And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats,
Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades,
Of healths five fathom deep; and then anon
Drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes,
And being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two
And sleeps again
― William Shakespeare
Mystic Muse
It was a confusing moment and embarrassing, to say the least. I was having lunch with my colleague and friend, Maeve Palmer, and was disclosing to her I was dreaming of one of my students.
"Well, I wasn't exactly initiating the dreaming," I said by way of caveat, "it's more a case this Siren invaded my subconscious and it's upset me."
Yeah, that was probably exactly how I should spin it, I mused, but hell, it was true―that's exactly what was happening.
"Methinks you protest too much," Maeve drawled in a little girl voice she knows will annoy me.
She does that―gets under my skin deliberately to tease me, and today she's imitating the way she thinks Avery sounds when she tries to flirt with me.
Grrr! Why do I even open myself when I know she'll mercilessly mock me? But the answer is clear―she's my mentor and muse, so I suppose I'm stuck with her.
"C'mon Maeve, cut me some slack here―it's embarrassing enough having to confide this―you know I must be at the end of my rope to have to admit this."
"Do you know how many men would kill to have your 'problems'? I mean, here you are at lunch with a beautiful and intelligent woman and you're confessing to puerile fantasies about one of your students―and a freshman at that. Of course, I'll give you a hard time, but a good one. You need to lighten up, Jude. Your 'problem' is not insurmountable―no pun intended."
I roll my eyes. "I'm being serious, Maeve. How the hell did a fantasy kiss me hard enough to give me a swollen lip?"
"How the hell do mystics end up with stigmata, bearing the wounds of Christ on their flesh? The mind affects the body."
"Believe me, Maeve, this was not psychosomatic―when I saw her in class today she was wearing the same dress as in my dream― a dress I never saw her wear before."
"You mean she was fully clothed in your dream? That's hardly seductive."
I glared at her sullenly and she wisely repented.
"Okay, I admit that dream was more that just a dream―it was a paranormal experience."
"Thank you," I sighed and exhaled deeply, relieved I had finally gotten through at last. "Now what can I do to break the hex?"
"If I tell you, the College of Psychologists may disbar me."
"Oh great! You're going to hang me out to dry because of professional principles. Can't you tell me off the record, sort of under the table, so to speak?"
She paused , giving it some thought. "If I tell you, you can't tell anybody what I told you―I mean it Jude. I could lose my license."
"Scout's honour," I smiled, making the three-finger salute.
She held up her middle finger. "You know what I think of that. If you breathe a word about what I confide to you, I will ghost you worse than Wren Tyler."
The blood drained from my face.
"That's right," she nodded. "Be afraid, be very afraid. You've been warned.
I didn't know what was worse―having a Siren intrude in my dreams or incurring the wrath of Maeve and her magical powers.
But I had no intention of crossing Maeve, so I'd rather have her on my side as an ally.