Masks

"It's a mask," Captain Sullivan was saying. Ensign Smith blinked back the sleep that was about to overtake him. He looked at his captain and nodded, making the appropriate sounds of interest. Sullivan had been talking for hours, or so it seemed. The young officer had tried to be interested, but found that his captain's "little treasures from these godforsaken islands" was a tad boring.

"I got it from some natives where we landed for fresh water and supplies a few months back." Sullivan offered Calvin Smith the wooden carving for his perusal. "Don't you think it looks a might devilish?"

"Yes, sir," Smith replied, attempting to show enthusiasm. "I can see it." He moved his fingers over the sides of the wood, hoping like mad not to get a splinter. "Right here in the ears."

"That's not the ears, you idiot," Michael Sullivan rebuked the junior officer. "That's representative of some kind of war paint. These natives were most barbaric, you know." Sullivan smirked. "Had to quell them a bit when we took some of their fruits. Nasty little beasts, they were."

There was a soft rapping on the door.

Salvation, Smith sighed to himself.

"Come," Captain Sullivan called, taking the mask from the younger man and placing it gingerly on the railed shelf behind him.

"Begging your captain's pardon," the sailor spoke quietly, for fear of bringing down the wrath of the H.M.S. Southampton's senior officer. "I have a report from Mister Johnson, sir."

"Out with it man," Sullivan said, agitated that his the lecture on his small trove had been interrupted.

"Yes, sir," the man said in apology. "Mister Johnson says that all hands have been accounted for, captain."

"Jolly good," the captain said. "Then lets pull up anchor and be. . ."

"All except one. Mister Underhill, sir," the seaman said.

Sullivan looked perplexed for a moment. Then he moved into action.

"Heavens, man, why didn't you say so right off." The captain headed out the cabin door, brushing past the man who tried in vain to get out of the way quickly. "Tell Mister Howard and Mister Johnson to gather a search party. Can't have any of the Southampton's crew left behind on these miserable little islands. Wouldn't look proper." Sullivan headed for the poop deck.

Smith got up and quickly followed his captain. He prayed for the soul of the missing man. If he was truly in trouble they'd find him and be off; all would be well. If he had dallied, however, Smith knew there would be hell to pay. He remembered the captain's mask and shuddered. He realized he had missed a significant similarity when perfunctorily eyeing the piece. Sometimes Sullivan looked a bit like that native wood craft he admired so. Lots of detail carved precisely, but nothing deeper beyond the surface.