When I was a young child, I became very ill. Left to the care of Christian doctors who refused to dabble in ungodly Pagan medicines, I would have died. But my grandfather was still Frisian enough to disagree with my parents new world leanings. An old friend of his from a disbanded tribe was still in practice with old cures and ways of healing. My grandfather slipped me one of his tonics, a rough and heavy-tasting liquid with roots and owls blood that I can recall the flavor of to this day. Two days later, it was as if I had never fallen ill at all.
But I couldn’t sleep for months after. Not at night. I would lie in bed, at my parents’ order, but I would be awake all night, listening to the house creaking and the insects outside in the darkness. The next day, I would crash in the afternoon and sleep for hours. My parents did all that they could to try to keep me awake during the day, but it didn’t lead to my getting any more rest at night. I would lie down, but sleep just wouldn’t come.
Then, it gradually faded. I started going to sleep earlier and earlier in the day until the earlier became the night before, and I was eventually back to my normal sleep pattern. My parents blamed it on the illness. It took me many many years, more than most people get to live, to realize what had happened to me. Blood changed me into what I am now. Blood changed me then. Owl’s blood. In the time it took to work its way out of my system, I wasn’t just suffering from insomnia…
I was nocturnal.