by Jim Ware
On the landing he paused again to gaze at the image of Jacob’s Ladder in the darkened stained glass. Odd, he thought, how different things could look in a different light. Without the backing illumination of the sun, the picture was not simply lifeless and dull: It was completely altered. In the enveloping gloom, with nothing but the lofty black stillness of the open stairway all around, the shapes of its flat, colorless leaded panes bore an uncanny resemblance to Madame Medea’s The Ladder of the Wise.
He smiled at the thought. The steps of that ladder were known to him by heart. Calcination, Dissolution, Separation, Conjunction, Fermentation, Distillation, Coagulation. The long months of study and experimentation hadn’t been for nothing. He was determined to succeed this time. This time he’d confect the Stone by following the prescriptions of what the adepts called the “Wet Path.” He’d begin with May-dew, “gathered on a clear night at the time of the waxing moon.” He gripped his bundle and turned away.
But as he stepped off the landing and down onto the top stone step—the step where Eny always sat to play her fiddle—something caught his eye: a hint of movement in the corner of his peripheral vision; a pulse of light flashing down on him through the window above. When he looked up, the Ladder of the Wise had disappeared. Jacob and the angels had returned, their brilliant daylight colors fully restored.
Morgan blinked. Was it his imagination, or had the figures in the picture actually moved? Had that first angel’s silvery wing really fluttered as if stirred by a breath of wind? Had the head of the sleeping figure risen, though ever so slightly, from its stony pillow? He leaned forward for a closer look, but in the same instant the vision fled. The darkness closed in, and the window faded to black. The moon, he thought. It must have been the moon.
There was nothing to see at the bottom of the stairs except a thin line of yellow light underneath the little green door. Tiptoeing softly to the double oak doors, he pushed his way out into the night. But on the sidewalk he again stopped and stared. There was no moon. Not even a hint of a moon. Instead, everything—the sky, the top of the church tower, the street, the white stucco duplex on the other side—all were completely obscured in a sea-fog so thick that he could hardly make out the lamp that burned directly over his head. Hardly a “clear night.”
His heart sank. May-dew, collected on a clear night leading up to the full moon. With a sigh, he glanced down at the bundle under his arm and considered his options. It might not hurt to go ahead with the plan. The fog could always clear out by midnight. Stranger things had been known to happen. He crossed the road and went in at the wicket gate.
Stealing along the side of the house, he came out into the backyard. In the open grassy place between his mother’s rose beds and George’s vegetable garden he knelt and drew a wooden stake from the bundle. A damp, earthy smell hung in the air; the ground was cold and wet. Producing a small mallet, he pounded the stake into the grass, then got to his feet, paced off a distance of ten steps, knelt down, and drove in another stake. Turning to the right, he repeated the process until he had marked out a space of about fifteen feet by six. Unrolling the linen sheet, he stretched it tightly over the tops of the wooden pegs, tying the corners down with pieces of yarn. If the cloth sags and touches the earth the etheric forces in the dew will be drained.
His work complete, Morgan jumped up the back steps and went inside the house. Filaments of fog drifted in around his head and shoulders as the door shut behind him.
“Is that you, honey?”
It was his mother’s voice—soft and delicate as usual, but stronger somehow than he’d been used to hearing it over the past few days. There was a light in the kitchen, and a tantalizing fragrance, like frying pork, was streaming down the hallway to greet him. Mom was up and making dinner!
Morgan had been a baby at the time of his father’s death, so he had no living memories to teach him how the man of the house ought to behave in a situation like the one he was facing. Of the mysterious, masculine, flesh-and-blood human complexity that was John Izaak, nothing was left to him but books and instruments. But the books gave him hope, and the instruments encouraged him to believe that something could be done to save his mother. Something would be done. He would do it himself.
“You’re better!” he said as he stepped into the kitchen, his heart full and high and glad. “That’s great!”
She was standing at the stove, turning the sputtering chops in the pan, an apron draped loosely over her slight, angular form—the old blue apron that made him think of better days when she used to bake him cookies after school. Her thin, fair hair was done up in a tight circle on the top of her head. She turned at the sound of his voice, and he saw her face, pale but radiant.
“Yes,” she said. “I start chemotherapy tomorrow. Dr. Vincent says I’ll be out of commission for a bit after that. So I wanted to make us a nice dinner. It’ll be our last chance for a while.”
“Maybe,” he said, his pulse quickening, “but only just a little while.” Hesitantly he added, “I’m working on a plan.”
She smiled at him curiously before turning back to the stove. “I know how hard this must be for you,” she said.
“Don’t worry about me. I’m doing fine. Can I help? Set the table or something?”
She laughed. “Yes. And use the good china!”
Out in the small dining room, Morgan spread the table with a lace cloth, the one they always saved for Sunday dinners and special occasions. That done, he took two plates from the oak sideboard, two pewter goblets from the cupboard, and a handful of the best silver from a drawer. Hardly had he finished laying the places when his mother came in carrying two steaming dishes. After placing them on the table, she struck a match and lit a white candle in a brass candlestick. Then they sat down to their meal: pork chops, applesauce, steamed broccoli, cooked carrots, and thick slices of buttered white bread.
Not until that moment had Morgan realized how famished he was. Never, it seemed, had he seen such a glorious spread. But he held back, though his stomach growled and his mouth began to water; for as he knew only too well, Mavis Izaak had never in her life eaten a meal without first saying a blessing over the food. He closed his eyes, bowed his head, and waited.
“Lord,” he heard her say, “the night is dark. But here inside the house You grant us refuge and warmth and light. Our time in this world is short, but You fill it with all good things. For this we give You thanks.”
There was a pause. Morgan glanced up. His mother sat silent before him, her forehead resting on her folded hands, the flickering yellow light shimmering over the smoothness of her fair hair. He could see her lips moving noiselessly. He could hear an unexpected wind stirring in the treetops outside—a wind to sweep the fog away from the face of the moon! Seconds passed, and he shifted in his chair. But just as he was opening his mouth to bring the prayer to an end, Mavis raised her head and said, “Now bless this food of which we are about to partake. In the Savior’s name.”
“Amen,” said Morgan, picking up his fork.
She opened her eyes and smiled at him. As he sat there looking across the table at her, a fleeting image suddenly impressed itself upon his mind: a picture of his mother as an angel—pale, thin, and ethereal, but surrounded by an aura of golden light. He almost thought he could see the oak sideboard through her translucent body. Was it the candlelight? An optical illusion? He peered more closely, a forkful of broccoli halfway to his mouth. But in the next moment the impression was gone.
For a few minutes they ate together in silence. Then Morgan said, “When Dad was here, did he say grace?”
Mavis stared up at him, plainly surprised by the question. “No,” she answered slowly. “I’m afraid not. It’s odd in a way, he and Peter being such good friends. But he never put much stock in prayer and faith. At least not until the end. And by then it was too late.”
Morgan swallowed hard. �
��But it’s not too late for you.”
She gave him a questioning look.
“I mean, Rev. Alcuin prayed, and now you’re better!”
She smiled sadly. “Perhaps it’s not as simple as you think.”
“But it worked, didn’t it? That’s all that matters.”
“That’s probably the part the matters least of all,” she said, taking a piece of bread and breaking it. “At any rate, it’s early to say yet. And prayer isn’t something that ‘works’ or ‘doesn’t work.’”
That makes no sense at all, he thought. But to his mother he said, “There are other things that might work too. All kinds of things.”
When they had finished eating, Morgan scraped his chair back and stood to clear the table. His mother rose to help him.
“Don’t you dare!” he said, taking her by the arm. “You’ve done enough for tonight. Go on out into the living room. Rest on the couch and watch TV or something. I’ll take care of the dishes.”
She made a feeble show of protest, but he could see the look of gratitude in her tired and watery eyes. He picked up the plates and goblets and carried them to the kitchen as she turned and left the room. But no sooner had he rinsed the dishes and begun to fill the sink than he heard a terrible crash at the other end of the house. He shut off the tap and ran out into the hall.
“Mom!” he cried when he saw her. “What happened?”
She lay with her back to the wall and her legs splayed out across the floor. Her head was bent forward and pressed up against a little mahogany table that stood just outside the living room door. Apparently she’d just missed it in her fall.
“Have you broken anything? Are you bleeding?”
“Just … a little dizzy,” she said, opening her eyes and gripping his hand. “It came on me all of a sudden.” She raised herself on one elbow and passed a hand over her eyes. “Can you help me to the sofa?”
Grunting with effort, he drew her arm over his shoulders and hauled her up. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll go next door. They’ll know what to do.”
Once she was settled comfortably, Morgan dashed out into the yard. So loud was the pounding of the blood in his ears, so frantic the whirl of the confused thoughts in his brain, that he barely noticed the clear whiteness of the moonlight streaming in through the widening gaps in the mist and glimmering on the damp surface of the taut linen sheet. He jumped down into the wet grass and crossed to the Ariellos’ back door. It was unlocked. He opened it and let himself inside.
All was dark and quiet at that end of the house. For a moment it seemed to him that no one was home. Working overtime again, he thought. That wouldn’t be unusual on a Friday night. But as his eyes adjusted, he became aware of a faint light glimmering behind a half-closed door at the end of the hall—the door to the Ariellos’ living room. Softly he approached. Someone was speaking within:
“So the Danaan folk fled before their enemies. Leaving a decoy beneath the throne of Gathelus, they wrapped Lia Fail in a plain woolen cloak and sailed for the legendary isles of Finias, Murias, Gorias, and Falias. But it was not long before they were forced to leave those fabled cities of the sea, sailing over the ocean toward the golden horizon. For their foes had discovered their flight and pursued them.”
It was Moira’s voice. Morgan remembered now: She and Eny often read together in the evenings. He took a step forward and peered into the room. There on a dingy old sofa sat mother and daughter, their backs to the door, their heads bent close together over a book. The erratic light came from a pair of red candles that were burning on a small end table at Moira’s elbow.
“Then westward over the face of the waters they drove their high-prowed ships, ships that were said to have the power to fly through the air. For they had been told that Lia Fail might not rest until it came at last to the extremity of the world, to the land of the sun’s going, the place of its final destiny—the Green Island in the West, Hidden Isle of Inisfail:
Sweet and pure the air of Inisfail,
Pleasant that land beyond all earthly dreams.
There all the year the fruit swells on the tree,
There month to month the bloom is on the flower.”
Moira paused. Thinking that this might be a good place to jump in, Morgan stepped over the threshold and opened his mouth to speak. But just then Eny said:
“Did they ever reach the island?”
“Inisfail?” asked Moira. “Oh my, no! Inisfail lies farther away than tongue can tell. Always just over the horizon. It’s the land of the sun’s going, the place beyond all places. No, they didn’t reach Inisfail. But they did find something nearly as good—Ireland! And that’s how it happened that Lia Fail, the Stone of Destiny, the Satisfaction of All Desire, was brought safe to Tara, the seat of ancient kings.”
Stone of Destiny? Satisfaction of All Desire? Why hadn’t Eny ever told him about this story? Morgan felt his heart skip a beat. He gripped the edge of the door and stood transfixed.
“What exactly is Lia Fail?” said Eny.
“Haven’t I been telling you? The Stone of Destiny—the Stone of Bethel. It’s the Coronation Stone—the fabled ‘Stone That Roared.’ It was said that whoever possessed it was destined to rule. That’s why so many monarchs and emperors and peoples and nations have been so desperate to get their hands on it. Generations of the kings and queens of Tara were crowned upon that Stone. It possessed a peculiar virtue, so that whenever a true king or queen stepped upon it—a genuine son or daughter of the Danaan race—it would acknowledge the royal presence with signs and wonders. Visions and revelations, bolts of light from above, a roaring like the roaring of the sea! Lia Fail conferred the power to command, the power to transform, the power to heal and raise the dead!”
The power to heal. Morgan felt his knees begin to buckle. His mother was waiting. A voice at the back of his mind told him that her situation could be urgent. But he could not move; he had to hear more about Lia Fail. Could this wondrous healing Stone have anything to do with the Philosophers’ Stone itself? Was this the thing that Madame Medea wanted him to find?
At that moment the front door opened, and George Ariello walked in, two big bunches of keys jingling at his hip. Jarred out of the trancelike state into which he’d been lulled by Moira’s story, Morgan turned and gave him a desperate look.
“George!” he blurted. “It’s my mom! She’s worse!”
Chapter Six
There Are Other Stories
Morgan sat on a hard plastic chair, chin in hands, staring down at the scuffed and dingy white tile floor. Hours of endless waiting had left him numb; numb to the hum and glare of the fluorescent lights, numb to the smell of alcohol and harsh detergents, numb to the ringing of phones and the periodic coming and going of patients and hospital staff. Though his eyelids sagged and his back bent low, sleep was far from him. The gyroscopic whirrings in his brain kept the tide of drowsiness at bay.
On the dim and hazy edges of his consciousness—that is, in the chair just to the left of his own—a dark-haired, dusky-eyed young woman cradled a flushed and feverish baby in the crook of her bare brown arm. Morgan turned and stared at her vaguely as she whispered to the child in Spanish and stroked its sweaty head with the tips of her slender fingers. Next to her a dirty, greasy, unshaven middle-aged man held a soiled and bloody rag to his ear, moaning and groaning and smelling of fish and beer. Across the room, on a worn leather couch behind a low table strewn with magazines, Eny was sleeping with her head pillowed in George’s lap. George himself sat nodding, jerking, and snoring by fitful turns.
Morgan shook himself, rubbed his eyes, and glanced out the window. Beyond the smudged glass a few stars hung like jewels in the spaces between the silvered branches of the trees. Faint and clear they glittered in the cold moonlight. The mist had dispersed entirely. A clear night leading up to the full moon
.
“I’m sure we’ll hear something soon,” said Peter Alcuin, who was sitting on Morgan’s right.
Morgan yawned and stretched. “It feels like we’ve been here all night,” he said. He didn’t know how the Reverend had found out about his mother’s sudden distress, but he was glad that he had. There was something reassuring in the man’s quiet but persistent presence.
“We have. It’s a quarter past five. Why don’t you lie down for a while? You look like death warmed over. I’ll wake you when there’s something to report.”
“I can’t.” He studied the Reverend uncertainly. “Do you think the tower might really have to come down?”
“The tower?” Rev. Alcuin took off his round spectacles and wiped them on the sleeve of his coat. “You’re still thinking about the tower? At a time like this?”
“Especially at a time like this. I know it doesn’t make sense. But there’s a connection. Between my mom and the tower, I mean. For reasons I can’t explain right now.”
The Reverend frowned. “Then I won’t ask you to. But to answer your question, yes—there is a very good chance that the tower will have to be demolished.”
“Just because of Mr. Knowles? I can’t believe he has that much power!”
“Wealth and power have a way of keeping pretty close company. But it’s not entirely a question of Knowles’s power. It’s a bit more complicated than that.”
“How do you mean?”
The Reverend passed a hand across his forehead. “I hardly know myself. I just have a sense that we’re up against something bigger than the Knowleses. Mr. Knowles isn’t alone. There are other people who want the same things he wants. Politics and economics come into it. Besides, he’s right about the earthquake regulations. That tower is nearly a hundred years old, Morgan. There were no such regulations when St. Halistan’s was built. The next strong shake we get could bring it down. And that would be a disaster.”