The Mask of Charity

Down a grey cobbled street, a cane clacked along the uneven stones. The sharp smack of solid wood was soon joined by footsteps, at first only a few, but soon spread across what must have been a dozen pairs of fine leather boots. Merchants who had busied themselves with commerce and cleaning gradually looked down the road, and one by one they, their customers, their children moved out into the open and knelt in increasing numbers. Even the animals seemed to prostrate themselves before this approaching retinue, and for good reason.

Murmurs rippled across the reverent menagerie, a discombobulated din save for a single name on the tip of every covered tongue.

“It’s him! The Baron of Masks!”

“The Baron of Masks approaches!”

“There, the Baron of Masks is here!”

For there he strode, ever magnificent and magnanimous, flanked by opulent compatriots and honorable squires who talked amongst themselves in their own hushed and hurried tones. They eyed the crowd, ever wary to the slightest movements, perhaps overly cautious from all the attention they drew and the sense of vulnerability that came with it.

Yet the Baron walked confidently, self-assured as though nothing, no man nor beast in this world, would harm him. Every step arrived with a clack of the cane and a unified bounce between the ruffles of his jabot and puffed sleeves. A majestic outfit, to be sure. And if one were to only look closer, they might see that the jabot and the puffs of his sleeves were in truth masks, dozens upon dozens of them intricately layered and sewn together. Breathtakingly detailed, true to his name, yes. What an absolute Chad.

Suddenly, a man stumbled out into the street before him and his entourage. Startled, they all seemed to be taken aback. That is, all of them except the Baron.

The man, an unmasked beggar, regained his footing for a brief moment before falling to his hands and knees. Scrabbling across the harsh stones, he approached the Baron with teary eyes.

“Please, sir Baron,” he wept openly, “I haven’t a mask to me name. Not for days has my face known its sweet caress and comfort. I am a pariah among our people for this, and I fear that soon I may be driven from this land I call my home.”

The crowd and the Baron’s entourage began to whisper many things amongst themselves. The unmasked man blinked the tears from his eyes and looked back and forth at the mass of people who no doubt gossiped about him in his very presence. He began to mouth the words, "Please, please,” only a croak of them making it past his lips.

Then, all was quiet, for the Baron had raised a patient hand, silencing all who beheld it. Walking ahead of his retinue, he gazed down at the beggar who’d pleaded, eyes still wet, and with one elegant motion plucked a single fine mask from his shoulder.

And lo, as he knelt down and offered him this mask, the Baron said, “No man deserves to go unmasked in this world.”