The Book of Masks (Abridged)

The Ambition of Will Prescott

WHAT DO YOU WANT? Absolute power.

Well, no. Just the power to punish the wicked and reward the good; to get what you need (and maybe a little bit of what you want) and to help your friends. You want to rearrange things for your own satisfaction and for the satisfaction of ... well, the people who deserve to be satisfied.

But you phrase it differently, remembering what Blackwell said about being "higher" than those who could bully you.

"I want what Black and Lynch and Patterson have," you tell him slowly. "I want to be one of the top guys at the high school. I want to be one of the guys that isn't afraid of anyone, that others are afraid of. I want to be one of the guys who tells people where they can and can't sit." You feel your lips curl hungrily. "I want to be one of those guys who puts other people in the places that they deserve."

Blackwell regards you silently for a good long time. He stirs his stew but doesn't eat any of it. You grow very fearful that he's going to tell you that you're asking for something not just impossible but very foolish. You pre-empt him.

"No, you're not being foolish, not at all," he replies. "You are actually being quite perceptive. Moving things around in the physical world is no great trick. Any fool can build a bridge, just as any fool can build a bomb that will take it down. Moving people around, though ... That is what every great man from Sargon to Shih huang-ti, Genghis Khan to Napoleon, has tried to do."

You blush.

"But it is very difficult," he adds.

"Well, I don't want this power over the world," you hurriedly say. "Just in my high school."

"That is scarcely less difficult," he retorts. "These fellow have what they have because they fought for it. They are athletes?" You nod. "That makes them popular, which attracts admiration, which gives them authority, which they use to protect and enhance their reputations. Had you the same level of skill, you could not win the same position, for you would not know how to use it. Are all the athletes at your school so powerful?"

You think of one of the wrestlers, Derek Balaban. Handsome guy, well-built. He should be popular, but he keeps to himself and hardly anyone pays attention to him.

"There is another way," Blackwell murmurs. He looks at you keenly. "We became acquainted, Will, because one of my books found its way to your possession. I am beginning to wonder whether it did not seek you out." He studies you carefully. "I will have something to show you tomorrow afternoon."

* * * * *

"What would you ask for if you could have anything?" you ask. It's Saturday night, and your friends are finally willing to hang out with you—but only at the old elementary school near your house.

Caleb sucks on the cancer stick and exhales a long stream of smoke; he's been watching Bogart movies again. "Who am I asking, Cindy Vredenburg or Santa Claus?" he asks.

"Couldn't Santa give you what you want?" Keith asks. "He's got that magic bag."

"Would you ask Santa for a blow job," Caleb retorts.

"But he could pull Cindy out of the bag, couldn't he?" Keith says.

"Not if he doesn't want to be taken down on kidnapping charges."

* * * * *

Blackwell seems very chipper the next day. "Did you have a pleasant Saturday night?"

"Hung out with friends," you shrug. "You know, my friend Caleb might make a good magician."

Blackwell freezes. "Please don't say such things," he snaps. "This is a high and abstruse art we are investigating, and it is not for common minds or boys."

"But—"

He holds up a hand. "I really must have your word on this, William, that you will not share anything that you learn with me. Not with your family and not with your friends. As far as they are concerned, this is library work."

"Sure, but—"

"Have I your word?"

"Yeah."

"Have I your word?"

His voice is like thunder. You gulp: this guy could really fuck you up if you pissed him off.

You raise your hand: "I will sign anything, give blood, make any oath, draw up any sigil. Whatever you need me to do. I won't tell anyone anything about what we're doing."

He holds your eye, and then smiles. "Your word is good enough for me, Will."

Your promise restores his good humor, and he hums a pop song as he leads you up the great staircase to the second floor, then along a corridor to a back staircase leading to the small third-story loft. "This is my work room," he says. The door opens into a small space dominated by a work table. Instruments of a vaguely familiar shape hang on the walls. "The window, of course," he says, "is angled to catch the full moon on propitious days of the year."

He turns. "I am going to initiate you in your first great piece of magic. Something to demonstrate the kind of power you aspire to control. It is a thing far beyond your skill, and barely within the compass of my own. But you need know nothing of its operations. It is merely an instrument. As, ultimately, all magic is an instrument of the magician's purposes."

He holds an object that looks like a tragedian's mask. It has the oval shape of a face, and it is bent and bowed with a brow and nose and mouth; but the eyes are simple blanks. It glows with a burnished blue color, and odd reflections play off its surfaces.

"You say you want to possess what certain of your classmates possess. With a device such as this, you can possess everything that they possess."

You take the mask from him. It is not heavy; and maybe only your own excitement makes it burn to the touch. "What do I do?"

"Good," he smiles. "Not 'How does it work' but 'What do I do'. Take it to the next room. Remove your clothes—you will not want them on you—and lay upon the ground. Place the persona on your face. Then return here."

The next room is the size of a walk-in closet, holding only a small skylight and a full-length mirror. You pull off your clothes, lay on the ground, and drop the mask onto your face.

For an instant only you feel like you are suffocating, and then something like liquid gold washes over you. Your muscles and bone seem to catch fire and liquefy; it should be painful, but it actually feels quite delightful. There is a brief moment of dizziness, and you open your eyes.

The mask is gone, and you are staring directly at the skylight. You press your face and rub it and sigh; you feel very relaxed. You sit up and look around for your clothes and do a double-take when you see there is someone else in the room: a large guy with short hair and piggy eyes, sitting on the floor next to you. He is also naked.

You gasp and stumble back; he does too. You stare at him in open shock, and he does the same. He has strong shoulders and beefy biceps—one of which is ringed by an armband tattoo—and his pectorals are like slabs. He has a beer belly, but it isn't grotesque. You notice that he crouches in a frozen attitude and is studying you with the same intensity that you are studying him. Every time you glance passes his face, his eyes catch yours.

And then you realize he is sitting inside the mirror. You whirl— But there is no one behind you. You look back in the mirror. The guy in the mirror looks back, but you can't find your own reflection.

You stand up. "Jesus Christ," you murmur. His legs—your legs—are thick and stubby; one of the calves has another tattoo. You run your hands lightly over your chest, checking that it is not an illusion. No, that is a tattoo around your bicep. You brush your hair; yes, it is cut short. You press your hand over your face and lick your thick, chapped lips. It's not a good-looking face. Flat, with an upturned nose and deep-set eyes that peer narrowly at the world. But your cock is longer and thicker than it had been.

Blackwell turns when you open the door. "I thought I heard noises, but I wasn't sure if they were happy or not," he says.

"Is this an illusion?" you ask. Your voice sounds funny in your ears—deeper.

He shrugs. "It is a mask, so if a mask is an illusion then that is an illusion."

"No one would recognize me."

"Not in a million years. Even your fingerprints are no longer the same."

"How did you make it? I mean—"

"I can describe that later. Right now, just know that this is a real face and a real body. I think his name is Jared, but he might been lying." You gape. "He's nobody. Just a fraternity brother who spends his days drinking beer and smoking weed and doing poorly in his classes. He lives only for weekends, when he can use his frat connections to bed co-eds. At least, that's the impression I have of him."

"I could go out and pretend to be him," you say slowly.

"Could you? Do you know where he lives?"

You think. "No. No, I don't know anything about him."

"But you appreciate the possibilities. Would you like to explore those possibilities further?"