Miles to Go Before I Sleep

In life, the Mask-Maker’s wife loved poetry. Her home office on the second floor of their quaint town home was lined with painted bookshelves, crammed to bursting with novels and collections. She liked to joke that the most dangerous part of their house was the entrance hall, as it was planted directly beneath the office and was therefore in the primary blasting zone were the office to finally collapse under the weight of all those books. She would smile as she’d joke about these things; a dazzling sight, her mouth curling in a way that always seemed to have a touch of mischief to it, her petite nose wrinkling. It was that wrinkled nose that was her tell; the Mask-Maker’s way of knowing the emotions behind it were genuine. When it was absent, he knew with utmost certainty that she was simply smiling for the benefit of others.

The Mask-Maker did not hate poetry, exactly. He simply never had a keen interest in it. And yet, whenever his wife went on one of her long tangents about literature, he felt he could listen to her indefinitely. Her favorite poem was an old and famous one. The Mask-Maker never could remember the name or the entirety of how it went. Something about snowy woods. He could remember snippets of lines here and there:

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,

But I have promises to keep.

Something like that.

In death, the Mask-Maker was a ferryman. He could remember none of who or what he was before. All that was known was simply the present: he was a one-man crew of a small wooden boat, drifting its way through a swampy marsh. He spent his nights crafting his masks and his days looking for souls. 

The Mask-Maker did not know if he had been doing this for weeks, years, or eons. Time was a distorted stream in the marsh, and he was oblivious to its effects. All he knew was in the morning he would push out from shore with need of neither engine nor wind—the current carried the boat just fine—to begin his hunt for the day’s soul. Upon finding one, he would give it a mask, bring it onto his boat, and ferry it to the other side. Every day he would do this. Without cease.

That morning, the Mask-Maker found his day’s soul relatively quickly. The spirits always appeared on the small dry islands that were scattered throughout the marsh, like dots upon a ladybug’s back. Upon sighting the soul, he dipped his long, thin oar into the stream and began steering himself towards the island.

A small, black flame, hovering a few feet above the swampy ground. That is what the souls resembled. They were neither hot nor cold; neither bright nor dim. They were simply existence, floating in the quiet air. The Mask-Maker stepped off the prow of his boat and approached the soul.

He reached inside the bag of carved wooden masks he carried within the loose bag he slung across his back. He could never explain to himself exactly how he knew which mask to use; neither did he ever really try to. Carefully, he extracted the one he wanted. It was smaller than the rest and resembled some feline creature, with petite ears and carved whiskers. He slowly held it in front of the flickering flame.

A flash—and before him sat a woman, sitting amongst the mud and the sticks. Her hair was pale, and she was naked, wearing nothing but the simple wood mask the Mask-Maker had carved for her. 

For a few seconds she said nothing and sat there lifeless, slightly hunched forward in the damp mist. The Mask-Maker unfolded the robe he had been carrying and draped it across her shoulders as she abruptly came to life.

“Whoa!” she looked up at the Mask-Maker’s hooded figure. “Whoa!” she said again. She clambered to her feet, wrapping the robe around herself as she did so. “Who are you?” she exclaimed. Her masked eyes darted around her environs. “Where am I?”

“I am a ferryman,” the Mask-Maker responded calmly. “I will be your transportation to the other side.” The many reactions the Mask-Maker had seen before to his presence ranged from quiet to belligerent to panicked. The Mask-Maker was ready for anything, and this young woman’s response was par for the course.

“Other side? What are you talking about?”

“My lady, I think you know already.”

And he watched as her shoulders slowly dropped and her demeanor pacified. “I am dead. Aren’t I?”

“Yes.”

They stood in silence for a few moments before the Mask-Maker broke the hush: “Come with me. Your journey is still ahead of you.” And, wordlessly, he turned and guided her back towards his houseboat. He helped her climb onto the craft before jumping on himself. Then, with a flick of his oar, he pushed away and into the murky marsh stream. 

The woman sat on a bench across from the Mask-Maker as they drifted steadily through the waters. They traveled in silence for a moment before she suddenly spoke. 

“My name’s Rebecca. What’s your name?” She smiled. Though she was wearing a mask, the Mask-Maker could tell. And it was warm.

“Why would you like to know?” 

“Being friendly, that’s all! So what’s your name?” She had a perky quality about her that struck the Mask-Maker in a bizarre way. He was always very detached when it came to the people he ferried. They rarely spoke to him, and he rarely spoke to them. Yet, there was something almost familiar with the way this woman carried herself that made him not help but wish to engage her in conversation.

“You may call me Mask-Maker.”

‘Well Mask-Maker, it is nice to meet you,” Rebecca said brightly. She put out her hand for him to shake. It was pale, with a faint scar below the thumb. She had received it one summer morning when she had been trying to open the stubborn peanut butter jar with a paring knife—

The Mask-Maker stopped himself abruptly in his thoughts. How did he know this? He did not know any of the souls he met in his travels, and there was no reason to believe he had ever met this woman before. He must be simply letting his imagination run.

“I am sorry,” he said quietly. “I am not allowed to touch the souls in this swamp.”

“Oh, okay.” She put her hand down by her side dejectedly. Then: “I see that you’re wearing a mask. What’s it for?” she asked curiously.

“You are wearing one as well,” the Mask-Maker responded. Rebecca, startled, clapped her hands to her face, feeling the smooth wooden surface that was there. 

“I am!” she exclaimed. She looked over the side of the boat and into her blurred reflection in the waters. “I couldn’t tell!” She attempted to pull it off, but it did not budge. “Why can’t I take it off?”

“All are equal in death. I make my masks so that souls may retain some of their identity, even in the afterlife. Were you to take it off, you would lose yourself.”

Rebecca quickly stopped trying to pull the mask off and sat back down on the chipped wooden bench. “So then, if I may ask, how come you’re wearing a mask too? Did you make it?”

“I wish I knew.”

They continued their journey through the swamp for several hours, with Rebecca continuing to engage the Mask-Maker in conversation with questions that he could not answer.

Then, abruptly, the boat stopped as it hit a muddy shore.

“We are here,” he said. He gestured towards a stone archway perched upon the island they had beached upon. “There. That is where your exit is.”

“I see.” Rebecca paused. “Well, it was nice meeting you, Mask-Maker!”

“And you too.” He helped Rebecca climb off the boat and stood upon its wooden planks as she jumped off into the mud. 

She turned around to look at him. “Maybe I’ll see you around again sometime!” And she waved goodbye. The mask was expressionless and impenetrable, but the Mask-Maker knew that she was smiling at him, her petite nose wrinkling. 

The Mask-Maker took his oar and pushed off back into the current. He hesitated. Then he lifted his robed arm and waved back himself. He watched the woman turn around and walk towards the looming stone arch when suddenly a string of lines, a verse, came to him in his head. He was not sure what it was. It came suddenly, unbidden and blossoming. The end lines to a poem, perhaps. Something like that.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.

But I have promises to keep.

And miles to go before I sleep.

And miles to go before I sleep.