"Is it always going to be like this?"
It’s been a couple of hours since you woke up. Fyodor checked on you, but withdrew and let you come find him when you were ready. You ate and sat in silence with him, until you finally felt those words sucked from you, like water by a pump.
He says, "Is what going to be like what?"
"Like walking blindfolded through a maze." That's the image that came as you reflected on your session with Margaret.
"Is true for everyone, always. Is life."
"I don't mean 'life'," you retort with some irritation. "I mean, these sessions with Margaret. I do all the talking, and she just knocks me down."
"Does teacher do math problems for student? You do them yourself!" He slaps you on the back of the head. He probably meant only to brush you, but it's like a punch. "Then you show teacher the answer, and she corrects!"
"I thought I had the right answer last time!"
"What answer?"
You hang your head. "That it's wrong to seek power."
"What? Why?"
"Because of what we talked about. Not to go for poison, remember?"
"Who says power is poison, Viliy?"
"I—"
"Hand me your glass. Oho!" he chuckles when you oblige. "Such power! Power to pass water glass! I tremble, I shake with fear!"
"That's not power!"
"No? Ask man paralyzed from neck down if power to pass water glass is not power!" He fills the glass and passes it back to you. You roll your eyes, but he continues.
"Man has power to throw rocks, very fast, very hard. Man uses power to kill wolf. Is it wrong to seek such power, in world with wolves?"
"Well, what if you want the power so you can kill someone? Not a wolf, but a—"
"Is difference in what you want power for. Power for good, power for evil." He throws his hands in the air and mutters something in Russian that sounds very sarcastic.
"Well, how do I know if I'm doing it for good or evil? I thought I was doing it for good back home, and I only made things worse! That's what I told Margaret, that I don't want any power because I'll only mess things up!"
"No power?" Fyodor asks. "Pass to me glass again."
You start to oblige, then give him a look. "I told you, that's different. I'm not talking about—"
"What kind of power you say you not want?"
"Th-the... Y’know, the power from the stars!" You hate even saying it.
"And what powers from the stars you have?"
"I... I’unno! Charles said I can hide from people in plain sight—"
"Like when hide in closet?"
"No! Like I can turn invisible. Or something."
"Is this special? Man in closet, no one sees him either."
"But that's different!"
"Man in closet do same! I do same! Watch!" He lumbers to his feet and disappears around a corner. "Is this not being not visible?" he screams. "Same as you?"
"No it's not!" you yell back. His example irritates you, but you can't help smiling a little at his antics. "I can— I don't know how I can do it!"
"Ah, so how you do it is different!" Fyodor says as he rejoins you. "But why that matters? One man, he hides in closet. Another stand behind curtains. Another go under table. You hold breath till turn blue, then invisible!" He waves his hands through the air. "All hiding, no one sees! Police come in, look around." He shades his eyes and mimes searching the room while expostulating in Russian again. "Find no one!" He gives you a look. "Why your way so special, much better?" he asks with faint contempt.
You make a face. It's like he's being purposefully dense.
"So you have unique way to hide; that is your talent. Other people do not have that talent. But they have different talent, perhaps. Maybe better." He gets up again, and paces the room, sweeping it with outstretched arms. "You invisible, but maybe police bump into you, catch you that way!" He mimes grabbing and throttling a man. "Man in closet, they not bump into, he escapes!" He shrugs. "Your way not special. Only unique."
"Exactly! My point is," you argue, though that point is like a slippery fish that keeps escaping your grasp, "that no one else can do what I can do!"
"So?"
"So—" You shrug. "I don't want that!"
"What!?" Fyodor exclaims. "You have legs, but will not run!?"
"It would be like cheating! Running in a race where I'm the only one that can run."
"Is not cheating for a man to outrun wolf who is in wheelchair!"
"Ohh!"
"You have unique talent, Viliy. Is cheating to use talent if contest is for other talents. In contest to run, is cheating to use roller skates. In contest with roller skates, is cheating to use car. But! If contest is to go fast, and that is all, well!—! Use feet, use roller skates, use reindeer and sleigh, use rocket ship! If contest is to hide, is not cheating to go into closet, or under table, or turn invisible."
"But it's different!" you insist. "The power of the stars! It's too much!"
"Is so? Time for story! You know Nikola Tesla? Brilliant man—very example of Kenandandra."
"I don't really know much about him. Wait— Was he a Stellae?"
Fyodor lays a finger alongside his nose. "So you not know Tesla. But you know Thomas Edison?"
"Of course." Your eyes pop. "Was he a Stellae too?"
Fyodor shakes his head. "No, which is the point. One has Kenandandra to guide him, and is brilliant. Such brilliance, more even than is known abroad! But Edison is brilliant too, and cunning, without Kenandandra. And which man gave us that?" He points to a socket in the wall. "Now, what is better?" Fyodor points at the roof, then at his temples. "Power of stars, or cunning?"
"I dunno," you confess.
"Trick question. None is better than other. Is like two keys! One key gold, one lead. Which one is better?"
"The lead?" you hazard, for it sounds like another trick question.
Fyodor looks disgusted. "Is whichever key turns lock! That's good for now." He stands, his knees creaking. "Time to rest and eat! Time with malen’kaya Babushka is still not over."
--
Food and rest. These consume the rest of the week, along with more conversations with Fyodor, though he shies from the philosophical talk. Instead, he tells you stories, of strange adventures by colorful people in exotic lands, like tales out of the Arabian Nights. Stories of princes making moonlit flights by horseback across silvery deserts; of aged heroes defying armies resplendent in armor and cruelly tipped spears; of wooden ships gliding through sunless caves into cathedral-like caverns domed with ice. Are these tales of Stellae, or of ordinary men accomplishing extraordinary things? He never tells. And he asks stories of you which, if his expression is any guide, he finds as fascinating as you find his.
You are more wary the next time you approach Margaret's door, for you have grown to expect correction. Have I learned anything? you ask yourself. You feel you have. But you also have the heavy sense that there is much more still to learn.
Her room is as dark and suffocating as before. You sit at her feet, and almost immediately your head bows under the weight of the room. You begin to speak almost before you know what you want to say.
Hello, Margaret. I'm here again. I'm ready to learn, ready to—
You feel squeezed, like a bellows, but without any air to push out. You fight for breath that never comes.
Please! I've made so many mistakes and I'm not done making them yet! Maybe I should say I'm here and ready to make some more?
It is just possible that, on the very edge of your imagination, you hear a tiny laugh. Whatever it was, you feel a rush of air into your lungs, and you sit up very straight.
Because that's what I'm afraid of. One of the things I'm afraid of. Making mistakes. And I'm afraid of my ... talents, my ... prodigies ... because I'm afraid of making a mistake with them. Afraid I'll always make mistakes. That I'll—
A sudden nausea, a sense of vertigo, almost overwhelm you. It's like a vacuum has opened up beside you, and tried pulling you in. You put out a hand to catch yourself from falling over, and discover to your amazement that the bricks of the fireplace are freezing to the touch. But the shock rouses you, and you right yourself. And in that moment when you felt yourself falling into an abyss, you find more words.
And I'm afraid of my own pride.
You are silent for what seems a very long time as you digest that confession. It sounds like one you've already made, but subtly different.
I thought magic would make me special. I thought it was different and would make me different. Then I was scared of what I would do if I was different. But I'm not different, I'm— Again you feel yourself pushed, but this time it's like you are lifted by a great hand and set down gently in a new place. I'm only unique!
The words make you want to laugh for pleasure. Now you know what Fyodor meant: I am unique! Just like everyone else!
But I mustn't be afraid of my uniqueness. I mustn't be afraid of my mistakes.
Except I am.
There's no pressure now. Only silence.
Blackwell!
That was a mistake, everything to do with him was a mistake, and how will you fix it? He's like the monster in a labyrinth of infinite extent without walls, a spot of darkness in a world as black as a coal sack. Oh, but you'll sweep and sweep and— I'll find you, Blackwell!, I'll make you pay! You will pay!
You stare, and blink, for the room is now as dark as the world you were imagining. There is no sound, and even the heat of the fire is gone.
You wonder, in dread, if you shouted that promise aloud.
As if in answer, a small, still voice asks you:
"How?"
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