ネクロコスモスのデスマスク
Originally published in English in the 34th issue of fiyah lit magazine in the US. I don’t currently have a proficient means of translation so hopefully its still readable. This piece had four magazine offers and is currently open for reprint. The cast of black was the original title, and the concept actually came to me in a dream. The deathmask of the necrocosmos is a short story about a young matriarch who must craft a quality death mask for a stubborn dying elder before the star she is connected to collapses, or else she will be executed by her sisterhood. If anyone would be interested in collaborating in translating this please do reach out! I hope you enjoy!
THE DEATH MASK OF THE NECROCOSMOS
They say right before a star dies, the celestial heavens send its grief upon the world with a great primordial wail — summoning a death chant that could stir ancient earth from its slumber. And thus — after the first storm swept through the provinces, I was summoned to the heart of our meteorite edifice to address the conclave of Matriarchs. The soothsayers spoke of a great red rain next.
When the message came I was already shaking the cosmic dust from my frayed cape and fastening on my disk hat, for I had dreamt of the death chant nights ago. During that time, I could taste no food nor feel the heat of my candle fire — only the chokehold of an unfathomable nothingness seizing me. I isolated myself deep in meditation.
More undisciplined Matriarchs succumbed to insanity as a result of the star’s unearthly chant, only heard in the mind, and threw themselves into the canals. That is what I heard, at least. A great astral beacon within the black of death, the dying Olotafi star was but one celestial teardrop upon the cheek of our great deity, Cry’Lah. For us, it was a reminder that even the heavenly bodies came to an end — and so our grasps at immortality were the quintessence of inferiority in the eyes of the Black.
Alas, I understood that an end merely paved a new beginning; a fundamental principle of my necrocosmic studies. I rolled the small slip of paper beneath candlelight the night I received the message, careful not to fray the meteorite-gilded edges with my wax-coated fingertips.
With the final lifespan of the Olotafi star, one of our revered Mothers of the Court, Gauti-So the Bold, readies her soul to transcend the Black. The sisters prepare for the reincarnation ceremony.
Henceforth, our great Gauti-So the Bold, has personally selected you, Matriarch Tchin-Biria-Lor, to hold the honor of creating her celestial death mask. You will be expected to work within her private quarters and present the mask to our Mother for approval.
Enter the Black,
The Qilok Parliament
I reread that message several times until its meaning sank in. My hand shifted, knocking over a latent candle. The flame snuffed out. The dawning end of the Olotafi star, along with the life of an ancient Matriarch, would come just as swift. I was not only being granted the honor of designing a ceremonial death mask for a sovereign Matriarch, but I was being offered the rare opportunity of witnessing the face of a woman who walked the dimensions of death. What great unknowns had she witnessed? What ancient philosophies of the necrocosmos might she share? The delight of unliving perils.
If we were students of the art of dying, she was a true master.
I gathered my supplies with great haste. As my footsteps dredged up the blackening cruor of mud and soot, the province elders threw their floating lanterns into the canals and the younger women painted bold poetry across their brows.
And so death does come — in death she becomes.
A coffeehouse servant had the ancient proverb written across her displayed breasts. Had I not been in a rush I might’ve saluted her with a round of rice wine. A few onlookers prostrated in my path. The air was latent with the aroma of charred totems, burning butterfat, and wet earth.
The youth lined the precipice of the border walls, gathering at rooftops, eager to glimpse the reverent Matriarch who had tethered her lifespan to the Olotafi star. All the Matriarchs reside in a meteorite-hewn pyramid beyond the walls, an edifice built by our foremothers many years ago. When the sun shared its last light, the ceremonial dancers would come donned with the masks of astral deities, filling the streets with their pounding drums. The celebration would only end when Gauti-So the Bold uttered her last breath and I placed my death mask upon her lifeless face.
As an artisan of the court, such an honor could earn me a place amongst the most esteemed members at an early age. An opportunity I trained endlessly for.
This was it.
“This way, sister Tchin-Biria-Lor,” a servant greeted me at the threshold.
Fellow Matriarchs of the court observed with an ambivalent sort of envy as I was escorted to the womb of the fortress. Usually during the evenings, large schools of pupils were occupied with lessons at the lower levels, leaving the main chambers empty. Each level was divided according to the hierarchy of rank, with the most revered of women at the summit of the pyramidion.
Today the womb was swarming with several cohorts of high-ranked Qilok Matriarchs, intermingled with roaming pupils. They understood that with the privilege I was granted came a tenuous responsibility. Most of them would never see the face of a Mother, as I would. Whether I would live to fill a seat amongst the Qilok, remained to be seen. My fingers steadied.
“Tchin-Biria-Lor. Do you understand the great honor you have been bestowed?” said the head speaker of the conclave, a woman with locs forming a large disk around her head like a frame.
“I do.” I dipped my head.
“And so you understand the consequence of not delivering a death mask, officially approved by the Mother, before the final end of Olotafi?”
“Yes.”
A death mask was essential to the ordination of the reincarnation ceremony. My duty was to capture the essence of the Mother within a funerary face, further replicated for her burial sarcophagi. Failure to get the death mask approved was dishonorable. If not executed, I would be stripped of my rank.
“We will see to it that you’re provided everything you need to begin, and offered ample time to work, undisturbed. Walk in the Red, sister.”
“Enter the Black.” I saluted.
Upon the conclusion, I dismissed my designated servants immediately. I had already brought everything I needed, and fully intended to have undisturbed alone time with the Mother.
I was debriefed on a great many things concerning the Mother’s personal desires and the rather fickle transgressions to be avoided.
Do not look her in the eye.
Assume any identity she mistakes you for.
Gauti-So has lost sight in her left eye, so do avoid standing on that side.
Keep flowers beside her bed at all times.
Never ask her true name.
As the artisan of her death mask, I was also to be her caretaker. The first challenge to overcome was the great many stairs to ascend to the peak of the pyramid, steep enough to force my knees to quiver and the hem of my collar to dampen with sweat when I reached the top. The eggshell-black crust of meteorite walls basked in the warm paper lantern light when I entered, commemorated with cosmic textiles and brass incense trays.
Seated at the crown of the room was the Mother; Gauti-So. Had her jaws not been steadily working at grinding a handful of kola nuts between crooked red teeth, I would’ve thought she was already dead.
My schooled expression did not betray the revulsion I felt at the sight of her. Pale bulbous eyes set by swollen lids did not react as I approached. Her dark skin was leathery, whiskered moles, scars, sunken pits, and other unsightly aberrations marred an ancient and withered face. Spindly fingers donned long meteorite gauntlet rings, and large obsidian disks stretched her earlobes wide.
Every lithe plane of her likeness appeared to be fighting a losing battle against gravity, her face a pallid and emaciated burden. A mass of chondrite medallions, conshells, and seaglass donned the head of the headdress discarded beside her seat. The emblem of beauty was a jarring dichotomy beside the ancient woman. Though the seed of her soul remained preserved, ancient age had rotted the vessel.
Nonetheless, only the mundane eye would see a decomposing woman and nothing more. The rest, naked to the eye, was akin to an effervescent shroud, and a caress against the tip of one’s tongue. The taste of death. I could feel her Black-touched essence like nails digging into my flesh, great tremors rushing up my tattooed fingertips.
The taste of the Black coated my tongue, but I refused to gag. I savored it. When a cold trickle trailed down my finger, I realized I had sunk my fingernails too deep into my palms. I watched red pearls greet the ebony floor. Red rain.
Gauti-So shattered a kola nut between her teeth.
I lifted my hand and swiped my tongue across the cut on my palm. First I moved to the corners of the room and replaced the incense sticks, hoping it might help with the permeating air of death. Then I shook the dust from the textiles. Once satisfied, I kneeled at her right side and touched my head to the floor.
“Great Mother, I am honored to receive your request, and am here to begin the construction of your new face. Please know that I am eternally grateful to serve you in your final hours.”
Several minutes passed before I looked up. Gauti-So continued crunching her nuts, her pale eyes drifting aimlessly across the floors, as if she hadn’t quite realized I was there. There was a smell emanating from her. Unpleasant. At this distance I noticed one of her teeth was filed sharp. I glanced at the small tray of kola on her lap. I would have to refill it soon.
So long as Gauti-So remained alive, I had a job to fulfill; and so I dipped my head then got to work. I would have to make a mold without touching her with my hands, which was strictly forbidden. Letting the instinct of routine guide me, I first set up my rows of charcoal and ink before unfurling the papyrus. Typically, I indulged in a session of meditation before sketching a mold, but I was much too eager to begin, and my hands ached with anticipation. After I finished three sketch iterations I prepared her herbal bath, considering when I would ask my assortment of questions.
That night I awoke to hideous wails from her sleeping quarters. The incense had burned out, leaving Gauti-So to suffer the stench of her own decomposition. I rushed into her room and replaced each of the stems as she writhed in her bedding like a flopping fish.
“Alroq!” Gauti-So bared her teeth at the ceiling. “Quickly now — the plumeria!”
I bit back the urge to correct the name she had called me as I gathered a handful of plumeria from the large trays and bunched them around her bedding. I stayed at her side that night, skimming through the sketch iterations that failed to inspire rounds of applied detailing. Most ended up in crumbled mounds at my heels by the time the candle flame flickered out.
So began what would be a rather miserable routine of ours. The next morning, I helped Gauti-So to her seat, refilled her nuts, had the servants deliver her desired meal of the day, then changed her bedpans. As she ran her tongue along the traces of butterfat grease on her fingers, I rolled out a new sheet of papyrus, ready to redeem the clumsy and heavy-handed drafts from the night before. My fingers plucked up the nearest charcoal stick with a perfunctory sort of haste.
“If only you could see the look on peoples’ faces as they celebrate your life, great Mother,” I commented as my hand ran across the sheet with deft precision.
“Eh?” Gauti-So wiped a string of drool from her chin. “A spectacle more or less, is what they crave, yes.”
“You are loved by a great many.”
“And is that why they sent you here?” Her bloodshot eyes darted toward me. “Did they tell you to share such nonsense…? Yes, so that’s why you stare at me for so long … muttering and scheming, always watching me with those eyes of yours, yes.”
I blinked at her, stunned. “I am here to carve your death mask, honorable Mother.”
“Such careless eyes. Death will pluck the vitality from them soon enough … soon enough, yes.”
I opened my mouth to speak again when Gauti-So perked her chin.
“Plumeria … and where is the plumeria?” she croaked.
“I brought them to your bed last night as you desired.”
“I recall no such thing…” A kola nut rolled beneath her tongue. “Have them brought back at once, girl.”
“Eh…” My knuckles smudged the charcoal frame of her face. I clenched my teeth. “As you wish.”
The kola nut shattered.
I worked in silence after that until a realization forced my hand to hover over the paper, my fingers twitching in a pattern summoned by an impenetrable doubt. I could not continue the mold until more information was retrieved.
My hand rested on the table when I glanced over at Gauti-So, who was crouched low as she entertained a mouthful of tobacco after her meal, the arch of her knees thin and protruding. She was like a tortoise that had rolled back into its shell.
“If the great Mother doesn’t mind, I would like to ask a few questions.” I slid my sheet to the side before sauntering over to her, directing my attention to the dark sloven coils trailing on the ground behind her. Something to keep my hands occupied.
“And why should she like to ask me questions, yes?” She spat a glob of dark phlegm. “Were you brought here to ask questions?”
“No.” I smiled while retwisting the ends of her matted locs. “I was brought here to carve a death mask worthy of you. To do so I need to understand you more.”
“Understand me.”
“Well, you see the mask is not meant to be a literal interpretation, but a representation of your greatness or rather…” I tilted my head. “Your inner self.”
I wasn’t sure if she was dredging for clarity or simply testing my qualification.
“My inner self.” She licked her teeth gratuitously.
“Perhaps you could tell me about any notable experiences you have had. Moments that have come to define you.”
Tell me about what it was like to see the Black… was what I really wanted to ask.
“You know of the great poet Scilama’Ta, yes yes?”
I frowned, my fingers pausing in their pattern. “The great Goshei philosopher of the first dynasty. I know of her.”
“She was the first Goshei to illustrate the cosmic mandalas of the third generation of astral deities. In her early iterations, she first defines the Olotafi star as a great bearded serpent before the winged python with mirror eyes we know of today. That is because the shedding of the flesh was more indicative of spiritual rebirth while the wings symbolized ascension — or otherwise, evolution, yes. The mirror represents the reflection of life and death. From old comes new, from new comes old.”
I listened rather tritely as she rambled about her favorite poem written by Scilama’Ta. She continued for several hours telling me useless stories of great philosophers she admired. My time drew short.
That night, and several other long arduous days following, the pattern remained. Gauti-So would wake up in her bed screaming, calling me the same name from before. The lanterns were too bright. The incense was not sweet enough. The plumeria were losing their scent. Every night she grew weaker to the elements, and the next morning remembered none of it. She would speak only of her favored poets and scriptures, then retire for a nap. I feared she would never awaken from most of these retreats.
After sketching sessions I found myself indirectly observing the Mother for long periods of time, anxious for signs of movement yet thankful for the stillness. The indignity of failure should’ve been the most pressing concern, and yet I found myself more encumbered by the fear of learning nothing from our time together. Guati-So’s soul would evolve through death, and if she chose to pass down something … anything, I too could evolve from her imminent end. All the greatest Matriarchs, warriors, poets, artisans, dedicated their lives to the necrocosmos, most pushing themselves to the brink of death to either self-destruct or learn to walk its empyrean edge.
To walk the Black. The cusp of immortality.
After these staring sessions, the ache of determination seized my hands once again. Charcoal drifted from edge to edge, leaving long bold lines across the papyrus.
When I showed her my sketches, she observed me long and hard.
“Why must she always stare at me … always staring, this one…” she wheezed. “Those pretty pompous eyes…”
“Mother…” I placed the sketches back on the table. “Perhaps you could tell me more abo—”
“I know why you’re here, girl.” Her voice was raucous. “I see the hunger in your gaze … useless burdens of youth … you want my ancient secrets … they sent you to ask me these things, yes?”
“You are the one who sent for me, honorable Mother.”
“Eh?” Gauti-So twitched.
“Though I am your humble servant, I am also a woman of autonomy and great ambition. If you feel my desire to learn more from your ancient wisdom, it is only because I wish to follow in the footsteps of a great necrocosmic master such as yourself.”
My charm was enough to soothe her agitation. I was well aware that learning from a Mother was an honor seldom offered, but for a moment when I looked at Gauti-So’s expression she almost appeared impressed. And then her mouth opened.
“Plumeria! Alroq, bring the plumeria!”
I shot to my feet at once.
The next day I began the mold of her death mask, which I had planned to create with terracotta and a final bronze casing. First, I had to apply the hardening grease to Guati-So’s face, who would squirm too much for progress to be made. If there was one thing she hated more than being without her precious plumeria, it was the hands of another placed upon her. My strategy was to wait until she retreated to sleep before applying the grease and gauze, reading my mold at the same time.
The following morning, she did not take the ordeal lightly. When I presented the mask to her she chucked her tray of kola nuts at me like a scorned child. After that day, whenever I attempted to ask her more questions, she would regard me suspiciously. Then she’d utter more nonsense about Scilama’Ta. Each of my new sketches revealed uninspired representations of a rather lifeless face. Wide rapacious lips, eyes gaping abysses; the afflictions of my endless misery.
By the fifth day Gauti-So grew even more feeble, and I was no closer to gaining the ancient knowledge I desired. I too became weaker to the elements, weighed down by my failures.
The end of Olotafi beckons.
The closer it draws near.
The further I feel from Guati-So.
Our deaths are intertwined.
Yet couldn’t be further apart.
I signed my name beneath the scrawled words I had decided would be my final thoughts should my failures continue. My eyes scurried back and forth, waiting for the dread to penetrate somewhere sensitive as I reread the words. I felt nothing, which dredged a different kind of terror. On the other side of the desk was Guati-So’s favorite Scilama’Ta tome, spread open and frayed at the edges, revealing the poem about the Olotafi star she loved to recite. The winged python with mirror eyes. The reflex to toss it across the room forced a spasm in my hand.
When the sound of brass handles knocking against the door broke me from my trance, I darted toward the entrance swiftly and opened the doors, half expecting to see a fleet of my armed sisters ready to apprehend me the moment I showed my face. I wouldn’t resist if they tried.
Faced with a dark-swathed chest, my head was forced to lean up to gaze upon my rather tall visitor. My fingers curled. Azirion. My closest confidants amongst the pyramid. Whatever else we were to one another remained to be seen.
White-skinned, lithe, sharp nails, with gaunt sclera-less eyes that shifted with his emotions — it was strange to note that it was such stoic, non-human qualities that comforted me in times like these. Even with the cloak of our creed wrapped around him like a disguise, visually he was pure raive in every way — an elegant picture of his species.
“Azire,” I acknowledged drowsily before a sudden aroma drew my eyes to the platter of rice and fish in his hands. “Mother is not to have her next meal until later this evening.”
“The food is for you, Tchin-Biria-Lor,” Azire responded in that familiar lifeless and perfunctory tonality. “I’m aware you’ve been starving yourself. That is no way to perform your duties.”
I hesitated, partially because I had not been regarded by my real name in five days. Then I finally noticed the state of my rather haggard appearance. My braids, usually oiled and beaded, were now strung wild across my shoulders, my robes disheveled and stained with wax and charcoal. Had I not been a moment away from a tantrum I would’ve laughed.
“You are perturbed.” Azire tilted his head, eyes wet and primal.
“Come.” I guided him inside, kicking lead sticks and paper scrolls from my path with my heel. He drifted behind with the gait of a feline and the grace of an executioner as I mounted my second cast iteration upon the wall.
“What do you think?”
The meteorite clasped around his long white braid gleamed beneath the furnace light when I glanced back. When it came to opinions I valued, I knew that Azire never lied, even when one wished he did. I had admired that about him since we were young. After taking note of my rather shameless mess of a workstation, he regarded the mold observantly, from the accentuated cheekbones to the wide protruding eyes. A slanted anemic mouth. His eye color had not shifted a tint, which told me enough.
“It is her face.”
“You don’t like it.”
“And what does liking it have to do with anything?”
“You tell me.”
“It is unlike you to seek the opinions of others.”
“I’m at my wits end.” I snorted. “She will not open up to me, nothing pleases her. I thought maybe since … well I’m well aware I’m running out of time, you don’t have to remind me. This may come as a surprise, but I don’t particularly care if my life is on the line. This is a rare opportunity to learn more about the Black. I could be her successor…”
“I expected nothing less of you, you needn’t explain yourself.” He blinked. “Your pursuit of enlightenment has always superseded your fear of dishonor.”
“If only it were enough,” I grumbled.
“You were personally chosen by the honorable Gauti-So the Bold. Perhaps that itself is enough.”
I hesitated. I had been chosen. Squinting at the brass mold, my mouth formed a firm line as I considered those words.
“I had almost forgotten. So often she calls me the name of a servant; Alroq. I had half suspected she merely wanted a caretaker.”
“Alroq?” He repeated the name carefully. “There is no servant with that name.”
“A soothsayer then.”
“Tchin-Biria-Lor,” his voice became more stern this time. “Alroq is Gauti-So the Bold’s true name.”
My body tensed as I met his eye. The apex of that apathetic gaze was like falling into a mold without shape, almost a stark reflection of my own disparity. It was a paradox of the face, and one without any meaning or purpose. A hollow façade of someone’s humanity, mounted on the wall.
A mirrored gaze … like the python.
I hadn’t a clue what those words implied nor how they were meant to help me. But there was something about them that made my hands twitch apprehensively, like I was on the cusp of reason. I stared at him in dumbfounded silence, not breaking eye contact for several seconds before turning away.
“Leave me. I need to work.”
Azire left the food on my desk and excused himself. I devoured the dish, deep in thought. That night when Gauti-So summoned me to bring her tobacco, I leaned at her bedside and brought the candle light to her face.
“Honorable Mother, why did you choose me?”
“Eh?”
“Please tell me, I must know.”
“Those eyes…” She trembled. “Pretty dark lies…”
I froze. Eyes. She was always talking about my eyes…
From old comes new, from new comes old.
I recoiled back like I had been struck, inhaling sharply. Not the rambles of a bitter old woman then. She had been telling me what I needed to know. I was the mirrored gaze of the winged python — Olotafi.
A reflection of her younger self.
That is why she called me Alroq.
I was to be the death mask of Gauti-So the Bold.
That night I worked on a new mask until dawn, using my own face to create the base. I poured the brass mixture into the mold with the gauze wraps still strung across my face, as if it was my own funerary ritual I prepared for. I placed Scilama’Ta’s mirrored eyed python poem in front of me, reciting it under my breath as I worked. Then I accentuated all the features that belonged to Gauti-So.
Ancient, wise, and bold — but the eyes were mine.
Slender and dark — made from volcanic glass. The scales of the Olotafi python formed wings along stern brows. The finishing touch; a mirror shard at the center of the brow, so that all who looked upon her new face would be forced to reckon with themselves, as I had.
This time when I stared at the final mold, I felt a sudden lightness overcome me, like a weight rising from the chest. That’s when the exhaustion finally caught up with me and I slumped over my desk.
Perhaps Guati-So had been like me once. Yearning for knowledge, eager to learn, to evolve, to bridge that gap between life and death, and that is why she saw herself in me.
From old comes new, from new comes old.
When I presented the mask to Gauti-So the next morning, her penetrating eyes observed it spitefully at first. Then her finger began to tremble when she locked eyes with her new face. Our features as one.
The mask almost slipped from my hands when Gauti-So the Bold smiled for the first time. It was all the approval I needed. Halfway through completing the mask the first seizure came for her. She thrashed and clawed at her chest wildly while I kneeled at her side.
The Olotafi star was nearing its final hour.
“Mother please…” I touched my head to her feet when the seizure passed. “I have served you humbly … share your ancient wisdom with me. Tell me how to walk the Black as you have. I will guard your secrets with my life, this I swear to you.”
Gauti-So gazed aimlessly through me, as if I did not exist. The seizure had taken a significant toll on her, causing her to drift in and out of consciousness, her breathing shallow and grating. I was too late. I wanted to storm out of the room, desperate to be away from her miserable company for good. She wanted my face and nothing more. That’s all she saw in me.
I finished the death mask that night, eager to be done with it.
When Olotafi shed the last of its dying light, Gauti-So slipped into insanity. I would never forget the sounds of her dreadful screaming echoing through the corridors. Servants rushed to her bedside attempting to calm her. My first instinct, mostly out of routine at this point, was to gather as much plumeria as possible. The chaos of the room unraveled as Gauti-So hurled curses at the servants.
“Be calm! You must steel your soul—” one of the servants exclaimed.
The poor servant girl tumbled back in shock when Gauti-So spat venomously at her.
“Step away!” I shouted. “She does not like to be touched. Leave her be.”
Quickly I assumed the servant’s position, placing the flowers on her chest. Gauti-So’s teeth flashed, wet and red, and so distracted by the sight I did not notice her arm shooting up.
My eyes widened when her palm planted against my forehead, long fingers digging into my skull. My vision flashed.
The images I saw next — were almost indescribable.
A gossamer web of impenetrable blackness expanding before my very eyes like a great oasis. A cold dread rushing through my veins. A tide of vibrations stirring within my core. A ripple that ebbed and flowed, reverberating deep until my throat filled with a scream. I looked at my hand and could see every vein, every nerve and blood vessel — a striking kaleidoscope of cerulean and fuchsia. A feeling of enigma rushed up my fingertips, powerful, infinite.
I was seized with a sudden rapture that forced a laugh out of me.
I had glimpsed it.
This was the Black. The power of death.
Long after the vision ended, I still crouched in the corner of the room. The shouting was now a dull throb against my ear. I was still smiling. My throat dry and aggravated, like I had been laughing the entire time.
I had no clue how long I sat huddled in the shadows, braids strung across my shoulders, ragged gasps forced between my lips in intervals. My fingers spread across my navel, like I was clutching the enigma of the Black within the womb. The red rain came not an hour after I stood and calmly fetched the death mask from my desk.
The cast of Alroq.
I declared the final end of the Olotafi star as I placed the mask upon her face, my own likeness reflected back at me.
“Until your next life, Mother. Enter the Black.”
The silence that filled the room was deafening as Gauti-So the Bold, honorable Mother, uttered her final breath.
And so death does come — in death she becomes.
