RJ Barker on disabled characters in fantasy fiction

King Alfred the Great was afflicted by terrible stomach pains, weakness and nausea, and it’s commonly believed that, like me, he had Crohn’s disease. Alfred is said to have asked God to provide him an affliction to cure him of ‘sexual temptation.’ And though I’m not religious, I quite like the idea of a god giving me Crohn’s because I was just too sexy.

My wife, for some reason, finds this hysterically funny.

I’m lucky enough to not look like there’s anything wrong with me; there’s no immediately obvious marker that would say ‘this person is ill.’ And I’ve always thought that was fortunate[1] because it sort of allows me to forget — to pretend there is nothing wrong and just get on as well as I can. Of course, this doesn’t stop me being in pain, or getting incredibly tired or feeling nauseous constantly.

We do what we need to do to get by.

BUT. It does demonstrate a truth of being disabled (I hate that word; such an ugly word. I’m actually pretty able in a lot of ways, thanks) in that it quickly becomes normal. You create strategies to cope and work around where you are weak, and it becomes second nature. Sometimes you cannot work around yourself; sometimes things seem impossible but you keep going. There’s nothing brave about this. It is just the way things are. You have no choice.

Sometimes you cannot work around yourself; sometimes things seem impossible but you keep going. There’s nothing brave about this. It is just the way things are. You have no choice.

The protagonist of my novel Age of Assassins, Girton, is a synthesis of this, an idealised version of I-am-not-my-disability-it-is-only-part-of-me. Admittedly, I’ve left a lot out in the interest of making the book readable. The young assassin, Girton doesn’t spend a day in bed because he’s just too tired to stab someone in the face today[2] (which is the reality for many disabled people the world over; rest is a luxury and few of us realise this) but Girton remains something you don’t see that much in fantasy: a disabled lead character.

Disabled characters exist in fantasy, of course they do, but often they are peripheral characters: the crippled mage someone visits or the blind seeress[3]. Sometimes, they are characters who have been wounded, but I’d say there’s a subtle distinction there. To be wounded can be a mark of pride and a badge of heroism. The far reaching symbolism of Christ’s sacrifice infuses Western fantasy whether we want it to or not[4]. The honourable wound is not the same as the affliction of those who were born “malformed”.

We have a peculiar relationship with the disabled, historically and in myth and fantasy. Disabled people are often objects of both pity and derision. People who are seen as deserving of charity are also sometimes seen as, somehow, having brought their fates upon themselves. It is, historically, an easy thing to get lost in. Someone like Girton might not even be seen as disabled in some historical eras; ideas and social constructs change. ‘Lame’ may be very different to someone who physically couldn’t walk, and would probably elicit very little sympathy. And lame Gods are a bit of a thing — Hepheastus, Wayland and Vulcan (same myth, different peoples.) They get by.

Vulcan (Hephaestus). Engraving by E. Jeaurat, 1716

But for our purposes and in my book, I’ve used a definition of disabled that will be familiar to modern readers, and the people of the Tired Lands see disability in a way that echoes our history and religion. Magic in the Tired Lands is a baleful force that has left the land scarred and unable to produce enough food for people. Anyone suspected of being a sorcerer is taken away and bled into these scars, or sourings. So while Girton is called a cripple, he is also called ‘mage-bent’. His disability is blamed on magic and he’s seen as touched by it, someone to be avoided and someone who is unlucky to be around. In a similar way, the disabled have been blamed for their own condition in the real world — for example, in Christian tradition it was often (and especially in the case of leprosy) seen as a consequence of sexual sin, or just sin in general. In other words, if your life was awful you probably deserved it. Make no mistake either, this attitude is still alive and well in our society. The flipside of this is that it was also seen as the duty of the able-bodied to help those less well off. Charity was a Christian act and redemption was available for those who offered it.

Sadly, for Girton, the Tired Lands are not a charitable place. Nobody has enough, and they definitely aren’t sharing if they don’t have to. But that his disability is not a “heroic” one is an important point. There’s no subtle pride to Girton being club-footed, it’s something without an obvious upside for him. As well as being an assassin, Girton is also trained as a jester, the holy fool, the man allowed to tell truth to power. And he’s not the only one: Gusteffa the dwarf is also a jester. These two characters are people who are ‘different’ in a way their society is uncomfortable with, and so they are pushed to the side. There but not there. One of us but not one of us. Objects of interest, pity and revilement.

And someone save me from disabled characters who are bitter, or those that are magically “fixed” and no longer disabled. Both of these types of characters, to some degree, irritate me.

And someone save me from disabled characters who are bitter, or those that are magically “fixed” and no longer disabled. Both of these types of characters, to some degree, irritate me. One fixates on disability in a wholly negative way and the other, at best, neatly ignores disability and at worst it creates a narrative of weakness and strength that helps no one. ‘Everything was terrible and I got better. Now it’s gone and everything is wonderful.’

Girton has a club foot. It’s never going to be fixed, it could be much worse and I partly chose it because I knew it would allow me an action-based narrative (Byron fought a war and swam the Hellespont with a club foot). He works around it. He has to. It doesn’t diminish him and he doesn’t let it. Neither does he let others’ ideas of what he is stop him.

Confronting who, exactly, people think he should be becomes one of his battles in Age of Assassins; and it is the experience of disabled people everywhere every day. We don’t always win, we have bad days and good days, but in the end people are people and only want to be treated that way.

It’s important they are, that we are.

{1} I am very much a silver lining person.

{2} So many people are not-stabbed because I was a bit tired.

{3} There’s probably more to be said about the perceived link between suffering and wisdom in myth, But I’ve suffered quite a lot of pain and remain resolutely missing any wisdom so I won’t be writing it. I might just sulk in the background while someone else writes it.

{4} Okay, it’s a recurrent theme in many myths but I have limited space.