Sleep Journal - 190221 - Fairge Anma

[kimurho]

Sleep Journal
21 February 2019

A scream out of nightmare woke me.

A harpy shrilling shattering sleep.

Terror spiking, heart racing, lungs labouring. As though running a race I never could win.

I flailed. I fought.

I fell. And hit the hard floor, jolting myself into awareness.

And the phone rang on, uncaring.

I didn't know where I was. It was dark. Pitch-black. Not a single light showing.

The dark of the tomb.

I couldn't judge the size of the space. It was too large and too small. I panted, eyes wide in the darkness, trying to see with my ears.

Then, with a snap that was almost audible, the world righted itself and I knew.

I was in my flat. The couch was up because I hadn't troubled to pull the bed out when I came in. I hadn't meant to fall directly to sleep. The night light wasn't lit because it hadn't been dark when I came in. The sun had been slipping down the curve of the sky when I came in, but light enough filtered through tall tenements to flow off the street outside and through the high casement windows of my basement flat.

I found the phone and silenced its banshee wail by lifting the handset. I heard the tinny sound of someone speaking but couldn't make out more than the mention of my name. Bracing myself, I lifted it to my ear and spoke a cautious, "Hello?"

It didn't take foresight to know that this was going to trouble. It wouldn't be a robo-call or a solicitor trying to sell me something I needed. I never receive those. A simple charm of intent, barely even a piseag, just a small household charm, filtered out nuisance calls. Only those calls made with intent and purpose relevant to my life can connect with this number.

I could count the number of calls I'd received over the past year on the fingers of one hand.

"Sarah? Is this Sarah Farris?" The voice was male. Somewhat familiar but I couldn't remember where or when I'd heard it before and I had no face to put to it.

"This is she." Never answer yes or no until you are sure of the one with whom you speak. Never give assent nor denial until you know what stakes are present. "With whom am I speaking?"

"JJ Stillman. Dr. Stillman. Craig Stevenson's friend. We sort of didn't meet this afternoon." Which explained why I couldn't call a face to mind.

"I remember you, Dr. Stillman. What is the reason for this call, please?"

"Is Craig there?"

The question made no sense. I pulled the handset away from my face in order to stare at it in an paroxysm of disbelief. Then I returned it, glac that there was no one present to see such folly.

"I beg your pardon?" Why would he think Craig ... Dr. Stevenson was here?

"Then he's not there." Disappointment flattened the tone of his voice. I heard the buzz of another person speaking on the other end of the line.

"Why would he be here?"

"We're calling all his friends. Justine suggested calling you. She wants to know if perhaps he's ... ummm ... outside on the street, perhaps? I'm sorry, that's what she wants to know."

My paranoia racheted up another degree. "Once again, why would he be here?"

"He ... We can't find him."

"He's lost?" This just was not making sense. Maybe it was because I had been so deeply asleep and still wasn't quite awake. "Are you his partner?" I asked dubiously. I knew that such same-gender pairings occurred, but I hadn't thought Craig was attached to anyone. My perception of him was of a young man, heart-whole and fancy-free.

Then again, I'd seen plenty of hand-fasted men acting in the same way, so it didn't necessarily signify.

The man ... Dr. Stillman ... spluttered a denial. "I'm married. To a woman. We have a child."

"Congratulations," I replied, still at a loss. "I still don't understand; why do you think he is lost? Are you sure he's not just out ... somewhere doing ... something?"

He had a circle of close friends, I knew that. They met frequently to play different games. He told me about them, later, laughing so hard sometimes it was hard to understand what he was saying.

"Craig hit his head yesterday. Hard. A possible concussion. He was supposed to see a doctor today to get it checked out; he didn't show. He didn't pass on a message from Justine, which left her stranded. We had a group meeting this afternoon to discuss ... He was a no-show there too. Then he didn't come back to help set up in the library."

"It's not like him, Miss Farris. I know he can seem a bit casual and slack, but when it comes to work, he's entirely professional. He wouldn't disappear without letting someone know."

He sighed heavily. "In fact, the last time anyone's seen him was shortly after you left here today."

That sounded almost like an accusation. This was how it began. Something happens; someone falls sick; a cow goes dry; a season's crop fails; and suspicion falls on the village wisewomen, the obagan and briosagan.

"Do you think I have anything to do with his absence?" I asked warily.

He answered immediately, sounding suprised at the question. "No, no. Nothing like that." He sighed wearily. "To tell you the truth, I'm grasping at straws here. He's not answering his phone, you see, and he always answers his phone. Except that he didn't this afternoon when he was talking to you. Justine said she tried to get through to him and to Douglas ... Dr. Monaghan ... and the calls wouldn't go through. So she thought ... if he turns off his phone when he's with you that perhaps he's with you now." Again I heard a voice in the background, saying that that wasn't what was meant. Dr. Stillman ignored the interruption, concluding with a sincere-sounding, "Ah well. Sorry to disturb you."

I was suddenly wide-awake. "Wait!"

I do not have the gift of foresight. Truthfully, it doesn't sound like much of a gift, all told. More of an annoyance, to get vague impressions of the future that don't make sense until it's the past. But sometimes intuition can take the same form and right then my intuition was screaming 'Pay attention!'

When I left the office earlier, I had a feeling that something was wrong, but exhaustion and weariness convinced me I could put it off until later. It seemed that now was later.

"Maybe I can help you find him," I said.

"How? Do you have an idea where he is? Where he might be? Did he say something to you?"

"No. Nothing like that. I can ... I could invoke obi of seeing for him."

Silence greeted this suggestion. "What is that exactly?" he asked cautiously.

"A ... spell of sight. I would be able to see where he is."

"You're talking about scrying? You can do that?" A babble of voices erupted in the background of the call before I could answer. I could make out three at least but there might have been more. The call went quiet again, dead air this time. He must have hung up on me, which I thought was just as well.

I could feel the terror lying within me; fear at the thought of exposing myself to ... to discovery. The little magics I'd used in the past, snaidhme and lus-eòlas, the odd piseag, those were simple things in comparison to uibe. Once I began invoking obi, I'd be visible to ... not only to him but to any other taibhseach as well. The more magic I used the more visible I became. I would not be able to hide any longer. I would in very truth blaze like a beacon to the sighted.

Despite the words of the old man in the cathedral, despite my resolve to step out of the shadows, I was afraid. It is so much easier to hide from sight than to fight, and yet ... I felt disappointed that my sacrifice was rejected. Relieved, yes, but also disappointed.

I put the handset back on the cradle and went to find the light switch.

Before I took two steps, the phone rang again.

"Hello?"

"Sorry, I thought I put this on mute, but I must have hit disconnect instead." It was Dr. Stillman again. "What do you mean when you say scry?"

"I didn't say 'scry'. You did. I offered to use uibe to locate Craig." I took a deep breath. This was it. I was going to do this. "Uibe uses chants and incantations to focus ... magic. To work magic. I will need something personal belonging to Craig ... Dr. Stevenson. Hair or nail clippings. Used bandaid. Tissue. Something like that. Even a piece of jewelry or item clothing that he wears a lot."

Dr. Stillman relayed what I said to those with him, then asked me to hold on for a moment.

While I waited for him to return, I heard again in my head Granny's voice, repeating as she had so often the list of use-able signatures in decreasing order of potency. Blood, semen, spit, sweat, hair, skin, clothing, shoes. Jewelry wasn't actually useful for uibe, but there was a eòlasaiche that she'd used a lot to locate missing persons that required a ring of gold, silver, or stone, depending on what was available and who or what was lost. Stone was the most generally useful; it was usually crofters with straying stock who came to us. When it was a person who was missing, she used a gold ring for a man or boy, a silver one for a women or girl.

I had a ring of stone, a polished one of dark red quartz. I bought it off a cart in a street market shortly after I escaped. Stone rings are useful things to have for seeing through glamours. And then I remembered that I had one of silver as well, bought from the same place though I couldn't remember when. Never worn. I bought it and put it up and forgot all about it until that moment.

My thoughts were interrupted by Dr. Stillman reporting, "We have his jacket. Motorcycle jacket. It's leather."

I made a face, shaking my head even though no one was there to seem me.

"I'm not sure that would work," I hedged. It might but ... "Innerwear is better than outer." The more intimate the apparel, the greater the chance of success. "Something he wears close to his skin."

"You can do that?" I assured him that I could. "One moment. I'll check." It was somewhat longer than a moment before he returned. I heard the murmur of voices, male timbre and a higher register ... female. Then he was back. "We found some strands of hair on his office chair." A pause while someone spoke. "And a couple of nail clippings. Will that do?"

"Excellent. Handle the samples as little as possible to avoid contamination. Put them on ... or in ... something of glass. Or ceramic. Or wood." Another thought occurred to me. "Oh! In an envelope! That would be perfect." We didn't have a lot of paper back in the village. There was a time that someone brought a sample to Granny stored in a Bible. She couldn't use it. The words and sanctity degraded the connection with the lost. Which reminded me. "Use a new envelope. Blank. Not one with writing on it."

"Why?"

"Because words have power and might reduce the connection with the lost."

I looked around in the darkness, trying to decide what I needed to bring with me. "I wonder what time is it?" I murmured. It might already be too late for me to catch the last bus to campus.

I was really asking myself but Dr. Stillman answered that it was just past nine.

I'd had not quite six hours of sleep.

"Ceart ma tha. The next bus passes in twenty minutes." Another twenty, twenty-five minutes to get to campus, then walking to the Psych Building. "I can be there in an hour."

"Or I can come get you," he suggested. Before I could process the idea, someone took the phone from him and a woman's voice replaced his.

"Sarah? This Justine McManus. I'll be there in ten minutes, tops, if that's all right with you." Or if it wasn't her tone of voice informed me. It wasn't quite a question but I answered anyway.

"I'll be waiting outside."

As soon as I hung up the phone, I turned on the light, located my backpack where I'd dropped it on entering, and I dumped all of my books and folders out of it.

I would need a number of items. I hoped I had what I needed.

Thread, of course, always useful. A few twigs, bits of plants, feathers and stones. Chalk. Those items I carried with me already. They were essential for piseag and ob-snaidhme. The small bag of containing these items went back into the front pocket where I usually kept it.

Remembering the way the power had burned the carpet in the library, which had started all of this, I decided to include a slateboard and I considered bringing a mirror. I didn't want to; mirrors are liars and prone to revealing more about the seeker than the sought, but better to have it and not need it. A small round mirror in a silver case when on the pile of things to take with me.

A compass, since I was trying to locate someone. The ring of quartz. The one of silver. Those three items went into one box since each served a similar function.

Various herbs and oils, a couple of candles and some cones of charcoal. And a book of matches. I had a small brass brazier and some cones of incense that I'd bought from the same place I'd gotten the charcoal. A few other oddments that might prove useful.

After I had everything together that I thought I might need, I found myself feeling a little surprised ... no ... a lot surprised at the amount of gear I had. All this time, I thought that I was lying low, avoiding even the suggestion of my old life, and yet, somehow, without me being aware I was doing so, I had replaced almost everything I needed to invoke. I even had a crystal for gazing.

The slate was the largest item and at that it wasn't as big as I would like. The size would limit the rune-work I could do. However, it was what I had and what I could could easily carry. I would manage. I took a few minutes to clean and sain it and mirror, then wrapped them both in towels, both to protect them from harm in transit but also because they were still damp.

Then, zipping the bag securely closed, I settled it on my shoulders and went outside to wait on the steps of the tenement. The moon was waxing gibbous; it would be full in another few days. For some reason, the thought of the full moon made me nervous, even though it is a time of white magics, not dark. My breath came ragged, my heart sped up. I shuddered and looked away.

Justine McManus took longer to get there than the ten minutes she claimed. Not too much longer, but still and all long enough for me to wonder ... to hope ... she wouldn't show and to start considering returning to my safe hidey-hole. I felt disgusted with myself for thinking of such a thing, I got up and started walking toward the bus stop instead.

The worst part of making any life-changing action is the waiting between making the decision to do it and the time to actually do it.

An old car pulled up to the kerb just then, and Justine called out to me. I shook my shadowed fancies off and went around to the passenger side, getting in, and buckling the seat belt; settling my bag on my lap.

Justine put her hand on the gearshift but made no move to move it into drive. She turned and looked at me, her expression set and not at all friendly.

"I don't trust you," she said flatly.

It was rude, to say it out loud like that. It went without saying, in my opinion. Water is wet. Fire burns. Stone is hard. Trust is earned; never given.

She didn't know me, there was no reason for her to trust me. It wasn't as if I exactly trusted her either. I had no reason to actively distrust her though. And vice versa; she had no reason to actively distrust me either.

She seemed to want some response.

I finally said, "Okay?"

That's a portmandeau word used here in the World that has no real equivalent in the Otherworld. The meaning is understood by both speaker and hearer depending on what they intend it to mean. Of itself, it seems null of meaning.

"That's all you have to say?" she demanded.

"What do you expect me to say?"

"I want to know that you aren't going to hurt Craig any more than you already have," she said.

My first reaction was to deny that I had hurt Craig Stevenson at all but I couldn't. I could still hear the pain in his voice when he asked me if I had gone to the office to curse him. However, I didn't think that was what she meant. So I asked her.

"How have I hurt him?"

She leaned back, rolling her eyes and blowing a raspberry. "Don't give me that. You know exactly what you did." When I didn't respond, she said pointedly, "The library? Yesterday? When Craig hit his head hard enough that he was seeing double?"

"How is that my fault?" I asked. She looked offended. "I wasn't there," I reminded her. "I don't know what happened to ... to Dr. Stevenson in the library yesterday."

"Yes, you do! JJ told you. I heard him tell you. On the phone, just a little while ago."

I replayed the recent phone conversation in my mind, then shook my head. "No. He told me that Dr. Stevenson had hit his head hard yesterday and that he has a concussion. But he didn't say when or how."

What was a concussion anyway? As soon as I wondered, the answer came to me, crith-eanchainn, a shaking of the brain. We had treated a hunter once who had been knocked to the ground and hit his head on a stone. He'd gotten up afterward and seemed fine but later he'd fallen and by the time they brought him to us, there was nothing we could do. He died.

I paused to consider that, he died and Craig had hit his head. gotten up, and seemed fine. Slowly, I asked, "How did Craig come to hit his head?"

"The moron was trying to climb over your stupid 'calledge groyan' and it threw him off. He hit the end of the shelves across the hall from the study."

That made no sense to me. The absolute unlikelihood of what she said distracted me from my morbid thoughts.

"He tried to climb ... How could he climb over it? How did he get close enough to ... I don't understand. The barrier should have repelled him, yes." I noticed her expression, a widening of the eyes and a look of vindication. I hastened to explain, "It would have repelled any other male of his age and standing equally hard. Or should have." It was a puzzlement, one I would need to untangle but that wasn't the pressing problem. I looked up, meeting her eyes.

"I promised Dr. Stillman that I would assist him in finding Dr. Stevenson. I mean to keep that promise." Moreso now than when I gave it. I knew I couldn't walk away now, not with the stakes as dire as I feared. I was under the impression that you agreed to drive me to campus so I could do so. If you plan otherwise, please let me know; I still have time to catch that bus."

"I'll go as soon as I have that promise from you."

"What promise is that?"

She was irked. Taking a deep breath, in a voice of great patience sorely tried, she said, "Promise me that you will not hurt Craig again."

"Your doubts and suspicions are your own affair and nothing I can say or do will ever affect a mind that is closed." I depressed the button, releasing the belt buckle. "I will not make any such a vow, nor do you have the right to demand it of me." At these words, I opened the door, letting the belt slither across my body so I could exit the vehicle. "I wish you a good evening, Master McManus." Closing the door, I walked briskly away.


Justine turned off the engine and opened her own door, standing outside to call out.

"Wait! Where are you going? I thought you were going to help us?"

I kept walking.

Slamming the door shut, Justine hurried after me.

"No. Look. I will drive you to campus. I will. I'm sorry. Maybe I was out of line, there. I just ... I'm worried about him."

I hesitated and looked back, torn between accepting the help of a woman ready to be my enemy and not getting to campus in time. The later consideration won. I allowed myself to be persuaded to return and retake the seat in the vehicle. As she set the car in drive and pulled away, I closed my eyes and quietly sang a short blessing under my breath to ensure that I would get there, to campus. As she had made clear to me, I had no reason to trust Justine.

I could feel her attention on me. It felt as though she wanted to say something but didn't know what. It made me nervous; she should be watching the other drivers instead. Paying attention to them. After a few moments of that, more to distract myself than anything else, I said, "You care for Dr. Stevenson a lot, don't you?"

She flicked her eyes in my direction, then back on the road. "It's not like that. We're friends." She gave her head a little shake, along with a half-laugh. "He's way too young for me. In more than age."

"How old is he?" I asked. I had thought that he was my age or a little older, when I thought he was a student in the class. Then when I learned he was a full professor, I thought that he had to be a lot older. Now I just couldn't tell.

She gave me a quick look. "Probably not that much older than you are," she admitted. "He earned his masters and doctorate at the same time, double in physics and parapsychology." She gave another half-laugh as she added, "Except he calls is paraphysics." Sobering again, she went on, "He finished up last year ... No, I lie. Year before last. University hired him straight out of graduate school, tenure track and all. Douglas's influence, I suspect."

She flicked her eyes in my direction again, a quick assessment. "What about you?"

I shrugged uneasily. "As far as I know, I'm twenty-four. Majoring in chemistry, should earn my degree this spring." I shrugged again. "Nothing special about me."

She started laughing, not quite hysterically. "That ... is a deliberate lie." From her point of view, I suppose it was, but I didn't feel very special. I felt small and scared and alone. I suppose she saw of that in me because her voice gentled.

"What I meant was, What do you think of Craig?"

"I ... I don't know. Before last week, he was ... just a guy in one of my classes. A guy who was easy to talk to. To listen to."

"Do you like him?"

"Yes? I mean, I liked talking with him. I liked that he seemed to like talking with me."

"Then why did you set that trap for him? In the library."

I couldn't help it. I groaned, leaning back against the seat and turning my face to the roof.

"I didn't!" How many times would I have to say that? "I did not set any trap in the library or anywhere else. It wasn't even supposed to be a trap!" I took a deep breath and spoke with deliberate precision. "Yes. I scribed the spell-pages. That is true. It is also true that I did not of the spell pages properly. Crumpling them up the way I did should have nullified the investment of power. I don't know why it didn't. However, I threw the pages in the trash. I did not set any spell in action in the library."

Which answered only part of her accusation, and apparently that wasn't the pertinent part. She pressed the issue.

"You wrote that spell with him in mind."

"Again, I did not. I created that spell against ... someone else." All at once, the magnitude of what I was doing hit me and the emotion sustaining me drained away. I looked out the window, seeing nothing that was really there.

"Unfortunately ... I was ... I had a panic attack. In that panic, I got Craig ... Dr. Stevenson confused with that ... someone else."

Justine huffed, clearly unimpressed.

"Yeah. I heard the sob story you sold Craig and JJ." I stiffened, disliking the flippancy she employed. "They think they can trust you because you're a victim ..."

That I could not let that pass. "I am not a victim. I am a survivor. I will never allow myself to be a victim again."

Somehow, I startled her. She seemed taken aback and found it hard to find her train of thought again.

"Okay. Right. Thing is, I know that women who have been abused can be just as bad as the people who abused them. JJ and Craig don't understand that. They see a damsel in distress needing rescue."

"They are wrong," I replied coldly. We were on campus. I was glad. This ride couldn't end soon enough for me. I released the buckle in anticipation.

"Craig, especially. He's a bit of a dork. A nerd through and through and he thinks he's all about science, but deep down, he's a romantic. He wants to be a knight in shining armour." She pulled into a parking space and took the opportunity to look at me, as though she could see right through me. "He sees you as his damsel."

I jerked the door handle open. "Then perhaps he needs glasses."

I slammed the door shut and strode away, not looking back. Not caring if she followed or not.