I let my arms swing down towards the cross. It’s an ungainly position but at least I can touch the damn thing. I grab its thin edges and push. Nothing happens. I try pulling but it still doesn’t budge. No matter what I do – twisting, yanking, gently teasing – the bloody carving is not going to yield. Eventually, I shift back so I’m sitting on the edge of the roof with my legs dangling over the side. Maybe I’ve got it all wrong. There could be somewhere else in town that has a Maltese cross on it. Or, more likely, the fact that Salib’s name is Maltese for cross is just a coincidence and I’ve come here for nothing.
I throw down a broken slate from the roof in angry frustration. It bounces off the edge and through a hole into the small room below. There’s a satisfying clatter and splintering noise so I pry off another slate and do it again. And again. And again. Then I’m yelling and shouting as I spin round on my arse and start kicking more tiles downwards through the gap. Crash, crack, crash, smash. Thud.
I frown as I peer down at the mess I’ve created. I take another tile and, more slowly this time, aim it where the last one fell. It makes a definite thud. From this vantage point, it’s suddenly clear: one of the flagstones is different to the others. It’s newer and cleaner and there’s no trace of moss around its edges. Someone placed that flagstone there recently. It’s obvious there’s no restoration project going on – the crumbling stone and appalling state of the roof attest to that – so it makes no sense for someone to make improvements to the floor. Unless they were trying to hide something.
I descend, scraping my fingernails as I drop to solid ground, and go to the rogue flagstone. I crouch down and lightly trace over it with my fingers. It’s no wonder I didn’t notice it was unlike the other ones when I was standing here the first time; even with the shafts of sunlight, the shadows cast by the walls make it nigh on impossible to spot any difference. But when I touch it and compare it to the others, it’s clear: it’s much smoother.
I try to lift it so I can see what’s underneath. For a moment, I’m not sure I will be able to budge it but, as soon as I gain purchase at its edges, it comes up easily. I push it out of the way, ignoring the frightened woodlice that scurry out from underneath. Then I swallow hard because there, wrapped up in transparent plastic to keep it safe and dry, is some kind of letter.
With my heart in my mouth, I carefully pick it up and turn it over in my hands. I make out some writing on the envelope but the plastic obscures the actual words. I tear the corner of the plastic bag with my teeth and tear off the wrapping, spitting out dirt as I do. Inside is an old-fashioned envelope made of heavy, embossed cream paper and there’s only one word on the outside: Zoe.
Like a paranoid fool, I glance around in case I’m not alone, then I carefully slide my finger under the flap and open it up. I take out the letter and unfold it. It’s covered in spidery blue handwriting. Quickly – and just to be sure – I check the second page to see the signature. When I see Salib’s name, I exhale loudly. Coming here has been worth it after all.
I turn back to the beginning and start to read.
––––––––
Dear Zoe,
If you are reading this, and I hope you’re not, then my plans have gone awry. It’s important to have a back-up but one always wishes not to use it. It will be harder to explain matters to you here than it would be in person but I shall do my best.
You are what is known as a dreamweaver, someone who can not only enter the subconscious mind of others but who has the ability to manipulate and change what happens there. Few have ever possessed this gift and I do not know why it is yours. It may be that you will come to regret owning such power. Do not doubt for a minute that it IS power.
It is unlikely that you recall it but, when you were a small child, you visited us in the Dreamlands, the place where every Traveller who is capable of unlocking their mind can visit. It was obvious to me then what you were, and how important it was to keep you safe. Children are easily manipulated; anyone who recognised you for what you are could use you for their own ends. Therefore, I took measures to ensure you were kept away from the Dreamlands again. I put a block on your mind to prevent you from visiting. I hoped to help you return when it was time but matters overtook me.
Ever since your first visits, there were rumours that a dreamweaver had returned. The Mayor, the self-styled leader of the Dreamlands, determined to find you and keep you for himself. Forgive my actions but eighteen months ago I had no choice but to take drastic action to keep you safe. If you didn’t leave your house, there was less chance the Mayor would locate you.
It was not easy to supplant your natural instincts and make you feel enough fear to remain inside. I hope the experience has not been too traumatic for you. My plan was to remove the mind block and your fear when it was safe to do so. I assume that you are reading this because I succeeded.
The Department remains unaware of your true identity. I am confident that this is a result of my efforts to hide you, distasteful as they may have been for you. If you have this letter, then you are no longer bound by my protection or limited by those necessary strictures.