Sleep Journal - 190122 - Fairge Anma
Feb. 3rd, 2019 12:45 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kimurhoEven though the time stamp on this is a few days earlier than the previously posted entry, I assure you, this comes after. That's one of the reasons for the long delay - my subconscious was on strike until I sorted out the order. Another reason is that I needed to work out how rune magic works. Can't explain something unless you understand it.
~~*~~
Sleep Journal
22 January 2019
It was too early to expect Craig ... Dr. Stevenson to be in the office and I had an early lab anyway. I went home to change and grab a bite to eat first, then to campus for my class.
Despite the lack of sleep, I felt more alive than I have in a long time. Colours were brighter, sounds were sharper, scents more pungent.
It was almost mid-day before I got to the Parapsych office in the fourth floor of the Psych Building.
He wasn't there.
The walls of the outer office of the suite housing the parapsychology group were windows from about waist high up; windows with blinds on the inside that could be closed for privacy. All the window-blinds were closed now. Some of the doors were open, revealing only dark emptiness within.
Waiting.
Expectant.
I began to regret coming.
The only room with the blinds pulled up, open and welcoming, was one to my left, containing a long conference table surrounded by chairs down the middle of the room, lined with low, crowded bookshelves and tall windows through which the sun was shining brightly. There were two people within, one male, one female, sitting at the table with laptop computers open in front of them. The faint murmur of their voices came to me.
As far as I could tell, there was no one else in the suite except for the woman sitting at the front desk. She looked up as I entered, her eyes following my gaze as I looked around at the dark doorways.
"They're all out at the moment but I expect them back before too much longer. Perhaps I can help you?" she said.
"Do you know when Cra... Dr. Stevenson will be in today?"
She made a face, regret and sympathy, and shook her head. "Dr. Stevenson is out sick today. He had an accident. I'm not sure when he'll be in."
"An accident? On his bike? How bad was it? Will he be all right?"
I'd never seen his motorbike, but he'd mentioned it a time or two, back when I still thought he was another student. When I thought he might be a friend.
At that, though, she smiled and shook her head. "Not a road accident. He fell and hit his head. He's just taking it easy a few days. I can make you an appointment?" She watched me, waiting, poised.
This was a blow; I had made up my mind to talk to Craig today.
Right now.
Despite what had happened in the Cathedral, despite my resolve on stepping out into the sunshine of a new day, I wasn't sure if I would hold to this new-found determination if I had more time to reconsider.
I could already feel myself wavering. Wondering if the Universe was sending me a sign.
I forced myself to ask, "Is Dr. Monaghan here today?"
If he were also out today, I would take that as an omen and walk away.
The voices of the two in the conference room grew louder. I glanced over, the two had their heads up, chatting, paying little attention to the open screens in front of them. They didn't look any older than me, maybe younger. Graduate assistants, perhaps.
The woman at the desk, her nameplate read 'Mrs. Logan', glanced over toward the open door as the voices rose. With a visible shiver, she turned to answer my question.
"Yes, he is. He has a class at one, but I can let him know you want to see him after that, if you care to come back?"
Did I care to come back to talk to Dr. Monaghan?
I didn't know Dr. Monaghan.
No insult to Dr. Monaghan but ... In some ways, he was the embodiment of my fears. Not that he resembled him in appearance. Or physically. Or in personality. Or in any way really. Except that ... in some indefinable way, he did.
Craig was the one I had talked to. The one I could talk to. Although, I wasn't all that sure of Dr. Stevenson, come to that. Were Craig and Dr. Stevenson the same person?
I refused her offer but asked her to give a message to Dr. Stevenson when he returned to the office, on the off chance that he was. The same person, that is.
In the room on my right, the two students had abandoned the contemplation of the view from their laptops. They were standing at the short end of the table nearest the door, bent over a sheet of paper, drawing something and laughing about it. I revised my estimate of their ages downward and that was when I remembered Craig talking about student internships.
But the woman was writing down the message for me, asking my name. When I gave it, she looked up sharply.
"Sarah Farris; enrolled in Parapsych 101? Dr. Monaghan has been trying to get in touch with you, dear."
"With me?" I didn't like that. I didn't want him to know who I was. Well, I did, now, but not then, and if he did know who I was from then, then I had to wonder why he wanted to see me now. I began to grow worried, my mind racing to provide reasons.
Mrs. Logan was speaking. I slowed my thoughts enough to pay heed to her words.
"He and Dr. Stevenson are recalling several students; something about the results being off, or incomplete or ... something." She paused, then asked, "Would you be willing to come back and re-do the tests?"
The day I'd come in for the card-guessing trials, Craig had said something to the woman, Justine, about a computer glitch. Due to some concerns about liability or something, I'd only been able to complete have of the proposed trials. Apparently, they wanted to finish the set.
I signified that I was willing to return.
Mrs. Logan pulled out some papers, had me sign a new release form and then attach a list of days and times when I would be available to retake the trials.
While I was handing the paper back, a loud burst of laughter from the other room reminded me of the intern program and I asked about that. Mrs. Logan expressed regret, informing me that they'd filled the positions. There was another loud exclamation, drawing her attention. I looked over in time to see the lad pick something up and throw it at the lass. The lass was petite in build and pretty - with gamine grace, a smile full of mischief and a short cap of black hair. The lad was square and strongly built, his dun-coloured hair cut shaggy and a ruddy beard on his chin like that found on a goat.
Mrs. Logan compressed her lips into a tight line.
"Excuse me a moment." She pushed her chair away and for the first time I noticed that she sat in a wheelchair. She wheeled over to the open doorway and said something in a quiet voice to the two within. Something that quenched their high spirits sufficiently enough to get them sitting in front of the laptops again. Then she returned, with an expression that was more grimace than smile.
"Those are our two interns." She studied them through the window for a few minutes, then turned her attention to me again. "Why don't you file an application with us and we'll hold it in case something opens up?" she suggested.
Unfortunately, it was an electronic application.
One of the reasons I do so much of my work in the library is because I don't have a computer. Or smartphone. Or any other such device.
Mrs. Logan took me into the room with the other two and set me up with a spare laptop, opening the application file. I began filling it out. My presence seemed to settle the two interns somewhat; they bent over their separate laptops again but, after a short while, they wandered over to the end of the table again, laughing and joking as they copied something over and over again.
As each page was finished, the lass would tape it to the window near the door.
I double-checked my answers. With my finger over the submit button, I hesitated. Did I really want to do this?
Why not? Applying for a position that didn't exist didn't bind me to any action. I pressed the button and stood.
The change in perspective gave me a glimpse of what the two youngsters were doing. Rune spells. The same set of runes over and over again. A hedge of thorn and yew against an enemy, male, of evil intent. I glanced at the two of them, if they had such an enemy, such a fear, they hid it well.
I set a circle of protection about myself; I wasn't sure what definition of enemy they were setting - stranger or specific. If the former, the runes might act against me even though the office manager, Mrs. Logan, had invited me over the threshold herself.
As it happened, I didn't have to. The runes were empty. Empty of intent. Empty of luck.
They were letters only, not spelling anything at all.
It was perplexing, but none of my business. I hefted my backpack to my shoulder and started toward the exit. As I did I heard the lass declare, "All right, that's the last one. Let's try it now. Go on out and see if you can come back in."
I paused to watch.
The lad stepped out of the room, squared his shoulders ... and went right back in.
"It didn't work!" the lass said sadly.
"We must have copied it wrong." He came out, carrying a piece of paper. She followed. They both stood just outside the room, looking from the paper the lad held to the ones taped to the inner surface of the window,
I had to know what they were about, so I went over to see. The lad held yet another copy of the rune-spell. The rune-spell and something else, some other writing that I couldn't easily make out, but looked familiar.
I tested it. Carefully.
Empty, like the others.
No, not like the others.
This one lacked even the echo of identity, as though the one who drew them was entirely devoid of thought and emotion and personality.
I took another look at the paper, the writing on it. It was a photocopy.
They were attempting a higher level rune-spell using a photocopy for reference. What was their iod-ionnsachaidh, their mentor, thinking?
"What are you trying to do?" The words came out without conscious intent, sharp and harsh.
They started. They'd been so intent on their ... game, is all I can call it ... that they hadn't heard me turn and approach. The two exchanged sheepish glances and the lass gave me a weak smile.
"It's a bit silly."
The lad snorted dissent. "It's not silly if it works."
I waited.
"Well, it's not working now," she countered.
"Which means we're doing it wrong. We aren't getting the runes right or ... do you suppose we have to write in all the rest?"
She winced, uncertain. "Dr. Stillman says thats the spell for the circle on the floor."
I stiffened. Circle on the floor? A rune spell? I lost track of their conversation back and forth, following the well-worn treads of an on-going discussion. I had tossed the pages I'd scribed into the waste bin, hadn't I? I hadn't set them up to work against ... That couldn't be my work. Could it?
"May I see that?"
I'd interrupted their conversation and, from the way they acted, they'd forgotten my presence.
Again.
Granny would have boxed my ears had I let myself be so distracted. An inattentive spell-worker was a dead one. Or worse.
I had been inattentive, the day I met him. The times I met him after that. I let him distract me. I wanted him to distract me. I should have known he wasn't who he said he was. That he couldn't have been who he said he was. Should have seen. What he was. What he wanted. But I only saw what I wanted to see.
I pointed to the page the lad held loosely down by his side. He blinked down at it, then grimaced and handed it over.
It was mine. Or rather, it was a copy of my writing; one of the pages I'd thrown away after my attack the previous day. How had they gotten hold of it? I looked up at them, frowning. That wasn't the important question here, though.
"Once again, what are you trying to do?" I spoke slowly, hoping they'd understand. Ogham wasn't something to play around with. Magic could be dangerous, and the innocent are the preferred prey of many.
The lass shrugged her shoulders up to her ears. "Set up a barrier across the door so Joe can't come back in?"
I wasn't sure how to respond to that.
"Set up a barrier against ... Joe?" The lad nodded, acknowledging his name or agreeing with the statement, I'm not sure which. I looked at the lass again. "But you don't hate him and you aren't afraid of him," I said carefully.
My statement puzzled them both.
"Of course not. Joe's okay," she said. Her companion, Joe, asked, "Why would that matter?"
"The runes you're using; they imply a defensive pallisade. A ... a barrier, if you will, against some enemy or potential enemy action."
The lass's face lit up with mischief but the lad ... Joe spoke first. "But in the library..."
"So if there were someone I hated, they wouldn't be able to go in?" the lass said, cutting her companion off short.
I spoke carefully, because great care in definition is a necessity in any kind of spell-casting. Vague definitions can cause a great deal of trouble. Granny use to tell me cautionary tales of spells gone tragically wrong because the caster wasn't clear in their intent.
"It would depend on the intent with which it was scribed."
I lost myself for a few seconds, trying to recall ... to recapture ... what I was thinking when I scribed these runes down. I knew my intent, but what ... exactly ... had I put into the working? It was gone. Lost in the panic.
I shook my head sharply, waving the distraction away and gestured toward the bank of pages showing through the window.
"Not that it matters. Those ... rune sets are all null. There's no luck in them. No intent." They weren't understanding me. I felt the familiar frustration; the more I depended on my increasing familiarity with this the World, the less I seemed able to communicate with the people in it.
"Look, do you believe?"
For some reason, that simple question triggered a change in both of them. Joe's face darkened with anger, the lass's showed disgust.
Joe snatched the page out of my hand, crumpling it as his hand clenched into a fist.
"Oh Christ on a crutch, you're one of them." He shouldered forward so that he was standing between me and the lass, flexing to make himself look larger and more of a threat. "We don't need your sort here. Just leave."
He stepped forward, imminent threat. The lass said something, I don't know what. Blood was pounding in my ears, my heart was racing.
Every learned instinct from the past decade warned me to run, to escape, to get away.
Sleep Journal
22 January 2019
It was too early to expect Craig ... Dr. Stevenson to be in the office and I had an early lab anyway. I went home to change and grab a bite to eat first, then to campus for my class.
Despite the lack of sleep, I felt more alive than I have in a long time. Colours were brighter, sounds were sharper, scents more pungent.
It was almost mid-day before I got to the Parapsych office in the fourth floor of the Psych Building.
He wasn't there.
The walls of the outer office of the suite housing the parapsychology group were windows from about waist high up; windows with blinds on the inside that could be closed for privacy. All the window-blinds were closed now. Some of the doors were open, revealing only dark emptiness within.
Waiting.
Expectant.
I began to regret coming.
The only room with the blinds pulled up, open and welcoming, was one to my left, containing a long conference table surrounded by chairs down the middle of the room, lined with low, crowded bookshelves and tall windows through which the sun was shining brightly. There were two people within, one male, one female, sitting at the table with laptop computers open in front of them. The faint murmur of their voices came to me.
As far as I could tell, there was no one else in the suite except for the woman sitting at the front desk. She looked up as I entered, her eyes following my gaze as I looked around at the dark doorways.
"They're all out at the moment but I expect them back before too much longer. Perhaps I can help you?" she said.
"Do you know when Cra... Dr. Stevenson will be in today?"
She made a face, regret and sympathy, and shook her head. "Dr. Stevenson is out sick today. He had an accident. I'm not sure when he'll be in."
"An accident? On his bike? How bad was it? Will he be all right?"
I'd never seen his motorbike, but he'd mentioned it a time or two, back when I still thought he was another student. When I thought he might be a friend.
At that, though, she smiled and shook her head. "Not a road accident. He fell and hit his head. He's just taking it easy a few days. I can make you an appointment?" She watched me, waiting, poised.
This was a blow; I had made up my mind to talk to Craig today.
Right now.
Despite what had happened in the Cathedral, despite my resolve on stepping out into the sunshine of a new day, I wasn't sure if I would hold to this new-found determination if I had more time to reconsider.
I could already feel myself wavering. Wondering if the Universe was sending me a sign.
I forced myself to ask, "Is Dr. Monaghan here today?"
If he were also out today, I would take that as an omen and walk away.
The voices of the two in the conference room grew louder. I glanced over, the two had their heads up, chatting, paying little attention to the open screens in front of them. They didn't look any older than me, maybe younger. Graduate assistants, perhaps.
The woman at the desk, her nameplate read 'Mrs. Logan', glanced over toward the open door as the voices rose. With a visible shiver, she turned to answer my question.
"Yes, he is. He has a class at one, but I can let him know you want to see him after that, if you care to come back?"
Did I care to come back to talk to Dr. Monaghan?
I didn't know Dr. Monaghan.
No insult to Dr. Monaghan but ... In some ways, he was the embodiment of my fears. Not that he resembled him in appearance. Or physically. Or in personality. Or in any way really. Except that ... in some indefinable way, he did.
Craig was the one I had talked to. The one I could talk to. Although, I wasn't all that sure of Dr. Stevenson, come to that. Were Craig and Dr. Stevenson the same person?
I refused her offer but asked her to give a message to Dr. Stevenson when he returned to the office, on the off chance that he was. The same person, that is.
In the room on my right, the two students had abandoned the contemplation of the view from their laptops. They were standing at the short end of the table nearest the door, bent over a sheet of paper, drawing something and laughing about it. I revised my estimate of their ages downward and that was when I remembered Craig talking about student internships.
But the woman was writing down the message for me, asking my name. When I gave it, she looked up sharply.
"Sarah Farris; enrolled in Parapsych 101? Dr. Monaghan has been trying to get in touch with you, dear."
"With me?" I didn't like that. I didn't want him to know who I was. Well, I did, now, but not then, and if he did know who I was from then, then I had to wonder why he wanted to see me now. I began to grow worried, my mind racing to provide reasons.
Mrs. Logan was speaking. I slowed my thoughts enough to pay heed to her words.
"He and Dr. Stevenson are recalling several students; something about the results being off, or incomplete or ... something." She paused, then asked, "Would you be willing to come back and re-do the tests?"
The day I'd come in for the card-guessing trials, Craig had said something to the woman, Justine, about a computer glitch. Due to some concerns about liability or something, I'd only been able to complete have of the proposed trials. Apparently, they wanted to finish the set.
I signified that I was willing to return.
Mrs. Logan pulled out some papers, had me sign a new release form and then attach a list of days and times when I would be available to retake the trials.
While I was handing the paper back, a loud burst of laughter from the other room reminded me of the intern program and I asked about that. Mrs. Logan expressed regret, informing me that they'd filled the positions. There was another loud exclamation, drawing her attention. I looked over in time to see the lad pick something up and throw it at the lass. The lass was petite in build and pretty - with gamine grace, a smile full of mischief and a short cap of black hair. The lad was square and strongly built, his dun-coloured hair cut shaggy and a ruddy beard on his chin like that found on a goat.
Mrs. Logan compressed her lips into a tight line.
"Excuse me a moment." She pushed her chair away and for the first time I noticed that she sat in a wheelchair. She wheeled over to the open doorway and said something in a quiet voice to the two within. Something that quenched their high spirits sufficiently enough to get them sitting in front of the laptops again. Then she returned, with an expression that was more grimace than smile.
"Those are our two interns." She studied them through the window for a few minutes, then turned her attention to me again. "Why don't you file an application with us and we'll hold it in case something opens up?" she suggested.
Unfortunately, it was an electronic application.
One of the reasons I do so much of my work in the library is because I don't have a computer. Or smartphone. Or any other such device.
Mrs. Logan took me into the room with the other two and set me up with a spare laptop, opening the application file. I began filling it out. My presence seemed to settle the two interns somewhat; they bent over their separate laptops again but, after a short while, they wandered over to the end of the table again, laughing and joking as they copied something over and over again.
As each page was finished, the lass would tape it to the window near the door.
I double-checked my answers. With my finger over the submit button, I hesitated. Did I really want to do this?
Why not? Applying for a position that didn't exist didn't bind me to any action. I pressed the button and stood.
The change in perspective gave me a glimpse of what the two youngsters were doing. Rune spells. The same set of runes over and over again. A hedge of thorn and yew against an enemy, male, of evil intent. I glanced at the two of them, if they had such an enemy, such a fear, they hid it well.
I set a circle of protection about myself; I wasn't sure what definition of enemy they were setting - stranger or specific. If the former, the runes might act against me even though the office manager, Mrs. Logan, had invited me over the threshold herself.
As it happened, I didn't have to. The runes were empty. Empty of intent. Empty of luck.
They were letters only, not spelling anything at all.
It was perplexing, but none of my business. I hefted my backpack to my shoulder and started toward the exit. As I did I heard the lass declare, "All right, that's the last one. Let's try it now. Go on out and see if you can come back in."
I paused to watch.
The lad stepped out of the room, squared his shoulders ... and went right back in.
"It didn't work!" the lass said sadly.
"We must have copied it wrong." He came out, carrying a piece of paper. She followed. They both stood just outside the room, looking from the paper the lad held to the ones taped to the inner surface of the window,
I had to know what they were about, so I went over to see. The lad held yet another copy of the rune-spell. The rune-spell and something else, some other writing that I couldn't easily make out, but looked familiar.
I tested it. Carefully.
Empty, like the others.
No, not like the others.
This one lacked even the echo of identity, as though the one who drew them was entirely devoid of thought and emotion and personality.
I took another look at the paper, the writing on it. It was a photocopy.
They were attempting a higher level rune-spell using a photocopy for reference. What was their iod-ionnsachaidh, their mentor, thinking?
"What are you trying to do?" The words came out without conscious intent, sharp and harsh.
They started. They'd been so intent on their ... game, is all I can call it ... that they hadn't heard me turn and approach. The two exchanged sheepish glances and the lass gave me a weak smile.
"It's a bit silly."
The lad snorted dissent. "It's not silly if it works."
I waited.
"Well, it's not working now," she countered.
"Which means we're doing it wrong. We aren't getting the runes right or ... do you suppose we have to write in all the rest?"
She winced, uncertain. "Dr. Stillman says thats the spell for the circle on the floor."
I stiffened. Circle on the floor? A rune spell? I lost track of their conversation back and forth, following the well-worn treads of an on-going discussion. I had tossed the pages I'd scribed into the waste bin, hadn't I? I hadn't set them up to work against ... That couldn't be my work. Could it?
"May I see that?"
I'd interrupted their conversation and, from the way they acted, they'd forgotten my presence.
Again.
Granny would have boxed my ears had I let myself be so distracted. An inattentive spell-worker was a dead one. Or worse.
I had been inattentive, the day I met him. The times I met him after that. I let him distract me. I wanted him to distract me. I should have known he wasn't who he said he was. That he couldn't have been who he said he was. Should have seen. What he was. What he wanted. But I only saw what I wanted to see.
I pointed to the page the lad held loosely down by his side. He blinked down at it, then grimaced and handed it over.
It was mine. Or rather, it was a copy of my writing; one of the pages I'd thrown away after my attack the previous day. How had they gotten hold of it? I looked up at them, frowning. That wasn't the important question here, though.
"Once again, what are you trying to do?" I spoke slowly, hoping they'd understand. Ogham wasn't something to play around with. Magic could be dangerous, and the innocent are the preferred prey of many.
The lass shrugged her shoulders up to her ears. "Set up a barrier across the door so Joe can't come back in?"
I wasn't sure how to respond to that.
"Set up a barrier against ... Joe?" The lad nodded, acknowledging his name or agreeing with the statement, I'm not sure which. I looked at the lass again. "But you don't hate him and you aren't afraid of him," I said carefully.
My statement puzzled them both.
"Of course not. Joe's okay," she said. Her companion, Joe, asked, "Why would that matter?"
"The runes you're using; they imply a defensive pallisade. A ... a barrier, if you will, against some enemy or potential enemy action."
The lass's face lit up with mischief but the lad ... Joe spoke first. "But in the library..."
"So if there were someone I hated, they wouldn't be able to go in?" the lass said, cutting her companion off short.
I spoke carefully, because great care in definition is a necessity in any kind of spell-casting. Vague definitions can cause a great deal of trouble. Granny use to tell me cautionary tales of spells gone tragically wrong because the caster wasn't clear in their intent.
"It would depend on the intent with which it was scribed."
I lost myself for a few seconds, trying to recall ... to recapture ... what I was thinking when I scribed these runes down. I knew my intent, but what ... exactly ... had I put into the working? It was gone. Lost in the panic.
I shook my head sharply, waving the distraction away and gestured toward the bank of pages showing through the window.
"Not that it matters. Those ... rune sets are all null. There's no luck in them. No intent." They weren't understanding me. I felt the familiar frustration; the more I depended on my increasing familiarity with this the World, the less I seemed able to communicate with the people in it.
"Look, do you believe?"
For some reason, that simple question triggered a change in both of them. Joe's face darkened with anger, the lass's showed disgust.
Joe snatched the page out of my hand, crumpling it as his hand clenched into a fist.
"Oh Christ on a crutch, you're one of them." He shouldered forward so that he was standing between me and the lass, flexing to make himself look larger and more of a threat. "We don't need your sort here. Just leave."
He stepped forward, imminent threat. The lass said something, I don't know what. Blood was pounding in my ears, my heart was racing.
Every learned instinct from the past decade warned me to run, to escape, to get away.
