by Jim Ware
Her full red lips curved slightly upward at the corners. Folding her long-fingered hands in her lap, she lifted an eyebrow and inclined her head to one side. For a moment she regarded him in silence, her brow as calm and clear as a sheltered bay on a sunny summer afternoon. But her green eyes glittered, and it seemed to Morgan that her breath came more rapidly. A flush of pink appeared at the base of her throat, just above the neck of her blue satin gown.
“Is this true?” she asked quietly.
He nodded. “In St. Halistan’s Church. On the tower stairs. It’s actually one of the steps—the last stone step below the first landing, under the stained-glass window.”
Her smile broadened and two tiny sparks appeared in the black circles at the centers of her eyes. “It is as I suspected,” she said. “You have done well to tell me.”
“Yes. And now that I’ve found it, I was hoping we could talk about my mother. You said you’d help me cure her cancer.”
The smile faded. She rose and laid a shapely hand on the curved neck of the harp. “We have been over this,” she said, glaring down at him. “I’ve already told you. Without the Stone, the Elixir is worthless. Without the maiden the power of the Stone cannot be unlocked. Why have you not brought her?”
“I couldn’t! You don’t know Eny. She wouldn’t have come! Besides, I don’t see what difference—”
“Be silent!” The white face remained as smooth as marble, but the green eyes darkened. “If you have told me the truth, then the Stone of Destiny is already mine. But it is not enough. I must also have the girl.”
“But you promised! You said that if I found the Stone, you’d help me heal my mother!”
“Did I?” She lifted her hand from the harp and studied her glossy red nails. “I said I could. But then why should I? I told you from the beginning what I required of you. The Stone of Destiny and the maiden.”
There was nothing he could say. He stared up into her face, at a complete loss for words. But as he did so, it seemed to him that a veil was somehow lifted from his eyes. For the first time, he thought, he could see her as she really was: hard and cold as ice; unwaveringly intent upon a single thing—the power of Lia Fail. In that instant he realized that she cared nothing for him or his mother or anyone else.
“I swear to you,” Madame Medea was saying, “that these are the last kind words you will ever hear from me if you do not return with the girl before this night is out. I will not bear to look on your face again if you come without her. She is essential! I must have her! Now go! And do not prove as useless as your father!”
As she spoke, something snapped inside his brain. Chains and steel bands seemed to break and fall away from his mind and heart with a dull ringing sound. Suddenly Eny’s fears and pleadings and warnings all came back to him in a rushing torrent. He remembered what she had said about the giants and the Morrigu and the prophecy of Eithne. He pictured her eyes shining with tears. He tried to imagine what it would mean for his good and gentle friend to fall into the hands of this scheming, calculating woman.
From somewhere in the region below his rib cage a surge of red-hot anger boiled upward into his chest, rushed up through his throat, and gushed out through his eyes and nose and mouth. He took five backward steps, extended an arm, and raked an entire row of bottles, jars, and flasks from one of the sagging shelves. The glassware fell to the floor in a shattered heap and scattered across the carpet in a fan of glittering sparks, leaving trails of steaming and smoking tinctures and essences in its wake. Retreating another step, he laid hold of the edge of a thick oak table and flung it over on its side, sending globes and tongs and shovels and spoons clattering from one end of the shop to the other. Then he turned to face her, brushing a strand of damp yellow hair out of his eyes.
“That’s what I think of you and your demands!” he said, shaking like a live wire. “I kept my part of the bargain, but you lied to me! You may think you have Lia Fail, but you can’t have my friend! And you won’t get me either!”
He turned to run. At that instant the screen of wooden beads burst apart, and Falor thundered into the room like an avalanche. Blind with frenzy, Morgan dashed down the aisle in the half-light, leaping over shards of broken glass, banging his elbows against the sharp corners of cabinets and shelves, stumbling through piles of mortars and pestles and shattered alembics. He could hear the giant’s labored breathing just over his shoulder. He could feel the walls and ceiling shudder and tremble as the mountainous man’s tree-trunk legs and pile-driver feet pounded after him over the creaking floor.
Morgan reached the front of the shop and flung himself desperately at the door with Falor close on his heels. His heart was in his mouth, his hand was on the handle, his fingers were on the latch. But just as he was about to squeeze and pull, a glint of gold caught his eye in the umbrella stand at the entrance to the shop: a long blue sword with a large gilded pommel.
Quick as thought, he whipped it out and spun around to face his adversary. To his great surprise, the giant skidded clumsily to a halt, blundered against a post, and retreated several paces. Astonished at the success of his bold maneuver, Morgan brandished the blade threateningly, yanked the door open, and leaped over the threshold. The earth shook violently beneath his feet and the sign of the White Hand rattled above his head.
“Let him go, fool!” he heard Madame Medea shout as he fled out into the street. “I have a far more important job for you this evening!”
Once in the open, Morgan crossed Front Street and ran north along the seafront until his legs and lungs gave out. Then he threw himself over the railing and fell facedown in the sand, chest heaving, limbs quivering, eyes dark with exhaustion, fear, and hopelessness. For a long time he lay there gasping and gulping the air, twisting his head miserably from side to side, expecting at any moment to feel the huge hand of Falor on the back of his neck. When at last he looked up, he saw that the dark line of fog had moved ashore and that the whole of Santa Piedra was shrouded in a cloud of gray drizzle. Overwhelmed with emotion, he wept.
“I’m sorry!” he cried between broken sobs. “I tried my hardest, but my best is never good enough. I did everything I could to save my mom, but I failed. I’m so, so sorry! You know I’d do anything for her, but I just can’t betray Eny! I can’t go that far! If my mom has to die, then I guess that’s the way it is! There’s nothing more I can do!”
He had no idea how long he lay there. As far as he knew, no one saw him. No one came near. When his tears were spent, he got to his feet, empty, chilled, and shaking. Brushing the sand from his clothes and face, he picked up the sword, tucked it under his arm, and turned to the east.
He was standing at the base of Vista Del Mar Avenue. Through the thickening mist and fog he could just make out the lights of the hospital twinkling at the top of the hill. Instantly he was seized with a desperate longing to see his mother. He ached with the desire to hold her hand and look into her face again. There was no way to tell how much time he might have left with her, but he knew it wasn’t much. So many precious days had already slipped away! Nothing could be done to change that now, but there was still today, and today would be enough. She had told him so.
Gripping the sword tightly, he climbed the railing and dropped down onto the sidewalk. Then he recrossed the street and set off for the hospital.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The Battle for the Stone
He quickly came to the conclusion that he had been lying on the beach for a very long time; for as he labored up Vista Del Mar, regretting the loss of his bike and sweating under the burden of his backpack and the heavy sword, darkness rose up in the east and crept seaward across the lowering gray sky. The drizzle turned to light rain. Brooding clouds pressed down upon the hills, obscuring the hospital and veiling the houses on either side of the street.
At the corner of Alta Drive he was startled by a flash of lightni
ng. As the thunder sounded, a dreadful cacophony of croaking and squawking burst over him like a shower of hailstones and a swift black shape swept down across his path. Dodging to one side, he heaved up the sword and swung it wildly above his head. There was a swish and a snap and the shape hurtled away, leaving two or three inky feathers fluttering in the wind.
Morgan pressed on to the hospital. As he neared the main entrance, it seemed to him that the ground began to roll and shift. In the glare of a second bolt of lightning he could see telephone and power lines quivering violently and scattering large drops of water helter-skelter through the air. Hitching up his backpack, he reached out and put his hand on the door.
It was locked. How can it possibly be that late? he wondered. I guess I’ll have to use the emergency entrance. But as he was turning away he caught sight of someone inside the lobby, just on the other side of the glass—a frumpy, dowdy, gray-haired woman in a dingy gingham dress. She was down on her hands and knees, scrubbing the floor with a brush and a bucket of water.
“Hey!” yelled Morgan, banging on the window. “Can you please let me in?”
She lifted her head and looked round at him. Her face was old and wrinkled as an ancient map, but the eyes in the deep-set sockets were green and luminous like a cat’s. She stared at him briefly and went back to her work.
“I’m here to visit my mother!” he shouted, raising his voice and pounding even harder. “I didn’t know they closed the main entrance so early! Can’t you open it for me?”
With a great effort the old woman struggled to her feet and tottered over to the door. For a few moments she stood frowning at him in silence. Then she opened her mouth and began to speak. Morgan saw her lips moving slowly and distinctly on the other side of the glass; but it was inside his head that he heard the sound of her voice.
“Go home, foolish boy,” she said. “Your mother is dying. The hospital is closed and the doors are locked. Go home and don’t come back.” With that, she picked up her pail and brush and disappeared down a dusky corridor on the far side of the lobby.
Again the earth trembled and the glass doors rattled. Seething inside, Morgan splashed away through the wet blackness of the parking lot. I’ll go to the church and find Rev. Alcuin, he thought. He’ll help me get in.
The rain increased as he turned the corner and headed up the hill toward the tower of St. Halistan’s. High and stern it stood amid the storm, looming like a pillar of solid shadow above the rain-dark roofs of the town. Concerned about the sword, he paused in a sheltered doorway and wrapped the blade in his jacket. Then he plodded on, skipping over puddles and leaping the small rivulets that ran in the driveways and gutters.
He had nearly reached Vizcaino Street when an all-too-familiar voice hailed him:
“Going somewhere, Strawhead?”
He spun on his heel. Immediately five dim figures rushed out of an alley and rammed him hard against a soggy wooden fence. Lightning flashed, and there stood Baxter Knowles and his crew, laughing, shouting, grinning, green-eyed. The sword was out in an instant, tracing a blue arc in the air just in front of their astonished faces. The gang fell back at once, and Morgan fled under a volley of curses and threats.
On and on he ran until he came to the corner of Alta and Iglesia. There he stopped, blinking in disbelief, supposing that his eyes must be playing tricks on him in the doubtful light, for when he looked up toward the church he seemed to see not one but two towers standing side by side—one of them tall, straight, and still, the other hunched and bent and slightly swaying. As he watched, the shorter of the two grew larger and appeared to draw nearer. Then it shook itself, bent its head, and raised a gigantic arm toward the sky.
Falor! Morgan’s heart dropped like a stone into the cold pit of his stomach. The apparition turned, swinging its heavy face into full view, and he saw that he had not been mistaken: Madame Medea’s one-eyed henchman, grown to an impossibly immense size, was stalking down out of the foothills above Santa Piedra, moving closer to St. Halistan’s with every shuddering step.
Then up from the sea came a chorus of harsh, wild cries. Looking back over his shoulder, Morgan saw twenty-one broad-winged, long-necked geese beating up from the beach in a long white veil. Down through the slanting rain they dived, fluttering and splashing to earth just in front of St. Halistan’s Church. Once on the ground, they planted their feet, stretched their necks, and grew upward, assuming the shape of straight-stemmed firs and pines. When they were as tall as Falor himself, the trees sprouted massive heads and arms; and in the next instant a troop of twenty-one broad-shouldered, round-skulled Fomorian giants stood roaring and stamping like thunder in the middle of the street.
Chilled to the core, fearing to be caught up and crushed at any moment, Morgan backed slowly down the street, keeping his gaze fixed on Falor’s beetling black brow. As he did, the clouds parted above the giant’s head and a patch of sapphire blue appeared in the sudden opening. In the middle of the patch blazed a silver star, so bright that the pinnacle of the tower gleamed like white fire in its radiance. Instantly the beams of the star became a shining silver chain, and the chain became a golden stairway linking heaven and earth. Then out of the star itself, as if through a celestial portal, streamed rank upon shimmering rank of six-winged seraphs—golden-headed, flame-eyed, rainbow-bright. The stairway rippled and swung beneath their brazen feet like a glittering gold band. So great was the splendor of their burning countenances that the dismayed Fomorians flinched and cowered before its light.
Shielding his eyes from the brilliance and the heat, Morgan turned and looked out to where the heaving expanse of the sea sparkled like blue-green glass all the way to the horizon wall. So intense was the light of star and stair that he could clearly discern every wrinkle and swell, every wave cap and curl on the face of the deep. Among the foaming reefs he glimpsed a fleet of tiny round boats dancing up over the breakers along the strand like dry leaves on a tossing breeze, each one carrying a single passenger. As the small craft scraped up on the glistening sand, the little people jumped ashore, folded their boats into small bundles, and charged up the beach in waves.
As he was studying this strange new development, squinting shoreward through prisms of color and shrouds of shining rain, there came another clap of thunder, followed by a different kind of tumult in the air. Creaks and groans and jumbled voices sounded in the midst of the storm. Then a high-prowed wooden ship crested a cloud and bore down upon the startled Fomorians from out of the swirling sky. At its mast billowed a square red sail, and along its carved and painted gunwales clattered overlapping rows of glittering round shields. Down from the rigging and over its bulwarks leaned the figures of the airborne mariners, all of them armed with bows, all of them wearing burnished shirts of mail beneath their brightly colored tunics and cloaks. They nocked their arrows and pulled back on their bowstrings. A deadly shower rained down upon the heads of the fuming giants.
Morgan felt the ground tremble as Falor stomped and shouted and beat the air with his arms. Screaming with rage and pain, the giant’s huge companions staggered and lumbered blindly from one side of the street to the other, swearing and threatening and plucking feathered darts from their shoulders like porcupine quills. More arrows poured down and a second flying ship appeared in the clouds, followed by a third and a fourth. And then a voice called out from somewhere behind Morgan’s back:
“Look! It’s the Danaans! The Danaans have come to help!”
It was Eny. She was standing at the corner, rain pouring from her dark hair, her face upturned and radiant in the dazzling light. At her side stood Simon Brach, a gnarled hand shading his eyes and a broad smile covering his narrow, craggy face. And next to Simon, glaring straight at Morgan with a sort of knowing smirk on his thin lips, was Eochy, the irritating little man from Madame Medea’s shop.
What are they doing here? thought Morgan, suddenly deaf and blind to the tempest
seething above his head. And why is he with them? But in the next instant he realized that these three were not alone, for at Eochy’s elbow hunched another crooked little man who looked almost exactly like him except that he was dressed in soiled and shapeless rags. And behind that little man stood another, and yet another behind him. There were, in fact, rows and rows of little men and women, all of them with grim expressions on their lean and wrinkled faces and bulging leather bags at their belts. Suddenly it dawned on Morgan that these were the people he had seen disembarking from the small round boats on the shore.
“Come on, everybody!” he heard Eny cry. “This is why we came!”
Morgan shouted and waved at her, trying desperately to get her attention, but she didn’t seem to notice him. She was carrying a fluttering blue banner in her left hand, and she turned and raised it before the dwarfish army at her back.
At that, each little man and woman dipped into his or her bag and drew out a long leather sling and a smooth, round stone. Fitting stones to slings, they spread out across the street and began to whirl the leather thongs above their heads. Then, at another command from Eny, they let their missiles fly. The Fomorians stumbled backward and gave way before the withering hail of stones.
“Looks like they’re on the run, missy!” said Simon Brach with a laugh. Then he looked up to where one of the flying ships hung rocking in the wind-currents above the church tower, and he jumped to the top of a low wall and flagged it down with a wave of his hand. Like a descending shadow the vessel’s curved keel dropped out of the sky, discharging another storm of arrows as it came. When it was no more than twenty feet from the ground a shining rope fell over its side and Simon, leaping from the wall, seized it and swung aboard. Then the ship rose swaying into the turbulent air. Once above the tower again it shifted sail and tacked around the base of the golden stairway in a wide arc. Following it with his eyes, Morgan caught a glimpse of Simon in the bow, looking just as he had seen him on the tower stairs: straight, tall, and strong, a purple cloak flying from his shoulders, a tall helmet flashing on his head, and a sword like a fierce flame glittering in his right hand.