The Book of Masks (Vol. 3)

While There's Time to Turn Back

Previously: "A Movie Steps Off the Screen" 

You feel a darkness closing all about you as the evening and the night wears on, and for the first time since you were little you dread the coming of bedtime, and the putting out of the lights. It's even worse than when you were eight years old. Back then you could hide your head under the covers and pretend that nothing could find you. You can't do that now, and you spend a very sleepless night watching the black corner of your room on the other side of your closet door, waiting for the massive, red-eyed head of a goat to appear within it.

Morning brings no relief, for going to church just makes things worse. Where before St. Michael's Episcopal was just a place to slouch and doze while wearing itchy pants, now it feels like hostile ground. You actually have the sense that God has come down from heaven and is sitting in the sanctuary, leaning over you with a frown and silently asking, from under raised eyebrows, if you're actually going to keep doing that stuff.

* * * * *

"Nothing's going to jump out and eat us, Will," Sydney sighs when you express your doubts to her later that afternoon. "Nothing's going to smite us. It's just another kind of natural phenom—"

"You said somebody used this stuff to kill your dad," you remind her. "They used the secrets of Baphomet, or whatever."

"The craft," she corrects you. "You might as well call it the 'science', 'cos that's what it basically is."

You point at the lump of hardened dirt in the corner of the school basement, where you're meeting. The fire is out, but you haven't tried relighting it. You've got things to hash out with her first. "I don't think science can explain that!"

"It's just a different kind of science, Will." She sounds very tired. In fact, she sounds exactly like your mom when she's trying to explain why you need to bring your gym clothes home at least once a month so they can be washed. "Back in the Middle Ages, back when they believed in alchemy and stuff, they'd have been totally freaked out by nuclear physics. It's a similar thing here, only in reverse."

"But you're talking about worshipping a demon!"

Her nostrils flare, and for the first time since you've met her she looks like she's going to yell at you. But her tone continues calm and measured.

"I'm not totally clear on who or what 'Baphomet' really is," she says. "See, I'm being totally honest with you! But a lot of the stuff that I've read in my dad's notes, it sounds like it's not a real thing. It's more like a— Well, I don't know." She shakes her head. "It's like if you wish really hard, then the wishing makes Baphomet, and then Baphomet does what you want, and when your wish is fulfilled then Baphomet goes away."

You roll your eyes. "Yeah, wishing up a goat-headed thing and getting it to do stuff," you snap. "That totally sounds like it's not summoning up demons. That totally sounds like the kind of thing that goes on in a nuclear reactor or whatever!"

She cocks her head. "What has got into you? I told you about the Brotherhood and you were totally cool with it. Did something happen last night? Or did your preacher deliver a really good sermon for once?"

You make a face—no way you're going to tell her that you freaked out over "Baphomet" appearing in a crummy horror movie. "I did some research, that's all," you mumble. "I thought it was just, like, a name that your dad and his friends came up with for their secret society. Like he was their mascot. Like Ronald McDonald or the Geico lizard."

"Oh, Jesus!" Sydney face-palms. "Did you actually think my dad worshipped Ronald McDonald?"

"No! Not Ronald Mc— The thing's got a history! It goes back to the Middle Ages! To the Templars!"

"Don't derp out on me, Will. Of course it goes back. I told you, this stuff is just like science, basically. Only it's a science that people figured out a long time ago and then they got interested in other things and mostly forgot about it. Like how they used to write with quill pens."

You fold your arms. You're not going to let her talk you out of it. You see this stuff in a new light, and it bothers you.

So when she glances over at the dirt pile and says, "Is it done or do we have to set it on fire again?" you just shrug and tell her to do whatever she wants.

After giving you a look and a snort, she scrambles around for the lighter and flicks it against the thing. It flashes into flame, then gutters. She tries again. Nothing happens. No matter where she puts the lighter, the thing will not catch fire.

You are, despite yourself, intrigued by this development, but you only settle back on a desk—your arms still tightly folded—to watch as she tugs the book out from under the thing. She flips pages. "It's in Latin," she says.

"I told you that."

"You want to tell me about the spells?"

You shrug. "You can make a mask. You can make a thing that copies brains. You can glue them together. You can make that thing over there." You jerk your chin at the book's latest creation, and she rolls her eyes.

It looks like a giant lawn cigar: a fat, lumpy cylinder off hardened, off-white clay. But what is it? You resist the tug of curiosity, and leave Sydney to study the book on her own, using the browser on her phone to translate. Except for one question—"Do any of the other spells call for dirt from a graveyard?"—which you answer, she works silently, and you zone out.

How much time passes? You're not sure, but it feels like hours before she announces, "It's a pedisequos."

"What's that?"

"A magical robot."

You sit up, then stand and totter over on stiff legs. "Does it need a windup key or something?"

"It needs a mask." Sydney looks around. "Can we use that one you made of your friend Caleb?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"'Cos I don't want anything to do with this."

She finally snaps. "Then why are you still here?"

You stare at her, then shrug and turn toward the door. You're on the other side of it and almost at your truck when you hear her shouting your name. You turn. She comes running up.

"Will," she says, and twines her arms around your hips. She looks up at you with a pale face. "You're not mad at me, are you? You're not going to leave me, are you?"

You swallow around the lump in your throat. "No," you tell her. "I don't want to. But I don't want to do any of this—" You swallow again. "Any of this stuff anymore. Can you stop with it? Can you still be friends with me, but you stop with this stuff?"

Her brow darkens. "Can you still be friends with me, even if I don't?"

You hesitate.

Then you kiss her.

You bend your head and close your eyes and put your lips to hers. They part, and you feel her tongue and you taste her mouth. You crush her in your arms, and she tightens her hold on you.

Is it fun? Is it wonderful? Is it awesome? Yes, it is.

But it's also an argument. You can feel it inside the kiss. Come away with me, you urge her with your lips, your jaw, and your tongue. Come away, come away, come away. You pull at her with your mouth, as though with it you can pull her spirit out of her and into communion with your own.

And you feel her argument in her kisses: Stay with me, Will. Stay and help me. Don't throw me over because you're frightened. Come back down with me and help me with the craft.

You are breathless when you break off, but you don't release her, and she pulls herself closer to you. She's trembling, and you know that she can feel you trembling too.

"What are we going to do?" she whispers after the silence has lengthened.

"What are you going to do?" you counter.

She looks up at you. You look down at her.

"I can't stop, Will," she says in an aching whisper. "For my dad. I'll do anything to—" She breaks off. Tears are welling in the bottom of her eyes.

Pity wells in your heart. But so does regret.

"I can't help you with this, Sydney," you whisper back. "Yesterday— Well, I started off just being scared. But now it's like something's broken in me. I just can't do it anymore. Not any of it."

She buries her face in the crook of your neck, and snuffles. "Then what are we going to do?" she asks again.

There's an ache in your voice when you reply. "You'll do whatever you'll do," you say. "I can't help you with any of this stuff, but anything else, I can and will."

She cries some more into your shoulder and neck, then sniffs it all back when she looks into your face. "So you're not going to do anything with that book anymore?"

You shake your head.

"Will you let me have it, then?"

That's all for now.

*
"Table of Contents (Vol. 3)" 
"The Book of Masks (Vol. 3)"