Legend of the Celtic Stone

by Michael Phillips

  Andrew walked on in thoughtful silence, his mind and heart exploring many inner paths he had never traveled before. He made his way slowly and quietly around the silent stone walls of the great abbey, pondering anew its meaning, then gradually back toward the hotel.

  As he walked into the lobby, the face of the clerk on duty instantly lit up with concern.

  “Mr. Trentham,” he said, “we’ve been looking high and low for you.”

  “Well, here I am,” said Andrew with a smile, “what can I do for you?”

  “You had an urgent call, sir. Here is the message.”

  He handed Andrew a slip of paper. On it he read the words, Call immediately, with a telephone number he did not recognize.

  Andrew quickly hurried up to his room to place the call.

  Two

  When the voice at the receiving end of the line answered, “City General Hospital,” Andrew immediately knew something was wrong.

  “This is Andrew Trentham calling,” he said. “I had a message to ring.”

  “Yes, Mr. Trentham, we’ve been expecting you. Hold a moment, please.”

  About fifteen seconds later, Andrew’s father came on the line.

  “Hello, Dad,” said Andrew.

  “I’m sorry to have to break it to you like this, son,” said Harland Trentham. “Your mother’s had a severe stroke. She’s in hospital here at Carlisle.”

  “How bad is it?”

  “Massive, my boy. She’s not expected to live.”

  An audible gasp sounded from Andrew’s mouth.

  “If she does make it,” his father continued, “it’s doubtful she will speak again.”

  “What’s her status now?” asked Andrew.

  “She’s in a coma. Her body appears completely paralyzed.”

  “I’ll leave immediately,” said Andrew. “I should be there by two or three in the morning.”

  Andrew paused.

  “Wait a minute, what am I thinking?” he went on. “I’m on Iona without a car. The ferry’s shut down for the night. The whole island’s asleep. Without a helicopter, there’s no way I can go anywhere.”

  “Right . . . I understand,” said his father.

  “I’ll have to leave first thing in the morning.”

  “I don’t suppose there’s anything you can do in any event—except pray.”

  “I will . . . yes, I will do that, Dad. Call me if there’s a change.”

  “Right, son.”

  Andrew put down the phone and stood a moment numbly. This was a sudden turn of events he had certainly not expected.

  He descended the stairs.

  “Is there any way off this island at this time of the night?” he asked the clerk.

  “I’m afraid not, Mr. Trentham. Even if there were, you couldn’t get from Mull to the mainland.”

  “I didn’t think so.” Andrew wandered once more out into the Ionan twilight. The air was warm and fragrant, with gentle sea breezes drifting over the tiny island. How everything had changed from an hour earlier, when he had been reading Columba’s story and reflecting on its significance.

  Gradually, as he walked, his thoughts took a far different turn. In his mind emerged the beginnings of an inner conversation with his mother as he reflected on what he would say to her if she were listening at this moment. But this inner dialogue, too, soon began to shift. Before long he was directing his thoughts toward Another.

  Without realizing it, Andrew Trentham had begun to pray.

  “Don’t let her die now,” he said audibly. “Not before I’ve had the chance to talk to her again, not before I’ve made peace with her . . . made peace with the memory of Lindsay.”

  He quickened his steps, not yet giving conscious thought to Whom he had begun to address the deep feelings of his heart.

  “I have to talk to her again,” he said. “We must break this silence about Lindsay. Even if she cannot speak . . . maybe she won’t even be able to understand . . . still I have to try to make sure she knows there was nothing I could have done . . . that I loved Lindsay too. Please . . . give me one more chance to talk to her.”

  Andrew walked on, moving down toward the shore, yet keeping the hotel in sight. If another call came, he didn’t want to be too far away.

  Three

  Life . . . we take it so for granted, Andrew mused, now thinking to himself. Yet death is always close—right beside us . . . waiting . . . though we rarely see it. Birth, life, death . . . an ever-moving stream. . . .

  Suddenly all the stories he had lived with in past months returned to his mind. All seemed to culminate in the story of Columba, which now leapt into a brilliant clarity of focus and spiritual purpose. With it came words and phrases he had heard Duncan utter over the years.

  He’s no ancient God, lad, Andrew heard in his memory, he’s as real an’ alive this very day as when his Son walked the earth. He’s as alive fer ye an’ fer me as he was fer old Saint Columba, or for Saint Peter himsel’ . . . .

  Could it really be that simple? Andrew wondered. Was it just a matter of trusting that God was real and alive?

  Was the very simplicity of Columba’s faith the thing that gave him such power . . . power literally to bring forth miracles?

  His mother’s face was before him now. In the midst of his quandaries, he saw her smiling and full of life and health.

  And there, strangely, was Columba’s smiling face alongside his mother’s. Andrew had no idea what the ancient saint might look like, but the sense of the man was there.

  Suddenly Andrew realized that his personal search for identity and roots was bound up in his relationship with his mother . . . and maybe in old Columba’s faith at the same time. How, exactly, he didn’t know. Yet somehow they were linked.

  All at once, in the silence of the night, the words were out of his mouth: “God, help me discover who I am . . . and to know who you are.”

  For a few moments his spirit was calm. All at once Andrew’s brain reeled with an incredible idea.

  The thought was so huge!

  If Columba could exercise such practical faith . . . if Columba had courage to do nothing more than simply believe . . . and, if as a result of that elemental principle, rocks could float and people were healed . . .

  Andrew’s mind was spinning!

  . . . If Columba could exercise such simple faith . . . why couldn’t he?

  If a former prostitute could forgive the pain a father had caused a daughter, could not a son forgive a mother the pain she had caused him? What was to prevent his following both these examples from the moving story?

  The example of forgiveness . . . the example of faith.

  And there, in the semidarkness and utter quiet of Iona, Andrew Trentham slipped to his knees at the water’s edge.

  “God,” he prayed, “I come to you as Columba of old did on these very shores. I ask you in the same way he did to work a miracle. I can’t say that I have much faith. I don’t even know if I have ANY faith. But if you are the God of power that Columba called on, and the God dear old Duncan speaks of as his friend, the God of this land and its people, then whether I have any faith or not, and whether I deserve to be heard or not, I ask you, please, to help my mother come through this, and put forgiveness and new love in my heart toward her.”

  Around him the night was silent.

  Andrew lifted his face and gazed into the starry expanse above him. It was not an empty expanse. Everything above, around, even inside him, was full of a great Presence.

  Slowly, a deep peace descended over him, such as he had never felt before. He wasn’t sure he even understood what it meant.

  Slowly Andrew rose and made his way back to the hotel. He was reluctant for the moment to end, yet knew he had to get some sleep before the morrow.

  He walked upstairs to his room and, notwithstanding concern for his mother, slept soundly and peacefully.

  At dawn he was awake, and left the island on the morning’s first ferry.

  Four

&nbs
p; Patricia Rawlings sat in the lobby of the Doyle Skylon Hotel, a magazine in her lap, nearly out of her mind with boredom. She had to have more, she thought to herself.

  Much more.

  If she tried to go to anyone now with what she was thinking, they would only laugh. Reardon would deny everything. She could just see Pilkington and Luddington smiling as they listened, then breaking out in laughter the minute the door was closed behind her. She would become a greater laughingstock than before!

  Everything was still nothing more than a gigantic hunch. Even if it was the Stone they were hiding in the druidic compound, by the time the police got there they could easily hide it or move it again.

  The fact was—she had no proof of what was inside the box. Nor that Reardon was involved in something underhanded.

  If she intended to write a story or go to the police, she had to get something concrete. Otherwise she might just as well go home.

  An hour later, Reardon came through the elevator doors again. He didn’t so much as glance her way as he crossed the lobby.

  Paddy hurried through the front doors as close behind him as she dared.

  Five

  Andrew walked into the Carlisle hospital in midmorning. He found his father in the corridor outside his mother’s room. He walked up and nodded gravely, momentarily taken aback by the expression on the older Trentham’s face. It was anything but downcast.

  “Good news, son!” said Mr. Trentham jubilantly, coming toward him eagerly and shaking his hand. “Your mother’s out of the coma.”

  “What—that’s wonderful!” exclaimed Andrew. “When . . . what happened?”

  “Sometime late last night—I don’t know, it must have been between midnight and two—all of a sudden her vital signs began jumping about. I was afraid we were going to lose her. The heart monitor signal was bouncing up and down. But the doctor said it was a good sign. Something was happening inside her, he said. It was almost as if she were being touched by some outside force, probing at her heart and brain, trying to make her respond.”

  As his father spoke Andrew felt goose bumps tingling through his body.

  “And then a couple of hours ago,” his father continued, “her eyes began to twitch, then suddenly opened. The doctors are dumbfounded. They have no idea what caused the change. Some of them are calling it miraculous, though of course, they don’t mean literally. It just happened so suddenly, that’s all.”

  Andrew stood listening, incredulous. He couldn’t believe what he had just heard.

  “Is . . . is she awake?” he asked.

  “Only barely. She hasn’t said anything. They still don’t know whether she’ll be able to or not. But I think she knows who I am.”

  He turned and led Andrew into the room.

  Six

  The moment Andrew saw his mother so pale and weak and vulnerable, his heart stung him. Immediately it opened to her with a kind of love he had never felt before.

  Andrew and his father sat down. For several minutes they remained at the bedside in silence. Both detected the moment Lady Trentham’s eyelids flinched, then opened slightly. They could not tell at first whether or not she saw them. They each took one of her hands.

  “Andrew is here, Waleis,” said Andrew’s father.

  There seemed a slight movement of the woman’s neck. Her eyes remained expressionless.

  “Hello, Mum,” said Andrew. His voice choked with emotion.

  Her head turned perceptibly toward the sound. Her eyes seemed to fill with liquid and glistened in the dull yellow hospital light.

  “Would you mind, Dad,” said Andrew, “if Mum and I had a minute or two alone?”

  “No . . . of course not, son,” said Mr. Trentham. He rose and left the room.

  Andrew sat for three or four minutes in continued silence, his mother’s hand resting limply in his, her moist eyes gazing at him without expression. He had no idea how much she might understand, but he had to make the attempt. If God had answered his prayer, he now must do his part. Perhaps God was extending her life so he could deal with the memory of Lindsay for both of them. This opportunity might not come again.

  “Mum . . .” he said at length, then paused. The first word had been the most difficult. But now he had to keep going. He drew in a deep breath.

  “I have so much to say,” he continued. “I know you and I haven’t really been as close as either of us might have liked. I always felt that Lindsay came between us. . . .”

  Another pause . . . another deep breath. This was infinitely more difficult than addressing the House of Commons! And took far more courage.

  “Perhaps I am wrong,” Andrew went on, “but I felt that her memory was more important to you than I was, even though I was living and she was gone. I know you loved her, and that when she died it caused you more anguish than I will ever understand. I mean no disrespect either to you or her by what I just said. I loved you both too.”

  Yet again Andrew paused, struggling to keep going.

  “But I was me, not her,” he said. “I never could be her. But I felt you wanted me to be. It was an expectation I could never measure up to. Whatever I did, whoever I was, her memory would always be larger, holding up a standard I could never meet. I feel funny talking about all this right now, when you’re not well. But for some reason I feel it is important for you as well as me . . . and that this is the time we must face it.

  “I’ve been reflecting on many things recently—who I am and what that means. If I’ve seen one thing, it is that I can’t live any longer under a shadow of expectation, where I always feel disapproval simply because I am not Lindsay. Whether it’s something you put on me, or whether I put it on myself, I don’t know. Perhaps it doesn’t matter at this point. I have to get free of it.

  “And, Mum,” Andrew continued hesitantly, “I think you have to get free of it too. It is time we break this vow of silence about what happened that day. I think it was wrong to keep silent, and for you to put that on me. I know you were in shock at the time. But I was too young and afraid to know any better. And it wasn’t right. You made us put our trauma into a box and seal it over with a tight lid. That prevented resolution for either of us. It built a wall between us. It’s been like a secret cancer at the core of our relationship all these years. And I think it is time we rooted out that secret and brought it into the light. Your grief over what happened can never be resolved unless we get it out in the open and talk about Lindsay. I’ve struggled all these years with what happened, but at last I have come to feel a new sense of peace about it. I hope you can be at peace as well, about Lindsay . . . and about me.”

  Andrew stopped and again exhaled slowly. He hadn’t planned to say quite so much.

  He looked down at his mother’s face. Tears flowed freely from her eyes. Wet tracks glistened down both cheeks. She seemed to be trying to speak, but she could not.

  “I’m sorry to cause you this extra pain right now, Mum,” said Andrew.

  He stretched out his free hand and gently wiped away the tears with the back of his finger. A lump rose in his throat. They were the first tears he had seen her shed since Lindsay’s death.

  The silent eyes poignantly followed the motion of his hand. Her lips began to quiver. Still they uttered no sound.

  Andrew felt a squeeze on his other hand. He returned it.

  Lady Trentham turned her head away, then closed her eyes. Overcome with tenderness, Andrew leaned toward her, stooped down, and kissed his mother on the cheek. Then he rose, walked some way down the corridor to collect himself, and sought his father.

  “What is the plan, Dad?” he asked in a husky voice. “What do we do now?”

  “I’ll see what the doctors have to say,” replied Mr. Trentham. “In any event, I’m sure I’ll stay the night here.”

  “I think I’ll drive on home,” said Andrew. “I’ve just put Mum through a bit of an ordeal. I think it will be best for the two of you to be alone together now.”

  His father cast him a ques
tioning glance. “Uh . . . whatever you think, son.”

  “I’ll call you this evening, then come back over tomorrow morning.”

  13

  From Eire to Caledonia

  One

  The road leading southwest from Dublin was familiar this time.

  Paddy had a good idea where Reardon was going by now, and she could follow at a safe distance.

  They had left Carlow a mile or two before. There was the pub coming up on her right, with its faded sign and a red-and-white phone booth in front. The turn-off for the druidic center would be just a little farther down the road.

  Unexpectedly, however, the car in front of her braked and pulled into the lot.

  Paddy slowed and drove on, glancing over as she passed the pub. It was Reardon all right. What was he up to? She would turn around after a bit, then come back and try to find out.

  A few minutes later Paddy pulled into the pub’s parking lot. Reardon’s car sat empty. She parked and put on her oversized hat—the best disguise she could manage under the circumstances—then got out, pulled her light jacket tightly around her, and walked inside.

  The place was dimly lit and filled with the haze of tobacco smoke. The odor of strong Irish lager and stout met her nostrils. This was obviously no tourist spot, but strictly a watering hole for locals. Eight or ten men were scattered in twos and threes at tables throughout the room. A couple of others stood at the counter, chatting loudly with the fat, balding proprietor of the place, whose grimy white apron bulged over his stomach and upon which he wiped his hands after pouring each new draft.

  Paddy slipped into the closest chair to the door. She was conscious of nearly every head in the place turning in her direction. Momentarily the buzz subsided as they eyed her. Gradually the noise of conversation, movement, and laughter, chairs scraping and glasses chinking, resumed. She could easily imagine half of those here as IRA members with guns beneath their jackets. Only one other woman was present in the whole place. It would be just her luck to have walked into a terrorist stronghold!