Sleep Journal - 190112 - Fairge Anma

[kimurho]

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Sleep Journal
12 January 2019

After leaving the Psychology Building so abruptly, I found myself on the grounds of St. Brigid's Church, some distance from University.

Holy ground.

It's where I go when I feel threatened. Or worried. Or afraid.

It's where I feel safe.

I don't have many friends ...

I don't have any friends here in the World. It wouldn't be safe - not for them and decidely not for me. So when I'm troubled, I come here and I lay all my problems at the feet of Naomh Bríd, St. Brigid.

There's a statue of her in the meditation garden. With a convenient bench beside her.

She stands there, strong and determined, as befits one who escaped slavery and made her own way in the world, free and unbound by chains or fear.

Her early servitude rendered her barren; her master raped her of her powers, using them for his own.

When she slipped loose the bonds of servitude, she dedicated herself to God, taking the veil of holiness and, incidentally, putting herself forever out of reach of her former master. She rose to prominence as bishop and abbess of the conhospice associated with the Church of the Oaks - Cill Dara.

When I managed my own escape from the one who held me, I considered following in her footsteps exactly. With the power of the Church covering me, he would never find me. And if he did, he could never take me back.

The worse he could do is kill me.

But the Church here in the World is not the Church I know. They profess as items of faith many things that I find repugnant ... and contrary to the teachings of Christ and of St. Padraig.

All the priests here are men; women of the faith are naught more than handservants, doing the will of their male masters without any ...

I did not run away from what was simply to voluntarily surrender myself into servitude once again.

I had to find my own way.

In spite of the differences between this Church and the one back home, God's blessing sanctifies this space and Brigid's presence comforts me. In the World, she is reduced by history into a mere abbess, subservient to her co-bishop, but she and I know the truth. I come here to talk to her, in the person of the statue standing amid flowering plants.

Sometimes, if I listen hard enough, long enough, I can catch the whisper of her voice, answering me. When I do, I remember who I am.

Sarah Nic Rath, daughter of luck.

That day when I fled the Parapsych office, after finding how Craig had deceived me, I took counsel with St. Brigid.

I felt sick at heart. Shaken to the very core of my being. And physically nauseated.

I had almost fallen victim to another such as he, the one from whom I fled. Not that Craig ... Dr. Stevenson resembled him in any physical way.

He was tall and beautiful, like all of his kind. With long hair, never cut. Always in control. Always sure and confident.

Craig was funny, and awkward, and so very very human. While he wouldn't start babies crying, he wasn't particularly good-looking either. Attractive does not mean handsome. Craig was undoubtedly attractive, but not necessarily handsome.

Dr. Stevenson. Not Craig.

I wondered if the man I knew of as Craig really existed. Or was he a phantasm, created for a purpose to draw me in?

I caught the echo of Brigid's voice, then, chastising me for that thought. Reluctantly, and provisionally, I absolved Dr. Stevenson of deliberate chicanery.

Even so, I did not wish to associate with him further. Deliberately false or not, he had misled me. He had made a fool of me - or, at best, allowed me to fool myself. I did not want ...

I could stop going to class. Take a failing grade.

My pride did not accept that suggestion.

I could continue to go and simply ignore him. I could but it would be difficult.

It would be much easier if he didn't see me. If he couldn't see me.

There was the Fàeth-fiada, the spell that could render one invisible. That was a major working. What good would it do to hide myself from the like of Cra... Dr. Stevenson if I revealed myself to him?

St. Brigid whispered in my head.

I didn't need to be invisible. I didn't want to be invisible. Invisibility would be most inconvenient. What I wanted was to be unrecognized, and that was a simple charm.

Seuna flò, charm of bewilderment.

I smiled at the thought. With a charm of bewilderment on my person, I would not be recognized by any who saw me. They would simply dismiss the recognition, thinking that my features were not those that they remembered. It was an easy thing. Granny magic.

Basic knot-work, ob-snaidhme. The sort I learned at my own Granny's knee. Primitive stuff. Barely even worth calling a working. A few twigs of rowan, a length of snàithlean-dearg, and it was quickly done.

I made it then and there - the rowan came from the garden around me. The thread, I carried with me always along with a few other minor necessities. The flare of magic required was easily hidden in the glare of sanctity surrounding holy ground.

This was only part of the working, though. The second was up to me. A bewilderment charm would obscure my features but if I did not change my habits and behaviours, I would easily be found out. I would have to step outside my comfort zone, become another person, for all practical purposes.

Next class, I took care to take a seat in the middle of the room, surrounded on all sides by my fellow classmates. I responded smiling to their comments, participating in their conversations. Another body had been found in the necropolis, a woman, savaged and mauled in a manner similar to the man, four weeks earlier.

I did not look toward the back of the room. I did not look around to see if Dr. Stevenson was looking for me.

I didn't have to.

Dr. Stevenson stood at the front of the class. Only when I saw him there did I remember Dr. Monaghan announcing that Dr. Stevenson would be taking over the next series of lectures. At the time he told us, I was thinking that the woman, Justine McManus, was Dr. Stevenson. I noted, with some satisfaction, his eyes scanning the last few rows. I was even more pleased when they slid over the row I was in with no sign of recognition.

The charm was holding.