Authors: Richard Bach
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Modern fiction, #General & Literary Fiction
Illusions (10 page)
"Don't tell me. I know how to say what I mean. Here is my question. How is it possible that you can move the illusion of a limited sense of identity,
expressed in this belief of a space-time continuum as your 'body,' through
the illusion of material restriction that is called a 'wall'?"
"Well done!" he said. "When you ask the question properly it answers itself, doesn't it:"
"No, the question hasn't answered itself. How do you walk through walls?"
"RICHARD! You had it nearly right and then blew it all to pieces! I cannot walk through walls . . . when you say that, you're assuming things I don't assume at all, and if I do assume them, the answer is, 'l can't. "'
"But it's so hard to put everything so precisely, Don. Don't you know what I mean?"
"So just because something is hard, you don't try to do it; Walking was hard at first, but you practiced at it and now you make it look easy."
I sighed. "Yeah. OK. Forget the question. "
"I'll forget it. My question is, can you?" He looked at me as though he hadn't a care in the world.
"So you're saying that body is illusion and wall is illusion but identity is real and that can't be hemmed by illusions. "
"I'm not saying that. You're saying that."
"But it's true."
"Naturally," he said.
"How do you do it ?"
"Richard, you don't do anything. You see it done already, and it is."
"Gee, that sounds easy."
"It's like walking. You wonder how it ever came hard for you to learn."
"Don walking through walls, it isn't hard for me now; it is impossible."
"Do you think that maybe if you say impossible over and over again a thousand times that things will come easy
for you?"
"I'm sorry. It is possible, and I'll do it when it is right for me to do it."
"He walks on water, folks, and he is discouraged because he doesn't walk through walls."
"But that was easy, and this . . ."
"Argue for your limitations and you get to keep them," he sang. "Did you not week ago swim in the earth itself?"
"I did that. "
"And is not wall just vertical earth? Does it matter that much to you which direction the illusion runs ? Horizontal illusions are conquerable, but vertical illusions aren't?"
"I think you're getting through to me, Don."
He looked at me and smiled. "The time I get through to you is the time to leave you alone for a while."
The last building in town was a feed and grain warehouse, a big place built of orange brick. It was almost as if he had decided to take a different way back to the airplanes, turning down some secret shortcut alley. The shortcut was t rough the brick wall. He turned abruptly to the right, into the wall, and he was gone. I think now that if I had turned- at once with him, I could have gone through it, too. But I just stopped on the sidewalk and looked at the place where he had been. When I put out my hand and touched the brick, it was solid brick.
"Some day, Donald," I said. "Some day , . ." I walked alone the long way back to the airplanes.
"Donald," I said when I got to the field, "I have come to the conclusion that you just don't live in this world."
He looked at me startled from the top of his wing, where he was learning to pour gas into the tank. "Of course not. Can you tell me one person who does ?"
"What do you mean, can I tell you one person who does. Me! I live in this world!"
"Excellent," he said, as though through independent study I had uncovered a hidden mystery. "Remind me to buy you lunch today . . . I marvel at the way you never stop learning."
I puzzled over that. He wasn't being sarcastic or ironic; he had meant just what he said. "What do you mean? Of course I live in this world. Me and about four billion other people. It's you who..."
"Oh God, Richard! You're serious! Cancel the lunch. No hamburger, no malt, no nothing at all! Here I had thought you had reached this major knowing-" He broke off and looked down on me in angry pity. "You're sure of that. You live in the same world, do you, as . . . a stockbroker, shall we say? Your life has just been all tumbled and changed, I presume, by the new SEC policy-mandatory review of portfolios with shareholder investment loss more than fifty percent? You live in the same world as a tournament chess player, do you; With the New York Open going on this week, Petrosian and Fischer and Browne in
Manhattan
for a half-million-dollar purse, what are you doing in a hayfield in
Maitland
,
"I could almost taste that hamburger, with the cheese melting . . ." I said.
"I'm sorry. I would 'have been so happy to buy. But, ah, that's over and done now, best forgotten."
Though it was the last time I accused him of not living in this world, it took me a long time to understand the words where the handbook opened:
If
you will
practice being fictional
for a while, you will understand
that fictional characters are
sometimes more real than
people with bodies
and heartbeats.
13
Your
conscience is
the measure of the
honesty of your selfishness.
Listen to it
carefully.
We are all free to do whatever we want to do," he said that night. "Isn't that simple and clean and clear? Isn't that a great way to run a universe:"
"Almost. You forgot a pretty important part," I said.
"Oh-"
"We are all free to do what we want to do as long as we don't hurt somebody else " I chided. "I know you meant that, but you ought to say what you mean."
There was a sudden shambling sound in the dark, and I looked at him quickly. "Did you hear that?"
"Yeah. Sounds like there's somebody . . ." He got up, walked into the dark. He laughed suddenly, said a name I couldn't catch. "It's OK," I heard him say. "No, we'd be glad to have you. . . no need you standing around. . . come on, you're welcome, really . . ."
The voice was heavily accented, not quite Russian, nor Czech, more Transylvanian. "Thank you. I do not wish to impose myself upon your evening.. ."
The man he brought with him to the firelight was, well, he was unusual to find in a midwest night. A small lean wolf like fellow, frightening to the eye, dressed in evening clothes, a black cape lined in red satin, he was uncomfortable in the light.
"I was passing by," he said. "The field is a shortcut to my house..."
"It is-" Shimoda did not believe the man, knew he was lying, and at the same time did all he could to keep from laughing out loud. I hoped to understand before long.
"Make yourself comfortable," I said. "Can we help you at all?" I really didn't feel that helpful, but he was so shrinking, I did want him to be at ease, if he could.
He looked on me with a desperate smile that turned me to ice. "Yes, you can help me. I
need this very much or I would not ask. May I drink your blood? Just some? It is my food, I need human blood . . ."
Maybe it was the accent, he didn't know English that well or I didn't understand his words, but I was on my feet quicker than I had been in many a month, hay flying into the fire from my quickness.
The man stepped back. I am generally harmless, but I am not a small person and I could have looked threatening. He turned his head away. "Sir, I am sorry! I am sorry! Please forget that I said anything about blood ? But you see . . ."
"What are you saying?" I was the more fierce because I was scared. "What in the hell are you saying, mister? I don't know what you are, are you some kind of VAM--?"
Shimoda cut me off before I could say the word. "Richard, our guest was talking, and you interrupted. Please go ahead sir; my friend is a little hasty."
"Donald," I said, "this guy . . ."
"Be quiet!"
That surprised me so much that I was quiet, and looked a sort of terrified question at the man, caught from his native darkness into our firelight.
"Please to understand. I did not choose to be born vampire. Is unfortunate. I do not have many friends. But I must have a certain small amount of fresh blood every night or I writhe in terrible pain, longer than that without it and I cannot live! Please, I will be deeply hurt--l will die if you do not allow me to suck your blood . . . just a small amount, more than a pint I do not need." He advanced a step toward me, licking his lips, thinking that Shimoda somehow controlled me and would make me submit.
"One more step and there will be blood, all right. Mister, you touch me and you die. . ." I wouldn't have killed him, but I did want to tie him up, at least, before we talked much more.
He must have believed me, for he stopped and sighed. He turned to Shimoda. "You have made your point?"
"I think so. Thank you."
The vampire looked up at me and smiled, completely at ease, enjoying himself hugely, an actor on stage when the show is over. "I won't drink your blood, Richard," he said in perfect friendly English, no accent at all. As I watched he faded as though he was turning out his own light . . . in five seconds he had disappeared.