The Stone of Destiny

by Jim Ware

  Rev. Alcuin looked thoughtful. “I don’t consider myself an expert,” he said slowly, “or even a believer. Not necessarily. But as I was telling Morgan just the other day, folklore is rich in legends about stones of virtue and power. The evidence—primarily philological evidence—indicates that these tales may be interconnected. It was a subject of special interest to Morgan’s father. British and Irish traditions have always maintained that Lia Fail and the Bethel stone were one and the same, so that part of Simon’s account doesn’t surprise me in the least. But what I don’t understand is how either one of them could have ended up here. That’s the thing that doesn’t make any sense. I’m not familiar with a single story that would explain it.”

  “But you are!” said Morgan.

  Peter regarded him strangely. “I am?”

  “Yes! When we were talking in your office that night, you said something about Santiago de Compostela. Don’t you remember? It was almost the very last thing I heard you say!”

  “Of course I remember,” said the Reverend. “But I don’t see how—”

  George was at his elbow in a flash. “The Legend of Compostela!” he said, his voice cracking with excitement. “I told it to the boy myself! ‘A story of Old California,’ I said. ‘A story about the Ariello family and Santa Piedra!’”

  Peter shook his head. “That’s not the way I heard it. The version I know comes from medieval Spain.”

  “Yes, of course!” said George, barely able to contain himself. “It begins in Spain. But it ends here! Why do you think the town is called Santa Piedra—holy stone? Why do you suppose Father Serra named our Mission after Santiago de Compostela?”

  Rev. Alcuin raised an eyebrow and fell silent. One by one, the rest of them turned to Simon, as if expecting him to provide the answer. But Simon’s face showed that he, too, was still seeking a solution—that the wheels of his brain were spinning madly in an attempt to fit the pieces together into a consistent and meaningful whole.

  Moira rubbed her nose and frowned. “Brigantium,” she mused. “It was from Brigantium in Spain that the Danaans set out with Lia Fail in their flying ships. But that was ages ago, when they were fleeing from the Gallaeci of the East. From Spain they went to Falias, from Falias to Gorias, Finias, and Murias. Westward, always westward they set their sails:

  For being but few to journey on the land, they would move on the face of the waters, to the extremity of the world, to the land of the sun’s going, as they had heard.

  “The last place they landed was Ireland,” she concluded. “The stories I know don’t say anything about California!”

  George was fuming. “How many times have I told you, Moira!” he said, beads of perspiration glistening on his broad, brown forehead. “Those tales of yours are nothing but pagan fables! I’m talking about the tradition of the Holy Church! And the tradition of the Church says that the Franciscan padres brought the miraculous Stone to the New World as a holy relic of Santiago de Compostela! From Vera Cruz in Mexico they sent it north by sea to Alta California. It traveled from mission to mission until it arrived in Santa Piedra. Its final resting place was in the Mission—underneath the altar!”

  Moira glared at her husband over the rims of her glasses. “Has anyone ever seen it? Has anyone even looked?”

  “I did,” said Morgan.

  Every eye was on him in an instant. “And?” pressed Moira.

  “You can ask George. I already told him. There was nothing there. Nothing but a hole.” He paused and inclined his head in the direction of the stairway. “A hole just about the size of one of these steps.”

  “Seriously?” said George. “A step the size of that one?” He pointed at the last stone step below the landing.

  Morgan nodded.

  “But how?”

  “I think I understand that, too,” Morgan replied. “When the Mission fell into ruin, the people of Santa Piedra started using pieces of it to build other stuff around town. Houses, sheds, barns. Churches, too, I guess. Back in the 1870s. That’s what the tour guide said.”

  Peter looked at George. “Well,” he said, “we’ve all seen the inscription on the cornerstone. St. Halistan’s was built in 1873.”

  “So that accounts for the last leg of the Stone’s journey,” said Morgan. “From Spain to Santa Piedra.”

  “And I’ve given you the first,” said Moira—“from Spain to Ireland, a long, long time ago. But what happened in between? If the Stone from the Mission is really Lia Fail, how did it get from Ireland to Compostela?”

  Morgan locked eyes with Peter. “I think Rev. Alcuin has that piece of the puzzle. Remember what you told me about the Grail legends? How the Gral was originally a Stone, and how different versions of the Gral story can be found all across Europe—from England to France, from Germany to Italy, and finally even in Spain? That must be the path Lia Fail followed! That must be the route it took after Simon—I mean, Ollamh Folla—sent it out of Ireland.”

  Simon beamed at him. “I think you’ve got it, lad!”

  Morgan felt his head and chest beginning to swell. Could he actually have played a part in finishing something his father had begun? He looked up at the two fiddlers. Eny was smiling down at him from her place at Simon’s side, her blue eye sparkling in the dim light like a sunlit sea. Morgan’s cheeks and forehead burned. He bent down and turned his face away.

  “Isn’t it marvelous?” Simon went on. “Apparently the Stone has been seeking its own destiny all along—moving toward it, inexorably, since the very beginning. Gathelus stole it from the Hebrews thinking he’d made himself its master, but it wasn’t so. The Danaans were never anything but the agents of its designs. Once we let it go, it found its own way. Against all hope and expectation, it overcame every obstacle and came at last to the westernmost edge of the world. Its long journey is nearly over. Only one thing more remains to be done.”

  “What do you mean?” said Morgan, a strange tightness rising at the base of his throat. “Lia Fail is here. We’ve found the Stone of Destiny! What else is there to do? Isn’t that the end of the story?”

  Simon shook his head. “Not quite. The Stone can’t stay here. Nothing can that has been truly touched by the hand of God. Not for long, at any rate. While it does remain, it retains an aura that, despite all the miraculous signs and wonders it produces, can only deceive and disappoint. It makes grand promises it can’t fulfill. That’s why it must go on and complete its course. It has to pass beyond the circles of the world until it reaches its destination: Inisfail, the Green Island in the West, the Land of the Sun’s Going. I’m not the one to take it there, but I can escort it to the threshold. That’s what I’ve been sent to do.”

  Eny set her fiddle aside and took Simon’s hand. “I’ll help you,” she said. “I have to help you. If you don’t succeed, Lia Fail may fall into the hands of the Morrigu, and I promised a friend that I’d never let that happen. I know where we can find a boat—down at Harp’s Haven, near the old whaling station out on La Punta Lira.”

  The old man smiled and bowed his head in gratitude.

  Rev. Alcuin seemed worried. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. “I don’t know who the Morrigu is,” he said, “or where you’re planning on going in a boat. All I know is that it sounds extremely dangerous, and I’m not sure I approve. George, Moira—what do you think?”

  George glanced up at Eny with a grin. “What can I say? We’ve seen miracles tonight. I have no idea what should be done about them. But my little girl seems to know.”

  Moira looked disgruntled. She frowned at Simon. “I believe in the stories, and I know what has to happen. But as far as I’m concerned, you still haven’t answered the most important question! You may be a Danaan, but you’re no king. So why should Lia Fail roar for you?”

  “I think I know the answer to that one,” Eny offered. “It’s
because you’re the king’s representative, right? The Fir Bolg told me that Ollamh Folla is King Lugh’s lieutenant and right-hand man. Is that the reason?”

  Simon stroked his chin. “It’s a possibility, missy,” he said thoughtfully. “Then again, maybe not. I think we’ve seen that Lia Fail has a mind of its own. It might be that the Stone roars whenever it wants to for whomever it chooses. It might be that the one ‘destined to rule’ is the one we least suspect. Perhaps real power and kingship aren’t what we take them to be. If you ask me, there’s a mystery here—a mystery that’s best left unexplained.”

  Rev. Alcuin was fingering the cross that hung around his neck. “There’s no need to explain,” he said. “That part of the story was explained a long time ago.”

  At that, Simon leaped to his feet and rubbed his hands together. “Well,” he said, “I think we’ve had enough talk for tonight. There’s work to be done! Am I right, George?”

  George slapped his forehead. “More work than ever!” he exclaimed. “Not only do we have to clean out the tower, we’ve also got to figure out a way to remove that step and shuttle it down to the old whaling station!”

  “A big job,” Simon said, laughing as he descended the stairs and laid a hand on Morgan’s shoulder, “a big job indeed. But there’s no need to worry. We’ve got good people on our side. The lad’s going to help us. Right, Mr. Izaak?”

  Morgan looked up. It was as if he were peering at the old man’s face in a distorted mirror or through a clouded glass. For some reason his stomach was shifting uneasily. He wasn’t sure how he should feel or what he ought to say. To make matters worse, Simon’s words were whirling through his brain like a swarm of angry bees: … can’t stay here … beyond the circles of the world … promises it can’t fulfill … a mystery best left unexplained. He tried to speak, but the words caught in his throat. He coughed and rubbed his nose and tried again.

  “I’m sorry,” he heard himself stammer in a tremulous and distant voice. “I’d like to help, but I really can’t stay. Not tonight. I’ve got lots of stuff to do at home.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Harp’s Haven

  Numb, dazed, and frazzled, Morgan stumbled into the darkened apartment and threw himself blindly on the couch. Eager as he’d been to start packing up his lab, the events of the past hour had drained him of every last ounce of energy and strength. George and Simon would have to draft somebody else for their cleaning crew. Tomorrow would be time enough to retrieve his father’s books. As for the rest of the stuff, it was replaceable. Replaceable and irrelevant. Who needed alembics, cucurbits, and tinctures now? Lia Fail had been found. The Satisfaction of All Desire had come.

  It would be difficult, of course—maybe even impossible—to bring his mother into direct contact with the Stone. He’d probably have to come up with some other way of accessing its power. He still had a few ounces of the white elixir in his backpack, and if Madame Medea were telling the truth, then Lia Fail was the key to unlocking their healing virtues. Exactly how it was supposed to work, he didn’t know. But he could sort out the details in the morning. With a sigh and a yawn, he rolled over on his stomach and pressed his face into the corner between the cushions and the back of the couch. So profound was his exhaustion that he fell asleep at once. And as he slept, he dreamed another dream.

  The sea—dark purple, banded with green and gray. Overhead a moldy yellow sky. On the sand a dying king, sword in hand, visor down. Near the king a tall, trembling knight, and at his side a willowy woman in white. She sat on a stone step, mending bleeding wounds with needle and thread. Her head was bent, her hair dark, her face shadowed, but her eyes at fleeting moments flashed deep green. Morgan stood on the sand, a small, carved wooden cask in his hands.

  “Bedivere,” said the king, “I have tarried overlong. Take Excalibur my good sword and cast it into the deep. Then come and tell me what you see.”

  “Good, my lord,” the knight replied, “I hear and obey.”

  So the knight took the sword and went his way. But as Morgan watched, he slipped aside and hid Excalibur beneath a tree.

  “Well?” asked the king when he returned.

  “My lord Arthur,” the man answered, “I saw naught but the wind and the waves.”

  “Seek not to betray me,” said the king. “Go and carry out my command!”

  Once more the knight contrived to hide the sword, and all transpired as at the first. But the third time, seeing Arthur could not be deceived, he took Excalibur and heaved it far out over the water. Immediately an arm and hand burst upward from the surface, caught the sword by the hilt, and drew it down. Then a boat, shrouded in black and filled with weeping women, appeared beyond the rolling breakers.

  Bedivere came and told this to the king. Then he, too, wept. “What shall become of me, my lord, now that ye go and leave me alone among mine enemies?”

  “Comfort yourself,” said Arthur. “In me is no trust to trust in. I will cross the sea to Avalon, there to be healed of my wounds.”

  The boat came to shore. Three women got out, lifted the king, and laid him inside with his head upon a cushion.

  “Wait!” shouted Morgan, running to the water’s edge. “Don’t go! Not yet!” He opened the cask and pulled out two flasks, one filled with white powder, the other red. “See?” he said. “I have the cure! You can’t leave now!”

  Quick as lightning, Sir Bedivere snatched the flasks from his hands. Then, just as he had done with the sword, he whirled them over his head and hurled them out into the ocean.

  “What have you done?” screamed Morgan, choking with rage and drowning in tears. “You idiot! You’ve taken our last best hope and thrown it away!”

  “I’m sorry,” said the knight, unlacing his helmet. He lifted the visor, and his face was the face of Simon Brach. “It’s too late,” he sang, “too late for grand promises. They all pass away, pass away, pass away. They all pass away to the Land of the Sun’s Going.” He smiled warmly, then turned and walked off.

  “Come back!” shouted Morgan as the boat put out from shore. But the ladies paid no heed. Only the white-robed, green-eyed woman seemed to care. Silently she rose from the stone step and wrapped her arms around him, brushing away the hot tears with her cool, smooth fingertips. But he pulled free and splashed out into the waves, shouting and weeping and flailing his arms.

  “Don’t worry, Morgan!” called a voice from the boat—the voice of the king himself! “Be comforted! Remember! One day is enough!”

  With that, the wounded monarch sat up in the barge and removed his helmet. To Morgan’s surprise, the head thus revealed was not the head of a king at all, but that of a beautiful woman. The shining hair, cascading over the shoulders like a river of molten gold, was the hair of Niamh, daughter of the Lord of Tir-Na-nOg. But the face was the face of his mother….

  The following day, after the usual amount of bickering and squabbling, George and Moira agreed that Eny should go with Simon after school to Harp’s Haven, an abandoned small-craft harbor at the base of La Punta Lira near the old shore whaling station. At first, George insisted on going with them—not out of fear for Eny or distrust of Simon, but because he dearly wanted to carry on the Ariello family tradition by playing some part in the last chapter of the story of the miraculous Stone. Moira, of course, disagreed. She took the position that Lia Fail was the special concern of the Tuatha De Danann, and that it’s always best, if possible, to keep out of the business of the people of the Sidhe. Naturally, her view prevailed in the end.

  As things turned out, Eny and Simon had a perfect afternoon for their outing. The morning fog burned off by midday, and at three thirty the two trekkers were making their way out onto the Point under brilliant sunshine. Eny went with high hopes, her heart lightened by the fragrant brightness of the world around her, her spirits buoyed by the thought that Lia Fail would soon be beyond
the Morrigu’s reach.

  There was a boat down at the Haven that she practically considered her own: nothing but a hull, a bench, and two oars, but it was sound and seaworthy, and she had often used it to make short excursions around the Point and across La Coruna Inlet. It was just what Simon needed, she thought, for the successful fulfillment of his mission: a reliable means of water transport and a hidden point of departure. They had all agreed it would be best to avoid the busy docks near Fisherman’s Wharf.

  As they crossed the bridge over Pillar Creek, Eny could see the sparkling jade waters of Laguna Verde on their right and the dark green mass of the pine hill forest on the bluff directly ahead. Below and to the left lay a wide expanse of humpy, scrub-covered yellow rock. Leaving the lagoon behind, they turned and followed the left-hand trail past the forest fringe and across Arroyo del Mar. Gray squirrels chattered at them from the tops of the pines. Red-winged blackbirds and white-breasted nuthatches dropped snatches of song from the lower branches of the poplars in the arroyo. Gulls screamed in the salt sea air.

  “It’s supposed to be shaped like a harp,” Eny explained as they trudged through a spiny patch of wild blackberry bushes and sticky yellow monkey flowers. “That’s why the Spaniards called it La Punta Lira. It’s a triangle. Pillar Creek runs pretty much straight north and south. It’s the pillar of the harp. On the side facing the ocean, the land slants seaward, like the soundboard. And on the north, along the Inlet, the shore is curved like the harp’s neck. Roughly speaking, anyway.” She laughed. “So it’s a kind of musical place. In more ways than one.”

  “You come here often, do you?” asked Simon, stumping along beside her.

  “All the time. It was here—at the Cave of the Hands—that I found my way into the Sidhe.”

  He rubbed his chin. “Interesting. I know most of the portals, but I have never heard of that one until now. Perhaps it wasn’t permanent. Some of them are—like Brugh na Boyne and the Catskill vales and the forest of Broceliande. But others can open and close at any time. Without warning or reason or rhyme. Especially if she has anything to do with it.” He looked up uncertainly as a shadow passed over the sun.