The Stone of Destiny

by Jim Ware

  Slanting bars of fading gray afternoon light met his eyes as he entered the lofty, airy, cube-shaped chamber above. Each of the room’s four mortared stone walls was pierced by two tall, slatted Gothic windows, through which the damp sea-mist flowed unhindered. Morgan climbed up, drawing Eny behind him, and threw his backpack down on a white Formica-topped workbench that spanned the entire length of the west wall. Switching on a green-shaded desk lamp, he pulled up an old cane chair and motioned to Eny to sit down.

  “Messy as ever,” she said absently. “What have you been doing up here?” She buttoned her brown woolen sweater up to the chin, shivering in the damp, chill air. Then she pulled a dusty old book off a shelf that hung precariously over the workbench and sat down to examine it. “What’s Iliaster?” she asked.

  Morgan glanced in her direction. “Careful with that! It was my dad’s. Paracelsus. The Philosophy of Theophrastus Concerning the Generations of the Elements. Very rare. Really old and fragile. And you know what I’m working on. The same thing I’m always working on.”

  She looked up from the book. “Powder?”

  “Transmutative powder. The Philosophers’ Stone. The Elixir.”

  She wrinkled up her nose. “I don’t think you should be playing around with magic, Morgan.”

  “It’s not magic! How many times do I have to tell you, Eny? It’s science! Alchemy! The parent of all sciences! Every major alchemical writer talks about the Philosophers’ Stone. Hermes Trismegistus. Paracelsus. Edward Kelly. Armand Barbault. Fulcanelli. It’s a transmutative powder. It changes things into other things. Turns lead into gold. They call it the Elixir of Life because it’s supposed to have healing properties. In it all the power of the stars.”

  “If it’s a powder, then why do they call it a stone?”

  He scowled at her. “‘Stone’ doesn’t always have to mean ‘big rock.’ In this case it obviously refers to a mineral essence of some kind. The One Primal Element. Paracelsus believed in the virtue of minerals. ‘How does a Tree become a Stone, which then becomes a Star?’ That’s how Fulcanelli put it. That’s the riddle of the Philosophers’ Stone.”

  Eny shrugged, shook her head, and turned back to the book.

  She was right about the lab, of course. It was pure chaos. Morgan knew it. But then he hadn’t had time to think about straightening up. The work was going too well. It was intoxicating, consuming—success was so near he could almost taste it. Noisily shoving aside a few bottles, some crusty spoons, and a pile of crumpled papers, he groped around on the bench until his fingers found what he was seeking: two corked test tubes and his alembic—a narrow-necked glass jar connected by a thin tube to a small glass globe.

  “Here,” he said, squaring his shoulders and taking a deep breath. “This is what I wanted to show you.” He blew a few strands of yellow hair out of his eyes, picked up the tubes and the alembic, and carried them to a sink in the corner. “I’m getting close, Eny. Real close. Watch this.”

  Biting his lip, Morgan carefully poured the contents of the first tube—a clear scarlet fluid—into the alembic. Then he uncapped the other, which was filled with something that looked like watery milk, and added it to the solution. Silence reigned in the chamber while the milky stuff mingled with the red. As they watched, the mixture turned green, then gold, then orange, then maroon. At last it became a pinkish liquid of a pearled and cloudy consistency.

  Morgan felt a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. The blood was drumming in his ears. “See that?” he said. “That’s just the way the books said it should happen!” With the greatest of care he transferred the alembic to the workbench, placed it gingerly over a Bunsen burner, and fired up the flame. Immediately he turned it down to a mere blue flicker. A flame of very low heat.

  “So how’s your mom?” said Eny.

  He blinked and looked up at her abruptly. It was just like a girl to bring up a subject like that at a time like this. “Not too good,” he said.

  “My parents are worried about her.”

  Morgan grunted and turned back to the Bunsen burner. “I guess they hear all the coughing. The walls are thin enough.”

  Eny shut The Philosophy of Theophrastus with a snap. “Has the doctor said anything new?”

  “Nope.” Morgan’s attention was focused intently on the pink liquid, which was beginning to seethe and roil in the alembic like a tiny tempest.

  “And what about your mom? What does she think?”

  “She says it’s all ‘in the hands of the Lord.’ I say it all goes back to that bad case of the flu she had a couple of years ago. She’s been coughing ever since. Lately she’s had some dizziness, too. And fainting spells. But it’s no big deal. She was supposed to see Dr. Vincent again this afternoon.”

  “So you’ll know more when we get home?”

  He nodded absently. By this point he was completely immersed in the drama unfolding inside the glass container. Sparks were jumping inside his brain in sympathy with the leaping and popping bubbles in the churning brew. Without shifting his gaze, he beckoned to her with his hand. “Quick, Eny!” he said. “Come look at this!”

  She was beside him in a moment. The rosy solution was boiling rapidly now, turning over and over inside the alembic, sending up a pale roseate steam into the distillation tube. The steam, in turn, was solidifying into crystals inside the glass, and the crystals were slowly changing color before their very eyes—from pink to orange, from orange to scarlet, from scarlet to purple, from purple to blue.

  “It’s happening!” shouted Morgan, clapping his hands. “It’s happening at last!”

  “What’s happening?”

  “Mercury, sulphur, and salt … extracted from common substances—dead leaves, seaweed, dirt, crabgrass—cooked down, hermetically sealed, slowly boiled over and over again. It’s supposed to yield what the alchemists called materia prima—‘prime matter.’ And materia prima, if it’s handled just right, produces the Stone! Watch the crystals, Eny! When they turn white, the process is complete!”

  Suddenly he felt her grip his arm and squeeze it tightly. “Morgan!” she shouted. He jerked his head around and saw that her eyes were wide with alarm.

  “What’s wrong?” he said. “There’s nothing to be afraid of! Just think—”

  A flash like blue lightning illuminated the room. With one ear Morgan heard the blast of an explosion and the crash of breaking glass, with the other the piercing wail of Eny’s scream. A sharp, searing pain slashed him along the right side of his face. He fell down into darkness.

  When at last he was able to raise himself on one elbow, he glanced around at the wreckage and caught sight of Eny, unhurt but trembling, hunched up against the opposite wall. The last dim shafts of a fog-muffled sunset were streaming in through the windows and piercing the clouds of smoke that filled the room. He jumped up, filled a bucket at the sink, and doused the little yellow flames that were dancing along the edge of his workbench. Then he collapsed into the cane chair and put a hand to his cheek.

  It burned like fire.

  “You won’t tell your parents, will you?” pleaded Morgan as he and Eny parted ways in front of the white stucco duplex. “I don’t know what I’d do if your dad made me shut down the lab!” George Ariello wielded absolute sway over every square inch of St. Halistan’s. It was he who had granted Morgan use of the tower chamber in the first place.

  “He won’t,” said Eny. “Not yet, anyway. Not unless Reverend Alcuin finds out about it. Or unless I happen to change my mind.” Shivering in the evening fog, she clasped her violin tightly under her arm and frowned. There was a strange, distant expression on her face. Her one blue eye seemed to glow in the gathering darkness. “Besides, you’ve got bigger things to worry about right now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She shrugged. “You’d better go in and put something on that burn,” s
he said. “G’night.” With a faint smile, she turned and went in the door on the left.

  Morgan stood staring after her. “Bigger things to worry about,” he muttered. He could hear the voices of George and Moira Ariello raised in a vigorous exchange as the door closed behind his friend. Sounds like she’s got worries of her own, he thought. Turning to the right, he slipped quietly into his own half of the duplex, determined to avoid his mother until he’d had a chance to change and wash up.

  Morgan knew something was not right the minute he set foot inside the apartment. All was dark; all was quiet. At this time of day, Mom ought to have been in the kitchen getting dinner on the table. Hadn’t she come back from the doctor yet? He paused to listen; reached up to flip on a light; then stopped, baffled at his own hesitancy to disrupt the dim gray silence.

  At the end of the front hallway he could see a dull light flickering among the lilies on the living room wallpaper. Approaching on tiptoe, he held his breath and stuck his head into the room. There was a fire on the hearth. In front of it, humped over on the worn green sofa, the red-orange glow of the flames caught like a halo in her angel-fine hair, sat his mother. Her back was to him, and her head was in her hands. Except for the crackling of the flames and the ticking of the clock on the mantel, the room was deathly still.

  “What is it, Mom?” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Is something wrong?”

  She turned. It was hard to tell in the glare of the firelight, but he thought her eyes looked red. She tried to smile, but her hand trembled as she held it out to him. “Cancer,” was all she said.

  The sea-fog heaved and shifted on the breeze, then divided and parted, revealing the pale sheen of the moon rippling on the surface of La Coruna Inlet. Morgan stood at his bedroom window, his forehead pressed against the glass. The midnight stars glinted in the dark spaces between the scattering shreds of mist. He clenched his fists and bit his lip.

  Elixir of life. In it all the power of the stars. I’ll start over again. Tomorrow.

  Drawing the curtains, he collapsed into bed and pulled the covers up over his head.

  Chapter Three

  Madame Medea

  Ruddy sunlight played in bright liquid ripples across the shop windows as Morgan and Eny shuffled down Front Street the following afternoon. Across the road lay the windswept beach, a silvery crescent of California coastline, glittering with sand and shells. On their right marched the painted storefronts of Santa Piedra’s Old Towne district, a bougainvillea-shaded row of eateries and curiosity shops. Morgan took a deep breath, ran his fingers through his unruly yellow hair, and stole a glance at his companion. He had chosen this way home from school—the long way—on purpose. He was looking for a chance to talk.

  “It must have been methane,” he said.

  “Methane?” Eny clutched her schoolbooks closer and regarded him out of the corner of her eye.

  “It’s the only possible explanation. Somehow or other, I produced methane yesterday afternoon. ‘Swamp gas.’ Highly flammable.”

  She turned just long enough to look at him curiously. Then they walked on in silence beneath the cool shadows of the curbside ficus trees.

  Normally Morgan would have avoided this part of town at this time of day. Not that he disliked the seashore or the shops; in spite of all the commercialization, Old Towne retained an atmosphere that he found almost irresistible: the air of a whaling village mingled with the romance of a colonial Spanish pueblo. Still, he could never forget that this entire piece of real estate was owned by the Knowles empire. Every single establishment along Front Street—from La Coruna Gifts and Cards to the Knowles Book Knoll to Uncle Pritchard’s Restaurant—all of it belonged to Baxter’s father. Morgan couldn’t pass this way without feeling as if Baxter himself might emerge from one of those doors at any moment.

  “I don’t know anything about methane,” Eny said at last. “But whatever you did, you better not do it again. If my dad finds out, he’ll be mad. He has enough trouble with fire inspectors.”

  “That’s why I need your help,” said Morgan.

  “What do you mean?”

  He stopped and faced her. “I mean I’ve got to do it again. At least I have to try. And since I can’t guarantee how it will turn out, I’ll need you to help cover for me. In case of mishaps.”

  She squinted at him in the glare of the westering sun. “Why is this white powder so important to you, Morgan? Is this about Baxter Knowles?”

  “No!” he said, reddening. “It’s not that at all. It’s something much more important.” He hesitated. “It’s my mom.”

  Her eyes were fixed on his. He knew she was waiting for an explanation. A hot, burning sensation rose up the back of his neck. He fumbled and bit his lip. “It’s cancer,” he said at last. “She’s got cancer.”

  Eny’s eyes grew large and round. She dropped her books on a nearby bench. “Cancer?”

  Morgan nodded.

  Her face darkened. “But we’ve been praying for her every day, my dad and me. Is she scared?”

  “She’s worried. I can tell. I think she’d been crying before I came in last night. But she just smiles and tells me everything will be okay. She says God is taking care of her.”

  Eny shook her head. “I just can’t believe it,” she said.

  “I won’t believe it!” said Morgan. “And I won’t let it happen. That’s why I’ve got to go back into the lab. Don’t you see? It’s more crucial than ever now. The Elixir of Life is the only way to—”

  He stopped in midsentence. Just above Eny’s head, swinging gently in the sea breeze, hung a signboard he’d never seen before: an intricately carved and newly painted sign that dangled from a twisted, rusty rod of black wrought iron. It bore the emblem of a white hand on a black field. Beneath the hand, in curled and gilded letters, were the words MADAME MEDEA’S:

  Coffee House

  Metaphysical Gifts

  Palm-Readings

  Consultations in the Alchemical Arts

  “What’s wrong?” said Eny, tilting her head back in an effort to see what he was gaping at. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

  Morgan tossed his schoolbooks down beside Eny’s. “I’ve never seen this place before.”

  “It wasn’t here yesterday,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “At least I don’t think so. That’s kind of creepy.”

  Morgan approached the shop window and peered inside. It was cluttered with a bewildering miscellany of merchandise. There were candles and wind chimes, ribbons and streamers, gold chains and strings of bright beads. There were copper pots and silver dishes, teakettles and coffee grinders, bottles and jars of green and blue glass. Of special interest was a set of alembics and glass tubes of various sizes and a collection of dusty old books in worn leather covers. Painted across the window itself, in a double-arched semicircle of Gothic letters, was the motto,

  That which is above is as that which is below,

  And that which is below is as that which is above.

  “Consultations in the Alchemical Arts,” muttered Morgan, glancing up at the sign again. “I don’t know much about prayer, Eny, but this might be the answer! Let’s find out.”

  He grabbed her by the arm and thrust his way into the shop.

  A tiny brass bell tinkled above their heads as the door clicked shut behind them. The next moment they were enveloped in a silence as deep and thick as the velvety purple carpet beneath their feet. Morgan took a few tentative steps forward, then stopped and looked around.

  The interior of the shop was darker than he had expected. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he gradually became aware that the place was filled with rows of haphazard wooden shelves and aisles of dusty glass cases, all of them crammed with more of the same kind of stuff he’d seen in the window: pestles and mortars, snips and shears, p
okers and tongs, shovels and bellows, jars of crystals, astrolabes, scales, censers, double boilers, ceramic pots. Everywhere were bottles filled with tinctures of every possible color—gold, green, azure, carnelian, purple, violet, mustard yellow. An umbrella stand stood just inside the entrance, housing a random collection of parasols, canes, and walking sticks.

  Morgan looked up. From the rafters dangled shaggy bundles of fragrant herbs and common garden weeds: dandelion, horsetail, dill, scouring rush, sweet marjoram, lemon balm, lavender, plantain. Dark tapestries hung along the walls, one of them bearing a picture of a flaming bird in a Greek temple on a pyramid of seven tiers. Each of the pyramid’s seven terraces was clearly labeled: Calcination, Dissolution, Separation, Conjunction, Fermentation, Distillation, Coagulation. Beneath the picture, embroidered in letters of gold, were the words The Ladder of the Wise.

  Along the left side of the room ran a dark oak counter bearing a silvery espresso machine. Above this rose yet another bank of shelves, stocked to the ceiling with multicolored bottles of flavored syrups and jars of aromatic coffee beans. The air was filled with an extravagant mixture of wild, contradictory aromas, rich, pungent, sweet, and spicy. Three small round tables were jammed into a corner beside the counter, each of them surrounded by three black wrought-iron chairs. Soothing harp music floated through a narrow doorway at the back of the room, where Morgan could see a faint, flickering yellow light filtering through a screen of wooden beads.

  “And how might we be serving you, young miss and young mister?”

  Startled, Morgan whipped around to find a strange little man standing at his elbow, his nose long and crooked, his chin sharp and stubbly, his head as bald as an egg except for a fringe of gray hair that ran from ear to ear round the back of his skull. His large gray eyes gleamed like stars from beneath his bushy gray eyebrows. His shabby black coat was tattered and worn, and his brown woolen pants had holes at the knees. From his belt hung a lumpy satchel of soft leather, like an old drawstring purse.