by Jim Ware
He stopped and looked again. No, he hadn’t been seeing things. It was still there, winking out at him incongruously from beneath a bleak mound of gravel and crumbling concrete: a hint of gold, a flash of bright blue steel, clear and luminous as the dawn sky. He bent down, shoved the debris to one side, and wrenched the glittering object out of the dirt.
It was the sword.
The sword! Morgan smiled faintly and rubbed his chin. In the pain and anguish of the battle’s terrible climax he’d hadn’t even realized that he’d dropped it. And now here it was again—almost as if it were following him and seeking him out. Looking this way and that, he thrust the blade beneath his muddy jacket and hurried home. There he stashed it under the bed alongside his father’s books.
By nine o’clock, cups and saucers were clinking in the restful brown seclusion of the minister’s second-floor study. The ruddy morning light poured in through the dirty yellow window panes, scattering spots of orange and copper and burnt umber over the dark furnishings and ceiling-high banks of books. Veins of liquid fire ran along the polished edges of the Norwegian skis above the doorway; sparks of gold danced among the jacks and marbles in the glass display case and on the pendulum of the antique mantel clock. George and Moira were seated on the sofa. Morgan and Eny had pulled a couple of chairs up to the little coffee table.
“More tea, anyone?” asked Rev. Alcuin as he made the rounds with the pot and a pitcher of milk. Then he slipped briefly into the kitchenette and reappeared carrying a tray laden with scones, toast, a stack of blue bowls, a crock of oatmeal, and a jar of orange marmalade. Setting his burden on top of the vintage sewing machine, he collapsed into a high-backed Windsor chair, removed his glasses, and sighed deeply.
“You’ll have to excuse me,” he said. “Like you folks, I’ve been up most of the night. Looking after the needs of my parishioners. Funny thing was, most of them didn’t have any.”
George cocked an eyebrow at Morgan.
“They felt the quake all right,” Peter continued. “And they were plenty shook up by the violence of the storm, especially the kids. But as far as I’ve been able to ascertain, nobody suffered any real damage except for one family. Unfortunately, it was significant damage.”
Moira looked up from her efforts to spread a piece of toast with a lump of rock-hard butter. “Well? Who was it?”
Returning his glasses to his nose, the Reverend folded his hands in his lap and gazed slowly around the circle. “The Knowles family.”
Morgan started and nearly spilled his tea.
“It wasn’t their home,” Peter hastily added. “Thank the Lord, no one was hurt. But their business interests took a terrible hit.”
“Front Street,” said George. “What did I tell you?”
“Quiet, George,” said Moira, elbowing him sharply. “Let the Reverend talk.”
“I’m afraid George is right,” said Rev. Alcuin. “That whole block was leveled. Uncle Pritchard’s. Mr. B’s Formal Wear. The Knowles Book Knoll. La Coruna Gifts and Cards.”
“All Knowles-owned establishments,” put in George.
“Yes. And all gone. The quake pretty much reduced it to powder.”
Morgan could feel Eny’s eyes fixed on his face. “What exactly does that mean for Mr. Knowles?” he wanted to know.
“For one thing, his deal with St. Halistan’s is off. He can’t possibly afford to buy us out anymore. We may never rebuild the tower, but we still have our church. Mr. Knowles, on the other hand, is ruined.”
Morgan bit into a scone to keep from smiling. “So what’ll he do now?”
“We spent a long time discussing that. I offered to help in any way we could, but he turned me down. He’s off to New York—he and his wife. Apparently he has friends in the financial sector. Meanwhile, they’re sending Baxter to live with an aunt in Needles.”
“Needles!” muttered George. “Dios mio!”
“Precisely,” said Peter. “But enough of my gab. I want to hear from you people. Tell me about the Stone of Destiny.”
There was a long pause. Morgan squirmed, feeling for some reason as if everyone was expecting him to say something. But Eny spoke first.
“I wouldn’t know where to start,” she said, setting her cup and saucer on the table. “It all happened so fast that I hardly know what to think or feel. It’s like Morgan said. The Stone is gone. And Simon—”
She hid her face. Morgan twisted in his chair and opened his mouth to offer an explanation. But before he could get a word out she raised her head and said, “Do you honestly mean to tell me that none of you saw what happened? You didn’t see the battle?”
No one answered.
“That makes it even harder,” she went on. “You probably think I’m crazy. You all saw the golden ladder and the angels on the tower stairs. Why not this?”
“You know better than that,” Moira gently scolded. “You’ve been in the Sidhe. You understand that when it comes to this sort of thing, the only rule is that there are no rules. Besides, you’ve always been able to see things the rest of us can’t see. You have Eithne’s eyes.”
Morgan shot a surprised glance at Moira—it was the first time he’d heard her mention the name of Eithne.
“I agree,” said Peter Alcuin. “Look at me, Eny. I know you’re not crazy, and I know that you always tell the truth. So I have to believe you. Seeing and believing aren’t necessarily the same thing. It’s trust that counts, and the relationship that fosters the trust. Some see and some don’t. Others have their eyes opened only once or twice in a lifetime. Once is more than enough for me.”
“But it isn’t enough!” said Eny with abrupt intensity, her eyes flaring. “Not at a time like this! Simon Brach is lost! The Morrigu has Lia Fail! Don’t you see what that means? She can do anything she wants now!”
All fell silent under the weight of these solemn words. But then, very quietly, Morgan spoke up and said, “No. She can’t.”
Moira’s brow arched upward in an expression of mild puzzlement. Rev. Alcuin’s eyes narrowed. George’s face was a mask of blank bewilderment. But Eny’s fierceness dissolved at once, as if in the light of a sudden realization. “Of course not!” she exclaimed, gripping Morgan by the arm. “You’re absolutely right!”
“Why?” asked George. “Why is he right?”
“Mrs. A said it,” answered Morgan. “Eny has Eithne’s eyes.”
Moira bent forward, her own face reflecting the illumination in Eny’s countenance. “So I did. And that means—”
“The maiden of perfect purity,” said Rev. Alcuin. “I see.”
“I don’t,” said George. “What are you talking about?”
“The Morrigu may have the Stone of Destiny,” said Morgan, “but it’s of no use to her. She can’t use it. Not without your daughter.”
“My daughter?”
“Yes. And you have no idea how close she came to getting her!”
“That’s one of the most important pieces of this whole puzzle!” said Eny. “I was so upset about Simon and the Stone that I almost forgot! That’s why the Morrigu lured me into the Sidhe in the first place. She thinks I’m the girl who unlocks the power of Lia Fail. She wants me as much as she wants the Stone!”
“Which means that the danger is far from past,” observed the Reverend.
Moira nodded soberly, but said nothing.
“You tried to warn me, Eny,” Morgan said sheepishly. “But I laughed at you. Now that it’s too late—now that she already has the Stone—I know that you were right. She tried to get me to betray you. She kept asking me to bring you to her shop. I came that close to doing it, too.” His voice faltered and he looked down at the floor between his feet.
“Why, Morgan?” said Rev. Alcuin.
“You know why,” he answered huskily. “It was because I wanted Lia Fa
il. I needed it to finish my work on the Philosophers’ Stone and the Elixir Vitae. I was trying to help my mother! I wanted her to get well! But in the end I couldn’t turn Eny over to that woman. Not even for that!”
Tears were burning in his eyes. Eny leaned over and hugged his neck. Moira reached out and touched his hand.
After a long pause he wiped his face and said, “So I guess it’s all over now.”
“How do you mean?” Peter gently prodded.
“All over for my mom. I tried to save her, but I failed. I know I was an idiot, and I guess I’m only getting what I deserve. But it still doesn’t seem fair. Why should she have to suffer for my mistakes?”
Rev. Alcuin smiled. “Do you know the parable of the workers in the vineyard, Morgan?”
“I don’t think so. What is it?”
Peter laughed. “Suffice it to say that hardly anybody gets what they deserve. That’s the good news.”
Morgan rubbed his nose and scratched his head. “I’ve already told God that He can have my mom if He wants her. She was right all along. She kept talking about prayer and faith. She told me that today is all we’ve got, and that we should be happy just being together. She wanted me to get rid of my father’s things and give up my quest for the Philosophers’ Stone. I know my mom at least as well as I know you, Eny—even better. I should have believed her. I should have trusted her. But I wouldn’t listen. Now all I want is to see her and talk to her one more time.”
Without warning, Rev. Alcuin got to his feet and reached for his coat. “In that case,” he said, “let’s get going. If you’ve had enough to eat, that is.”
Morgan stared up at him. “Right now?”
“Right this minute. I spent most of yesterday afternoon with her. She begged me to bring you just as soon as I could lay hands on you. I think you’ll find that we’re expected.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
More Than Enough
The glare of the midmorning sun spilled in through an open window and rippled in waves of white fire down the long polished floor. At the far end of the corridor a hint of the morning breeze stirred the edge of a curtain. A door opened, and an orderly emerged and hurried away. Overhead hummed the faint cool blue of the fluorescent lights.
Morgan walked in silence behind Peter Alcuin, his eyes lidded against the dazzling sunlight, his ears captive to the tap-tap of the minister’s heels on the tiles, his mind mechanically ticking off the numbers of the rooms as the doors slipped past on the right hand and the left: 208 … 209 … 210 … 211. The air at this end of the hall was deathly still, redolent of alcohol and sterile cotton.
I’m not going to cry, he told himself, biting his lip and lifting his chin. The time for crying is past. This is the time to say what needs to be said. That’s why I came.
“You’re lagging behind,” Peter observed mildly as they approached Room 215. “You’re not getting cold feet, are you?”
“Me? Cold feet?” he said. “I asked you to bring me here, didn’t I?”
“Of course,” Rev. Alcuin smiled.
But Morgan’s steps were sluggish as they continued down the corridor—as slow and heavy as his thoughts were firmly resolved.
You were right, he’d tell her. You knew all along. I should have listened, I should have believed you, but I didn’t. I know I was stupid, but I did what I did for your sake. Please don’t hate me.
“Your mother thinks the world of you, you know,” said the Reverend, glancing over his shoulder. “I wish you could hear the things she says behind your back. Caring. Responsible. Trustworthy. That’s how she describes you. She calls you the light of her life.”
Morgan dropped his gaze. “She’s my mom,” he muttered. “What do you expect? Besides, she doesn’t know the whole story.”
“None of us knows the whole story, Morgan. Not yet.”
They made an odd pair talking there in hushed and solemn tones: the gangly boy with unruly yellow hair, the short, bald man in coat and clerical collar. If anyone had been on hand to watch them, he might have considered it a strange and unusual scene. But there was no one to see, no one to judge, no one to comment or offer advice. They were all alone as they proceeded down the long, empty hallway, step by step by step. Room 222 … 223 … 224.
I had so many dreams and schemes, Mom. I think you know. Good dreams and bad. The good ones were all about you and me together, in the days before you got sick. I realize now how much you did for me back then. I wish we could start over. I want to make it up to you somehow.…
Again and again he ran through this little speech inside his head, arranging the phrases first in one way and then another, visualizing her gentle gray eyes as the words passed like marching soldiers through his mind. He imagined her as she used to be when he was a little boy, her hair tied up in a blue scarf, a blush of pink in her cheeks. He closed his eyes and saw her bending over his bed to kiss him good night. He smelled the scent of her hair, her perfume, and the fresh white linen of her blouse. Again he felt what it was like to be small and helpless and blissfully dependent.
I guess the bad dreams won out in the end. I don’t exactly know why. I was trying to help you, but it was never good enough. My experiments went wrong and my plans fell through. I almost betrayed my best friend. Now the Stone of Destiny is lost and Eny’s in danger and you’re still sick. So it was all for nothing in the end. You asked me to forgive you, but it’s me who needs your forgiveness. I don’t deserve your love.…
He was picturing her now as she’d looked on the occasion of his last visit: a dim yellow light tangled in her diaphanous hair, her skin white and papery, her cheeks pale and hollow. He wondered what she’d look like when he stepped into her room for the last time. Blindly he stared at the floor tiles, knowing that she was drawing nearer with every step. In the last remaining seconds he rehearsed his confession once again, and an image of her face, twisted with disappointment, flitted through his brain. He flinched and closed his eyes.
One day. One day is more than enough. You were right, Mom. It’s more than enough to tell you the truth. Before it’s too late.
Rev. Alcuin came to a stop. Morgan shook off the shroud of his dark musings and glanced up. They had arrived in front of Room 247, but the door was closed—a circumstance that seemed to have caught the Reverend by surprise. Peter hesitated a moment before lifting his hand and rapping lightly. When there was no reply he knocked again. Then, very quietly, he turned the handle and stuck his head inside. Pushing the door wide, he beckoned with his fingers and walked straight in. Morgan followed.
The room was empty. From over Peter’s shoulder Morgan could see the vacant bed, tightly made, neat as a starched collar, fitted up with crisp new sheets and white pillowcases. The bedside tray had been cleared off and rolled aside, and the ever-present water pitcher was gone. Gone, too, were the flowers and cards and potted plants that had filled the corners and crowded the windowsills during his last visit. An odor of detergent and disinfectant hung in the air, as if the floor had been recently mopped and scrubbed.
“I thought you said she’d be expecting us.”
A crease appeared on Rev. Alcuin’s forehead. “I did, didn’t I? You’re absolutely right.” To Morgan’s dismay, the minister appeared to be at a loss for words.
“So where is she?”
“I’m not exactly sure at the moment.” The Reverend tugged at his collar and cast his eyes around the blank room as if in search of the missing patient.
“You don’t think—”
“I’m certain there’s a reasonable explanation. They’ve probably transferred her to a new room. A different unit.”
“What do you mean by that? Intensive Care?”
Peter frowned and knitted his brows. “Let’s not jump to conclusions. Remember what you said up in my office?”
The boy looked a
way and shook his head. He was fighting hard to hold down the sick, panicky flutter rising in his stomach.
“Something about faith, wasn’t it?”
He bit his lip and nodded.
“Didn’t you tell me that your mother was right, and that you should have listened to her all along? If you really believe that, this is the time to show it.”
Morgan felt light-headed. He fell against the wall and covered his face.
“She was right! And I was wrong. But that’s not her fault!”
“Listen to me, Morgan,” said the Reverend, grasping him by the arm. “Your mother has taught me a great deal through all of this. She’s shown me that when we’re at our weakest and lowest, that’s when we’re really strong. She’s proved to me that hope shines brightest in the darkest night. I’ve been a minister for a long time, but she taught me what it really means to believe in God! If I can learn, so can you!”
Morgan twisted and moaned. “I could have had Lia Fail! I could have figured something out, but I didn’t! I could have cured her! I should have taken that chance while I had it!”
“No, Morgan. I know what you’re thinking, but that Stone wasn’t your only chance. More often than not the true cornerstone turns out to be the very stone the builders rejected. Something everybody overlooked. It’s happened time and time again. In any case, you had to let Lia Fail go. If you hadn’t, it would have destroyed you. Your father knew that!”
Morgan blinked at him through tears. “My father?”
“Yes. That’s why he chose to give it up in the end.”