The Art of Being Human

By Smashwords

In 2020, the world was tipped upside down and shaken in ways we could barely have imagined, except perhaps in the post-apocalyptic and dystopic worlds of story. Amidst pandemic illness and death, political machinations and despair, one of the casualties has been, at least in a financial sense, the Arts. Governments across the world have slashed funding, galleries, theatres and entertainment venues have closed amid lockdown restrictions, money is being carefully metered with jobs more uncertain than ever, meaning our creatives across all industries are suffering. And yet, more than ever, we are turning to art to stay sane in lockdown, to keep our spirits up in isolation, and to remind us that despite the hardship, there is beauty in this world.

This anthology seeks to remind readers of the hope and beauty of the Arts, and the way our engagement with writing, music, film, theatre, artworks in all media, and craft of all kinds are at the core of our humanity.

If the time since COVID began to dominate our global society has taught us anything, it is that connection is crucial to our wellbeing. These stories speak to hope, connection, community, and yes, ART, and how important these threads are to the very centre of ourselves.

Table of Contents

“Pieced together” by K G Anderson
“Birdsong” by Joanne Anderton
“The world has gone silent” by Joyce Chng
“The ocean, the lighthouse keeper and the sunset” by Lee Cope
“The library” by Helen Vivienne Fletcher
“The icecutter’s daughter” by Aiki Flinthart
“Neuro” by Ephiny Gale
“Everyday wonder” by Valerie Hunter
“A trail of blue paper flowers” by Nikoline Kaiser
“Spools of silk, shards of stone” by Karin Landelius
“Drawing blood” by Gerri Leen
“Greatheart” by Juliet Marillier
“That feeling when you ask me to dance” by Cara Mast
“Seeding trouble” by Kirstyn McDermott
“Among the faded woods” by Faith Mudge
“Exposure” by Jason Nahrung
“The light in the attic, the bones in the earth” by Spencer Nitkey
“The maiden, the statistician, and the architect” by Steve Quinn
“She is not in heaven” by Rivqa Rafael
“All dressed up for the death trade” by Tansy Rayner Roberts
“The mask makers” by Kristi Ross
“When silence speaks” by Spencer Sekulin
“Everything so slow and quiet” by Kaaron Warren
“The poet’s tale” by Suzanne J Willis

• Language: English
• Publisher: Smashwords
• Release date: Oct 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9780994469083

Book preview

The Art of Being Human

Edited by Tehani Croft

With Stephanie Lai

FableCroft Publishing

434 pp.

October 1, 2022

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9944690-8-3

Table of Contents

Foreword

Dr Angela Slatter

Introduction

Stephanie Lai

The Poet’s Tale

Suzanne J Willis

The Mask Makers

Kristi Ross

Birdsong

Joanne Anderton

The Maiden, the Statistician, and the Architect

Steve Quinn

The Library

Helen Vivienne Fletcher

The Icecutter’s Daughter

Aiki Flinthart

A Trail of Blue Paper Flowers

Nikoline Kaiser

Among the Faded Woods

Faith Mudge

Everything So Slow and Quiet

Kaaron Warren

All Dressed Up for the Death Trade

Tansy Rayner Roberts

Pieced Together

K G Anderson

The Ocean, the Lighthouse Keeper, and the Sunset

Lee Cope

She is not in Heaven

Rivqa Rafael

The Light in the Attic, the Bones in the Earth

Spencer Nitkey

Seeding Trouble

Kirstyn McDermott

Drawing Blood

Gerri Leen

Everyday Wonder

Valerie Hunter

Exposure

Jason Nahrung

That Feeling When You Ask Me to Dance

Cara Mast

When Silence Speaks

Spencer Sekulin

Spools of Silk, Shards of Stone

Karin Landelius

Neuro

Ephiny Gale

Greatheart

Juliet Marillier

The World Has Gone Silent

Joyce Chng

About the Contributors

Foreword

Dr Angela Slatter

Greetings, my fellow humans/humanish things.

I’ve spent literal weeks trying to write this introduction. My stumbling block has constantly been trying to land on the nature of being human. And I wonder if part of that is due to the fact that we’re entering Year Three of the Plague. We’ve been robbed of ritual and so much of our routine, our habits, helped to define and shape who we were, are, and may yet be.

My scampering brain has been picking at different ideas, each varying in their degree of probability, interest, and ultimate hairbrainedness. The less whacky ones are probably the best committed to paper, lest this come back and haunt me later. Is it surviving? Is it trying? Is it dying? Is it simply the squishy meaty slabs covered in a canvas and wrapped around bones? The soft and the messy bits, the oh-so-fragile and prone to failure bits? Is it the fact that these bodies are a bad bet with a lot of design flaws? Far too specialised: How did you hurt your back? Pouring a cup of coffee. Ah, happens more than you know.

Is it our ability to reason, work out complex problems, haggle for goods, convince others of our point of view, operate a mobile phone or an espresso machine? Is our anxiety perhaps? The tendency to overthink the smallest task and turn it into a three-ring opera featuring solos by the ‘stuff that will never actually happen players’?

Or is it in our capacity to feel? Does it reside in our kindness and compassion, in engaging with and feeling empathy for others? Is it in trying to surpass the basic model of mortal? To go out of our way to help others. To put in the effort, to trouble ourselves – to bother – to be better?

The more I think about it, the more I fear that these things, these higher functions of humanity, do not come easily to us or even naturally. Perhaps our default is to the lowest common denominator; in most cases, what is the least effort for us. Alas that's generally selfishness...

So, I think that being human must therefore genuinely be an art.

Something that must be practised on a daily if not hourly basis. Art only improves, excels, ‘gets good’ upon repeated application. If we exercise the muscles, hone our skill.

The writers in this anthology have all explored ‘being human’ in various ways, and far more successfully (and articulately) than I. Whether it’s by a consideration of the masks we wear, the faces we present to the world, or the simulacra we create of that world so we might find somewhere to belong. A myriad of ways, means and paths. All involve effort, failure and sometimes accomplishment.

And so here, in The Art of Being Human, is the art of being human. With all its flaws and glory, its blood, sweat and tears. A celebration of the days when we fail, then get back up and try again, perfecting our art one day at a time, and reclaiming our rituals.

Dr Angela Slatter

31 August 2022

Brisbane, Australia

Introduction

Stephanie Lai

This book is art.

Tehani and I have long thrown around the idea of a book. We have imagined books about cultural artefacts and cultural traditions; books about funerals and weddings and the rhythms of humanity. We have imagined weavings; a tracing of danced words. We have imagined collections of the breadcrumbs of humanity, of what connects us to one another across oceans and worlds and generations.

In 2020, we started drawing those patterns towards us. Over six months we received 350 submissions; slowly, we read nearly two million words. It will not surprise you to learn that authors were having feelings about the art of humanity during COVID. You had feelings about art, too. When you were stuck at home for weeks on end; when you were worried about the health of you or your loved ones; when you couldn’t pick up a shift; when you had so many shifts end to end that all you could do was go home and cry; then, at that time, you had feelings about art. Maybe you picked up a crochet hook for the first time, or after a long time; maybe you opened a book you’d never read or a book you’ve read every season of your life. Maybe you watched four years of Gardening Australia in a fugue state and then started a Masters of Horticulture (no?).

When I was crying with exhaustion from working in a hospital; when I hadn’t seen my mother in months and hadn’t seen Tehani in longer; when I was glad my father had passed because I didn’t want him to go through this: that’s when we decided we needed to create this book.

But what is the art of being human? What are we even trying to tell you?

I remember going to galleries in my childhood, and my father saying, ‘I could do this’ with a note of scorn; a note of shame and regret. That’s a story I’ve been told, that art is for people richer than us, for people who aren’t working class, for people who have time and money and luxury. Sure, that’s art, what’s in galleries. That’s art, the things you find in theatres and on runways and on the walls of houses in which you will never see. But art isn’t just the things we can never afford.

Art is intention. Art is design and thought and challenge. The vase of leucadendrons accented with waxes on the kitchen table is art. Art is the statue that makes me question myself. Art is the tattoos on my body, the rings on my fingers and the pink in my hair. Art is the way we ward off the spirits who would do us harm: in the bells in your ears, in the eight sides of the bagua, in the salt over the shoulder. Art is the white of a funeral, or the white of a wedding, the red of a wedding, or the black of a funeral. Art is the hymn in your church; the cadence of the chant after the bell and the rhythm of rak’ah. Your traditions are art; my traditions are art.

Poetry is your breath after midnight, the tremors under your skin when you try not to cry. Art is a cry in the sunrise, a piercing, aching sound. It’s the rhythm of your heartbeat and a loss so profound that a drawing on your skin is the only way to express it. Art is a challenge in the rain; art is the answer to the question you have never been comfortable with. Art is the colour of the sky before sunset, the pigments you mix together, the framing of the photo you take, to share that sunset with others.

Art is the book in your hands.

Some of these stories take us to work. Some take us into communities and plant hope in the town square. Some are connections in a time of pain and suffering. Some of these stories take us on journeys. Some of these stories are a cry for assistance, and others are a call to arms. Some of these stories echo back to us their grief. Some of these stories never go home. I hope that each of these pieces touch something for you, ephemeral, liminal, challenging. I hope that something in this book makes you want to yell. I hope you come out of this book holding art close to your chest, and that you remember how awesome art is, and that you are wading through it.

This book is a temporal piece. It contains works set in pasts and futures and presents real and imagined. Its echoes, however, are of these last few years; of fires and floods and pandemics; of earthquakes and politics and death. We didn’t set out to make a book that reflects our times, but that’s what art is for, and that’s what we’ve done.

This is a book about grief, and about humanity, and about the things we’ve wrought. Maybe this concept is new to you. You might read something we have here for you and think: this is not art. This is brutality. This is unnecessary. This is political correctness. This is making me uncomfortable.

When my father died, I read books. I read fictional books about grief, and psychology books about grief. I read memoirs about people trekking to outrun their grief, hawking to eat their grief, meditating to sit with their grief. I avoided movies about fathers and movies about degenerative illnesses. I watched a lot of Bluey. I went to art galleries and thought about how he never understood art because he was never allowed to; he never saw that there was art in the furniture he made; art in the way he organised his DVDs and the songs he loved to sing.

When I needed to be distracted, I had art. Art is about processing where we are and what is happening. Art is about reflection and truth. Art is about context and perspective. Art is staring at a giant pink rabbit and wailing, but what am I supposed to feel? And feeling despair.

I selected these stories while living on the lands of the Wurundjeri-Woiwurrung people. The traditions and stories of the people of the Kulin nation are art. For settler-colonials, of which I am one, art is the main way I understand the impact of my time on this Country, and the lands on which I lived with my father (Noongar Boodja). There is grief in a canvas; there is art in a protest and there is art in the stories that are shared. I acknowledge the elders of this Country, and the elders of the lands from which you are reading this book.

Thank you for coming on this journey with us. Thank you for holding my hand; and putting on your mask.

Stephanie Lai

September 2022

Melbourne, Australia

The Poet’s Tale

Suzanne J Willis

Once upon a time, there was

a secret poet

ordering and reordering words by candlelight

in diatonic circles, like the ticking of the clock

ordered, metered,

predictable. Safe.

Here were words without passion,

lumbering on the earth

and all the while wishing

to hunt across the sky, bright and hard-tailed as comets

to burn incandescent

and flame unforgettable.

Instead, they flickered in waxy flame

timid, from her mouth and hand,

fizzling in shower of damp sparks.

This in a time when words were gloried

art and music storied,

a time before the tyrant, and his empty, hungry world.

Hers were words without risk, until

the tyrant and his army came

for the poets and the storytellers,

the musicians and the painters,

the thinkers and the keepers of hearts.

They marched in their uniforms, truncheons in hand

Strung up the wordsmiths, immured the windriders

burned books on pyres

cut songs from lovers’ throats.

They did not come for the timid

but leaving quiet words behind is always a mistake.

The snaking, surreptitious music found her

crouched in the dark

scattered with fragments of phrase

notes braiding with her words until they sung and burned

like a candle made from

the left hands of dead men, hanged

among the jasmine

and burrowed through by belladonna bees, trailing

poisoned sweetness.

These words worthy of the poet

hiding them away, to be sung in whispers,

and acapella songs defiant

but whispers sung in a thousand voices

are loud enough for a tyrant’s ears.

And the uniforms with truncheon-hands would add

to the lines of hanging bones, clattering in the breeze

the brush and pen stilled in their hands,

the stave blank on the page.

A black noose tied around the secret poet’s neck

on a gibbet garlanded in blue peonies, and stardust

masquerading as Spanish moss, like the last of a comet tail

trailing the autumn sky.

What else for the death of a poet?

A secret poet, no less

she and her words, unforgivable, suited only for the gallows

lest her words spread like fire

from deadmen’s hands.

Her songs were a slow burn.

Long after the winter and crows had stripped the flesh

from her bones

the wind whistled across her hollows

and in the gloaming, it sounded like a wyvern’s roar,

a call to arms.

In the gloaming, the people reordered her words,

sang out a war cry.

It scattered like fireflies in the night

flattened the soldiers to retreat.

Slayed the tyrant in his castle, where music never played.

The wind whistled across her hollows, clattered on the gallows

carved words on her bones, blackened them with ash

When next you come, bring a scarf of white

to tie around my tired throat,

a pencil for my empty, aching hands

make flutes from my clavicle, pipes from my ribs

reorder my frame into song

flame me to ash, spark me into

one more life,

for what ever was my flesh but words, my heart a story,

my blood music for miles of capillaries, curled inside me

like a universe, waiting to expand?

Of what are we but story writ on human skin,

stone-shadowed questions of life

needle-weaves of darkness and puddled firelight

and secret poets all.

The Mask Makers

Kristi Ross

It isn’t easy to find us. The Street of the Mask Makers is hardly a street, more a twisting alleyway that spins off from the Old Town. If you come in the morning, likely you’ll never find us at all for the shops stand shuttered and silent till long after lunch, but by late afternoon the narrow space reverberates to tapping and sanding and the smells of sawdust, oils, glues and lacquers scent the cooling air. Soon after that, tour leaders bring their groups to browse the shelves outside Silver’s place on the corner and load up with the child-size carvings we apprentices make.

They’ve been a lucrative sideline, those souvenirs the tourists buy to charm their friends at home. An early evening warm-up but hardly what our street is known for. No, it’s not till after the theatre performances finish and the directors, choreographers and actors come and sip coffee scented with cardamom and fall into deep discussions with the master carvers that our street really begins to hum.

Like most families, mine’s been here for generations, passing on skills fathers to daughters, mothers to sons. We’ve all got our secret techniques, our special blends, our inherited tools, but we share more than we keep from each other. We’re fellow artists, after all. By the time we’re old enough to start a family of our own, we’re all expected to have honed our specialities. My father’s a traditionalist, carving the sharp-nosed clowns who narrate the medieval tragedies. My mother’s famous for the slovenly women and lascivious men that populate 18th century dramas. Two uncles mould and carve leather, creating half-masks gilded with metallic paints and set with semi-precious stones for our city’s most famous dance troupe. A clutch of cousins work with linen and wire and clay, building up animal faces layer by layer for children’s pantomimes.

I’m drawn to clay as well. I loved the first year I worked with my cousins. I wanted to stay on, but they said I was still too young to fix my choice even though I’d been apprenticed up and down the street since I was old enough to walk. So the following year, the year I turned sixteen, I fetched up at the Villiers’ shop.

I was nervous at first. Everyone agrees they’re not like the rest of us, this family who’ve been here as long as anyone can remember. They don’t socialise much, rarely gossip, keep their business to themselves. Not that we’d steal it even if we could. We watch their customers coming and going, men and women, and sometimes children, with scarves drawn across their faces, eyes kept down, so different from the lively theatre people who keep the rest of us in work. No, we’re not envious. Not at all.

The Villiers rarely took apprentices, but for some reason I never quite fathomed, Old Man Villiers took a liking to me. Don’t think me rude for calling him that—everyone does. I used to think him quite fierce when I was small—those wild grey eyebrows, that flowing white hair—but once I got to know him I found a good deal of kindness in him and considerable gentleness. They’re all kind, Ma Villiers and the two sons as well. None of them held it against me when it became clear I wasn’t the one they’d hoped for, didn’t have the talent they needed. They could have tossed me out, sent me home, shamed me in front of everyone; instead, they set me to greeting customers, making tea, preparing materials and running errands. I helped out with simple tasks till the appointed year was up and it was time for me to move on.

Their workshop was tucked away at the far end of our street, out of the way of casual passers-by. Even at noontime it seemed to sit in the shadows. That first day, my stomach fluttered and a lump sat in my chest as I walked slowly across the cobblestones, lifted the heavy door knocker and heard it echo through the building. It was the old man himself who answered the door. Come in, child, come in.

That first day all I did was sweep out the consulting rooms, dust the few masks on display, and serve tea to a shy young woman who kept herself veiled. You’ll need time to get used to us, said Rufus, the elder son. To get used to our clients as well.

Be gentle with them, said Old Man Villiers. Many have suffered greatly already. The damage may not be pretty but, once you get used to it, you’ll find there’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s not contagious, after all.

Even the others, the celebrities who need a few more years of youthfulness and the whistleblowers and witnesses who need to disappear, said Rufus, they’ll be far more worried about you recognising them than you have any need to be of them. They’ll be anxious you’ll let the world know they’ve visited us here. But you won’t. Spread any tales, that is. That’s the one rule we insist on. We keep our clients’ secrets.

It’s a rule I’ve kept to strictly. Until today.

The first time Old Man Villiers called on me to assist him, my hands shook like the leaves on a tree in a storm. When he asked the woman to remove her covering, my whole body shuddered. The gas explosion had spared her eyes, but the angry, puckered scars that spread from her cheekbones to her chin made me catch my breath. Old Man Villiers shot me a warning glance. I wanted to drop the cloth I was holding and head for the door, but I forced myself to stay where I was and watch my employer gently stroke his fingers across the ruins of her face. The consultation seemed to take an age. Once she’d gone I slid into a chair, my legs so weak they went on trembling till long after I’d downed the glass of brandy-laced tea Rufus brought me.

Yet it wasn’t long before I got used to the scarring, the hideous deformities. The previous decade had been notorious for jilted lovers and feuding brothers tossing acid in each other’s faces. Gangland wars left mangled noses, missing ears and cheeks marked like fractured eggshells. The cheap gas regulators the poor used meant their stoves regularly exploded as they leant over them. By the end of the first week, I’d served tea to a score of people whose faces would make a child shriek; by the end of the second, I’d learned not to show the slightest hint of shock. It wasn’t long before I discovered a good many of these people paid little or nothing towards their care. They’ve paid enough with their suffering, said Old Man Villiers and refused to turn anyone away.

Celebrities and socialites made up maybe ten per cent of our workload. Criminals and those on the run from them were another ten. Most of them had no idea how much their fees subsidised those who couldn’t pay. At first I’d long to rush home with the news that Hardgrave Nelson or Lolavera Goldstein or some other well-known personality had come in. Instead, I had to swallow my excitement when they shed their scarves and pretend I hadn’t noticed who they were. Yet after a few weeks I’d got so used to famous faces I didn’t turn a hair.

Many of the wounded and the ageing came clutching photographs of themselves from earlier days. Ma Villiers and the sons would exchange rueful smiles and tell the clients they’d have to wait, only Old Man could say for sure what could be done and what couldn’t. He’d hold the photo by its edges and survey it, head cocked to one side as if listening, but sooner or later he’d meet the client’s eyes and gently shake his head. Close, he’d say. Close is possible. But you’re no longer quite the same as you were when this was taken. We have to honour that change or the mask won’t meld.

As for those who needed a different face, needed to vanish as their former selves and reappear as someone else, those consultations took much longer. It wasn’t unusual for him to call a client back half a dozen times before he’d decide what could be done. He’d sit them in a chair and run his hands over cheekbones and jawbones, smoothing foreheads, tracing eyelids, palpating chins, and all the time he’d have the client sharing past traumas and future hopes, spilling out viewpoints and judgements, boasting about achievements or confessing sins. It was as if his fingers unleashed their souls. By the end of it he’d know them better than they knew themselves. Only then would he begin to sketch out possibilities.

I’d been working there for a couple of months before Ma Villiers took me down into the basement, into the rooms clients never saw. The scent of those rooms stays with me even now—sweet, earthy, redolent of autumn leaves and rotting straw. That first day I was apprehensive, but I learned to like those dimly lit spaces where the fungus nestled in moist, shallow trays of polished steel as it wove its strands through sugared silk threads. Soon it was my responsibility to check the temperature regulators several times a day, top up the water tanks that supplied the automatic sprayers and make sure no malfunction could occur. Eventually, I learned to prepare the trays, stringing the strands of silk at the correct tension and distance, introducing a thin layer of ripened fungus over the top and soaking the material just enough to encourage the process to start. Old Man Villiers was pleased with the results. Not everyone can nurture the fungus, he said. It takes a certain type of person, one with a good heart.

But nurturing it and helping with the harvesting was as far as I could go. I’d stand in the consulting room and watch one of the Villiers run their fingers over a mauled face or an ageing one and smooth on a coating of grease. I’d hand them a layer of freshly harvested material and observe them press it into place. It looked simple but I couldn't get the knack. Something inside me resisted, quailed. And the material felt it. As I lifted it from its tray, everything would seem fine, but as soon as I lay it against a client’s skin, the edges would begin to shrivel and streaks of bruising would appear.

Never mind, Ma Villiers said when she saw how despondent I felt. We more or less expected that.

It’s happened before?

You’re the fourth apprentice we’ve tried out in the last fifteen years. Same results. In fact, you’ve done better than two of them. The material wouldn’t grow for them at all, shrank away from the sides of the trays as soon as they put their hands near it. She set a bowl of stew in front of me. Old Man’s pleased you’ve come as far as you have.

We don’t know the reasons for it, said Rufus. It seems partly genetic but there’s more to it than that. Our grandfather was a master, but out of his four children our father’s the only one who has the knack. My brother and I have some skill but we can’t predict outcomes the way he can. Yet, though there’s no blood tie, Ma’s nearly as good as Old Man. He shrugged. "The fungus chooses as it will—there’s no coercing it.’

Indeed, there wasn’t. Over and over I tried, and every time I attended a fitting I watched with care to see if there was something I might be missing, but if there was, I couldn’t sense it. Much as I longed to please this family who’d been kinder to me than most of my previous employers, Rufus was right.

∞Ω∞Ω∞

One afternoon a month or so after that conversation, I was tidying the reception room when Elsen Fiert strode in with his entourage. One glance and I knew who he was. He hadn’t bothered with a scarf. Those arching eyebrows, that patrician nose, the girth that swung around his middle like a girdle of stones, all shouted out his identity. Even in those days, his face was so often plastered on a television screen or in the pages of a magazine that there was no mistaking him. I dropped the metal frame I was adjusting, stammered an excuse and went to warn the family.

Seth, Rufus’s younger brother, isn’t the emotional sort. He keeps his eyes on his work and his mind on his music and that doesn’t leave room for much else, but his eyebrows shot up and his mouth went slack. You’re sure?

I nodded.

Seth ran his fingers through his hair. Best get the water on for tea then. As I turned away, his words followed me. Better wake Old Man as well—he’s dozing upstairs. And don’t forget to use the best cups.

By the time I returned with the drinks, the entourage had moved away, leaving Seth and Elsen Fiert sitting on the couch, conversing in low voices. Anxiety shone out of Seth’s face. When his father walked in a moment later, the look Seth shot him resounded with warning.

Welcome, said Old Man Villiers, and gestured towards me. Please, let us share some tea. I set the tray down on the table and moved away. I hope my son’s been taking good care of you. What brings us the honour of your visit today?

Fiert’s eyes narrowed. Honour my arse. How many messages have I sent you already?

One of his aides looked over. We’ve tried, sir. You know we have. They’ve ignored every summons.

Fiert frowned at the man and signalled for him to be silent. Let’s get on with this, shall we? No point in wasting any more time.

Old Man took a deep breath and kept his eyes downcast. I’m sorry, sir. Our clients keep us busy here. But now you’ve come, how can we help you?

Fiert cleared his throat. I wish to make some slight changes to my appearance. Nothing major, just some minor tweaking, I understand you have the skills I need.

We’re only simple artisans, said Old Man. But tell me, what’s brought you to this idea?

Fiert sighed and shook his head. It seems I’m not considered absolutely trustworthy. Absurd, of course, after all I’ve done for this city. Ridiculous, even. But according to my closest aides, too many people see me wrongly. He tossed his golden hair back and I noticed the lines etched into his forehead and the puffiness around his eyes. I’m sad to say some elements of the media put sensationalism above honesty. Float stories they know aren’t true. In my position I’m always at risk, but what can I do? He leant back and spread his hands. If my bid to be mayor is to succeed, I’m advised to soften my image. I need to impress the electorate with my honesty and compassion as well as my capabilities. And I intend to be mayor. Yes, indeed.

I saw Seth almost choke on his tea, then set the cup down carefully. Old Man Villiers kept his face straight. Such characteristics are valuable in any leader. But I’m afraid I’m finding it hard to see where we come in.

Fiert motioned to one of his men and a leather briefcase was brought to him. He scanned through the contents, pulled out a magazine and held it up. I want to look more like him.

Even Old Man couldn’t hide his smile.

The man on the cover was Ranald Stein. I recognised him immediately. He often came to my family’s workshop for fittings; he’d played a dozen roles in the masked 18th century dramas my mother specialised in. But this photo wasn’t intended to highlight Stein, the actor. The lead story was dedicated to Theseus Plumb, the 19th century mountaineer who set up half a dozen charities and worked for many more, the cultural hero Stein had been playing on television to rave reviews every Sunday evening for the past nine months.

You want to look like Stein? asked Seth. He didn’t try to hide the puzzlement in his voice.

Fiert smiled. I’m a fine figure, aren’t I, just as I am? But sometimes a man has to make sacrifices. He leaned back, and I noticed his double chin was edging into a triple one. I’m not looking to be Stein’s twin. A subtle mix, that’s what I’m after. Nothing too obvious. Just enough so people comment on the similarity.

But why? Old Man scratched his head.

Have you not been watching? Everyone else has. Theseus Plumb’s exactly the image I need.

Ah, the role, said Old Man. But why not Plumb himself?

Because no one remembers what he looked like any more. No, Stein’s the face I want. Or hints of it.

Old Man looked down at his hands. I’m afraid your sources may have been mistaken. That kind of tweaking, as you call it, is beyond our skill.

I very much doubt that. My aides tell me you work miracles on a daily basis.

Hardly that, sir.

Come, come now. This is no time for modesty. Or duplicity. If it’s money you’re after, rest assured, you’ll be paid well for your art.

Old Man’s face wrinkled with sorrow—or at least, it appeared that sorrow was what he felt. It’s not a question of skill. Or money. The material…there are limitations.

Fiert leant forwards, elbows on his knees. I know what you can do. I’ve seen the evidence with my own eyes. One of your masks reconstructed my nephew’s face after he rammed his motorbike into a wall one night when he was drunk. Another took ten years off an actress friend of mine. And my aides have turned up plenty of other cases. He smiled, but none of us could miss the challenge in his eyes. I always do my homework. Don’t treat me like a fool.

That’s not my intention, not at all. Let me explain─

I’ve no time for explanations. Results, that’s what I’m after. What I’m known for. And you’re the people who can provide them. His eyes locked onto Old Man’s. Now, shall we get on with it?

But─

No buts. I’m a busy man. An important one. You start with measurements, don’t you? Let’s get them done today. Otherwise, my aides here may be upset by your behaviour. We wouldn’t want that, now would we? He smiled as if to soften the threat, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes.

A look flashed between Old Man and Seth. Old Man pressed his lips together, closed his eyes for a moment and sighed. When he opened his eyes again, he looked straight at Fiert and held his gaze without flinching. We can do the preliminaries if you wish. But beyond that…

Beyond that, you’ll succeed. Of course you will. Now buck up, man, and let’s get started.

Seth escorted Fiert into the consulting room. I followed, glancing around to make sure everything was ready, then flicked on the banks of spotlights. With its gleaming instrument racks and padded reclining chair, the room always reminded me of a dental surgery. Fiert plopped himself onto the recliner and, at a signal from Old Man, I turned the levers until our client lay almost horizontal. A moment later he sat up. No, we’ll do this in an ordinary chair.

It could take a while, said Seth. It’s important you’re relaxed.

We’ll use an ordinary chair, said Fiert stiffly.

As you wish. Old Man signed to Seth to let things be.

I fetched a wooden armchair from reception and Fiert seated himself. Old Man moved to stand behind him, then placed his palms on Fiert’s temples, his fingers meeting at the crown. For perhaps ten minutes, Old Man stood unmoving, eyes closed, his breathing slow and deep. Fiert, too, had his eyes closed, but his lips were pressed together and one foot kept tapping the floor.

We were used to clients being nervous at first, though I hadn’t expected it of Fiert. His public persona always seemed carefully polished, all confidence, optimism and good cheer, as if the stories that circulated of his bouts of fury and vindictiveness couldn’t possibly be true. I watched, waiting for Old Man’s hands to work their usual magic and Fiert to gradually relax and share his thoughts and feelings. It didn’t happen.

Instead, Old Man opened his eyes, stretched his arms above his head, then rolled his shoulders back and forth with a volley of gentle cracks. He dropped one hand onto Fiert’s shoulder. It’s not so simple, this tweaking you’re asking for. There may well be dangers ahead.

‘Dangers?’ Fiert frowned. And what would those be?

Old Man took a deep breath. It’s hard to say.

Fiert snorted. Enough of these games. He leaned forwards, hands on his knees, ready to propel himself out of the chair. We’re done here, are we?

For today.

∞Ω∞Ω∞

After Fiert and his men had gone, Old Man Villiers called a family conference. Surely we’re not going to help him? said Rufus. The man’s a maniac. He’s out to enrich himself and his cronies, cares not a whit about anyone else.

True enough, said Seth. But you weren’t there. He wasn’t offering us a choice.

But the whole idea of it. Rufus rolled his eyes. The man is mad.

I’m not so sure, said Old Man. There’s method in his madness.

It’s not up to us anyway, is it? said Ma Villiers. Not unless one of us can come up with a way to make a mask meld against its will. She turned to her husband. Can we?

Old Man frowned. I doubt it.

We’ve never tried, have we? said Seth.

Rufus narrowed his eyes. You’re suggesting we do?

Seth stared at the floor.

Ma spoke next. Our choices are these. We do our best and hope the process itself might change him. Or we let him think we’re trying to please, but all through the process we keep trying to dissuade him, warn him off. And maybe he’ll come to his senses. If not, at least we’ve won some time. Or we pack our bags immediately and leave.

Rufus looked up, alarm on his face. We can’t leave. Not like that. This is our home. What about all the people who really do need us?

Ma Villiers sighed. You know Fiert’s reputation as well as I do. And there are plenty of needy people in other cities. There’s endless work for us elsewhere.

But what about the material? The production rooms? asked Seth. It could take us years to replace what we have here.

She nodded. It could. But we may not have a choice.

Old Man Villiers reached over and took her hand. We’ve dealt with trouble before. Remember the Farrell twins? And that woman—what was her name?—the one whose husband tried to stop us treating her? We weathered those. His gaze shifted to his sons. Before your time, Seth. And Rufus, you were just a lad.

Did they have the resources Fiert has? asked Rufus.

Ma sighed and eyed her husband.

Let’s see how things develop, said Old Man. There might be other possibilities. We don’t have to commit to a decision today.

∞Ω∞Ω∞

A week later Fiert was back. This time his entourage was reduced to three, but every one of them had broad shoulders, muscular arms and eyes as cold as a winter’s night. He wanted them all to observe the process. Ma Villiers shook her head. House rules. They wait outside.

Towering over her, Fiert argued, his voice loud. Ma barely reached his shoulders, but she stood her ground. We’re doing this against our better judgement. We’ll do it my way or not at all. I half expected Fiert to snap back at her, but he seemed more amused than angered. Gesturing to his aides to back away, he followed Ma and me into the consulting room.

I’ve a fine profile, wouldn’t you say? Fiert said as he settled onto the wooden armchair he’d told me to bring in for him. He swept his hair back and turned sideways to admire himself in one of the mirrors that hung on the walls. Be sure not to alter that, won’t you?

We’ll be nowhere near that stage today, said Ma. That’s if we can get there at all.

What do you mean, woman? His nostrils flared. Let’s see a bit more determination, shall we? After all, I’m paying you enough.

Ma drew in a breath and her hands curled into fists but she kept them at her sides. This isn’t a mask carved out of wood or built up from wire and clay. We’re not fully in control of the process, as my husband tried to explain. The material has its own way of working. And it makes demands.

What are you saying? He tilted his head and one eyebrow went up. I was fascinated by the way expressions chased each other across his face. Of course, I’d seen him on television, but in person the shifts seemed even more extreme. It was like watching the face of an actor onstage aiming to make his emotions clear to those in the gods.

Think of it as a partnership of equals, said Ma. There’s a chemistry involved that’s more than physical. If the fungus senses a resonance between what you’re asking for and who you are, the material will meld. It’ll settle onto your face as if you were born with it, soak into you, nourish you, age with you. But if it senses image and self are at odds, things go wrong.

Fiert snorted. Sounds to me like a load of twaddle. A sensitive fungus? Where did you dredge that idea up? A smile flashed across his face, then vanished. I’ve told you already, I’ve no patience with failure. Give it houseroom and it’ll grow. No, optimism’s what we need. A positive spirit. The smile came back. Now let’s get on with it.

Ma looked at me and shrugged. Then she laid a hand on Fiert’s arm. I can’t work with you sitting like this. From now on, like it or not, you need to be lying back. She pointed towards the reclining chair. That’s unless you want bare cheeks and a chin the size of a football.

Fiert grimaced but obeyed. Ma gestured to me to wind the chair back until it was almost horizontal, then picked up the jar of ointment I’d set on the stand beside it and slathered the mixture across his face. It smelled much stronger than usual. The quoin leaves Old Man had instructed me to pound to a paste and mix in along with the usual herbs made the scent cleaner and more aromatic. I was glad of that. Perhaps I imagined it, but a smell seemed to hang about Fiert, something musty, slightly over-sweet, that set my nostrils on edge.

When Ma Villiers lifted the material from the tray I held, laid it across Fiert’s face and pressed it into place, I held my breath. For minutes, nothing changed. Then slowly the fungus began to flow, adjusting so some areas thinned and others thickened. Fiert stiffened, but showed no other reaction. For the next half hour the only signs of life were the subtle movements of the mask material and the throb of blood through a vein in his neck.

At last, the material stilled. Ma Villiers waited a few minutes longer to make sure. Then, with infinite care, she peeled the material off Fiert’s face and laid it gently on the wire and clay form I held out for her. Done, was all she said.

At that early stage masks are bland and almost featureless, nothing like their final shape. Fiert’s was no different. By the time I came back from placing it in the ripening room, Fiert had rejoined his aides. On the surface he was all banter and bluster, as if the fitting had left him untouched, but I couldn’t help noticing a slight trembling in his hand when he took the aftercare sheet I gave him.

I sought out Ma as soon as the door closed behind him. It worked.

For now, she said. But this was never going to be the challenging part. With some special care and preparation, we can persuade the raw material to adhere to almost anyone. It’s when we ask it to sculpt itself in ways it’s not minded to go that trouble comes in. We haven’t got there yet.

∞Ω∞Ω∞

I missed Fiert’s next two fittings. I’d caught a vicious cold and the Villiers were strict about hygiene for no one knew for certain if the fungus was susceptible to germs. Ma Villiers sent me home with a large root of ginger, a bottle of honey and instructions not to reappear till my fever had gone and I hadn’t sneezed in twenty-four hours. By the time I returned, Fiert’s mask had solidified somewhat and taken on an approximation of his face. People still called him handsome, distinguished even, but I couldn’t see it. To me he just looked overweight and middle aged. Masks didn’t usually bother me but something about his both fascinated me and gave me the creeps. I was standing in the ripening room, staring at it, wondering what lay ahead, when Seth came in.

"A good likeness, isn’t