M Sellars - Perfect Trust

“If you don’t mind my saying so, Miz Burke,” I dove back into the conversation to save my friend from the embarrassment of his misconceptions, “given that it has only been three weeks, you seem to be handling the attack very well.”

“I have my moments,” she half shrugged as she spoke. “Luckily you happened to catch me on a good day.”

“Are you certain that you’re up to talking about it?” Charlee chimed in.

“This is as good a time as any,” she nodded. “The sooner I can put this behind me the sooner I can get on with my life. That’s what they say anyway.”

“How do you feel about hypnosis?” I asked.

“Do you mean, am I willing to be hypnotized?”

I wasn’t surprised by her directness. “Yes.”

She shrugged. “Where and when?”

“I should warn you that if this works you will for all intents and purposes be re-living the incident.”

“Okay, fair enough. So answer me this: If it works will it help catch the prick who raped me?”

“I can’t say for sure,” I told her. “But it’s a good possibility, depending upon what you remember, of course.”

“Then I’ll ask you again,” she said, casting a confident gaze directly into my eyes. “Where and when?”

I turned slowly in place, first twisting my head to look over my shoulder and then following with the rest of my body. I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror and immediately noticed the puzzled expression that my brain had already told me I was wearing. Still, the sudden tickle that had sent me into this physical spiral didn’t subside. If anything, it just grew worse-nagging and clawing at the back of my psyche and sending a wave of gooseflesh across my scalp.

“Somethin’ wrong?” Ben asked, staring at the befuddled mask that was my face.

Heather had excused herself to use the bathroom before we began, leaving the three of us alone in her living room, so at least she wasn’t seeing this display. I had serious doubt that it would have done anything to bolster her confidence in what we were about to do.

“Are you okay, Rowan?” Charlee added her concerned voice to the mix.

“I don’t know,” I muttered at first then reeled my wandering thoughts back in. “I mean, yes, I’m okay… That was just weird.”

“What was weird?” McLaughlin queried.

“We’re talkin’ ‘bout Rowan here. Everything’s weird with him,” Ben interjected. “Ya’know, don’t adjust your television set, yadda yadda. So what’s up, white man? You already goin’ Twilight Zone on us?”

“It felt like…” I began, then frowned and shook my head. “Don’t worry about it. It’s probably just nerves.”

“See what I mean?” Ben jibed.

“Are you positive, Rowan?” Charlee asked.

“Ya’ just haven’t been around ‘im enough yet, Chuck,” Ben told her. “He does this kinda shit when he starts doin’ the hocus-pocus stuff.”

“Really, Charlee,” I said, “I’m fine. It’s nothing.”

Too bad I didn’t actually believe that. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched, and the sensation was extremely disconcerting. My first instinct was to think that Debbie Schaeffer might be waiting in the ethereal wings for me to pinpoint a target for her. But the more I dwelled on it, the more the presence felt nothing like her. It was familiar, yes, but not her. No matter how hard I tried I couldn’t pin it down to an individual or even a place, and as I continued to mull it over the feeling just got worse.

A thin lance of pain stabbed through my bad shoulder, and I winced inwardly. I was starting to feel jumpy, and my hands began to clench and unclench with the nervous energy. I was still wearing my jacket, so I shoved them into my pockets to hide the fidgeting from outside notice. In doing so, I immediately felt the wad of salt packets Ben had given me.

“Are we ready?” Heather asked as she came back into the room.

“Row?” Ben raised an eyebrow at me.

“What? Oh, yeah.” I was still contemplating the phantom invasion of my privacy and hadn’t even noticed her return. “One question though, Miz Burke?”

“Yes?”

“This may sound odd, but as hypnosis goes this isn’t going to be typical. So I was wondering, would you mind terribly if I sprinkled a bit of salt around? Just for…”

“…purification and protection?” she finished for me, nodding as she spoke.

“You’re familiar with the ritual practices of The Craft?” It was my turn to be surprised, and ultimately chagrined.

She stretched the baggy t-shirt out with her hands to display the iron-on more prominently. “I read quite a bit, Mister Gant.”

I had never been much for the poetic showmanship of spell casting. While I certainly wasn’t opposed to the process, I tended to get tongue-tied whenever I set about reciting a series of couplets. Stumbling over rhymes did little for the actual effectiveness of the spell and in turn served only to destroy my concentration, which in reality was the true driving force behind working Magick.

By the time I would reach the end of the poem, I would have spent so much energy trying not to make a fool of myself that I usually forgot what it was that I set out to do in the first place. So out of a sense of self-preservation, I usually opted for the silent approach. I would gather myself, steel my energies, and project them outward on the task to which I’d set my mind-all without uttering a sound. It worked well for me, so I had never really seen a need to change it.

Something told me that this time, however, a word or two might be in order. Unfortunately, I was drawing a blank. I stood there silently for a moment with an open packet of salt poured into the palm of my hand and feeling incredibly self-conscious. I heard Ben clear his throat and felt my heart skip a beat.

It was at that moment, just before I was sure to break out into a cold sweat, that a not so random thought crawled out of its hiding place and announced itself.

I had once attended a workshop on Magick and SpellCraft given by a noted Pagan author. After the lecture I had had the opportunity to discuss with her the method by which I practiced the art. While she found no fault with my methodology, she told me to always keep in mind that the Lord and Lady loved to be entertained, and that to them, poetry was a joy. Therefore, if one’s intent was truly focused on the task, it didn’t always matter what was said but how one said it. I seized on that memory and began to mumble the first thing that entered my brain.

“Tis the night before Christmas, and this I do fear, someone is watching, with intentions unclear. My back is wide open and there’s a pain in my head, could you please watch out for me so I don’t wind up dead.”

It wasn’t the most eloquent spell imaginable, but I kept my voice low as I walked a small circle, sprinkling salt in my wake. I doubted that anyone could actually make out the words, but the cadence was probably crystal clear. For all they knew, I might very well have actually been reciting “‘Twas the Night Before Christmas.” If that is what they thought, however, none of them voiced it, and for that I was grateful.

When I completed the circuit and looked up, Ben was staring at me with one eyebrow arched. He’d never before seen me take it upon myself to engage directly in the ritualistic trappings of The Craft, save for the recent Yule circle he’d witnessed. This was something that was Felicity’s forte, not mine, so I knew he was going to have some questions. But they would simply have to wait.

“Go ahead and sit down,” I told Heather as I turned and then took a seat opposite her.

“You’ve done this before, correct?” she asked.