Author's Note: Assignment for Creative Writing… "Object as a Symbol". The assignment was to write a story that incorporated the use of symbolism. My teacher said it was hard to find in this, but… see if you can.

Excuse the random Itallian. It shouldn't be -too- hard to figure out, though... so I've provided no translation. Oh, and if there are any people who acutally speak Itallian reading this, forgive me if it's not completely accurate... I'm horrible and used a dictionary... and my school only teaches French.

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Mask and Mirrors

D. A. Giehl

"I," announced the boy, "am going to the masquerade."

All around, the mutter of voices faded and eyes fell upon the boy on the table. Nervous confusion was thrown about for a moment, then finally someone laughed.

"You, Riccio, and your ideas! The ball is for the nobles--how could you, a servant, go? You are no padrone!"

The laughter, contagious, infected the others and surrounded the table from all but one, who stood cross-armed against the far wall. In the dim torchlight of the servant's chambers was like a shadow.

Riccio grinned, waiting for the laughter to die. The skittish silence returned, and the flames of candles reflected in eager eyes.

"How, indeed?" Donni, a younger servant of about nine years, spoke from the table's edge. "How, Riccio?"

From the folds of his robe, Riccio withdrew a black porcelain mask, white ribbon trailing from one side. Someone cried out and begged to know where it had come from. Riccio replied that he'd stolen it from the house of an old, blind nobleman who had no use for it. This revelation was met with amazement.

"A stolen mask!" cried one.

"The masquerade! He can't be recognized!"

"Riccio is a noble name, and even--"

But the shadow leaning against the wall said, "And your robes? A mask will not hide your servant cloak."

The silence returned, this time heavy with disappointment. The crowd looked to Riccio for his reply. At this, the mask-thief leapt from the table, past some boys that scattered and then crept back to him. Riccio went to the wall, lined with nearly a hundred tiny chests, each the length of a man's arm and no deeper than a piglet's trough. Within these each servant was allowed to keep their only possessions, whether they be coins, family silvers, or an extra apron. Riccio went to his, stroking the brazen lock before pulling the key from the pocket of his robe.

"Here," Riccio said to the circle of servants. "Here."

The chest's mouth opened and from within he drew a silk jerkin--black, lined with gold, and a collar that tied with leather strings. Still more was hidden in the box--a pair of leggings, a leather tie for Riccio's long black hair, and a pair of black noble's boots. One of the younger servants giggled and shuddered.

"I stole them," Riccio replied proudly, "from the closet of my father's master. He'd not worn it in years, and he never--"

"You're no lord like our masters, Riccio," said Donni with eyes like saucers, "You're a thief lord, if anything!"

"The ball is for lords n' nobles," countered the servant of Riccio's age who'd challenged Riccio from the beginning. "'E'll fit fine with the others!"

A few youngsters cheered and reached hesitant hands to touch the fine silk, but Riccio pulled it back. "No, it must not be tarnished. Not before the ball."

The shadow spoke again: "And your hair, the dirt, your rough hands--and the mark of a servant, below your eye. Those?"

The thief lord frowned and ran a hand through his greasy hair. "Come off it, Lucio! I'll bathe, and the mask will cover the servant's brand." He fingered the white, v-shaped burn scar beneath his left eye that had been burned there moments after his birth.

The servant's brand. Riccio was certain it could be covered.

Lucio pointed to the rusted, ticking grandfather clock that leaned against the wall beside him. "The masquerade ball is in an hour--I assume the nobles are already dressed and ready. You had best hurry."

Riccio's gaze fell into sync with the clock's pendulum and he felt his face go pale, then redden with a harsh flush. "I'll do it," he announced and strode though the crowd. "I'll do it." He snatched a bread crust from the table and put it on his head as a crown. "I'll become a padrone, a lord--just tonight."

In his determination and flare, the others took great pride and fascination--they saw in him their dreams blooming, and they chanted and cheered, following him to the baths. The young servants crowded his sides, stripped him of his dusty servant's cloak and helped him into the cold water, scrubbing him, laughing and cleaning his hair. Riccio's bread crust crown was thrown to the floor and trampled beneath their feet. The youngers spoke to him of the nobles' ways, told him how they'd watched their masters dance and dreamed of dancing, too. Riccio scrubbed himself until all the dirt was gone and his skin was clean and smooth like that of the lords.

The older servants stood back and curled their lips. Drank ale, averting their gazes. A few times their eyes would fall on the silk jerkin or the black boots, but they would quickly look away.

Lucio stood against the wall, his dark eyes full of wisdom beyond his years.

Still laughing and chattering, the younger group round Riccio helped him with the black jerkin and leggings. Riccio welcomed their help--for once it was not Riccio himself to dress another. The jerkin was slightly loose and the leggings long, but they were warm and smooth against skin accustomed to the rough cloaks of servants. Riccio shuddered and grinned.

"Take the passage to the street," Donni urged the thief. "It's the quickest route to the palace's Court of Mirrors--that's where the ball is; my mother and I are working there later…"

"You'll be a fool, Riccio," warned Lucio, his thin face shadowed by his hood. "A servant should know their place. The mark beneath your eye is proof enough of that."

Ignoring him, Riccio placed the cool porcelain mask to his face and breathed an anxious sigh. Another servant tied it behind his head and the ribbon was hidden beneath a layer of clean black hair. "Alright, then. I will return to you later."

With cheers from the youngsters and silent glares from those who sat at the tables, Riccio left for the Court of Mirrors.

Lucio crossed his arms and frowned.

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Too nervous to enter through the front doors, Riccio entered the Court of Mirrors through the side, where the servants usually came through. It was not an act of instinct--he caught sight of the guards who stood at the great wooden doors and felt fear rise up in him. Perhaps he would be recognized, perhaps the disguise was not good enough.

His arrival attracted few glances. Even if he had been noticed, Riccio would not have seen their gazes --he'd become awestruck by the lights, the crystals, the people, and the daunting amount of mirrors. For a moment he stood in the doorway, staring through the eyeholes of his mask and seeing thousands of reflections stare back. A few stretches away, the dance floor whirled to the pulse of drums and hum of violins. All around stood the mirrors and Riccio felt his sense of reality slip away--where did the dancers end, where did they begin? Gazing up at the reflective ceiling, Riccio grew dizzy watching the dancers and intoxicated by the smell of roasted boar.

He began to tip and steadied himself, shuddering and already sweaty beneath the jerkin. With a dry tongue he told himself again, "I'll do it. I'll be a lord--"

"Scusi--"

Someone plowed into him and nearly knocked Riccio back into one of the mirrors. Catching his balance, Riccio's hand flew to his face to steady the mask, and through it he regarded the one who'd run into him. It was a boy of his own height, blonde-haired with a mask of red and robes to match. The boy glanced around frantically and cried, "Ah! Forgive me. This mask is more difficult than it would appear…"

Riccio blinked. "Indeed, mine as well… I did not see you approach." The formal-sounding words felt strange on his tongue.

The stranger grinned. "Glad to take no offense. You--a noble's son, I presume? I've not met you before. Piacere." Holding out his hand, the blonde boy nodded.

There followed an awkward silence, and Riccio stared at the hand. There was a ring on every finger, each marked with… with…

The royal insignia. Riccio fell instantly to one knee, his heartbeats choking him. "Me principe! Prince Marius, forgive me! I did not--the mask, I…" He kissed the prince's fingers.

Riccio saw his eyes widen behind his mask, but all the same the prince smiled. "Well! You did not have to be so polite…"

As the prince took his hand back, the masked servant remembered with a pang that nobles--males, at least--did not have to kiss the hand of royalty. It was respect only servants were forced to pay. Riccio stumbled to apologize. "I'm, I'm…"

"Prince Marius!" The cry came from a man in white robes, bumbling his way through a crowd of nobles with drinks in their hands. "Will you not dance? Your father wishes to see you take part in the next song."

Marius lowered his gaze and nodded. "Yes, I shall. Thank you."

Riccio stood dubiously, still terrified in the prince's presence. Turning back to him, Marius asked with a polite smile, "Won't you dance? I'm not so good myself, 'tis a shame; and I won't feel like such a fool alone."

With the instinct of a servant, Riccio knew he had no business to deny the wish of a prince.

The music ceased, and in the interim of silence, he moved into the sea of people beneath the chandelier of a thousand candles. He lost sight of Marius and spun wildly. The music began on a slow note; someone took him by the arm and bowed. The violins harmonized and above the single note, one played rapidly; the drums joined, a soft thrum beneath the steadily increasing violins; Riccio's undeclared partner took his hands and he moved with her. The drums deepened and pulsed as the music's heartbeat, and the dancers swirled and the girl's arms were soft against the servant's. Chimes joined the rhythm, almost silent as the shift of blood in body; their spiraling notes made Riccio dizzy.

The girl released him and he stumbled, gasping, a misfit among those who knew the dance. He stood rooted until another dancer reached for him, and soon he found the dance's step was simple--two steps left, spin, bow, three right. Riccio felt the chimes send shivers through him. Change partners, two left, gentle spin, one, two, three…

As the dance progressed, the violins grew faster, the spins dizzying, the drums frantic, until Riccio felt he'd spin into eternity, his mind a whirl and an ecstatic grin below his mask. His steps were still awkward, but he could go with the others and not seem too terrible. Spin, release and change your partner…

The music struck a violent, final note and ceased. Riccio looked at his blonde partner and his rapid breath hitched. "My prince!"

Marius grinned. "Are you ready?"

"Ready?"

"The unmasking."

Riccio gaped. The distant sound of thunder rippled through the silent court.

"Here, here!" The king stood on a raised platform with the feast before him, to the eastern wall from the dancers. He stood with his great arms raised. "And now, as the sky darkens and night falls, the time of unmasking has come. My people, do remove your partner's mask."

"You know me," Prince Marius said quickly, and his thin hands reached to Riccio's mask. "I'll go first, then…"

No! Riccio drew back, looking for escape--they'll find out, they'll see the mark--but the dancers around blocked him and the mirrors drew the court on forever. The doors--I must escape--

Prince Marius frowned. "Come--"

All around, the dancers had removed their masks and looked around with exhilarated eyes. Their partners either laughed in recognition or introduced themselves, stuffing the masks into pockets. Soon only Riccio and the prince remained. Marius removed his own mask and reached for Riccio's once more. The servant turned away.

But the prince caught the ribbon that held the mask, and Riccio felt it slip from his nose and fall, a blur of black and white that shattered on the floor. At the crash, the servant saw the gazes of a thousand unmasked nobles fall on him, and all saw the mark beneath his eye. Riccio flailed his arms and tried to cover himself, but Marius spun him around and gripped his shoulders. "What is it, now--!"

The prince's hands recoiled in disgust as Marius, too, saw the slash of white. "You… you, famulo! Servant! Where did you…?" A shaking finger indicated the shattered mask on the floor.

"Ladrocinio! A thief!" cried one noble, looking up and down at the silk jerkin, the leggings, the boots. "A servant thief!"

Hands grabbed him from all around. Riccio cried and thrashed, but the hands tore and the voices condemned. Through the tangle of arms and faces, the servant saw the prince, lip curled back in anger and disgust. Behind him, Donni the servant dropped a plate of wines and cried, "Riccio!"

"Thief!"

"Take back what was stolen!"

Riccio's feet found the floor again and he tried to run towards the door, jerkin ripped away and leggings torn. Around him, the mirrors showed the fear in his eyes, the failure, the scratches from the nobles' nails on his now-bare shoulders. Their shouts and curses continued to pelt him from behind. Riccio covered his left eye with his hand as he ran. The mirrors drowned the exits and threw the nobles back at him behind his own reflection.

Gloves found his elbows and dragged the servant to the doors, leaving bruises on naked flesh. With a heave they threw him to the wet street where the rain continued the noble's work of pelting him. Riccio slid in the mud for at least three yards and lay there, trembling, until the shouts died to mutters and the guards clamored back to their stations.

Just as he moved to crawl away, Prince Marius' voice came from the doors: "A servant should know his place."

The music resumed. In the rain it was only a distant hum.

Riccio lay there for a long while, the remains of the noble's clothes clinging to him. He stared at his hands and ran a shaking finger along the mark beneath his eye.

Servant's scar, unremovable. A servant should know their place. Unremovable. Servant… servant….

He gave a great shudder and wept.

Around him, the youngers stared from hiding places in the bushes. There, they'd awaited Riccio's triumphant return, whispering of the dances, the music, and the food, dreaming that they were Riccio and wore the noble's mask. Now they were silent in the rain, dirty hair stuck to their foreheads. They dared not go to the broken boy in the mud. Instead they exchanged disappointed glances and shuffled back to the servants' quarters.

Lucio stood at a distance, pulling his cloak tight around him. He'd followed the youngers but stayed farther back, peering from beneath a tree. Now, with his eyes narrow and his lips pursed in grim certainty, he turned and strode away into the dark of the moonless night.

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End Note: Well, that was fun. The symbolism? Well... roughly... the mask is a symbol of wanting to be someone else. The mirrors are symbols of the fact that you can't hide from yourself, and the "know your place" thing is a moral of "be true to yourself." The servant's brand is your true self, and how it can never truly be covered...

Thank you for reading. Review?