The Dream Weavers

When can I come again?’
‘Whenever you like. But preferably soon. I have a tight schedule. I need to be able to concentrate.’
‘Tomorrow then. I’ll ring you first.’
As she made her way across the terrace and down the steps towards her car, she paused, her eye caught by a stone lying almost at her feet. It hadn’t been there before or she would have noticed it, she was sure.
She stared down at it thoughtfully, then she bent to pick it up. It was about the size of a hen’s egg and fitted neatly into the palm of her hand. The colour of dried blood, streaked with grey and smooth as crystal, it had a gentle warmth to it. She wiped some clinging smears of soil off it carefully and studied it for a few seconds. This was one of those moments she had learned to trust, an intuition, something Simon would never understand. In days gone by it would have been considered a message from the gods. There was something special about the stone; she didn’t know what yet, but it had appeared as she was looking for answers.
Slipping it into her pocket, she glanced back at the front door. It was closed. Simon had not waited to wave her off.
Standing quietly in the shadows of the hedge, Nesta, daughter of the forest, herb-wife and sorceress, smiled to herself. She had recognised this woman at once as a kindred spirit, a seeker of truth, a follower of the stars. In picking up the stone, the woman had accepted the challenge, and so was bound now to follow the story to its end.
Mark was in his study when Bea returned home. She paused outside his door. His room had once been the formal dining room of the house, overlooking the Close with its ancient lime trees and the huge squat shape of the cathedral itself filling the view from the windows, and it made a pleasant study with more than enough space for his desk and his books and chairs for when he needed to use it for private meetings. All was silent behind the door. She turned away to tiptoe upstairs without disturbing him.
While he had been a parish priest they had grown used to living in what they liked to call tied cottages, the last, a small modern house built in the corner of a rapidly expanding rural village, a typical new rectory to replace the long-ago-sold Old Rectory. Since they had moved into the Close, however, home had been this wonderful piece of history. It was one of several houses upgraded for the senior clergy in the early nineteenth century from a range of far older buildings. It had the best of both worlds – the back rooms still felt medieval, the front were late Georgian. Bea loved it.
It was on the attic floor at the back, high under the hipped slate roof, that Bea had made her own sanctuary in a room overlooking their small garden. It was her private domain. She called it her study. This was where she felt safe, where she studied the world that meant so much to her, the world with which she didn’t want to embarrass her husband.
Going in, she quietly closed the door and leaned against it. Up here she kept her books, her notes, her meditation space. There was a large cushion on the floor, candles, framed hand-coloured Arthur Rackham prints, and pictures of sacred landscapes on the walls. She stood staring out of the window across the walled garden towards the huddled roofs of the old town beyond it for a few long minutes then turned back into the room. She needed to think, and by think she meant meditate and pray. Now she was safely home, on her own ground, she wanted to analyse what had happened.
What should have been a routine visit, a gentle exploration of a situation, a reassuring encounter with a lost soul who needed guidance and love to send him or her on their way, had turned into an unsettling and frightening experience, over almost before it had happened, followed by something that seemed to be a dream but was so lucid and meaningful that it had to be a part of some message from the past.
She pulled the stone out of her pocket. Seeing it suddenly there in front of her outside the cottage, she had subliminally recognised it as a signpost into the narrative into which she had been led by Simon’s book. It was part of the story. She didn’t know how yet, but she had sensed it strongly.
Lighting a candle, she sat down on the cushion, the stone between her hands. On one of the courses she had been on they had made a study of psychometry, the science – she smiled to herself at the word Simon would have balked at – of conjuring the past through the touch of the fingers, by connecting to something tangible, holding an artefact – a piece of jewellery, a comb, a lock of hair – and using it to focus the mind on the person or place to whom the artefact was linked. This was something she had practised instinctively as a child, not realising then that what she did was anything more than her imagination, that the ability was a reality and a very precious gift. She had tried it before with stones from castles and ancient sites, from gardens and ruins, always conscientiously returning them when she had finished with their story. With this stone perhaps she could link to the past of the cottage, safely, here at home without a sceptical historian looming over her. Stones had always been there; stones were brilliant witnesses. They were as old as the ground around them and perhaps if she had found the right one it would provide the link she needed to whatever had so frightened the woman at Simon’s house. If she had been guided to the link, she owed