Mask of Night by Philip Gooden Read Free Book Online Page A

the distorting effect of the glassy eyepieces, you are able to see yourself in miniature reflected in her own optics.
    You are a great black bird with a beak.
    You wield a stick in place of talons.
    You are about to swoop.
    But, all at once, there is nothing to be done.
    The terrified widow Morrison, confronted by the image of death, utters a screeching cry as if she were the giant bird not you. She makes a supreme effort to heave herself out of bed. She even manages to lift her head from the bolster and to raise her shoulders, but the strain is too much and she falls back with a great sigh and after that a rattling spasm which is succeeded by stillness. It is over. A spasm seizes your own throat, and you do not know whether to cry out – in grief or in triumph – but all that emerges is a croak which sounds strange even to your own ears.
    You glide out of the bedroom and down the crooked stairs. From the far end of the cottage comes a stirring and shuffling but, not even glancing in that direction, you slip through the door and across the balding grass and back to the hovel where you have left your everyday clothing. Now you swiftly divest yourself of your costume . . . your protection . . . your armour. It is odd how you are one person when you are wearing it and quite another when you don your everyday garb.
    You stand there regarding the black waxed coat, the mask with its bird-like protuberance, the white cane fashioned from willow. Your costume, like a player’s. It was not a simple matter to obtain the garment. You consulted books. You discovered how they did things in foreign cities. Then, you had the items made up to your own specifications, pretending they were meant for another.
    Now you fold up this precious gear inside a cap-case before you go on your way, clutching your bag, capering over the meadows.
    A little dog . . . an old witch.

     
     
    L ife picked up when we left London. For one thing the weather brightened and we travelled in sunny spirits. Indeed, the moment that the plaguey city dropped behind us over the horizon – together with its smoke, smut and smells – there was a general lifting of the Company’s mood. True, some of those who’d abandoned wives and children were a little thoughtful during the first night’s stop but even they, I noticed, forgot their worries as we covered more miles or, if they didn’t forget their worries, they concealed them better. We travelled on foot, juniors and seniors alike, while the property wagon was pulled by our good old Flanders draught horse, named Flem either on account of his breed or the wheezing sounds he made, or both.
    I suppose this lighter mood was because we of the Chamberlain’s were going about our lawful trade once more, while the only thing that London had to offer us at present was a constraint on that trade or its complete cessation. We had the prospect of gainful employment, of appreciative audiences and new surroundings. What player wouldn’t be glad and excited?
    The city of Oxford was our destination and we reached it after five overnight stops, coming up from the south through Wallingford and Abingdon and averaging twelve or so miles a day. I’ve walked faster as well as further in a single day but we were in no great hurry to arrive, and the journey had a touch of holiday about it.
    Oxford! This great city of learning was unknown to me, but several of my fellows were familiar with it and talked of its fine old buildings and quick-witted young inhabitants. Although there was a tradition of playing, at least among the students, no playhouse had yet been erected. In fact, some ancient regulation actually forbade students to attend public performances of plays, although I imagined they would pay as much attention to that as young people pay to most regulations.
    Anyway we were due to perform a medley of dramatic pieces – titles to be announced – in the yard of a tavern situated in the town centre. The Golden Cross was a handsome