The masks arrive after sunset.
Nobody remembers inviting them.
There are twelve.
Painted wood.
Feathers.
Shells.
Coloured cloth.
MARA:
“Which one do I get?”
CHIBI:
“The dangerous one.”
MARA:
“They all look dangerous.”
CHIBI:
“Then we’re spoiled for choice.”
The drums begin.
Slowly at first.
People circle the room.
Masks change hands.
Ranks blur.
Nobody seems entirely certain whether this is a dance, a game or a ritual.
MARA:
“Why are they wearing them?”
CHIBI:
“Because it’s a celebration.”
MARA:
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
CHIBI:
“It answers most questions adults ask about celebrations.”
A masked pirate passes them.
Mara watches him.
Then stops.
MARA:
“Chibi.”
CHIBI:
“Yes?”
MARA:
“Did you see his face?”
CHIBI:
“He was wearing a mask.”
MARA:
“Behind it.”
The pirate passes again.
For half a second, candlelight reaches beneath the wood.
A face is there.
Old.
Pale.
Eyes closed.
Then the pirate turns.
His own face is back.
CHIBI:
“Oh.”
MARA:
“You saw it.”
CHIBI:
“I saw something.”
MARA:
“You’re starting to sound like Caelwyn.”
CHIBI:
“That is deeply worrying.”
The drums become faster.
The masks pass from person to person.
Shark.
Bird.
Smiling man.
Shells.
But the faces beneath them do not always follow.
MARA:
“The faces are staying with the masks.”
CHIBI:
“That’s not how faces work.”
MARA:
“I know.”
A pirate removes his mask.
His own face is underneath.
Sweaty.
Alive.
Ordinary.
Mara almost relaxes.
Then she sees his reflection in a metal plate behind the bar.
The reflection is still wearing the mask.
MARA:
“Chibi.”
The reflection turns its head.
The pirate does not.
CHIBI:
“That is definitely new.”
The drums stop.
Everyone freezes.
Except Mara.
Except Chibi.
And one figure in the middle of the room.
A mask covered in shells.
It turns towards them.
MARA:
“Wasn’t that the bird mask?”
CHIBI:
“Yes.”
MARA:
“When did it change?”
CHIBI:
“I don’t know.”
The figure points towards an old mirror.
Mara looks.
The dancers are reflected inside it.
But in the mirror, nobody is wearing masks.
The faces are visible.
And almost none of them belong to the people dancing in the room.
Young.
Old.
Scarred.
Drowned.
A man with a rope mark around his neck.
A woman with shells woven through wet hair.
MARA:
“That’s her.”
CHIBI:
“The woman from the dream?”
MARA:
“I’ve never had that dream.”
The woman inside the mirror smiles at Mara.
Not kindly.
Not cruelly.
As if she recognises her.
Then the drums strike again.
The mirror becomes ordinary.
The dance continues.
MARA:
“We tell someone.”
CHIBI:
“Yes.”
For once, he does not argue.
They find Sean outside.
MARA:
“There are dead people dancing inside.”
Sean stops trying to light his pipe.
SEAN:
“How many?”
CHIBI:
“That was not the question I expected.”
SEAN:
“I’m having a complicated week.”
They look back through the doorway.
MARA:
“There were twelve masks.”
SEAN:
“Yes?”
MARA:
“There are thirteen now.”
The thirteenth mask hangs beside the door.
Plain wood.
No paint.
No feathers.
Only a child’s face.
Mara stares.
CHIBI:
“That looks like you.”
SEAN:
“No.”
Too quickly.
The wooden eyes open.
Mara sees black sand.
A burning mast.
A woman with shells in her hair.
People dancing around a fire.
Some alive.
Some dead.
Then the eyes close.
MARA:
“I saw the beach.”
CHIBI:
“But you’ve never been there.”
MARA:
“I know.”
Sean takes Mara gently by the wrist before she can touch the mask.
SEAN:
“No.”
MARA:
“Why?”
SEAN:
“Because celebrations have rules.”
CHIBI:
“Nobody told us the rules.”
SEAN:
“That’s the problem.”
Behind them, the song changes.
Four notes.
Every voice in the tavern joins in.
Even those who were not singing before.
Outside, Mara looks through the window.
For one instant, the tavern appears empty.
No pirates.
No musicians.
No dancers.
Only masks moving through candlelight as though invisible bodies were wearing them.
She blinks.
Everyone is back.
CHIBI:
“What did you see?”
Mara keeps watching the window.
MARA:
“I think the masks remember more people than we do.”
What if the face beneath the mask belongs to someone who has been waiting for the celebration longer than you have?
Enter a Pirate Borg world that remembers what you did: