in its orbit; it was the small inter-dimensional rift, the mental wormhole, within the undead head that attracted The Reverend Doctor's focus. The Head’s flesh, Jung’s physical presence, was little more than a distraction to The Reverend Doctor as together the pair scryed the small rift for confirmation of what they already knew.
Has she informed us as to the exact time and location of the Grand Opening, yet?
"Not yet, Momma doth only let slip that there be no chance o' missin' ye target, as long as he performs ye sacrificial act himself durin' ye ritual."
I wish we did not have to rely on her for this.
"Doth I be detectin’ a hint o' jealousy? Doth it vex thee to knoweth that, even in thy present form, her skill in these matters surpasses yer own? Her dead reckonin' far exceeds even mi own considerable ability. It doth not pain me to admitteth this truth. It be Momma's Heart that doth provideth her ‘clarity of vision’. You and I, both, doth rely too heavily upon our heads. Forsooth, we wouldst develop precision instruments to study ye phenomena iffen ‘twere feasible. She has no such external need or handicap. Verily, we mote findeth solace in Ye Brew D'Agon's skillful crew, who doth be blessed each with ye precise combination o' talents necessary for their individual roles in co-creatin' ye Holy Whole. Let that gnosis soothe thy soul."
You are correct, of course. Is he prepared?
"Verily, olde friend, he willst be properly prepared in mind, body, & spirit at ye appointed hour. & thee shallst be as well, albeit, in light o' thy present circumstance, two out o' three willst suffice."
So must it be.
The Head closed his eyes for a moment of inward reflection. Heronimus smirked; a small, crooked, crescent moon grin. Some might think The Right Honourable Reverend Doctor cruel for his relentless mocking of Jung the Elder's physical state. Lest the reader forget, The Head had earned in deed his former nom-de-mer, "Cannibal Carlito". The Head could never forget his destructive past or his own undeath, even if it weren't for Heronimus' incessant teasing. Jung would probably never admit it, but he privately enjoyed the brotherly ribbing. In those tussling moments, lost in the repartee, this was when he came closest to forgetting about his physical state. Jung the Elder could never completely forget his decapitation, of course – not as long as he "lived" –, but during this playful banter, he could at least temporarily transcend his obsession with the flesh. What was true during the monotony of his daily “life”, was even truer when he widened the rift to peered inside. Nothing reminded an Egun of their few remaining vestiges of mortality more than staring into The Abyss.
During these mental "ascensions", Jung the Elder sometimes risked flying – Icarus-like – too close to the black-hole god-sun and thereby inducing a discorporealization. The trick of balancing on the border-line between life and death was as difficult as one might reasonably expect. Jung the Elder had to maintain a consciousness-tether to the material plane of existence. Getting lost on a mental trip could mean he might never make it back. The wider the rift, the harder it was for Jung to hold it and himself in the desired space.
Heronimus' taunts reined The Head back in balance, preventing a premature ending to Jung’s chance at redemption. In this, as was so often the case, The Right Honourable Reverend Doctor's compassion masqueraded as cruelty. The Head was ever grateful for these small acts of kindness. It wasn’t romantic love, but it was undeniably Brotherly Love. And it was during these awkward moments that Jung truly understood what Love was all about. It was only during these difficult moments that he found himself – almost counter-intuitively – at peace.
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it may be found by chance,
but if one seeks it, it cannot be found
- Honorius of Autun
De Imagine Mundi
"There are no coincidences, Delia.
Only the illusion of coincidence."
- V is for Vendetta
God is the best layer of plots.
- Sura Al-Anfal 8:30
The Koran translated by George Sale
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Louis de Lyon held the helm steady, his confidence growing with each passing minute. The previous two months spent at the threshold of insanity, combined with intense hours of studying maddeningly complex subject matter, had built up a frightful expectation of what his first time at the helm of The Brew D’Agon would be like. Louis had half-expected to become possessed by some daemonic force. By comparison, the reality of the situation was almost dull in its ordinariness. But, if this is dull and ordinary, Louis decided, this is the life for me. A sturdy ship beneath my feet, a strong wind in the sails, and a destination with promised riches: what else could I truly need? Louis' stomach growled.
"Ahhh, here she comes. Right on time, eh, Mr. Lyon?"
Mr. Love winked at Louis, and hurried to meet Momma. Christian took the two large bowls from her hands, and kissed her ruddy cheek. She smiled and blushed. Her cheeks glistened like magic apples. Mr. Love whispered in her ear. His lips near her ear sent tingles down her spine.
"A feast for my eyes and soul, and for our stomachs, as well. Thank you. But why is the child not bringing our meal? Is he not working today? Please tell me he isn't sick."
Momma whispered back without turning her head.
"Stop worrying, Beloved. Relax. The boy is down in the galley talking with Phoenix and Stew. That man is an absolutely brilliant cook. Who would have guessed, considering his pampered upbringing? When they’re done, Phoenix will bring the child up on deck."
It was all that needed to be said; Christian understood. He called for Louis to join him.
"Come on, Mr. de Lyon, time to feed the beasts in our bellies."
Momma took the wheel from Louis, using her ample hips to push him toward the first mate. Louis looked confused.
"Eat, Louis. Relax. Nourish yourself. I can handle this. I was sailing ships while you were still on the teat."
Still confused, Louis sat on the coil of rope next to Christian, accepting the steaming bowl from the first mate's outstretched hand. Louis frowned down at his bowl. It wasn’t the food that bothered him. He was thankful for Momma's cooking, but he had been tested in both mind and spirit in order to earn the right to hold the wheel, so why was she permitted the same privilege? The hint of jealousy surprised him; he knew it wasn't quite proper, but he couldn’t help what he felt. Louis struggled to control his facial features, finally managing a small smile of gratitude for the meal.
Momma was the ship's chief cook, but sometimes the crew (especially the officers) showed her deference beyond what her station normally deserved. Even The Right Honourable Reverend Doctor bowed to her wishes from time to time. There is more to her than meets the eye. Louis glanced up from his lunch and caught Momma watching him intently, her eyes almost misty with concern. She turned her gaze to the first mate, who met her eyes and then coughed to clear his throat. Christian hemmed and hawed, his sudden discomfort obvious to anyone observing him.
"Ahem. Uh, yes, well…. So…. Louis? Have you ever…. ?!?!?"
Mr. Love stopped mid-sentence, and gasped as a blur of red-haired motion rammed full speed into his gut, knocking him backwards, arms and legs flailing akimbo.
“Huummphffff!?!?! Hey! Hahahaha!!”
The first mate was laughing before he hit the deck. He lay on his back for a few moments afterward, enjoying the exuberant embrace of the small, red-haired child nestled against his chest. Only after an appropriately lengthy hug did he sit up, the child still clinging tightly to him. Momma's smile was bigger and brighter than the moon as she watched her two favorite men. She winked at Christian, and then nodded her head towards Louis.
The first mate followed her eyes and saw Louis staring slack-jawed at the woman who had escorted the child. Mr. Love smiled knowingly. Phoenix’s angelic beauty had that effect on many men and more than a few women.
"Ahh, yes. Louis, I'd like to introduce…."
Phoenix interrupted, her voice barely more than a whisper.
"We've met."
Louis stood transfixed. Her eyes. Despite his ordeal, he had never forgotten her eyes. Or her voice… the sound of which still made his heart flutter like the wings of a songbird trapped by the dubious safety of its cage, as the foreboding growl of a feline stomach grows ever louder.
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It is Love who speaks in everything,
though till we hear this voice we understand nothing.
But when we hear, then the riddle is answered
and the gates of our heart are opened,
- Rider Haggard
Allan Quatermain’s Wife
go before the spell breaks
- Rider Haggard
Allan Quatermain’s Wife
The rush of hot blood into the heart is the darkest magic,
- Orson Scott Card
Ender in Exile
If it feels like paradise
running through your bloody veins
You know it's love
heading your way
- George Ezra
Paradise
the way
that wends through death to heaven, and is lost
in the glory of which our love is but a shadow.
- Rider Haggard
Allan Quatermain’s Wife
And the shadow ship started to emerge from its shadow.
- A.E. Von Vogt
Earth Factor X
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