The Stone of Destiny

by Jim Ware

  It was the voice of Eny that brought him back to earth. “Let them have another round!” he heard her shout, and at that the slingers let loose with a second volley. The giants writhed and twisted in a grotesque dance, raising their arms to shield their faces as a flurry of rocks and stones pummeled their bodies and cracked their skulls. One of them fell with such a bone-rattling thud that the whole earth shook and the tower trembled. Bellowing like a mad bull, Falor stepped over the roof of a house and motioned to the others to follow. A shout of triumph went up from Eny’s little army as the Fomorians began to lumber off toward the hills.

  Seeing his chance, Morgan elbowed his way through the crowd and laid a hand on Eny’s shoulder. She whipped around to face him, dripping and panting with exertion, a pale fire burning in her one blue eye.

  “Morgan!” she said, laughing and hugging his neck. “I’m so glad you’re here! Did you see that? I taught them to sling stones and they made the giants run!”

  “Yes, I saw!” yelled Morgan above the howl of the wind and rain. “But who are they? And what in the world is going on?”

  “The Fir Bolg! Eochy’s one of them. He’s on our side! Rury’s his brother—he wasn’t drowned after all! Simon and I went down and fetched them up from the Sidhe. Another long story. But they’re here to help us rescue the Stone of Destiny from the Morrigu. What I don’t understand is how she found out where it is!”

  Morgan felt his face turn pale. There was a pause as they stood there together, the cold rain dribbling off their noses. Then he said, “I know the answer to that. I told her.”

  Eny’s eyes popped. “You did what?”

  “It’s true,” he said, dropping his gaze. “This whole thing is my fault.”

  She let go of him and backed away. “How could you? Eochy said you might, but I didn’t believe it! Never in a million years would I—”

  “Eny! It’s because of my mother!”

  She shook her head. “I know, Morgan. I understand. You’d do anything—sacrifice anything—to help her. But this?”

  “No. Not anything. I went too far, and I’m really sorry. But I didn’t go as far as she wanted me to go. I couldn’t.”

  She looked at him uncertainly. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean you,” he said. “I couldn’t betray you.”

  Her face softened. The corners of her mouth twitched, and she looked as if she were about to speak. But she said nothing.

  At that very moment there came a lull in the storm, and an uncanny stillness descended over the entire scene. The rain stopped. The thunder rumbled away into silence. The wind dropped to a whisper, and the sails of the flying ships fell slack in the dead air. And then a small black winged shape hurtled down out of the clouds athwart the blaze of the golden stairway and came to rest on the top of St. Halistan’s tower.

  Immediately a screen of darkness, like an explosion of impenetrable smoke, fanned out into the air on every side of the shape. It swelled and spread, damping the brightness of the angels and veiling the light of the star. A piercing wail, as of anger mingled with agony, burst from the center of the growing shadow; and in the next moment Morgan and Eny saw a figure standing on top of the tower—a dark-haired woman, cloaked and muffled in black, her arms extended above her head, the fingers of her hands outstretched toward the heavens, her eyes glittering green. She cried out a second time, and the retreating Fomorians turned on their heels and charged back down the hill, setting earth, church, houses, and trees trembling beneath the din of their onslaught.

  And now the tide of battle, which up to that instant had been with Eny and her friends, began to shift. The giants converged on the church like a raging sea. With crushing blows of their iron-shod feet they drove the Fir Bolg back toward the Inlet. Eny broke away from Morgan’s side and rushed in among the little people, plucking at their sleeves and blocking their path, calling each one by name.

  “Wait, Rury!” she shouted. “Eochy! Sengann! Come back! We can’t quit now! Give them another round! We did it before, and we can do it again! ”

  At the sound of her voice a number of them stopped and stood their ground, firing off a few more stones. But so feeble and halfhearted was the volley that the Fomorians hardly seemed to notice. Undaunted, one of the giants lashed out with the toe of his boot and sent several Fir Bolg spinning through the air and slamming into the wall of the white duplex. Then the rest of the Bag People fled in a disorderly rout.

  As they ran, another cloudburst of arrows rained down from the becalmed ships. The Danaan archers, it seemed, were doing their best to cover the retreat of the little people; but in the dusky light their aim was poor, and from such a great height they could do little to fend off the renewed ferocity of their gigantic enemies. Instead of flinching, Falor reached up and broke off a pointed stone pinnacle from the top of the tower, heaved it into the sky, and struck one of the Danaan craft in the side, snapping its mast and smashing a gaping hole in its deck and hull. With a terrible groan the ship heeled over, scattering shields and shining warriors through the air like copper pennies. Morgan hid his eyes as ten or twelve armored Danaans crashed heavily to the ground before his feet.

  Eny stumbled over to him, one hand on her forehead as if she were in great pain. She looked haggard and spent, and he could see tears brimming at the corners of her eyes. Morgan reached out and touched her.

  “What now?” he asked.

  But before she could answer the gathering darkness was lightened momentarily by a faint flash overhead. This was followed not by thunder but by a war-whoop. They looked up and saw Simon Brach leaping over the side of one of the flying ships, sweeping down through the murky air, clinging with one hand to a long rope and brandishing a flickering sword in the other. Down to the top of the tower he swung, landing on his feet directly in front of the Morrigu.

  Morgan and Eny cheered, for the enchantress was clearly taken aback by this bold and unexpected stroke. She recoiled before Simon, shielding her eyes with her cloaked left forearm and flinging her right hand straight out in front of her face. Seeing his advantage, the Danaan thrust at her with the sword. But she lifted her hand, and the blade, as if caught on the edge of an invisible shield, glanced to one side and struck ringing against a stone pinnacle. She laughed and spread her fingers wide. Immediately the wind came up, the rain fell in torrents, and the storm returned with redoubled fury.

  Then stroke by stroke, blow by blow, the two godlike figures bore down upon each other with such violence that the sky itself shuddered from end to end. Above their heads screeched the circling black crow. From every side the surging winds swept round them with all the force of a gathering cyclone. Morgan and Eny clung together, watching as the Danaan ships, their sails bellying to the point of bursting, drew aside and heaved to in the calmer air beyond the center of the storm, holding their fire lest Simon should be struck by a friendly arrow. The Fomorians, too, backed away and stood motionless with their great heavy faces turned up toward the top of the tower. It was plain that everything depended upon the outcome of this single combat.

  Again and again Simon swung the shimmering sword. Again and again the Morrigu parried with a mere wave of her hand or a flick of her fingers. They could hear her laughing in the midst of the gale, as if she cared but little for the prowess of her formidable opponent. And yet as the battle progressed it became obvious that the Danaan was slowly driving her back. Morgan looked on, his heart in his mouth, as she gave way before him, step by step. She was up against the parapet now, leaning backward over the edge of the tower, her eyes gleaming, her dark hair loose and flying. Simon heaved up the sword—and then a mighty blast of wind tore the blade from his hand and sent it spinning like a straw out into the roiling blackness of the storm.

  “Morgan!” screamed Eny, tightening her grip on his arm. “Do something! You’ve got to do something!”

  “What do you expect
me to do?” he yelled. “I can’t do anything!”

  Then he remembered the sword in his jacket. Yanking it loose, he flung its wrappings aside. Lifting the blade high overhead, he swept it from side to side in a wide arc. As he did so, hope surged in his heart like a fountain of living water; for the sword glowed with a dark sheen in the surrounding gloom, and he could see the terrible Fomorians cowering in its pulsing light. Again he waved it in the air, shouting with all his might. At his signal one of the Danaan ships shortened sail and descended out of the clouds. A rope dropped over its side and fell dangling near to his hand. He cried out:

  “Simon! Simon! Take my sword! I’m sending it up to you!”

  Simon heard him. He looked down. His eyes met Morgan’s. And in that brief instant, while the face of the Danaan hero was turned away from the face of his enemy, the Morrigu grappled him in her arms, wrenched him off his feet, and flung him over the side of the tower.

  The wind rose, screaming like a banshee. Lightning flashed, thunder cracked, and it seemed to Morgan as if all the glass in all the windows of the world rattled and shattered beneath the shock. With a laugh like the rumble of an avalanche or the groan of an iron gate, Falor stepped away from the wall of the church and started to grow. He grew until his great round head rose above the highest pinnacle of the tower. With one vast hand he picked up the Morrigu and set her on his shoulder. With the other, he broke off the top of the tower, reached down inside, and pulled out Lia Fail, the Stone of Destiny.

  Then, as what remained of the tower of St. Halistan’s crumbled and collapsed in a steaming heap, he bowed his mountainous shoulders and stalked off toward the sea.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Lost and Found

  When next he knew anything at all, Morgan was lying on his back under a bloodred sky, looking up into the furrowed brow of George Ariello. George’s back was to the east and his face in deep shadow, but his grin flashed like a crescent moon emerging from a cloud the moment Morgan opened his eyes.

  “Hey, look!” he called over his shoulder. “He’s awake! I think he’s going to be all right!”

  Morgan raised himself on his elbows and looked around. He was lying on a canvas tarp in the middle of the little patch of grass between the sidewalk and the duplex, cold and wet, his clothes caked with mud, his hair stiff with grit and grime. Moira was standing on the front porch. Beside her sat Eny, a blanket around her shoulders and a steaming cup in her trembling hands.

  As soon as Morgan lifted his head, Moira hurried down the steps. Kneeling over him with a look of deep concern in her hazel-green eyes, she tucked a clump of hair behind her ear, adjusted her glasses on the bridge of her nose, and examined him with the air of a trained physician, turning his head this way and that, peering into one eye and then the other, laying a hand on his forehead, feeling his arms and legs and rib cage for breaks and contusions.

  “Stop that!” whined Morgan, twisting away from her. “It tickles!”

  “Well, you can thank heaven it’s no worse than that!” she said, raising an eyebrow and curling her lip. “After what you’ve been through! Do you kids have any idea how worried we were?”

  He blinked and rubbed his eyes. Across the street St. Halistan’s sanctuary was all but hidden by a small mountain of gray rock and rubble, its jagged slopes and peaks tinged with the orange glare of the rising sun. The ground on every side was covered with broken bits of stone and mortar and concrete, piles of splintered timbers, ashen heaps of gravel and plaster, and the twisted wreckage of iron girders. Voices hummed in the air, interrupted now and then by the hiss and crackle of radios and walkie-talkies. Shovels scraped. Hammers pounded. Chain saws revved. Backhoes groaned. Glancing to his left, Morgan saw a shiny red hook and ladder, a couple of ambulances with flashing lights, and several black-and-white police cars parked helter-skelter over the sidewalks and the lawns of neighboring houses. Everywhere were men in hard hats, helmets, and fire-fighting gear.

  “What happened?” he said.

  “Earthquake,” said George, pouring hot cocoa from a thermos flask into a styrofoam cup. “A big one! That and the worst thunderstorm anybody can remember in Santa Piedra. Together. At the same time. Really strange.”

  “And you two out in it!” exclaimed Moira.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” George continued, handing the cup to Morgan. “The church is okay, but the whole tower came down. Most terrifying sound I ever heard. Like a freight train falling off a cliff.”

  “What in the world were you thinking?” Moira persisted, grabbing Morgan by the chin. “Don’t you even have enough sense to come in out of the rain? We searched all night, only to have you turn up in our own front yard! Were you here all along?”

  Too weary to explain, Morgan asked, “Is everybody okay? What about my mom? Was the hospital damaged?”

  “The hospital is fine,” said George. “They were gearing up for a flood of emergencies, but so far there hasn’t been a single case. That’s the strangest part of the whole thing. It seems there were only two places in town where the earthquake did any damage at all: St. Halistan’s and Front Street. Even here at the house—right across the street—we had nothing but some broken dishes and a few cracks in the ceiling.”

  “Rev. Alcuin’s safe, too,” said Moira, taking a seat on the porch and refilling Eny’s cup. “The rectory, the sanctuary, the church offices—they’re all perfectly sound. But Mr. Brach is missing. I can only hope he was somewhere else when the quake hit. His little apartment under the stairs is buried under tons of rock right now.”

  Morgan and Eny looked at each other. Eny reached up and took her mother’s hand. “Mom,” she said. “It wasn’t like that.”

  “Not like what?”

  “I think you know,” Eny answered softly. “You know about the Morrigu and Ollamh Folla and Lia Fail. You saw what we saw on the tower stairs.” She glanced over at George, then turned back to Moira. “There was a battle.”

  Moira looked at Morgan. Morgan nodded.

  “Simon was in the thick of it,” Eny continued. “The Danaans, too, with their flying ships. And the Fir Bolg, and the angels, and the golden ladder. Things went pretty well for a while, but in the end—”

  She stopped and stared down at her cup.

  “In the end we lost,” said Morgan. “The Stone of Destiny was taken.”

  Moira’s mouth fell open.

  “Taken?” said George. “What do you mean ‘taken’? Isn’t it buried somewhere in that pile?”

  Morgan shook his head.

  “I assume we’re still talking about the Stone of Destiny?” said a new voice. It was Peter Alcuin. He was peering over George’s shoulder, his face gaunt and unshaven, his shoulders stooped, his black coat covered with a thin layer of dust. Though his smile was broad, there were dark rings under his eyes as he slapped George on the back and stepped into the center of their little circle.

  “Yes, Rev. Alcuin,” said Morgan, pushing himself up into a kneeling position. “The Stone of Destiny. Lia Fail. We lost it. She got it—”

  “Morgan!” the Reverend interrupted, as if noticing him for the first time. “Found at last! Eny too! And both in one piece! Well, that is good news! I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you. Please don’t get up! You look like death warmed over!”

  Morgan grunted and struggled to his feet. “I need to get to the hospital right away. Can you help me? They wouldn’t let me in last night.”

  Peter frowned. “Yes, I’ll help you. I was planning on taking you over there in any case. Just as soon as we’ve had some refreshment. It’s been a long night for everyone, and I’ve arranged for a bit of breakfast in my office. Go home and get cleaned up. Ah, but first, there’s something you have to see. Over here!”

  Together they followed him through the wreckage, Morgan limping with stiffness, George mopp
ing the back of his neck with a red bandanna, Eny still sipping cocoa, and Moira holding the blanket around Eny’s shoulders. Over mounds of rubble and around heaps of rock they picked their way, avoiding pits in the pavement, stepping carefully over nail-studded two-by-fours, and skirting huddles of earnestly conferring firefighters.

  At last they stepped up onto what had once been the corner of the sidewalk in front of St. Halistan’s Church. Rev. Alcuin stopped in the middle of a clear, open space that was surprisingly free of stones and other debris and pointed at something. It was a block of glossy black marble, about three feet square, smooth, sleek, and darkly gleaming in the morning sun.

  “The cornerstone,” beamed the Reverend. “Amazing, isn’t it? Not a single stone of that whole tower was left standing on top of another. And yet the cornerstone is still here. Right where it’s always been.”

  Morgan bent down and peered closely at the stone. He’d known it all his life. He’d passed it coming and going a thousand times. Never once had he stopped to give it a second thought. But now he studied it closely, as if seeing it for the very first time. Somehow he had the odd sensation that he was examining it for clues. He ran his fingertips over its cool, silky surface. He felt the sharp edges of the ornate Gothic letters carved into its adamantine hardness. He read the words of the inscription over and over again to himself:

  St. Halistan’s Church

  1873

  “Jesus Christ Himself being the chief cornerstone.”

  After a few moments he turned away, wrapped in a cloud of confused and conflicting emotions, and as George, Moira, and Rev. Alcuin continued to marvel over the miracle of the cornerstone, he slowly made his way back to the duplex, his eyes to the ground, his hands in his pockets, his thoughts dark and troubled. He was picturing his mother dying in the hospital. He was trying to imagine what life would be like without her. He was thinking about the cornerstone, the Philosophers’ Stone, and the Stone of Destiny—struggling heroically to understand how they all fit together, fighting to unravel the tangled threads of the past several weeks’ events, striving unsuccessfully to weave them all together into some kind of meaningful pattern. He was wondering how it was all going to end. That was when something caught his eye.