The Stone of Destiny

by Jim Ware

  Morgan tried to imagine a force strong enough to topple the tower. It was hard to picture a soaring, immovable landmark as a pile of shattered rubble on the ground.

  “Still,” Rev. Alcuin continued, rubbing the morning stubble on his chin, “I can’t help feeling that there’s something else. The man has some hidden agenda. Some compelling personal interest.”

  Outside the window the stars were beginning to fade. Morgan squinted and peered out into the predawn darkness.

  “Young man—”

  He looked up. A young nurse in olive-green scrubs was standing at his elbow. To his great relief, the woman was smiling. “Your mother is resting quietly,” she said.

  At this, Eny, who had been sound asleep when last he noticed her, sat up straight, brushed a few coppery strands away from her face, and gave Morgan a shy but hopeful smile. George yawned and stretched.

  “I know you’ve been waiting all night to see her,” the nurse continued apologetically. “But we’d like to let her sleep for a while. I suggest you all go home and get some rest. You can come back later this afternoon.”

  “Sounds like an excellent plan,” said Rev. Alcuin, laying a hand on Morgan’s shoulder and getting to his feet.

  Morgan nodded. “Thanks,” he said to the nurse. “I think that’s just exactly what we’ll do.”

  Shivering in the early-morning chill and damp, Morgan and Eny slid across the cold vinyl seat of George’s Ford pickup, their thickly steaming breath fogging the inside of the windshield. The doors rattled shut, George twisted the key in the ignition, and the engine rumbled abruptly into life. Slowly, the truck pulled out of the hospital parking lot and began to move west along Vista Del Mar.

  At this hour the streetlights still burned ruddily in the dewy darkness, scattering a bronze glow over the glossy leaves of the curbside elms and ficus trees. Above the housetops the black silhouette of St. Halistan’s tower, stark against the dark gray of the early morning sky, stood like a giant sentinel overlooking town and the distant sea. Morgan rubbed his nose and cleared his throat.

  “Thanks, George,” he said huskily. “I really appreciate all your help. You, too, Eny.” He could feel her gazing at him, her blue eye gleaming in the darkness within the cab. But he kept his own eyes fixed on the tower at the top of the hill.

  “La familia primera,” said George in a matter-of-fact tone. “The Ariellos and the Izaaks—that’s family. That’s how we feel about you and your mom, Morgan. The Lord knows your dad was like a brother to me. Him and the Reverend.”

  Morgan slumped back in his seat and closed his eyes. “I’m sorry it had to happen this way. I’m sorry you had to sit up with me all night at the hospital.” He opened one eye and gave Eny a furtive sidewise glance. “And I’m sorry about interrupting Moira’s story.”

  “The story?” Eny yawned. “That’s the last thing you need to worry about. Mom will get back to it sooner or later. You can bet on that. She loves to tell stories. Especially about the Tuatha De Danann and Lia Fail.”

  Lia Fail. The Stone. The word shot through Morgan’s brain like a jolt of electricity. Instantly the memory of the previous night’s enchantments flooded in upon him like a spring tide: the spell of the tale, the music of Moira’s voice, the gripping images painted by her words. He turned and faced Eny.

  “What else do you know about Lia Fail?” he said.

  “Not much. About as much as you do, I guess. I’m not sure what you heard.”

  “But you must know something! Eny, don’t you remember?” He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “‘You have come because you are seeking the Stone. The Stone of Destiny.’”

  Eny stared, clearly taken aback. Apparently the connection between her mother’s story and the words of Madame Medea hadn’t dawned upon her until that moment. But George laughed. “Moira and her stories!” he said. “She hooked you good with that one, I guess! It’s not the first time!”

  “What about you, George?” Morgan persisted. “Do you know anything about Lia Fail?”

  “Lia Fail?” George grunted. “Do I look Irish to you? I know nothing about my wife’s stories. Pagan myths and legends. What would the Reverend say?”

  “You don’t believe them, then?”

  “Moira’s stories? Those useless fables? Of course not!” He stepped on the brake, coasted to a stop at a traffic light, and turned to look Morgan straight in the eye.

  “But there are other stories,” he said, a slow, sly grin spreading across his face.

  Chapter Seven

  La Cueva de los Manos

  As soon as George had gone inside, Morgan, though aching with exhaustion, jumped out of the truck and dashed around the side of the duplex into the backyard. Yes, his gathering sheets were still there: taut, wet, and shining. Tired as Morgan was, sleep would have to wait. On this rarest of mornings in Santa Piedra, a morning without overcast or ocean fog, he’d have to work fast if he wanted to collect the May-dew before it had a chance to evaporate.

  Bounding into the house, he stumbled across the kitchen floor and found a red plastic dishpan and a brass-lidded Ball jar in the space behind the gingham curtain under the sink. With these he returned to the yard and bent immediately to his task. Cautiously, he undid the bits of yarn, removed the corners of the sheets from the wooden pegs, and wrung the night moisture from the linen fabric into the pan. From the pan he carefully transferred the dew-water to the Ball jar. Capping the jar, he sealed it tightly, carried it into his bedroom, and stashed it in a dark corner of his closet. When all was complete, he kicked off his shoes, tore back the covers, and jumped into bed.

  Morgan was still asleep when Eny, having napped soundly for two or three hours, rose about nine o’clock, dressed quickly, took her fiddle from the corner, and slipped out the front door.

  It was a fine, fresh morning. A steady breeze, heavy with the scent of salt from the Inlet and resinous pine from the Point, caressed her cheek and sent her hair streaming back over her shoulders. The cars on Alta Drive were few and far between at this hour on a Saturday, and she exulted in the delicious feeling of being alone in the middle of the sleepy town. Down the hill she went, covering the three blocks between St. Halistan’s and Front Street rapidly, walking, trotting, sometimes even breaking into a run. From there she took Front Street southward along the beach, stopping only once to laugh at her ruffled reflection in one of the shop front windows.

  At the end of Front Street, where the old wooden footbridge arched over the chattering waters of Pillar Creek, she stood still for a moment, her eyes closed, her head thrown back, a sense of secrecy, freedom, and quiet joy rising from the pit of her stomach to the top of her head. She sniffed the pungent air and smiled. Then, pounding across the thrumming bridge with the fiddle swinging at her side, she stepped out into the wondrous world of La Punta Lira, the Harp-shaped Point.

  Straight ahead the rough terrain swept steeply upward, quickly becoming a pine-clad slope. So thick was the growth of tall, thin-stemmed evergreens that a traveler would have been hard-pressed to find a way between their rough and slender trunks. Here again Eny paused to listen, for the air was filled with a cheerful cacophony of morning birdsong. Sparrows darted from treetop to treetop. Finches, nuthatches, chickadees, and greedy jays chorused in the branches. Here and there an invisible mourning dove cooed plaintively in some hidden refuge among the forest shadows, and the clear liquid note of the red-winged blackbird dropped from the hidden heights of the canopy into the needle-strewn floor of the forest. Further off, the harsh and lonely cries of the gulls came echoing off the water. The deer that inhabited the Point were nowhere to be seen.

  To the right a gravel trail left the bridge and skirted the hillside, following the winding contours of the slope north along the creek. Eny set off in this direction, whistling to herself in the soft sunlight as she hefted her violin case and went crunching
up the path. The trail began amid low-growing sage, wood mint, and prickly wild blackberry, but rapidly ascended a ridge where dark green coastal scrub, beach grass, and live oak grew in rich profusion. Every so often she was obliged to brush aside a tangled shroud of gray lace lichen that hung over the path from the branches of a solitary pine. At the top of the rise grew a windblown cypress, a majestic old tree that seemed to bow before her and stretch out its arms in greeting as she approached. Here she halted again to catch her breath.

  It never ceased to amaze her—the beauty that burst upon the eye at this particular turn of the path. Here, at a point some fifty feet above the creek bed, the track leaped out onto a narrow ledge that traversed and descended the face of a yellow sandstone cliff in a long and gentle incline. Below and to the right, where Pillar Creek widened out to join the Inlet, sparkled the emerald-green waters of Laguna Verde. Even at this hour there were spotted sea lions and jet-black seals sunbathing on the gray-green rocks of the lagoon. Beyond the mouth of this enchanted cove, seen partly through a natural archway in the protruding cliff wall, heaved the deeper blue of La Coruna Inlet itself, its broad face rippling with landward sweeping swells. To the north, at the far end of the scimitar-like curve of the beach, where the foamy breakers crashed in endless succession, she could just make out Fisherman’s Wharf and the top of the Fun Zone Ferris wheel.

  She followed this path down and around the north end of the Point until she stood at the base of the sea-cliff. Here the waves broke thunderously around the mussel-encrusted rocks and the salt spray hung in a perennial mist. Straight over her head towered the black bulk of the Rock itself, La Piedra, the famous stone formation from which the town supposedly took its name. It was said that both Drake and Vizcaino had come ashore at this spot. Though she couldn’t see it from here, she knew that above and beyond the Rock, among the pines covering the western corner of the Point, stood the dilapidated ruin of an old abandoned hotel.

  But Eny hadn’t come to see the Rock or to explore the hotel. Not this time. Much as she loved the jade waters of the lagoon, the sporting of the sea otters, and the ceaseless pounding of the waves, it was something else that had drawn her to this spot on this sunny May morning. She had come to be alone: to fiddle, to think, to pray, to soak herself in the silence and solitude of the sea and the cliffs and the caves of La Punta Lira.

  Though by no means a secret, these caves were seldom frequented by visitors or tourists. They were too inconvenient and too far out of the way. To reach the place, one had to wade out into the boiling surf, pass beneath a sandstone archway, and then clamber up a stair-like series of rock pools to a small cove at the base of the Rock—a thing that could only be accomplished at low tide.

  Holding her violin above her head with both hands, Eny plunged into the water and splashed her way under the arch. Once through, she turned and sloshed up the steep pebbly shore until she stood on a short stretch of sparkling white sand. Here the face of the cliff was honeycombed with a series of caverns and holes. Some of these cavities stood at ground level, others at various heights above the beach. Tucking the fiddle under her arm, she ducked into the largest of them, a sizable grotto that opened directly onto the sand.

  Through this doorway the air was cool and damp and smelled of sand and sea. Once inside, she laid her violin case on the dry sandy floor then straightened up. Behind her and to the left the spacious inner reaches of the cavern wound away into the cliff side, disappearing at last in an all-engulfing darkness. But to her right the morning light poured in through the entrance and struck the wall, clearly illuminating the most remarkable feature of the cavern: the painting of the hands.

  There were hundreds of them: rust-red handprints, splayed all across and up and down the wall; a vertical cloud of upward-reaching palms, each of them with long, flamelike fingers ceaselessly stretching toward the shadowy dripping ceiling. The brochures at the tourist information center said they had been there for more than four thousand years, traced upon the rock by the most ancient inhabitants of the Point. For this was the famous Cave of the Hands, La Cueva de los Manos, a Santa Piedra historical landmark and one of Eny’s favorite haunts.

  For a moment she stood gazing up at them. Four thousand years, she thought, is a long time to be reaching upward into the darkness. She wasn’t sure what those ancient people were thinking when they dipped their fingers into a mixture of ochre and lime and pressed them to the rock. But she had a pretty good idea. She suspected they were feeling weakness, inadequacy; they were looking for help from above. They were straining to lay hold of something, a thing so close they could almost taste it but always just an inch or two beyond their grasp. It reminded her of one of Rev. Alcuin’s sermons—a message about people who “grope” for God without realizing what they’re doing.

  Eny understood that helpless feeling. It was especially strong with her this morning, after her long night with Morgan in the hospital emergency room. Leaning against the wall of the cavern, she laid her palm and fingers flat against the palm and fingers of one of the red hands. She closed her eyes and whispered into the silence. “Remember Mavis Izaak, God,” she said. “And please—help Morgan find what he’s looking for.”

  Turning away from the wall, she sat down on the cool sand and undid the brass clasps of the violin case. Then she raised the lid, lifted the instrument from the case, and attached the chin rest. Next she took out the bow, tightened the horsehairs, and rubbed them up with a small block of rosin. Placing the fiddle under her chin, she paused to savor the heady scent of wood and glue that wafted to her nostrils from the delicately carved f-holes. Then she touched the bow to the strings; two high, sweet notes burst forth and flew upward into the cavern. Like a pair of bright birds they chased one another from wall to ceiling and ceiling to wall, from alcove to grotto and back into the silences at the very heart of the cliff. Eny twisted the wooden pegs with one hand, bowing slowly all the while, until all four strings were tuned to her satisfaction. Then she sat back and began to play.

  She played “The Dawning of the Day” and “The Lark in the Morning.” She played “Out on the Ocean” and “The Turn of the Tide.” She struck up reel after reel after reel: “The Star of Munster,” “The Gravel Walk,” “The Salamanca,” “The Banshee,” “The Sailor’s Bonnet.” She followed these with two sad airs, “The Dark Woman of the Glen” and “Auld Swarra.” After that she moved on to “The May Morning Dew.” She fiddled long into the afternoon until at last her eyes grew dim and she felt she could play no more. Then she dropped the bow on the sand and laid the fiddle in her lap.

  That’s when she heard it: a rasping, grating sound that echoed brashly off the cavern walls, loud enough to drown out the crashing of the sea waves and so harsh that it made her jump with surprise. She set the fiddle aside and got to her feet.

  That’s when she saw it: a huge black crow with large red eyes and a gleaming yellow beak, bobbing its head up and down and dancing from side to side in the darkness at the further end of the cave. Furiously it cawed and croaked, ruffling its feathers and flapping its glossy wings. Eny smiled with relief. She bent down and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

  “How did you get in here?” she said soothingly, slowly approaching the crow. “Can’t you find your way out? Come on,” she coaxed, holding out her hand. “I won’t hurt you.”

  But the bird, clacking its beak viciously, hopped round and charged her from behind, as if trying to drive her further into the cavern. Eny twisted and turned and flung out a hand. The crow jumped up and bit her on the finger. She cried out and fell forward on one knee.

  “What did you do that for?” she shouted. She had some acquaintance with crows and knew they could be feisty, but never before had she run across a crow as vicious as this. Scowling, she jammed her finger into her mouth. It tasted of blood.

  Then she heard another sound: the sound of voices. Not voices from the beach outside, but voices from so
mewhere within the chamber. She bent her head to listen. There was no mistake about it. They were coming from the shadows at the back of the cave. And they were getting closer.

  Eny made a bold leap for her fiddle. The crow, apparently taken off guard, gave one last raucous caw, hopped to the entrance of the cave, and flew out. Seizing fiddle and bow, she shut them in the case and snapped the clasps. Then, violin in hand, she ducked through the doorway and dashed out into the open air.

  “A good day to you, my dear. Isn’t it a lovely morning?”

  She stopped. Not ten feet in front of her, at the edge of one of the pebbly tide pools, stood a crooked old woman in a tattered blue shawl and a dripping gingham dress. She had a big wicker basket on her back and a pile of wet rags at her feet, and she appeared, of all things, to be washing her clothes in the surf.

  “You’re just in time, love,” she croaked, stretching out a withered hand. “Granny’s been waiting for you. Come along, now. I’ve something to show you. That’s a good girl.”

  Eny felt the hair rising at the back of her neck. There was no time to think, no time to ask herself why she was afraid or what it was that she feared. Lifting her fiddle above her head, she picked up her feet and ran, crunching and clattering down through the rocky pools and into the churning foam, making straight for the yellow arch in the extension of the cliff.

  When she was near the top of the narrow climbing path, she turned and looked back. Though there had been no sign of it just a few minutes earlier, a thick white fog was creeping in off the ocean and rapidly covering the face of the Inlet. So striking was the sight that she drew in a sharp and sudden breath. When the fog came—which it did more often than not—it usually rolled in toward the end of the day, lingered through the night, and vanished in the morning. There were exceptions, of course, but this sudden and rapid early-afternoon onslaught from the sea was something more than an exception. It was uncanny and unnatural; somehow Eny knew it to be so.