Legacy of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [7]
Mosiah shrugged. “The ‘ologists’ were kind and they tried to understand, but it was beyond their capacity to do so. Such an alien existence to them! When they looked at a young woman of twenty, to all appearances healthy and normal—by their standards—who did nothing all day but lie in bed, they could not understand what was wrong with her. When they were told that she was lying in bed because she was accustomed to floating through the air on wings of magic, that she had never walked a step in her life and had no idea how to walk, nor any inclination to do so, now that her magic was gone, they could not believe it.
“Oh, yes, I know that they appeared to accept it on the surface. All their medical tests confirmed the fact that the girl had never walked. But deep inside, in the inner core of their being, they did not believe. It is like asking them to believe in the faeries of which you wrote in your book, Reuven.
“Do you talk to your neighbors of your visit to the faeries, Father? Have you told the woman who lives next door, who is a secretary for a real-estate broker, that you were nearly seduced by the faerie queen?”
Saryon’s face was exceedingly red. He stared down at the sheets, absently brushed away a few biscuit crumbs. “Of course not. It wouldn’t be fair of me to expect her to understand. Her world is so ... dissimilar. . . .”
“Your books.” Mosiah’s penetrating gaze shifted to me. “People read them and enjoy them. But they don’t believe the stories, do they? They don’t believe that such a world ever existed or that such a person as Joram ever lived. I have even heard it suggested that you pretend to have this affliction of yours to avoid interviews, because you are afraid that you would be revealed as a fraud and a fake.”
Saryon glanced anxiously at me, for he was not aware that I had heard these accusations. He had gone to great lengths to spare me. I therefore took care to indicate that they caused me no concern, which, in truth, they did not, for so long as my work pleased one man, and that my master, I cared nothing for what others thought.
“And herein was created a strange dichotomy,” said Mosiah. “They do not believe us, they do not understand us, and yet they are afraid of us. They are afraid that we will regain powers they do not believe we possessed in the first place. They try to prove to themselves and to us that such power never existed. What they fear, they destroy. Or try to.”
An uncomfortable silence fell between us. Saryon blinked and attempted to stifle a yawn.
“It is your normal time to retire,” Mosiah said, suddenly coming back to the present. “Do so. Keep to your routine.”
It was my custom to bid my master good night and go to my room, to spend some time writing before I, too, went to bed. I did so, going upstairs and turning on the light. Then I crept back down the stairs in the darkness. Mosiah did not look particularly pleased to see me, but I think he knew that nothing short of my death would keep me from my master’s side.
Saryon’s room was now dark. We sat in the darkness, which was not, after all, very dark, due a street lamp right outside the window. Mosiah drew his chair closer to Saryon’s bed. The CD player remained on, for it was Saryon’s habit to fall asleep to music. It was much past his usual hour for retiring, but he stubbornly refused to admit he was tired. Curiosity kept him awake and fighting his body’s need for rest. I know because I felt the same.
“Forgive me, Father,” said Mosiah at last. “I did not mean to be drawn down that old road, which, in truth, has long been overgrown with weeds and now leads nowhere. Twenty years have passed. That young girl of twenty is now a matron of forty. She learned to walk, learned to do for herself what had previously been done for her by magic. She learned to live in this world. Perhaps she has even come