Magical Cures, Ableism, and Disability in Fantasy
By: Ally Hendricks
Content Warnings: this article talks at length about ableism, briefly mentions an abusive parent, and briefly mentions a nondescript suicidal action. You are not alone, and if you need it, you can find a list of international helplines here.
When an author makes a new world, there are limitless possibilities. New worlds open up the opportunity for new species and creatures, magic use, advanced technology, and so much more. In these worlds, healing comes in many forms. A touch from a merperson, teas and tonics, salves, spells, deathmagic, and cryostasis chambers are all ways I’ve seen healing show up in books just this year. Healing wounds is one way that authors can get creative and show readers just how magical and unique their world is. But sometimes they get too ambitious, magically curing physical disabilities and perpetuating ableist beliefs.
The Magical Cure Trope
What happens when a character in a book gets magically cured of blindness, paralysis, chronic pain, facial differences, or limb differences? This trope has many different names: miracle cures, magical healing, or magical cures. The magical cure trope happens when a physically disabled character in a book gets cured of their disability, or uses magic that negates their disability entirely. Some representations of this trope are a character going on a quest to cure themselves, a wish for a cure being granted by a deity or magical being, or a character being healed as a recognition of “goodness” or hard work.
Instances of magical cures can be found all across fantasy. In the original telling of Rapunzel, the evil sorceress blinds the prince just for Rapunzel to heal his disability with two of her tears. In The Secret Garden, a wheelchair user regains his strength and ability to walk from the magic of the garden and the comfort of his friends. More current examples can be found in The Witcher by Andrzej Sapkowski, Sarah J. Maas’ Tower of Dawn, and Graceling by Kristin Cashore.
In both the book and television adaptation of The Witcher, the character Yennefer goes through a magical cure. Described as ugly and having a hunchback, Yennefer’s physical disability is as a curse in the eyes of her father, who is physically violent towards her. When Yennefer attends the Aretuza school for sorceresses, she attempts her own life. Even though her physical and mental disabilities are viewed as weaknesses by the school, her teacher claims that since Yennefer’s magic has great potential, her training will continue. For some reason, the tradition of becoming a sorceress involves removing any physical flaw with magic, and Yennefer loses her physical disability, becoming conventionally attractive and ready for her life of power.
In The Tower of Dawn by Sarah J. Maas, the character Chaol’s spine is shattered by an evil and powerful king. Chaol’s paralyzation and use of a wheelchair fills him with anger and grief. Healers try to cure his disability, but an evil Valg possession is keeping him from being healed. Eventually, healer Yrene discovers that the goddess Silba’s magic can heal Valg parasites, and that the Valg thrive on anger, hatred, and fear. To heal Chaol, Yrene chooses to forgive the soldiers who committed atrocities to her family, and instructs Chaol to rid himself of self-loathing and anger. After he does so, he is fully healed. Later his injuries return from another “blast of darkness,” and in order to save Chaol, Yrene binds her life to his. As a result he is alive, and can walk while her power is at her fullest. When it is not full, he must use a cane or wheelchair.
Kristin Cashore’s Graceling series features main character Po, who becomes blind near the end of the first book. But because his Grace is a strong ability to sense the movements of objects and people around him, he is able to use his magic to negate his disability.
The Ableism Behind Magical Cures
To an able-bodied person, being cured of paralysis, physical deformities, or vision loss might seem like a positive. But besides erasing the representation that disabled people deserve to see in books, there are other reasons why magical cures encourage ableism. As Bertie from Luminosity Library blog articulates, “The miracle cure is based on the idea that disabled people are inferior, are unable to live fulfilling lives, and the only positive outcome of their existence is if they are cured.”
Think back to the examples above. Yennefer’s physical disabilities were associated with a time in her life where she was abused and suicidal. Only once she is cured of her disability can she be viewed as a powerful sorceress and complete her training. Her disability becomes a tragic backstory, giving readers the idea that one needs to be conventionally beautiful and able-bodied to achieve power.
In Maas’ story, the ableism continues as Chaol believes that his cure will come with healing his anger and grief, as if to become able-bodied he must first be a “good” person. Maas could have presented this story in a completely different way, showing readers that even when becoming disabled you can live a fulfilling and happy life, but chose to hammer in the message that Chaol’s disability is just an obstacle to overcome. On top of that, she inserts the message that you cannot be disabled and “good.” Even at the end of the book, his support needs are directly tied to a person’s magic, with his ability to (sometimes) walk given as a gift from Yrene’s ancestors. To Maas, it was not enough to simply let Yrene and her ancestors save Chaol from death; she had to write away part of his disability once more.
Furthermore, in both Yennefer and Chaol’s cases, the character’s mental illnesses are viewed as weaknesses. Yennefer’s sorceress schooling almost halts when she becomes suicidal, but is allowed to continue only because her powers have potential. Many disabled people experience anger and grief tied to their disabilities, and in the instance of Chaol, he must shed those emotions if he wants to be cured. Both of these stories promote beliefs that you cannot be angry, grieving, or mentally ill to be a “good” person. Not only is this ableism towards people with mental disabilities, it diminishes the real-life emotions of disabled people living in an able-bodied society as if they are only allowed to be emotionally complacent.
Kristin Cashore has responded to the criticism surrounding Graceling, and tried to fix some of her mistakes in the second book of the series by showing that Po cannot see color, can’t read or write, and objects like the sun or moon are too far away for him to sense. But regardless of her conscious choices in Book Two, the worldbuilding and character development she had already written makes it hard for the series to ever be quality positive blind representation.
In viewing disability as something to fix, or to overcome to achieve happiness, there is the quiet assumption that disabled people lead lesser lives, a judgement of disabled people that is both discriminatory and ableist. There is also a lack of accommodations in stories with magical cures, once again, honing in on the message that instead of social and physical environments being changed, it is the disabled person themself that needs to be “fixed.” These stories tell us that you cannot be powerful and physically disabled. You cannot be “good” and be disabled. You cannot live life fully and be disabled. And let me be absolutely clear: all of those messages are incorrect, cruel, and ableist.
Doing Disability Rep Right
I’ve mentioned stories where disability representation and the trope of a magical cure is harmful and ableist. Now what about stories that provide quality rep without the trope? Four of my recent reads pop into my mind.
In These Vengeful Gods by Gabe Cole Novoa, the main character Crow (he/they) is a child of Death. Crow can use their deathmagic to alter their body; heal his wounds from ring fighting, give himself top surgery, and even alter the levels of testosterone in their body. But his magic only goes so far when healing side effects from their autoimmune disorder. As Crow puts it, “I can temporarily ease the pain when it comes, but as much as I wish otherwise, I can’t make my immune system stop creating the problem to begin with.”
This way of using magic alongside chronic pain and disability seems to be a common thread between books. Earlier this year, I beta read J. A. Collignon’s upcoming release, A Favored Fey (releasing August 14th). Meri (she/her) is fey, a magic wielder, and Arrowmount’s Keeper of the Lines. She’s also disabled: a leg injury from her past never healing, causing her chronic pain. Just like Crow, Meri acknowledges the limitations of her healing magic. “Some pain, some maladies, were never going to be cured by magic, and that was the way life was.”
This way of using magic alongside chronic pain and disability seems to be a common thread between books. Earlier this year, I beta read J. A. Collignon’s upcoming release, A Favored Fey (releasing August 14th). Meri (she/her) is fey, a magic wielder, and Arrowmount’s Keeper of the Lines. She’s also disabled: a leg injury from her past never healing, causing her chronic pain. Just like Crow, Meri acknowledges the limitations of her healing magic. “Some pain, some maladies, were never going to be cured by magic, and that was the way life was.”
In When the Tides Held the Moon by Venessa Vida Kelley, main character Benny (he/him) has asthma. At the beginning of the story, a burn on Benny’s hand is healed by the touch of a mermaid, but the healing doesn’t fix his respiratory system. Instead, merman Rio helps Benny through an asthma attack with guided deep breaths—not magic.
In Tempest, Take Me Home by Charlie Knight, Max (he/him) is a wheelchair user and magical map maker. When it is evident that Max will need to join the crew of Tempest to help his longtime partner Eli on an adventure, they change the ship itself to become wheelchair accessible.
In all of these stories, the disabled characters find accommodations. Crow uses wrappings that help dull the pain, even if they don’t take it away. Meri uses a mobility aid on her higher pain days, and turns to teas and tonics to try and ease other discomforts that arise. Benny’s use of breathing exercises is a very real-life way of improving asthma attacks. Tempest is outfitted to be accessible for Max’s wheelchair, and if you’re looking for quality spicy scenes that include a wheelchair user, I highly recommend you check the book out. These stories of heroism, love, loss, and adventure don’t center physical disability as a problem needing fixing, but just simply a part of who these characters are. Their happy endings, love lifes, and adventures don’t hinge on their disability being cured.
Readin’ for the Future
In comparing the books that use the magical cure trope with the four books I’ve read recently, it is easy for me to see when authors portray disability through an ableist view, and when authors portray disability with love and care. After all, most of the authors I feel have shown positive disability representation have experience to back up their portrayals: Novoa has rheumatoid arthritis, Collignon experienced chronic migraines as a child, Vida Kelley has asthma, and Knight is a wheelchair user.
These four books don’t lend themselves to the trope of the magical cure, showing readers that disability in fantasy can be represented, celebrated, and full of love. Of course, the magical cure trope is not the only ableist trope shown in media, but I hope that the next time you encounter disability representation on the page you’ll be able to identify if the book uses the magical cure trope, and examine what messaging the author is sending to readers about disabled people.
There are so many wonderful depictions of disability in fantasy books out in the world, and I encourage all readers to seek out both physical and mental disability representation in books. Share your recommendations, highlight disabled authors and main characters, encourage conversations surrounding disability in books, and happy Readin’!
