July 23rd

Great, just great…guess what I am doing…PROTECTING DESTRO! I know this is important…I’m the one who advised this course of action…but it irks me nonetheless.

Sigh*

I shouldn’t go into detail about our missions on paper. An Intel agent NEVER writes things down. Paper trails are dangerous things indeed. In any case, this thing is for keeping a record of our thoughts and feelings. If Psych wanted a play by play of my comings and goings he could read the briefings.

Trans Carpathia is beautiful in a stark, creepy way. I just got off watch and am about to head to bed, but something caused me to pause. I can’t really describe it. I just needed to stop for a moment and take in the landscape. Old forest and mountains…a lot of it untouched by humans for millennium. Incredible…

It’s familiar in a strange way. It’s the same feeling I get when I am hiking through Scotland and Ireland…a sixth sense picking up what can only be described as the ‘otherness’.

You know, you would think someone with a degree in Linguistics could express herself better. I guess I am not used to writing things down.

I’m of Scottish descent…from my father’s side. Between the stories he and my grandparents used to tell me about the legends that surround the highlands and the time I spent listening to the tales told at the pubs in Ireland while attending Trinity, its no wonder I have such a vivid imagination. The folklore of both countries are rich and varied, and have been passed down from generation to generation though a vibrant story telling tradition.

Fairy Folk, white ladies, tortured souls, poltergeists, malevolent phantoms, hideous creatures, old pagan gods…my mother used to scream at my father whenever he took me on his knee in front of the fireplace and began a tale. I was so young…she thought I was going to have nightmares…

He would stop and wait until she had gone of to do whatever it was she did in the evening and then begin again…this time in Gaelic…a twinkle in his eye and a lilt in his voice, every gesture…every tone…bringing the story alive. I wasn’t afraid…I was entranced…

She never did understand me. Even then…when I was just a baby…she had no idea who what I wanted, what I thought, who I really was…

My mom’s side is pure American old-money, the ever so snobby ones you read about in books by Edith Wharton and the like. Believe me, everything you ever read or saw in the movies about Boston and New York WASP society is true….and the Harts were major players.

It’s a wonder I escaped with my sanity.

Escaped.

Funny I should choose that word with respect to my family…but as I said, my mother and I are about as compatible as oil and water. More like gunpowder and a flame. Put them together and you are asking for an explosion.

You know, I haven’t thought about her in a while. We don’t really talk…not since I joined the army against her wishes. Not since my father passed on…

Enough of this. What’s done is done…I have written more than I intended, said more than I meant to say.

I had better get some sleep.

______________________________________________________

On toNext Entry!
Back to The Bard's Fics!
Back to Authors Page!