The Stone of Destiny

by Jim Ware

  “Is it a cup of hot brew you’d be after?” said the little man in answer to Morgan’s surprised stare. “Or a book, perhaps? A bell or a candle?”

  “Is this—your store?” stammered Morgan, gaping at the pinched and wrinkled face.

  “Mine?” The little man’s eyes twinkled. “Mine, he wants to know, Falor!”

  At that, a second person, broad of girth, heavy of body, and so huge that he had to stoop to get through the doorway, emerged from behind the curtain of clacking beads. His shaved head was small and round, his right eye was covered with a patch, and his greasy black suit appeared to be at least two sizes too small. He said nothing but glared at them coldly out of his one good eye.

  “Na, na,” laughed the little man. “It’s not my shop, nor none of his, either. We’re both of us hired men. That’s Falor, son of Balor,” he added, jabbing a thumb across the room at his mountainous colleague.

  Morgan felt Eny clutching his arm. “Falor, son of Balor?” she whispered. “Is this some kind of a joke?”

  “And I’m called Eochy,” the little man continued. “Odd name, you’re thinking, but not difficult.” He made a low bow, sweeping the long fingers of his hand across the floor in a gracious gesture of greeting. “At your service. As for this shop, if you really want to know, it belongs to—”

  “Me.”

  Morgan turned at the sound of this new voice—rich, mellifluous, darkly feminine, inexplicably calming. In the same instant he became aware that the harp music had ceased. Eny’s fingers tightened around his arm.

  “Excuse me, Falor,” the voice continued. “As you can see, I have customers waiting.”

  The giant grunted and shifted his bulk to one side. In the doorway behind him, poised upon the threshold, stood a tall and stately woman. The yellow light streaming through the screen of beads hung about her shapely form in a gentle aura. Her face was a pale oval, neither very young nor very old. Her eyes were large, green, and almond-shaped. She wore a bell-sleeved, multi-colored satin gown caught at the waist with a scarlet sash, and the golden slippers on her feet curled upward at the toes. From beneath her blue turban flowed an abundance of silky black hair, glossy as a raven’s wing. Slowly she began to move toward them, and as she came nearer Morgan could see that her lips were as red as ripe cherries.

  “Morgan!” whispered Eny, gripping his arm so tightly now that he could feel her fingernails digging into his flesh. “Let’s get out of here!”

  “Not yet!” he whispered.

  “Welcome,” said the woman, smiling broadly and taking him by the hand. “Welcome to Madame Medea’s. What can I do for you?”

  Morgan swallowed hard and gave Eny a sidewise glance. He could see her blue eye glowing in the dim light, boring into him with a look that burned like cold fire. Turning back to the woman, he cleared his throat and nervously licked his lips.

  “My name’s Morgan, ma’am,” he said, his voice cracking. “Morgan Izaak. I saw the sign outside. Consultations in the Alchemical Arts. I’ve got a lab of my own, and lots of books on alchemy—they used to be my dad’s—and I’ve been trying for a long time to—”

  She stopped him with a raised hand—a hand as fair and white as the image on the signboard outside the shop. “With what shall you pay?” she asked.

  Morgan felt Eny jabbing him in the ribs, but he chose to ignore her. “I don’t have any money,” he said, fumbling in the pockets of his corduroys. “We were just on our way home from school when we saw your sign, and—”

  Madame Medea reached down and laid an ivory-cool finger upon his lips. She fixed him and held him with her large green eyes. The edges of her mouth curved upward, and her dark eyebrows lifted, unsettling the smooth whiteness of her forehead. Then she laughed, a merry laugh like the chiming of a bell.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “Madame Medea knows why you have come.”

  Morgan stared. “She does? I mean—you do?”

  “Yes. And I can help you. I have only the greatest concern for you and your pretty little friend.” She shifted her gaze from Morgan to Eny. “The girl with the mismatched eyes. The girl with the Second Sight. What is your name, my dear?”

  Eny scowled and said nothing.

  “Ah!” smiled Madame Medea. “Pretty and discreet! But no matter.” Still holding Morgan’s hand, she rose to her full height and took a step backward. “As I have said, I already know what you want. You have come because you are seeking the Stone.”

  Morgan turned and gaped at Eny. Eny stared back.

  “The Stone of Destiny,” the woman continued with a nod. “The Satisfaction of All Desire. In this quest we are one.” Her smile faded. “I can help you, but it will not be without cost. Come back to me when you have nowhere else to turn, and I will help you.” She lifted his hand to her lips and kissed it softly. “Eochy, please see our young friends to the door. Good-bye, Morgan Izaak. Come back soon. Not without your friend, of course. I look forward to seeing both of you again.” With that she turned and disappeared behind the screen of rattling beads.

  Eochy bowed and offered an arm to Eny. As he escorted the two of them out to the street, Morgan could hear the music of the harp rising again at the back of the shop.

  “A word to the wise in parting,” said Eochy with a sly look as he led them to the bench where their schoolbooks lay. “After this it might be just as well to be finding another way home from school.”

  Chapter Four

  Simon Brach

  “Hi, Mom,” said Eny as she and Morgan elbowed their way into the crowded little front office of St. Halistan’s Church. “Who are all these people?”

  Moira Ariello, perched tentatively on a swivel chair behind the receptionist’s desk, glanced up over her steel-rimmed spectacles and raised a forefinger. For the moment her auburn hair was restrained by a telephone headset, and it was clear that she was busy with a caller on the other end of the line. Eny would have to wait for an answer to her question. With a shrug, she dropped her books and slumped on a bench just inside the door.

  Reluctantly, Morgan sat down beside her. It had been a tense and silent walk from Madame Medea’s shop to the church. He knew what Eny was thinking, and he didn’t want to talk about it. He was convinced that the woman in the blue turban had the answers he needed, and he was determined to get them from her at any cost. Somehow or other he’d help her find what she was seeking: the Philosophers’ Stone, the Stone of Destiny—it really didn’t matter what she called it. What mattered was his mother and the hope of the Elixir. Eny didn’t have to get involved if she didn’t want to.

  Brushing the hair from his eyes, he looked up and saw the Reverend Peter Alcuin standing in the corner behind Moira’s desk, tight up against the pigeonhole mailboxes above the communion cupboard. Rev. Alcuin’s round face was unusually red, and his bald head shone with perspiration. Though his expression remained characteristically placid and congenial, he seemed unable to keep his long, tapered fingers from tugging at his clerical collar as he stared into the eyes of two darkly dressed, clipboard-carrying men. Every so often he responded to their quiet, prodding questions with a brief word or a silent nod. Inspectors, Morgan realized. That couldn’t be good.

  On the other side of the room, between the water cooler and the oversized closet that served as the church library, George Ariello stood with his shoulder against the wall, intently studying a sheet of blue-green paper and muttering to himself in Spanish as he read. In his left hand he held a red bandanna with which he periodically mopped his brow and shoved stray locks of black hair away from his glistening forehead. Standing next to him was a tall, lanky stranger in a gray coat.

  “It’s not that I couldn’t use you,” George said at last, squinting up at the stranger. “You’re qualified for the job all right. But I’m not hiring. This is a small church, and we’re on a tight budget. My wife and me”�
�he nodded in Moira’s direction—“we can pretty much handle it on our own if we have to.”

  Moira, whose phone conversation had apparently come to an end, looked up and scowled. Eny shook her head and sighed. Morgan knew how she felt about her parents’ long hours at the church.

  “I can do floors,” said the man in the gray coat. The voice was strong but gravelly, the accent oddly lilting. “I know how to strip and seal and wax, and I’m good with a buffer. Used to have my own carpet-cleaning business back in Kansas City. I do windows, too.”

  “Windows?” George’s tone changed on the instant, as if at the pronouncement of a magic word. Laying the application on the library table, he craned his neck forward and regarded the man closely. “You know, I’ve been needing a good window man. Someone who knows stained glass.”

  “A specialty of mine,” said the stranger.

  “We’ve got lots of it around here,” George went on. “Tricky stuff to clean. All through the sanctuary and up the tower stairs. Come to think of it, there’s lots of work to be done up in that tower.”

  Morgan squirmed. He wasn’t sure he wanted anyone snooping around the tower. Most of the men George hired to work at the church were off-season farm workers from the Central Valley or retired longshoremen and cannery hands from the docks. This guy didn’t seem to fit into either category. He would have seemed old if it weren’t for the sparkle in his eye; tall except for his stooped shoulders; frail but for his large-knuckled fingers. He had an old U.S. Army knapsack on his shoulder, and a big canvas duffel bag lay bulging at his feet. Under his left arm he carried an ancient-looking alligator-skin violin case.

  Eny saw the violin case too, of course. Morgan could see her eyeing it, and he knew exactly what she was going to do. Before he could stop her, she was out of her seat, edging her way closer for a better look.

  Being in no mood for talking about musical instruments, Morgan closed his eyes and tried to think about The Ladder of the Wise. He pictured Madame Medea’s face and conjured up a vision of the bright bottles of tinctures and essences lining the shelves of her shop. But no sooner had these images taken shape in his brain than they were shattered and dispersed by the sound of his friend’s small voice.

  “Do you play, sir?”

  Morgan opened his eyes in time to see the stranger smile. By way of answer, the man knelt and laid the violin case on the floor at Eny’s feet. He flipped up the latches one by one. Slowly he raised the lid. Inside, nestled in a bed of blue velvet, lay an instrument like no violin Morgan had ever seen. The intricately grained wood was of a dark reddish color; ebony and ivory inlay covered the fingerboard from top to bottom. In place of the traditional scroll, there was a headpiece carved in the shape of a roaring lion. The black tuning pegs were edged with softly reflective mother-of-pearl.

  Gently, lovingly, almost reverently, the man in the gray coat lifted the fiddle from its couch. Taking up the bow, he tightened the horsehair and touched it to the strings. A hush fell over the room as a single clear, unwavering note pierced the air. For what seemed a very long time—though it was probably no more than an instant—everyone stood transfixed as if under an enchantment. The spell was only broken when the inspectors, one of them coughing slightly, shuffled awkwardly to the door and exited without a word.

  “Where you from, mister?” asked Moira after another brief silence. There was a dreamy sort of look in her hazel-green eyes.

  “Oh,” said the man with a nonchalant wave of the hand, “all over. Nowhere in particular. Most places at one time or another. Out west. Back east. Up north and down south. Memphis, New Orleans, Quebec, Nova Scotia, Wales, Ireland.”

  Moira removed her headset and stepped out from behind the desk. “Well!” she said, scrutinizing the craggy face. “You do look Irish at that! My mother was a Dehoney from Meath. You are going to hire him, aren’t you, George?”

  George gave her a wry glance and shoved the red bandanna into the back pocket of his jeans. Then he picked up the blue-green application form and sniffed. “Can you handle the night shift, Mr.—?”

  “Brach. Simon Brach,” said the stranger. “Of course I can. I’ve worked plenty of night jobs. Silence and solitude suit me.”

  “The job is yours, then,” said George, standing away from the wall and putting out his hand. “You start tomorrow. Got a place to stay?”

  “Good question,” said Simon Brach, as he accepted the proffered hand. “An excellent question, seeing as how I just blew into town, so to speak. Any suggestions?”

  “There’s a furnished room at the foot of the tower. Underneath the stone stairs. My last night man lived there for about six months. It’s small and spare, but it’ll do. You’re welcome to it if you want it.”

  Simon Brach nodded agreeably. “Kind of you. Very kind. I’ll take it, at least for the time being. If only as a place to stow my gear, you know.”

  “Good. Eny and I will show it to you,” said George with a wink at his daughter. “After that, we’ll head up to the business office and file your paperwork. Come on, Eny!”

  “Ah!” laughed Simon Brach, returning the violin to its case. “Such a lot of stuff I’ve got to lug around! Perhaps the little lady wouldn’t mind carrying this old fiddle for me?”

  Eny beamed. Morgan couldn’t help but notice how her eyes lit up as she took the instrument from the old man and cradled it in her arms. So that’s the way it was, he thought as he watched her follow George and Simon out of the office. Well, she could have her fiddling. He’d other fish to fry.

  A hand touched his shoulder. He looked up to see the Reverend Peter Alcuin standing over him with a clouded expression on his face.

  “I’m sorry, Morgan,” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle you. But we need to talk.”

  Morgan twisted in his seat. “Who were those two men, Reverend Alcuin?”

  The Reverend sighed. “City inspectors. Courtesy of Mr. Knowles. Mr. Knowles, it seems, is concerned about St. Halistan’s tower. Apparently it’s not up to earthquake code. So he turned in a report on us. Part of his civic duty.”

  “Earthquake code?”

  “I’m afraid so. But that’s not what I wanted to talk about.” Rev. Alcuin sat down beside him on the bench. “Listen. I know all about your mother. I’ve just been to see her. We had a good heart-to-heart and prayed together for a long time.” He smiled a little. “I think it did me more good than her. She’s a great lady—a woman of remarkable faith and courage. I just want you to know that I’m going to be stopping in to see the two of you more often. All of us here at the church are anxious to help in any way we can.”

  There was a long, fidgety pause. Morgan could see Moira Ariello peering at him over the top of her desk. He looked down at his shoes and spoke in a small, husky voice.

  “Thank you, Reverend,” he said. “Thanks very much. That means a lot to me. But you don’t have to worry. I think I’ve got things under control.”

  The late afternoon sun was shining directly through the stained-glass window at the top of the landing when Morgan slipped in through the double oak doors at the base of the tower stairs. Gems of red, gold, and blue lay scattered all down the steps, and the air was tinged with a dim rosy glow. He paused, staring up through the musty light, while an inexplicable shiver passed over his body—an uncanny sensation that he was looking at the picture in the window for the very first time. Could it actually have changed since he saw it last? That wasn’t possible, and yet the angel nearest the bottom of the ladder—had he always been robed in green rather than white? And that figure sleeping on the ground at his feet—had his head always been pillowed on what looked like a great rectangular stone? Morgan wasn’t sure.

  “Hello there!”

  Morgan turned with a start. There stood Simon Brach, just in front of a little green door in the side of the staircase wall.

  “Mr. Izaak,
isn’t it?” said the old man with a grunt, opening the door and dragging his big duffel bag into the tiny cupboardlike apartment under the steps.

  “Just Morgan,” said Morgan. How did this man know his name?

  “Morgan. That’s Welsh. I like it. And I can’t blame you. I don’t hold with being ‘mistered’ much myself. You can call me Simon. I suppose we’ll be seeing a lot of each other?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “You’ve got plenty of work to do up in the tower, I think?”

  “Work?” Morgan swallowed uneasily. Slowly he began to make his way up the stairs. “Oh, sure. Lots of it. You, too, I guess. George can really use the help.”

  “Yes,” said Simon as Morgan drew near the landing. “A good man, George. And I do hope to help him all I can. But that’s not why I came. I came because I need your help.”

  Morgan stopped. As if held to the spot by some invisible force, he turned on the last stone step and gazed down at the gaunt figure below him. There was a soft red light on Simon’s upturned face. The last rays of the sun rested like a crown of gold on his sparse silvery hair. Morgan opened his mouth to ask him what he meant, but before he could speak, Simon bent his head and disappeared behind the little green door. The latch clicked. The light in the window died. The air inside the tower faded to gray.

  For the briefest moment Morgan stood staring as if spellbound. Then he shook himself and rubbed his eyes. Crazy old man, he thought.

  Then up the second flight he pounded, taking the stairs two steps at a time, until he reached the door of the tower lab.

  Chapter Five

  Lia Fail

  It was late when Morgan, having spent a good two hours poring over old copies of The Sophic Hydrolith, the Mutus Liber, and Fulcanelli’s Mystery of the Cathedrals, descended the tower stairs. Under his arm he carried a roll of linen, a ball of yarn, and a bundle of short wooden stakes.