The Dream Weavers

catch her there. Thanks for letting me know.’ He missed the look of frustration and disappointment on her face; another group of visitors was arriving, heading towards her, and he was able to escape.
‘Bea?’ he called as he let himself into the house.
There was no reply. He walked through the hall and glanced into the kitchen. She wasn’t making lunch and she wasn’t in the snug either. With its cosy open fireplace and a window overlooking the narrow strip of side garden, the snug was their private space, once probably one of the pantries in the days when the house had staff. It was somewhere he and Bea could relax and watch the TV and hide from the world. Turning back into the kitchen, he grabbed an apple from the wooden bowl on the table and headed towards his study.
An hour later she still hadn’t appeared. He pushed aside his keyboard and went back to the kitchen to make himself a sandwich. There was still no message on his phone and her own was switched off. Only then did he check to see if she had left a note. Usually she did if she was going out anywhere, in case he needed her urgently. In the past, when he was a parish priest, that had been often, but now with his job change she was far less involved and had more time for her own activities. Sandra had said she looked worried. He sighed, full of misgivings.
He had often wished he didn’t disapprove so profoundly of her dabbling, as he couldn’t help thinking of it, in the paranormal. He knew it was her passion and, face it, her calling. She had never made a secret of it, and had been clear that she could never give up her interests. They were part of her as much as his own faith was a part of him. It was, in some ways, her profound spiritual beliefs that had attracted him back to her when they had met again after their separation, but in other ways they still slightly repelled him. And since they’d come here to the cathedral, he had found himself begging her, perhaps, if he was honest, almost demanding that she give it up. Not her beliefs. He could not interfere with those; nor her ability to see things beyond the normal, but to stop going to people’s houses, stop exorcising spirits. She had been furious when he had used that word. Exorcism had connotations of force and banishment while she dealt in gentleness and understanding and persuasion, but the fact remained he did not want her to go out and deal with other people’s problems. Not those sort of problems, the sort that could and had put her in extreme danger. The very thought of what had happened to her in that old house with the poltergeist made him angry and if he was honest with himself, afraid.
She had left no note.
‘Bea?’ he went to the foot of the stairs. Perhaps she was up in her study.
‘Bea, darling?’ He headed upstairs, glanced into their bedroom, and out of the window, through the unfurling leaves on the lime trees outside in the Close, towards the bulk of the cathedral with its massive tower, the four Gothic pinnacles rising into the sky, lightning conductors for sacred energies, as she had mischievously pointed out.
He very seldom went up to her private study. It was an understanding between them that this was her retreat. Perhaps he avoided it deliberately, not really wanting to know what went on up here. She had never told him not to come, but he still felt an intruder as he pushed open the door and looked in. The window faced onto their small walled back garden two storeys below, with its gate out into one of the town’s hidden courtyards and the alleyway between a cluster of old houses that jostled towards the town centre. There was a vase of tulips on the low table, a couple of colourful cushions on the floor, a bookcase overflowing with volumes. There was a small Celtic cross on the wall. His eye rested on it, reassured. Though she was a Christian, her interests brought her so often into the vicinity of pagan enthusiasts who vociferously loathed the Christian faith that he wondered sometimes just how liberal her beliefs were. The room was comfortable, a little sitting room, a sewing room perhaps. He smiled ruefully to himself. Get real, Mark! Not a stitch of sewing had ever been done in here. Or at least not since the Victorians had left. He had to admit it had a delightful atmosphere, light, friendly, safe. His eyes slid quickly over the tray of tea lights, little bottles of essential oils, jars of dried herbs, crystals and he found himself growing more and more anxious.
Whatever else the room showed, there was nothing to give a clue where she was. But suddenly he knew. She had told him in her own oblique way, sidestepping his questions the night before. Chris had said there was a problem at the cottage. This was not a leaky tap or a rattling window frame. It was a voice. A mysterious knocking at the door. She had gone back there.
With a quick look at his watch, he ran downstairs two at a time. He had no more meetings scheduled for today; he could catch up with his reports later.
He knew where the cottage was. They had been there several times together when Chris and Ray had been doing it up, sharing drinks and picnics with them, listening to the banter between the two women who had been close friends for years. Naturally she had not been able to resist going to help when Chris had asked.
Parking next to a distinctly old, mud-coloured Volvo, Mark climbed out of his car. The view was stunning, the air cool and sweet with grass and that ubiquitous softly pungent smell of sheep dung. There was no