The Stone of Destiny

by Jim Ware

  Nothing could have prepared him for the sight that met his eyes on the other side of the door. When the last strand of rattling beads had fallen from his shoulders, he found himself standing beside Madame Medea on a pavement of heavy flagstones in a vast echoing hall of carved granite. On an iron perch at his elbow sat the lady’s pet crow, its head tucked under its wing. Not far away stood a shapely harp with a tall golden pillar and twenty-one silver strings. On either side seven massive stone columns went marching down the sides of the chamber. Those on the right were inscribed with the symbols of the seven planets. Those on the left bore the names of the seven steps of the alchemical process: Calcination, Dissolution, Separation, Conjunction, Fermentation, Distillation, and Coagulation.

  Morgan rubbed his eyes and looked around. Everywhere were tables and benches crowded with the instruments of the alchemist’s trade: tripods and cauldrons, charts and globes, astrolabes, scales, cucurbits, funnels, and sieves. In the shadows between the torch-bearing pillars lurked a confusion of barrels, kettles, ceramic jars, and bronze vats. It was exactly like the pictures of alchemical laboratories Morgan had seen in his father’s medieval manuscripts except in one astonishing detail: It had no roof. Where the ceiling and rafters ought to have been there was nothing but empty space: an endlessly ascending blackness filled with flaming suns, spinning stars, and pearly silver moons—whether real or merely decorative, he could not tell.

  Tightening her grip, the woman drew him down the center of the hall to a wall at its further end. Its right-hand portion was covered with a series of tile mosaics: the Seven-tiered Pyramid, the Signs of the Zodiac, the Mystic Rose, and the Ladder of the Wise. But its left half was dominated entirely by an imposing red-brick furnace: the athanor. In the shadow of the athanor’s cavernous copper hood, his broad back bare, his round head glistening with perspiration, stood Falor, pumping a huge pair of bellows by means of a heavy chain. To Morgan, the big man looked like a gilded storm cloud on the edge of a fiery horizon. Except for his shadowy silhouette, there was nothing to shield their eyes from the blinding blaze within the furnace’s mouth.

  When they had come so close to the athanor that Morgan felt he could no longer stand the heat, Madame Medea stopped and let go of his hand.

  “Powders and potions I can make for myself. Let me show you.”

  Taking a jar from a shelf on the wall, she uncorked it and pushed it into Morgan’s hand. He flinched and backed away.

  “There’s nothing to be afraid of!” she said. “Don’t you see what it is? Not the white powder but the red! I have a copious supply at my disposal. You know what the red powder can do, don’t you?”

  Without waiting for an answer, she seized a lump of dull gray metal from a workbench and placed it in a small porcelain receptacle about the size of a coffee cup. Gripping the cup with a long pair of iron tongs, she tossed her dark hair back over her shoulders and approached the furnace.

  “Pump up the fire, Falor!” she shouted, thrusting the crucible into the glowing heart of the inferno. “Melt this lead for our young friend!”

  The huge man bent to his task with every ounce of his titanic strength. Faster and harder he plied the bellows. Soon the firestorm within the athanor was pulsing with all the swirling fury of a white-hot star. Morgan buried his face in the crook of his arm and stumbled a few steps into the darkness, sick and faint with the overpowering heat. He knew nothing more until the sound of Madame Medea’s voice recalled him to his senses.

  “Bring the red powder!” he heard her say. “Quickly!”

  He turned to face her. She was standing directly in front of him, holding out the smoking crucible at the end of the glowing tongs. The metal within the little porcelain receptacle had become a bubbling, boiling, erubescent mass of liquid fire.

  “Now sprinkle some on the top!” she commanded. “What are you waiting for? Not too much—just a pinch! That’s right. Now watch carefully. What do you see?”

  Morgan stooped down and peered closely into the crucible. As he looked, the seething red-orange molten metal began to change before his eyes. A sequence of color shifts, similar to but distinct from the one he had witnessed inside the alembic, began to appear. The brilliant orange faded to brown. The brown resolved itself into a swirled pattern of cloudy darks and lights, like spirals of cream in coffee. Gradually these whorls paled and lightened, becoming a uniform silvery whiteness. Then the white burst suddenly into all the colors of a peacock’s tail. By stages, the lighter and brighter hues of the spectrum began to predominate, until all was a smooth and shining lemon yellow.

  Instantly Madame Medea plunged the crucible into a vat of water. Thick clouds of steam rose up and obscured the hall. When the air had cleared, she took Morgan by the arm and led him to the workbench. Picking up the porcelain cup, she turned it upside down and tapped it lightly on the bottom with her finger. What dropped out was a perfect lump of gold—the purest, finest, silkiest gold Morgan had ever seen.

  “You see?” she said.

  Morgan stared. “Yes,” he muttered. “The Red Elixir. Hardly anybody has ever succeeded in making it. Only Alexander Seton and Nicholas Flamel, I suppose. Helvetius, too, maybe. It changes base metals into gold. And if it can do that,” he said breathlessly, “it can also—”

  She laid a finger on his lips. “No,” she said. “It cannot. That is precisely what it cannot do. This business of turning lead into gold is fine for children and lovers of bright trinkets. But what does gold really get you in the end? It can’t heal disease or grant eternal life. Nor does it contain the power of the stars. That is exactly what so many of the greatest alchemists never understood. A few did, of course,” she added, gently stroking his hair. Her eyes narrowed and she smiled. “Your father, for instance.”

  Morgan felt the blood rush to his head. He took a step backward, bumping up against the bench. “What do you mean?” he said.

  “Don’t you know?” She laughed lightly. “It’s the reason I brought you here. My sources led me to believe that you know something about the Stone of Destiny. And the Stone of Destiny is the key to everything. It is the one source of the power Paracelsus was seeking. It makes kings and deposes tyrants. Only in its presence can this white powder become the Elixir Vitae. It’s all a lie, you know—those stories about Nicholas Flamel living to be six hundred years old. Without the Stone of Destiny there is no healing, no extension of life. It is the Satisfaction of All Desire. And you are connected with it somehow.”

  “Me? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure. It is here, in this place, in this city, somewhere nearby.” She took his face between her two hands and looked straight into his eyes. “I asked you to go and find it for me. That is exactly what I intend you should do.”

  “Look,” said Morgan, pulling away, “I came here because I need your help! My mom’s really sick, and I want her to get well. If you can’t—”

  “Oh, but I can,” said the lady. “But not without the Stone of Destiny. I’m sure you understand. And now I believe our little visit has come to an end. Please come back as soon as you have something to tell me. Not without your pretty friend of course. It would not make me happy to see you again without her. Falor, please be so kind as to see our young friend on his way.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Lapis Exsilis

  The Gothic lamp above the tall oak doors of St. Halistan’s Church was a nebula of shifting brightness at the top of the hill as Morgan came trudging up Iglesia Street. The rain had stopped, the air had cleared, and beneath the warm circle of light he could see a small cluster of figures standing together and pointing up at the tower. Not until he reached the duplex did he recognize the faces: Rev. Alcuin, the two city inspectors, and Mr. Brevard Knowles. By the time he crossed the street the little group was already dispersing.

  “Until tomorrow, then,” Knowles
was saying as he shook Rev. Alcuin’s hand. “Ten o’clock. And please give my offer some serious thought.”

  “Yes, of course I will,” said the Reverend wearily. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Knowles.”

  Morgan drew up alongside Rev. Alcuin as the three men got into their cars and drove away. “What was that all about?” he said.

  “Ah, Morgan!” said the Reverend. “Glad you turned up. I missed you at dinner. I just got the price tag on the repairs for the tower.” He took off his glasses, drew a handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped his forehead. “A good deal more than St. Halistan’s can afford, I’m afraid.”

  “So what happens now?”

  “Well, without the repairs the tower stands condemned. She’ll have to come down. But Mr. Knowles has offered to bail us out. He wants to buy the entire property. For a very attractive sum, I might add.”

  “Sell the church? You’ve got to be kidding! What does he want with a church?”

  “He doesn’t. He wants to put up a bed-and-breakfast. But let’s not talk about that now, Morgan. I had other reasons for wanting to see you. I wonder if you might like to join me in my office for tea and sandwiches?”

  It occurred to Morgan that he had not eaten anything since a half hour before noon. All at once he was struck by a gnawing feeling of ravenous hunger in the pit of his stomach. His knees felt rubbery and weak. To make matters worse, his head was still reeling from the events of the afternoon and evening.

  “That sounds like a great idea,” he said.

  “Good,” said Rev. Alcuin. “I’ve been to see your mother again, and I think we need to talk.”

  Drab and homey as it was, Peter Alcuin’s office had always been surrounded by an aura of near-mythical, almost sacred significance in Morgan’s imagination. The boy’s strongest notions of his father were intimately connected with the small two-room suite behind the organ loft. Those impressions all came flooding back to him now as the Reverend unlocked the door and led the way inside.

  “I won’t be a minute,” said Peter, tossing his coat over the back of a chair and disappearing into the suite’s small half kitchen. “Just putting the kettle on to boil.”

  Morgan stood on the threshold, breathing in the quiet coolness of the chamber’s scholarly, almost monkish, atmosphere. The very smell of the place—a librarylike decoction of worn leather, musty woolen carpet, dusty shelves, and hundreds of old books—was pregnant with images of his dad. He was aware that John Izaak and Peter Alcuin had been great friends. He knew that they had spent long hours together in this room discussing their shared love of language, their common interest in history and legend, and their lively devotion to books. His mother had told him all this many times. But she had also told him that they frequently disagreed, and that their differences could be as sharp and irreconcilable as their friendship was firm and unshakeable.

  “Milk with your tea?” called the Reverend from the kitchen.

  “Yes, please,” Morgan answered.

  He couldn’t help smiling as he cast his eyes around at the exuberant clutter filling the cramped little room. How many ministers, he wondered, kept a pair of antique wooden Norwegian skis suspended over their doorway like the high crossed spears of an African tribal chief? How many used the cabinet of a vintage treadle sewing machine as a writing table? What other pastor of what other church had a glass display case reserved solely for treasures like steel-wheeled skates, slingshots, model airplanes, jacks, marbles, and ceramic tops?

  “What’s your pleasure?” said Peter, emerging with a tray of clinking cups and saucers, a plate of sandwiches, and a steaming pot of tea. He set his burden down on an old wooden milk crate and invited Morgan to take a seat on the sofa under the window. “Ham and turkey or bologna and cheese?”

  “Bologna is fine,” said Morgan. “Thanks. I’m really hungry.”

  The Reverend perched himself on the edge of a mahogany Windsor chair and began pouring the tea. “As I mentioned,” he said, “I’ve been to see your mother again. Just this afternoon.”

  Morgan bit into a sandwich and glanced up. He had a feeling that something unpleasant was coming.

  “Funny thing,” Peter continued. “With everything else she’s going through, it’s you she’s worried about. She wondered why you hadn’t been to see her today.”

  “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t. I’ve been busy working on something.”

  “I gathered as much.” The Reverend paused and took a sip of tea. “That day at the hospital I said I wouldn’t ask any prying questions about this project of yours. But now I can’t help being curious. You said it had something to do with the tower. Right?”

  Morgan swallowed and took another bite. The lab in the tower was a secret he shared with the Ariellos alone. Except for the custodial crew, nobody in the church had any occasion to know anything about it.

  “Because the tower, as you know, is almost certainly doomed.”

  Morgan shoved a stray bread crumb from one side of his plate to the other and said nothing.

  “Listen. I’m aware that certain items were left to you at the time of your father’s … death. I have some idea what you’ve been doing with them. Your mom is very proud of you, Morgan. She knows she can depend on you. But she also fears that you’re putting your hopes in the wrong place. To tell you the truth, I don’t think she cares half as much about getting well as she does about you learning the meaning of faith.”

  “No offense,” said Morgan, twisting uneasily in his seat, “but you and mom could have faith in what I’m doing. She is going to get well.”

  Peter frowned. “Well, the doctor’s report isn’t very encouraging at this point. You need to be aware of that.”

  Morgan opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out.

  “And there’s another thing you ought to know. About your father. His ideas were changing near the end. He’d been reading a great deal—particularly a book by Jacob Boehme called The Signature of All Things—about the failure of alchemy. We had several discussions about it right here in this room.”

  “Failure?” Morgan reached into his pocket and fingered the vial of red powder he’d brought from Madame Medea’s shop.

  “Yes. Like Boehme, your dad was becoming disillusioned with the quest for the Philosophers’ Stone—the quest for knowledge and power. His thoughts were beginning to turn instead to a spiritual Rock, one that followed the people of Israel in the wilderness. The transformation wasn’t complete. But he was moving in that direction. It’s funny,” Peter added. “The most effective lies are often those that contain an admixture of truth. Yet even that admixture can sometimes be enough to lead a man into the right path.”

  Morgan didn’t know what to make of all this. He’d never heard of Jacob Boehme or The Signature of All Things. There was no such book in the library he’d inherited from his father. How could he be sure that the Reverend was telling the truth? Perhaps alchemy was one of those issues about which Peter Alcuin and John Izaak had disagreed. If so, there couldn’t be any point in continuing this discussion. He decided to change the subject.

  “Rev. Alcuin,” he said, reaching for another sandwich, “do you know anything about Lia Fail?”

  Peter, who was just getting up to boil more water, froze halfway between a sitting and standing position, his knees bent, his hands still gripping the armrests of the chair. He stared hard at Morgan. “Did you say Lia Fail?”

  “Yes. The Stone of Destiny. The Satisfaction of All Desire. Do you know anything about it?”

  Rev. Alcuin dropped back into his seat, a surprised expression on his broad, ruddy face. “As a matter of fact, I do. Why do you ask?”

  “It’s been … coming up a lot lately. In my reading, I mean. For this project.”

  “Seriously? Because”—the Reverend paused, as if hesitant to say more, then continued—“becau
se, as it happens, your dad brought up the possibility of a similar connection—a connection between alchemy and Lia Fail—in one of the last conversations I ever had with him.”

  “Really?” Morgan slid forward to the edge of his seat. “What sort of connection?”

  “It’s rather complicated. He wanted to know why the Philosophers’ Stone, which is supposed to be some kind of powder, should be called a ‘stone’ at all. He thought there might be a tie-in with some of the other ‘stone’ legends that have been floating around western Europe for the past couple of millennia. Like the one about the Stone of Scone.”

  “What’s that?’”

  “Supposedly ‘the Stone of Scone’ is just another name for Lia Fail. It’s also been called the ‘Bethel Stone,’ since it was believed to be the same rock Jacob used as a pillow when he dreamed of the ladder connecting heaven and earth. Gathelus the Athenian is supposed to have picked it up from Scota, Pharoah’s daughter, when the Israelites were in Egypt. After that, Celtic folktales say that the Tuatha De Danann—the Irish fairy folk—stole it from Gathelus and transported it to Ireland, where it became known as ‘the Stone that Roared.’ Much later on the Scots captured it and took it away to Scone in Argyle. Last of all it fell into the hands of King Edward I, who placed it in Westminster Abbey, where the monarchs of England were crowned upon it for centuries. I believe it’s since been returned to Scotland.”

  “Is that where it is right now? In Scotland?”

  “Well, as I say, that’s one of the stories. Another one claims that the Stone of Scone is a fake, and that the real Lia Fail was secretly smuggled out of Ireland long before the Scottish raiders arrived. Interestingly enough, that’s where your father’s theory comes in.”

  “How?”

  Rev. Alcuin got up and walked over to one of the bookshelves. Climbing up on a stool, he drew down a large leather-bound volume and handed it to Morgan. “You’re familiar with King Arthur and his knights of the Round Table?”