Free Illusions by Richard Bach Page B

you doing in a hayfield in Maitland ,
Ohio
? You with your 1929 Fleet biplane landed on a farm field, with your major life priorities farmers' permission, people who want ten-minute airplane rides, Kinner aircraft engine maintenance and mortal fear of hailstorms . . . how many people do you think live in your world: You say four billion people live in your world? Are you standing way down there on the ground and telling me that four billion people do not live in four billion separate worlds, are you going to put that across on me ?" He panted from his fast talking.
                 "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.