Mask of Flies (18 page)

“What?” Aart never
stood foot in the Heritage House. He was always too busy hunting.

“Anybody who has been
aided by the False Face society, through healing or cleansing, is
encouraged to join our ranks.” The woman explained. “During an
initiation, the prospective member goes on a pilgrimage into the
woods, fasting and meditating, until
Sagojowehgowa
,
the Great Defender, provides inspiration for a mask. The divine image
is carved from live wood, painted red if finished in the morning,
black at night.”

I was reluctant to
provide an immediate answer. With Joseph to take care of, such
responsibility could wait. Members of the society were expected to
actively participate in meetings and drop everything to provide
services to members in the community. I had enough with all the
distractions. I just want to focus on being a mother and loving my
baby.

I gave the dancers my deep thanks,
and told the black mask I would think on the proposition. They left
in the same direction they came.

That night, I was
undisturbed. Perhaps the False Faces sealed the foul spirit from our
house, but it’s too early to tell: the face in the wall mostly
appeared when I was alone during the week.

I slept deeply with
vivid dreams of the forest surrounding our land. Deep in its heart
was a large basswood tree, on the trunk a carved face came into view,
unfinished. I approached closer and the etched face opened red eyes,
and began laughing. Around me, all the surrounding trees sprouted
crude faces, and each came to life in laughter. The sound was
deafening. I awoke cold, feeling something still lingering in the
room.

July 27, 1905

Aart finished the
house. We moved most of our belongings out of my parent’s house,
little by little. The move was bitter-sweet, five miles away from the
family, but we had a space of our own.

The silence of the land
surrounding our new home took some getting used to: not a household
or shop in sight, only the forest and the ominous presence of Ga’hai
Hill. Now, I’m much less bothered by it. I had been sleeping
soundly since the cleansing.

When Aart took me to
the house for the first time, I couldn’t believe it was ours.

He smiled at me. “It’s
a two story cottage, plenty of space for Joseph to play.”

I walked closer to look
at the front. Thick brown shingles wrapped the exterior. A small
porch projected from the front, and two unfinished wood rocking
chairs sat overlooking the front yard.

My husband took me
inside. “I used solid Oak for the floors. The deer skin rugs are
from the prize buck your father took down.”

I walked from room to
room. There was so much furniture: a cushioned sofa sat by the
fireplace, and a large unfinished wood dining table stood in the
space next to the kitchen. Upstairs, in the master bedroom, an
arching window overlooked the expansive forest on the south-side of
the property. Below, to the rear of the house was my family’s
ancestral longhouse.

Aart finished the tour
of the house in the master bedroom. I had been looking out the window
at the patchwork of shingles on the longhouse roof, which was once
caved in.

He saw that I noticed
the repair. “I meant for the longhouse to be the grand finale. I
got wrapped up in the house’s completion and wanted to show it to
you right away. The plan is to transform the longhouse into a working
barn to raise livestock. I plan on turning the rear partition into a
woodworking shop.”

“Woodwork? I never
knew that interested you.” I was skeptical, thinking he was playing
tricks.

He afforded a timid
smile. “The furniture in the house is my creation, what do you
think?”

“I’m amazed. The
craftsmanship is superb. I was going to ask you how you afforded it
all.”

“That is kind of you
to say—I actually enjoyed building it, so much that I want to set
up a furniture stand at the outpost. If it succeeds, we could build a
storefront in town. Now that the home is finished, I want to be in a
position to quit the construction job. It’s dangerous and not worth
the time away.”

“How much longer will
you have to work in Buffalo?” I asked.

“Another six months.
I bought some building materials on credit to finish faster. I had my
cousins available to me, in between construction projects, figured I
might as well make use of their labor while I worked during the week.
We finished months ahead of schedule.”

Then I kissed him. We spent the rest
of the day enjoying our newfound privacy in the bedroom that
overlooked the great forest.

Asleep, I was drawn
deep into the forest—to the basswood tree with the sunken face. I
heard rumbling of a storm, off to the horizon. When large droplets
fell out of the sky, the dread tree grinned at me. The droplets felt
greasy against my skin, and the air had a faint metallic smell.
Lightening illuminated the sky. In blue light, I saw that my dress
covered in blood. I knelt down next to the basswood tree and wept.

I awoke abruptly to the metallic
taste—my nose bled down my throat.

I decided to seek
out Dancing Meadow about this reoccurring dream, feared it was some
kind of remnant implanted in my mind by the spirit in the wall. The
False Face Society operated out of the Heritage Building in town.

My walk there from
the new house took longer than expected. The muggy heat of full
summer cast shimmering snakes on the horizon. By the time I
approached town, sweat stained my dress.

The Heritage Building
stood in the center of town, a refurbished traditional longhouse,
nearly double the size of the residential variety. The Tribal Council
Building was next door, the antithesis of its neighbor; a large brick
structure, similar to most of the modern municipal buildings located
in smaller towns. Hot and disheveled, I entered the foyer where a
woman, about my age greeted me. I told her I wished to speak to
Dancing Meadow. She took me through the hallway decorated in
traditional Seneca fashion, down another corridor that contained vast
shelves lined with books, and back into an office area where Dancing
Meadow sat behind a broad table writing in an oversized book.

“Angeni, it is so
good to see you again. Your mother tells me you are doing much
better.” The lady False Face sat back in her chair. “Did you just
come to visit, or perhaps to ask some questions about what happened?”

I told her about the
laughing trees and the blood.

She took my hand in
hers. “It’s not uncommon to have dreams as such. The ritual of
purging resonates with the farsighted. These dreams could be the
Great Defender’s way of communicating to you, urging you to take
your rightful seat in the society.”

The dreams were
relative to the False Face way. The face in the tree carved during
the pilgrimage. I was willing to hear her out. “What does taking
this seat entail? I have a baby at home to care for and my time is
limited.”

Dancing Meadow smiled.
“Being a member of the False Face Society includes working here on
behalf of the Tribal Heritage Center, planning for the powwows and
festivals, and working with the schoolhouse to incorporate
traditional Seneca teachings. This Heritage Center also acts as a
museum. Visitors interested in learning about the Seneca people can
come in and enquire about our culture. Members serve to aid their
learning—and you are already aware of the special services we
perform in the community”

“That sounds like
quite a bit of responsibility—”

“It’s more than a
bit.” She said, “But you know you would be handsomely
compensated? We profit share the income earned from the festivals,
and each member receives a salary from the Tribal Council. I’m sure
you would find the pay more than satisfactory.”

I couldn’t help but
to show my excitement. If I earned, then Aart could quit the
construction job sooner. “I have to discuss it with my family.”

She smiled, “I look forward to
hearing back from you.”

Dancing Meadow had a
member see me home. An elder man with a magnificent white mane pulled
to the front of the building in a single horse carriage. My mind
filled with questions during the ride south.

I finally broke the
silence and asked him about his experience with the society’s
initiation ceremony.

His voice scraped, but
his mannerisms were kind. “My retreat was fairly simple. I had
dreams of my mask before I left for the woods—I guess you could say
I was reluctant to join at first. In the woods, I carved out that
face from my dreams immediately, needed to get it out of my thoughts.
But I stayed out in the woods overnight just to appease the senior
members.”

Before I could tell him about my
dream, we arrived in front of the new house. I thanked him and said
goodbye.

I had to be tactful
on how I approached Aart. I knew he wouldn’t be moved by the
intrinsic benefits of becoming a member of The False Face Society,
but the financial benefit might persuade him. I had rehearsed my
presentation the entire week, and my strategy hinged on his
dissatisfaction with his job in the city. Dual incomes would provide
a faster way to pay off his material debts and finance his furniture
business.

The conversation
started badly. He seemed agitated that I would even propose working.
“Who’s going to care for our son when you’re away?”

He took me off guard. I
forgot to consider Joseph in my preparation. “My mother volunteered
to watch Joseph.” I lied. “Their house is a short walk to the
Heritage Building. The society will provide a carriage to transport
me and Joseph, to and from town, each day.”

Aart looked down
shaking his head and continued to count his week’s pay.

I pressed it on him
further and went into my planned presentation, focusing on the
financial keynotes. His mood lightened.

“I’m sorry for
being angry,” He said. “I see that you are thinking about the
greater good of the family. This opportunity could help bring it all
together—bring us back together.”

August 2, 1905

Strange days: the
only adequate description of my pilgrimage into the woods. I thought
I’d have it easy. Like the old man with the raspy voice, I had
already realized my false face, already envisioned it in my dreams. I
planned on going into the forest, carving the mask, and camping one
night for good measure. But it didn’t happen that way; something
pulled me deeper, beckoned me further into the forest.

My parents were
concerned. When I brought Joseph to them, Mother seemed bothered.
“Are you sure you want to be doing this Angeni? After all you went
through?” She took Joseph in her arms. It seemed she had a renewed
respect for spirituality.

“I will be fine. It
is just one night into the woods.”

“The ancient forest can be
dangerous at night. The trees grow from the bone dust of our
ancestors.” Father did his best to scare me from going, but he knew
he wouldn’t dissuade me. “Just keep your head clear and your
sense of direction. If you see something out of sorts, keep moving
forward.”

Inside the
Heritage House, Dancing Meadow reviewed the details of the
pilgrimage: basics of outdoor survival, how to excise the mask once
it’s realized, and what color to paint it. A portrait of Red
Jacket, the old Seneca hero, hung behind her desk. I couldn’t keep
my eyes off it; he was dressed in refined garb with the peace
medallion around his neck, given to him by George Washington. Molten
energy washed over me, nervous excitement. Most of Dancing Meadow’s
advice fell out of my mind as soon as I left her office and headed
into the woods.

I traveled on a dirt
path out of town with a skin of water, no food. I walked through the
forest until dusk came and the mosquitoes bit. The tree line choked
out the cloud shattered sunset. I had yet to find a trunk worthy of
my grinning mask. All the surrounding wood lacked the vitality I felt
in my dreams.

I came to a clearing
where the mosquitoes bit less. Dead kindling lay splintered along the
path. I built a fire, unrolled my sleeping skin, and submitted to
sleep underneath the star filled sky. With eyes closed, a black body
of water surrounded me. Its current silently pulled me under and
ripped me in a thousand directions.

I awoke gasping for air, and the sun
burnt through the top of the sky. The perception of a moment
underneath black waters, turned to be hours. I moved south. The shade
of the forest provided little relief—the thick breath of summer
taxed me heavily. My water skin felt lighter on my hip, I felt it,
sloshed it around. The water wouldn’t last through the night. I
knew of a stream to the north that extended from Red House Lake, but
despite my knowledge that I could die of thirst, I made the decision
to move westward.

Three hours after the
sun crested, I swallowed the last drop of water. I continued west. I
was pulled west. Up a great wooded hill, my head pounded with red
fury. I heaved up the little liquid from my stomach; my throat felt
like I had swallowed a hot coal.

At my wits end, I
descended the hill, lost. And then I saw it. I found the basswood
tree from my dreams. It seemed a thousand feet tall. Uprooted
tendrils jutted up from underneath its enormous trunk, like a den of
starved serpents. The surrounding vegetation looked pathetic in
comparison.

The air felt different
there, damp and cool. Closer, I heard rushing water. Around the thick
trunk, I found the great river cutting through the hills. I thought
it was a dream, until I tasted the cool water. When I had my fill, I
felt a rush of cold air behind me. I turned and saw an opening
underneath the tree where two enormous roots split. An inaudible
whisper came from within.

I walked inside the
opening. Roots and caked mud hung down, forming a living ceiling. In
the corner, a cocoon-like shape appeared to be a malformed root, but
closer I saw it had teeth: the skeletonized remains of a life lost.
The corpse’s flesh resembled the old bark on the great tree. An old
Seneca carving knife lay next to the skeleton, and on the opposite
side lay an unfinished wooden mask.