The Red Harlequin - Book 1 Of Masks And Chromes (Extract)

Death Of A Harlequin

1. Death Of A Harlequin 

I had almost reached my fourteenth solstice when my father decided the time had come for me to see an execution. "You must learn how to recognize a Harlequin when you see one," he said.

As terrible as it sounded, the thought of seeing a real Harlequin in flesh and bones excited me so much I could not sleep the night before the event. When the morning came, I put on my mask of death. It had been made specifically for me by the mother of my mother. It was a crimson colored mask with black tears and black lips.

"You become taller with each new sunrise," said my father while we both prepared to leave the house.

I smiled as I watched him place his death mask over his own face. It was white with black ornaments surrounding the eyes and lips – a simple mask, just like him. He had fought in two great wars, both victorious for the Black. One was against the Blue Chromes and the other against the Red.

We set out, side by side, winding our way through the steep, cobbled streets of our ancient city of Axyum. Even though it was early morning, they were already crowded with our fellow Black Chromes. Our long, black wool cloaks brushed the pavement around our legs. Together, we resembled a growing flock of ungainly, flightless crows. None of the others outwardly appeared eager to reach the center of the city. I wondered if I was alone in feeling the mounting terror and excitement that waged war inside the pit of my stomach.

When my father and I arrived at the square, a large crowd had already formed. The sky was grey and the air tasted of rain, but the others were too focused on the gallows pole to notice. It stood in the middle of the square as a sinister reminder of what was going to take place; sturdy, splintered and stained brown by a hundred years of blood.

I caught a glimpse of my best friend, Andahar, across the square, standing with his father.  He was easy to pick out, even in this sea of black. His blond hair curled around his mask in unruly tufts. Andahar wore a unique death mask of purple inlaid with ebony wood marquetry, still too large for him. It had been hand made by some family member, long since gone to dust, and passed down to him. His eyes met mine through old-fashioned square sight slits. We both quickly glanced the other way, as if we had each caught the other doing something private. I did not seek out his company until we were well away from the square.

My eyes gravitated toward one tribune stand that wasn't filled with our color. Curious, I pointed at the important Chromes inside the simple pulpitum we Blacks had erected just for them: "Are those...?"

"Dignitaries from other Territories," said my father, nodding. "They've come to see the execution, too."

The foreign Chromes were draped in strange robes and even stranger masks. My father pointed out one dignitary, saying he came to represent the Violets: He was wrapped in a white mantle with a violet belt and mask. Then he pointed out two Chromes dressed in blue velvet from the Blue Territory and another, a Yellow Chrome, clothed with a rich, saffron colored cloak made of calfskin and a golden mask. They seemed misplaced, confined in their little stand and surrounded by us somber, simple Blacks. My father observed that the Orange Chromes were missing but more importantly, the Reds were not present, either.

"Not a good sign," he whispered from behind his mask. I was about to ask him more about the Reds' absence when the roar of the crowd took us both by surprise. From the opposite corner of the square two black flags began to bob and weave their way towards the center. The Chromes around us pressed in close. In spite of their warmth, a shudder ran through me. I grabbed my father's arm.

"Be calm!" shouted my father, "No matter what happens!" The flags were followed by the tattoo of drumbeats. Although I could not see anything except for the banners, the cadence of the drums was so powerful I felt their vibrations deep inside my chest like an invading heartbeat. The drums hushed the crowd. When they stopped, the entire square became wrapped in such a profound moment of silence it was as if the Gods themselves had cast a muted spell upon our city.

Suddenly, loud shrieks broke the silence and a strange figure appeared above us all. It was the Harlequin! He stood on a wooden platform which rested on the shoulders of several guards. He had his hands tied behind his back, strapped to a ladder. A pig's head had been placed on top of his head, the skin stretched tight over his forehead. The animal's blood trickled down the Harlequin's face, mingling with his own which gushed from deep cuts in his back as a result of the whipping. Unlike us Chromes, he was dressed in robes of many colors. Garish patches of red, yellow, green and black, stitched together without rhyme or reason. It was an abominable sight.

The screams that announced his arrival were answered by another full blown roar from the crowd. The Harlequin moved in a herky-jerky motion towards the middle of the square because the procession of guards beneath him had difficulties moving through the bystanders.

"Could he be the Red Harlequin, Father?" I asked.

The Red Harlequin was a name that had been given to the Master of all Harlequins. One legend said he turned red after drinking too much Chrome blood. But Andahar had told me that it wasn't true. It was a story made up just to scare us youngsters, yet I remembered him shivering while he said it.

My father didn't reply. Like everyone around us, his eyes were riveted toward the prisoner.

"What if he flies away?" I asked.

He slowly turned toward me and replied: "The guards have strapped him well. Be strong."

I nodded and looked back at the Harlequin. What I expected to see I cannot say, but when he neared the gallows I was surprised to see no more and no less a creature, like many other Chromes I knew. The only difference was that he did not have a mask. All of us wear masks outside, in public. It is one of the Collective Laws, to which all Chromes, regardless of the color, abide by. I was not used to seeing someone without one and I felt embarrassed for him.

The Harlequin's chalk white face made a sharp contrast to the crimson drops of blood that fell upon his cheek and lips. He could not have had more than twenty solstices in him. He tilted his sad eyes upward, no doubt making one final, desperate plea to the Gods for a miracle rescue. The pig's head fell off and everyone started laughing. He seemed terrified by the crowd.

I tried, but I was unable to harden my heart. Pity welled up inside me. "How do you know he's a Harlequin?" I shouted to my father.

"You'll see in a moment," he said. From the tone of his voice I sensed he was not particularly happy to watch the execution, either.  Nonetheless, he shouted his disdain in unison with the rest of the crowd at the creature who was about to be hanged.

Now the Harlequin shook with fear. Standing there, trembling, he did not look so dangerous to me – or particularly clever – and I wondered for a moment what sort of mischief he had done in his short life to deserve this. He was so afraid it took two guards to keep him still while a third placed the noose around his neck.

The laughter died down. The guards were ready to push the Harlequin off the ladder when he cried out: "I'm...I'm not a...!" At that moment, the guards wrested the ladder away from him. His words were cut short. His body swung over our heads in a wide arc. He jerked convulsively for what seemed to me like an eternity. I looked the other way until my father forced me to turn around again.

"Watch!" he hissed.

Myriad rainbow colors formed beneath the swinging feet of the dead Harlequin. Just as soon as they appeared, these colors vanished into thin air.

Astonished murmurs followed. "See?" said my father, his voice laced with excitement. "That was his aura leaving his body." Everyone around us let out a final cheer, relieved that another evil creature had been killed. I on the other hand, did not feel any relief or rejoice at his death. The Harlequin's empty eyes kept staring at me, reminding me of a deer about to be killed during a hunt.

The rain finally arrived. We dark gatherers dispersed quickly, some ducking through alleys others through open doors.  More than a few made a beeline for the taverns, eager to toast to hearts that still beat. We returned to our home where the only thing I could think about was how glad I felt to be alive. I ate as I had never eaten that day and at night, I thanked the Gods I was not a Harlequin. Then I prayed that I would never be confronted with another Harlequin, ever again.  Since that time, I have thought my having done so was to invite an unwanted, sour twist of fate into my life. As such things often go, my prayers were not answered.