The Jungle of Hartmagoon

Some say there’s a mask made of silver, and it’s buried deep within a dark tomb. I am one to say I’ve seen it, if only in a dream. I know not the internment, of it or where, but wonder what’s so special about a polished, glinting, silver mask.

It was the mask of a king—or a queen, as some tell the tale—and it was crafted in the likeness of a god, the patron of some city deeply set within a dark green jungle called the Hartmagoon. And this city had a ruler—it had a king and a god—and this city under the towering tall trees once a moon would throw aside all its laws in a festival where men would wear the masks of spirits.

The only law was to be led by what mask was worn. Those who wished to spend the night embroiled in the carnal joys, in feasts and dance and song, would wear a sort of mask as like a fawn; a youthful horned face they would wear.

Some of a more religious bent would fashion for themselves a face to reflect the heavens—Moons and stars and suns—and in likeness of the calm motions above, would hold a patterned court, a well ordered procession through the night.

The darkened hearts had their place too in the jungle Hartmagoon, and devil’s, the face that is, would they purchase for the quickening day. No laws but to follow that spirit: So the night knew many devils and iniquities.

And one day the ruler of that city within the jungle of Hartmagoon wanted to wear a ruler’s mask. I know not why they buried that mask, or why to travelers the city cannot be found, but in my dreams I see the darkness around that silver mask within a dank tomb. I see the mask and wonder why those festivals only devil’s still remember.

If you are in the jungles of Hartmagoon, and your dreams are like mine—if you see that mask—beware.