Chapter #11The Will and the Way by: Nostrum   You wake with a snap, sweating profusely. You are shaking, and your heart is pounding like an out-of-control engine. But Fyodor is holding you, embracing you tightly, and murmuring over you in a soothing voice.
"Shh, calm down, calm down, is alright now." He cradles you in his massive arms, and squeezes and strokes you. "Everybody faints first time they meet malen’kaya Babushka. Is no cause for concern."
But you are still trembling. "I shouldn’t’ve come here," you whimper. "This is all wrong."
"What is wrong?"
"Everything. I don't belong here. I’m a nobody."
"Everybody is somebody."
You do feel your body relaxing as he comforts you, but your spirit is no less untroubled.
"No. I ruined everything. It's all my fault." You swallow, and bury your face in he shoulder. "I don’t deserve being one of you."
There's a rumble in his chest, and you realize he's chuckling. "I would say, that makes you qualified!"
"How!? That book, it corrupted me!"
"It tempted you," he corrects. "Everyone is tempted, and not by things like silly book. Your brother is tempted, I am tempted. Old friend Charles is tempted. Even pretty girls at school are tempted." He chuckles again. "Nothing wrong with being tempted. That is what something does to you. What matters is what you do then!"
"But I did bad things with it! I wanted to do bad things!"
"Everyone does bad things, sometimes. And are you sure you wanted to do bad things? Or did you want to do things that now you think are bad?"
"What's the difference?"
"Oh, is big difference! Is difference between wanting to eat poison, and finding out after that poison is what you ate!"
"But I wanted the book's power for myself."
"Everyone wants power. Is what 'wanting' means. When you want food, is because you know power of food will make hunger go away. Wanting food is not bad. Wanting poison is. What you need, little zaychik, is to learn what is poison and what is food."
"How do I do that?"
He claps you hard on the back. "Only way is to live!" he roars. "And go to school! Learn from those who know better than you already! Now!" He drops you with a jolt to the floor and beams into your face. "Speaking of food, I prepare you big, hearty meal—you will feel good and refreshed! You need recover strength for next time you speak with malen’kaya Babushka."
You can't help shivering. You don’t want that to happen ever again.
--
But Fyodor gives you more time to recover—three full days—than you feared you would get. Still, the thought of stepping into that parlor again preys upon you. "Uncle Fyodor," you ask one the third morning, "did you go through all that too?"
The gleam in his eye doesn't disappear, but his expression turns grave. "Oh yes," he says in a near whisper. "Everyone does." He must have read the question in your face, for he adds, "It made me feel—" He searches for a word. "Puny."
You hang your head. "It made me feel like I'm the worst."
"So it was guilt you felt? Yes, the little mother, she squeezes from you"—he closes his fist as though crushing something soft and squishy in it—"that thing in your heart that makes you sick. For me, it was fear of being weak, not strong to help and save comrades! Come, Viliy," he says, "what have you to feel guilty about?"
You wince. "Sins."
"Is like saying you have boogers in nose. Everyone has those! Come now, tell me your story."
Does he really not know it? you wonder. Wouldn't Charles have called ahead, to tell him? You loathe the idea of telling it all again.
You are in the dining room, but you rise when Fyodor gestures you to follow, and he leads you down a cramped hall to a sitting room on the side of the house nearly opposite to Margaret Dillon's parlor. It is a room with a lighter feel, with morning sunlight pouring through white, lacy curtains, and an airy spaciousness. Compared to the dark, stifling heat of the rest of the house, the bright air is positively crisp and Alpine. Fyodor pushes you gently onto a short, cushioned divan while he lowers himself with a grumble into an immense rocking chair. He smiles at you quizzically through his beard. And though he says nothing, you find yourself beginning your story, and you find it easier and easier to relate it as you go along.
He is an attentive, almost hungry, listener, and his expression grows more and more rapt, even excited, as you progress. He interrupts every now and then with a question or a comment. There is never any condemnation, either in his words or his manner, only a kind of fascination. And it's not until much later you notice that, when he does comment, it's not to query something that "you" did, but what "he"—the boy to whom all this was happening—did or thought, as though he was listening to someone's story that you only happen to be relating.
So when you say, "I showed it to my dad," he says "Ah, so he trusted his papa! Most interesting, and most unusual for stories of this kind!" and when you say, "I wanted to learn more about the book," he says, "Ah, he is inquisitive, this one. A commendable trait, when it leads to wisdom!"
When you finish, he strikes his thigh and smacks his lips with relish.
"Most excellent! Boy noses for arcane lore, finds deep and troublesome magics, loses way in cunning labyrinth raised by minds ancient and inscrutable for enigmatic purposes! But boy has courage! Cures young hero of terrible curse, rescues fair maid, hurls himself into battle with loathsome villain! But oh!" He strikes his chest, and his head sinks with an expression of pain. "Such tragic, tragic twist in middle of tale," he murmurs.
This exclamation bewilders you. Oh, you can see how his summary—though florid—describes your adventure. But did he really listen? You didn't "cure" Taylor of anything you just ... Well, you did help him get that mask off. And you didn't rescue Lucy, you ... Okay, you did help Taylor with that. And as for "hurling yourself into a battle" with the professor ... Sure, you did try to fight him. But it was all messy and bloody and confused, and nine-tenths of the time you didn't know what you were doing or were paying attention to something else.
But the part that really confuses you: "What do you mean 'the middle of the tale'?" you ask. "That's all of it, that's the end."
Fyodor raises his head, and his mouth opens very wide, showing huge, terrible teeth. Slowly he raises himself to his feet, so that he towers over you, and you can't help shrinking. Then he grabs you about the shoulder, wheels you around and points out the window.
"What you mean, is the end?" he roars. "Is you not going to go on?"
--
That evening, Fyodor leads you again to Margaret's door. The atmosphere inside is still hot and oppressive, and the ceiling seems to press down upon you. But you feel strangely alert, and when you try to straighten your shoulders and raise your head, you find it surprisingly easy. You approach her chair, then drop to her feet and sit cross-legged. You blink, searching for the words to begin, and find them almost immediately.
I was a fool, you tell her.
I thought I was the worst because I led the professor to that book. Because I was jealous of the only people that treated me as friends when I lost everything. Because I thought I would be worth something only with the power of that book.
But I wasn't the worst. I was just a fool. Which is bad enough, but—
You think you see the old woman make the tiniest gesture, and you pull back, with the sensation that you've just narrowly dodged stepping into an abyss.
I was a fool, you continue.
I wanted power. For myself. Because I was— No. Because I thought I was nothing without it.
I thought I had nothing. I thought I didn't have my father's pride or my brother's respect. I thought I had no one's respect. I thought they would respect me, have pride in me, if I had power.
But I was looking for a power outside of myself. And if I got it, they wouldn't respect me. They'd only respect that power.
Your eyes go wide.
Just like I don't respect the professor. I only respect, and hate, his power.
You feel a tremble in your shoulders. You thought you were strong enough to bear the weight inside that room, and you were, for a little while. But it will never go away, you realize, and all you can do is try be stronger for longer each time you put yourself under it. You feel that your time now, for this session, coming to a close. But there is still more to be said. As Fyodor said, you feel it being squeezed out of you.
I still want their respect. But If I'm going to win it, I have to do it with what I've got, not with something I take. It will have to be me, just me and not some power—
The sudden onset of weight is so crushing that for a moment you think Fyodor has entered the room and sat upon your shoulders. You gasp and grit your teeth.
Some power— The power— The stars—! You are being bent double, like an immense hand pushing your face toward your feet. The power they—!
"I don't want it!" you scream. "Not for that! Not even for that! I will do it myself, for Robert, for my dad and my mom, but with my own hands! I would forswear—! I will forswear—! I do forswear—!"
You faint. You have the following choice: 1. Continue |
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