Free The Arrival of Missives by Aliya Whiteley

is warm in the sun, and so very solid. It is a rock; how could it be anything but?
    'Hello?' I say, experimentally.
    The rock does not respond.
    This is foolish, I know it, but it came to me that maybe the reason rocks have not communicated with humans before is because humans never really tried, not properly. But now a rock is embedded in Mr Tiller. Perhaps it tells him things because he is the first person to take a real interest.
    Of course, there are different kinds of rock in the world, I know that. And also, now I think of it, rocks that are not of this world at all. Did Mr Tiller not say the rock fell upon him from a great height? I thought it must have been thrown into the air by a bomb blast, but perhaps it did not go up at all before it fell down.
    The planets are also giant rocks. And meteors, too, and comets, I think. Rocks that travel through space, and one of them happens to fall to the Earth at the very spot where a war is being fought, at the moment where one soldier waits, wrapped in wire, to die…
    'Rock,' I say, on an impulse. 'Wake up. Tell me the future.' I press hard on its surface. I can feel striations, lines, edges: how incredible an object a rock is, now I look closely at it. How multi-hued, how interesting under my fingertips. But this rock lacks the silver strands that glittered in Mr Tiller's chest. Yes, there are many types of rock and this one does not match the one I saw that night.
    I cannot find my answers here. I must rely on my love, and the answers he has promised me. It is a good thing that it is such a lovely day, and I am to be May Queen. I take off my shoes and stockings, dangle my feet into the cold, clear water of the stream, and daydream of making my appearance at the festival, with Daniel Redmore leading me to my festooned and scented throne.
    *
    I cannot wait until after school; I take the letter Mr Tiller has given me, passed inside a book on the Silk Route, and scurry along to the hut. There I sit, with my back against the door, and start to read.
    The letter begins in a ridiculously formal capacity. It is as if Mr Tiller is attempting to create a separation between us, and it annoys me somewhat, but not enough to break my concentration upon his words.
    Dear Miss Fearn,
    Allow me to express, as your schoolmaster, my very great admiration and my respect for your efforts in regards to our discussed plans for the May Day celebrations. You have been of invaluable aid to me; and yet there is still more to be done.
    You asked me to make known to you certain information, and I will attempt to set out some form of explanation here, on the understanding that we do not speak directly upon such matters, and you destroy this letter, like my last, after reading.
    It is, in point of fact, an impossible task that you give me. One can describe thoughts and feelings; one can document conversations or even inner revelations. My visions, however – the things that I see in my mind's eye when I place my hands upon the material that has become an integral part of myself – are none of these happenings, and thus elude me when I reach for language that might elucidate them. How does one do justice to the sunrise? And yet that is the form that my visions take: light where there was the perpetual darkness that characterises the human condition; glaring truth where once shadows (so comforting, so able to obfuscate the painful lines of reality!) fell; the pain of living in knowledge where once the sleep of the ignorant emulated death itself.
    Forgive me. I shall do my best. Even when facts cannot be laid out clearly, efforts must be made for my most able pupil.
    A room – that is the first thing I see. Or perhaps it is better described as a space, for I cannot tell if there are walls, or a door. White as goose feathers, shapeless, echoing and yet close and soft, giving the sense of intimacy for those who share it. Because I am not alone. There are three venerable figures standing before me, their eyes