The first time I saw the man with no face, I was sad. I had run to the mountains because there was no comfort for me in the village, and anyway, I do not make free gifts of my feelings.

I came upon him from the side. Years of practice taught me to walk almost silently in these mountains, but I think he knew that I was there. He sat against a rock, looking down at the village, and I sat too. I don’t know why, except that he was faceless.

I know now and I knew then that it is not a human ability to be alive and faceless. So sensibly I knew there must be a face behind the hanging rags, but I chose not to think of it because the idea of being faceless appealed to me that day.

Though he had no face, he had a voice. It was not a voice like any I had ever heard. He spoke the same language I heard every day in the village, but he sounded nothing like the men there.

“Where do you come from?” he asked me.

I pointed to the village and returned the question. He did not reply.

I was not surprised; the men who came to the village only spoke of their past once, and only to one man. My father did not allow them to live without knowing where they came from. I told the faceless man this, because his voice was not harsh when he asked where I came from. I told him too how sometimes there was a gunshot from within my father’s cave and the next morning there was another shallow grave on the south side of the village.

He listened without speaking or turning his faceless head away from the village. When I fell silent, he breathed with me for a long time.

“Your father is in charge?” he asked, when the silence had stretched so far that my thoughts had escaped that valley.

“Yes,” I said. 

He said no more, and when the sun shone in my eyes, I left.

~

The second time I saw the man with no face, I was angry. It had been a bad day in the village, but most days were bad there. I saw him before I reached him, but I ran past him anyway. When I walked back, his head had turned and I thought he was looking at me.

“Where are you going?” he asked me.

“Nowhere,” I said, and sat next to him.

He kept his faceless head turned towards me.

There was nowhere I could go. If I stayed away long enough to be missed, I would be punished when I went back. And if I did not return, they would find me and probably kill me. I told the faceless man this, because his head was still turned to me. And I told him too about the girl who ran away and whose body they buried that night in the shallow graveyard.

He listened until I said no more, and then he asked, “But he is your father; surely he would not kill you?”

“He would,” I said.

“Is your father not good to you?” he asked.

“No,” I said.

He said no more, and when I saw women in the village making the noon meal, I left.

~

The third time I saw the man with no face, I was happy. A girl who has only seen thirteen years is sometimes happy even when she has no reason to be.

I was looking for him that day, but I would not have been disappointed if I had not found him. When I am happy, I need nothing.

I did not find him; I think he found me. He was hard to see when he did not move. But I sat next to him like before and he did not turn his head for me.

“Where would you like to go?” he asked me.

I pointed to the northwest. I liked that direction because the mountains are tallest there. I thought maybe if I was on the other side, my father would not be able to see me. I told the faceless man this, and I told him too that I had at first thought he was coming to join the village like so many other men and when he had not come into the village I thought he was in the valley for a much less friendly reason. Maybe I should have told my father about seeing him then, but I was not so friendly to my father either.

He listened to me say all these things, and then he asked, “Where is your mother?”

“I have no mother,” I said.

“Never?” he asked.

“No,” I said.

He said no more, and when my happiness leaked away, I left.

~

The fourth time I saw the man with no face, I was angry. I ran that way because I meant to find him somewhere there, and I did. When I sat next to him I was breathing hard and my hand was bleeding where I had fallen.

“Is something wrong?” he asked me.

Something was always wrong in the village of my father, because nothing was ever right. My father was always angry, and the men who followed him were like him except when they were with him. I told the faceless man this, and I told him too that my father only ever looked at me to tell me that he hated me because I was not a son. But I was glad I was not a son. I hated the men in the village even worse than the women, who were all so afraid of my father that they would not speak to me.

He listened to me and when I stopped talking, he leaned towards me and touched my cheek carefully with his gloved hand. I knew why. There were no mirrors in my tent, but I had seen the result of my father’s angry hands on other parts of my body.

“Did your father do this?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

He said no more, and when the blood on my hand was dry I left.

~

The last time I saw the man with no face, I was sad. I hated my father but I would have killed to have him give me the smile I had seen on his face when that boy had come into the village.

The man with no face was sitting against the rock, but he did not seem to be looking down at the village today. I sat next to him and breathed until I was not crying.

“Do you want to leave?” he asked me.

Leaving was what I dreamed about. I did not know anything about the world beyond the mountains, but to be worse than the world inside the mountains it would have to kill me. Today, I thought that would be better. I told the faceless man this, because he was the only person who had ever listened to me. And I told him too about the only person I knew who had left the valley without being killed for it; the boy who had returned today. He was the son of my father’s brother, but he had not left with my father’s permission. I was four years old when he left because he and my father quarreled. I had never forgotten him because anyone who was foolish enough to mention him in my father’s presence paid with their life. I did not know why the young man had come back, but I had seen the first moment of unguarded joy on my father’s face before he had put on his stern mask. It was an expression my father never had and never would wear for me.

He listened to me until my tears took over my voice, and then he asked, “Would you trust me to take you away from here?”

I looked at him but I could only nod. I did not believe him, but still I nodded.

“Are you ready to leave now?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

He said no more, and when I stopped crying, we left.