“Izaak? Did you say John Izaak?”

Eny stood back and took a good, long look at the man who was pushing his way through the dust and debris of the crumbling wall. He reminded her of a chick just breaking through the shell of its egg: weak, wobbly, bedraggled.

The bald crown of his head, which was the first detail of his anatomy to present itself as he emerged from the rubble, was surrounded by a long, lank crop of thin and graying yellow hair. His sufferings were evident in the painful lines of his gaunt face. The high cheekbones were sharp and prominent, the cheeks dark and hollow, the nose narrow and pointed. An abundant growth of matted gray beard covered the long chin, and the forehead was deeply lined and furrowed. His wire-rimmed spectacles were bent and cracked, and the skin around his eyes was as yellow and wrinkled as an ancient parchment. But the eyes themselves were almost terrifyingly brilliant—blue and piercing as the eyes of Simon Brach himself.

He straightened himself and shuffled into the cell, brushing the dirt and dust from the ragged remains of an old tweed suit. His wrists and ankles, which stuck out below the shredded sleeves and cuffs, were mere skin and bone. With a tentative bow, he stepped forward and stuck out a shaky hand.

“Yes, Izaak,” he said. “Does the name mean anything to you?”

Eny covered her mouth with her hand and took a step backwards. “It really is you!” she whispered.

He tilted his head and smiled vaguely.

“Those eyes! And the nose, too! They’re just like Morgan’s. You’re almost unrecognizable, but I think I’d recognize you anywhere!”

The smile faded from John Izaak’s lips. “Morgan?”

“Your son!”

“You know my son?”

“He’s my best friend! He’s in the Sidhe, too—trying to find you. I’m Eny Ariello.”

“Ariello? As in George and Moira Ariello?”

“My mom and dad! Morgan and I grew up next door to each other.”

“Grew up? But he can’t be more than a year-and-a-half old! He was born only a few weeks before she brought me to this horrid place.”

“He’s twelve.”

John Izaak turned pale and fell back against the wall.

At that very moment another figure stuck its head through the hole in the wall. If Eny had been shocked at Izaak’s appearance, she found the aspect of this emaciated, scarecrow-like creature positively alarming. The top of its head, which wobbled unsteadily as it broke through into the half-light, was covered by a tight-fitting black skull-cap. Its scraggly beard, white as snow and at least a yard long, reminded her of wizards she’d seen in books of fairy tales. Its frayed and tattered garments were black. When it stood up, it looked like a skeleton veiled in a death-shroud or a ship’s mast wrapped in the remains of a torn sail. The dirty scraps of an old lace collar hung about its neck. Its face was drawn and withered, its eyes pale and luminous.

“Music of the angels!” it muttered as it staggered forward, looking as if it might collapse at any moment. “Is this the gateway to the kingdom of heaven? Have I attained to the New Birth?”

John Izaak laughed. “Sorry, Dee. There are no angels. It’s just another cell. After all that work!”

“Humph!” snorted the scarecrow, eyeing Eny up and down. “Thou’rt naught but a maid!”

(To be continued) .

Once more Eny was reminded of Simon Brach and John Dee. Again she pictured them side by side, chipping away at the mortar and the stones. She put her ear to the wall and held her breath.

Tick, tick … chink, chink … tap, tap, TAP!

The sound was still there! On and on it went. And the longer it lasted, the louder it got. Soon her heart was pounding in time with its steady rhythm. She thought she could feel the stones vibrating. From time to time she imagined she could hear faint voices from droning behind the persistent patter. She felt certain that something wonderful was about to happen. And then, just as abruptly as it had begun, the noise stopped.

Minutes passed while Eny stood with her ear to the wall in the deepening gloom and silence. Drip, drip, drip went the trickle of water in the corner. Scribble, scrabble went the tiny feet scampering across over the floor.

When at last she felt sure that the sound had gone for good, she turned away from the wall. But she didn’t allow her heart to despair. Instead, she lifted her head and closed her eyes. In her mind’s eye, she pictured herself standing in the cool and dripping silence of the Cave of the Hands. With her inner ear she listened for the boom and hiss of the waves outside the cavern door. Then she raised the fiddle to her chin and began to play.

She began with an island air called “The Boatman.” Next came “The Wing of the Black Crow.” After that she launched into a set of reels, beginning with “Soldier’s Joy,” “Christmas Eve,” and “Last Night’s Fun.” Remembering the simple pleasures of long summer days in Santa Piedra, she played “The Dawning of the Day,” “The Lark in the Morning,” “Out on the Ocean,” and “The Ships Are Sailing.”

By now she was dancing and fiddling at the same time. From “The Flowing Tide” she went into “The Cliffs of Moher,” “The Butterfly,” and “The Kid on the Mountain.” She skipped across the cell as she played “The Joy of My Life” and “The Man Who Died and Rose Again.” She made the horsehair fly with “The Banks of the Allen” and “The Kesh Jig.” But just as she was about to shift into “Contentment is Wealth,” she heard something that made her drop her bow.

The noise had come back. And this time it was accompanied by another sound—the unmistakable skitter of a shower of sand and gravel.

Eny turned and peered at the wall. Had she imagined it? She rubbed her eyes and looked again. There could be no mistake about it now. One of the stone blocks was actually moving—shifting, sliding forward, protruding from the face of the wall. There was a loud tap! tap! followed by a bang! and a crack! And then, with a terrible crash! the stone dropped out of the wall and broke into a couple of pieces at her feet.

The instant it fell, several other stones around it broke loose and tumbled after it. Down they all came in an avalanche of such sudden force that Eny barely had time to jump out of the way. Dust and dirt flew everywhere, thickening the gloom in the shadowy chamber. She coughed, covered her mouth, closed her eyes, and turned her head away.

When at last she was able to look again, she was astonished to see a hand thrusting its way through the hole in the wall. Slowly and deliberately, the hand pushed several more stones aside, widening the aperture.

A moment later a face with blinking blue eyes and a thin mouth surrounded by a tangle of gray beard emerged through the opening. Then the mouth opened and a voice spoke.

“Hello,” it said. “My name is Izaak. John Izaak.”

Reaching for the handle and drawing the violin case to herself, Eny flipped up the brass clasps. Gently she raised the beloved instrument from its red velvet nest. Cradling it in the crook of her left arm, she held its sleek, polished body to her cheek. She closed her eyes and savored the fragrance of wood and glue emanating from the f-holes.

Who needs an invisibility cloak when you’ve got music? she thought with a smile. Music is the only real magic in the world after all!

Then again, maybe that wasn’t strictly true. There was, after all, the magic of the miraculous bolg. And what incredible magic it was! Without the bolg she wouldn’t have the fiddle! How had the Bag People ever managed to contrive such a marvel? A small leather pouch capable of containing the whole world!

Inner space has no boundaries! she mused, recalling a line from one of Rev. Alcuin’s sermons. That’s the real miracle. The true marvel is that this bag is just like me—like a person’s soul! Lumpy, dumpy, and squashed on the outside. Unlimited on the inside! Who would have thought that somebody could put so much stuff in one little bag? Who can understand what it means to have a kingdom inside of you? Not the Morrigu!

As these ideas ricocheted from one side of her brain to the other, Eny felt her heart begin to stir. Within a few moments it was leaping and soaring. She picked up her bow, tightened the horsehair, and applied the rosin.

She put me in this hole. She thought she could lock me away from the beauty of the world. But she doesn’t know that the world is inside me—even here, in this dank pit where the sun never shines! And she can’t do anything to change it!

With that, she touched the bow to the strings.

What was that?

Letting the bow fall to her side, she cocked her head to listen.

Tap, tap, tap.  

A sound! A sound was coming from the other side of the wall!

(To be continued …)

Eny opened her eyes and peered into the murk. So foggy and muddled was her brain that she no longer had any clear idea of what she’d been expecting her prison to be like. She only knew that what she saw before her now was far worse than anything she could have imagined.

Everything was dark and dismal. There was no window in the cell. The only light—a sickly, meager gray trickle—came from a small air hole high in the wall at the other end of the chamber. The air was dank and fetid, the floor wet and slimy. Every so often she heard tiny feet scrabbling over the stones. From somewhere in the corner came the sound of a slow drip, drip, drip.

Raising herself on one elbow, she sat up and leaned back against the wall. The dress! she thought, staring down into her own lap with a vague sense of repulsion and disgust. They didn’t even bother to take off the stupid dress!

Struggling to her feet, she slipped the linen gown off over her head. Immediately the cell began to spin. She had a dim memory of having been beaten. Perhaps that was why her brain was reeling. Slumping back into a sitting position, she leaned forward, closed her eyes, opened them again, and squealed with delight.

Her bolg was still attached to her belt!

The fools! she said to herself. The dear, sweet, wonderful idiots! Simon and Eochy were right! Fomorians are ‘none too smart!’  

A wild hope bounding within her, she opened the bag and rummaged around inside. No luck—the Feth Fiada was gone.

Then she remembered. The Morrigu has it. She took it on the isle of Ara. And I could have used that cloak to sneak out of here!

Fortunately—and this was no small consolation—the rest of her gear was still present and accounted for. The sling and the pouch of stones. The candles, the tinderbox, and the rope. The last of the oatcakes and raisins. Some spare clothing. Even the knife. Best of all, her fiddle remained safe and intact.

One by one Eny removed each of these items from the bag and spread them out on the floor in front of her. One by one she studied them, wondering if any of them might be used to engineer an escape.

The rope wasn’t likely to be of much help, she thought. Not without a window. If the door had a handle, she might have tried to force it open with some sort of a make-shift pulley or winch. Unfortunately, it didn’t.

She looked at the candles and the tinderbox. Well, at least she’d have light for a while. Until the candles burned out. Fire might be useful, too. If there were any fuel. Then again, fire could be dangerous.

Clothes. Eny shook her head. Good for keeping warm in a cold, damp place. Not much good for getting out.

The knife. Yes. Definitely. She remembered what Simon Brach had told them about his acquaintance with John Dee. She recalled how the two of them had tried to dig their way out of this very same dungeon with a couple of improvised chisels. It would take time, of course. Lots of time. Years, probably. She put the knife aside, resolved to revisit the idea.

Next she picked up the sling. Taking a smooth, round stone from the sack, she hefted it in the palm of her hand. Not much chance of knocking down walls with sling-stones. But suppose a guard were to come in? Hadn’t Simon escaped by overcoming his guard? Setting the stone firmly in the cradle-pouch, she got up on her knees, whirled the sling three times over her head, and let go. Whack! The stone struck the opposite wall and rebounded with a clatter.

Eny sighed. Weak, tired, sore, and sad, she fell back against the cold, stone wall. She reached into her bolg and ate a handful of raisins. Maybe the guard won’t come anyway. Maybe I’ll never get out of this place. Better stretch my food as far as I can.

That’s when her eye fell on the fiddle.

(To be continued …)

Day 394

I must be brief.

A bright shadow of hope hangs over our dungeon.

We dare to believe that release may be at hand.     

As I write, barely a moment has passed since the last block of stone broke free beneath the stroke of my chisel. I was tapping away at Dee’s side when the brick suddenly shifted, slipped, and grated in the slot. Clumps of mortar crumbled and fell. A tiny hole opened. A breath of cold air reached us from the other side of the wall. And then—most wonderful of all—we heard music!

“The angels!” cried Dee, falling to his knees and pressing his ear to the opening. I saw his face wet with tears. I saw his crinkly old eyes wide with child-like wonder. “The blessed angels have come back to speak with me again! Who else could raise such a glorious strain?”           

I dropped my tool. I rushed to record his words. I have committed them to paper. But I dare not linger here while the job at the wall remains unfinished.

Even as I write, my companion calls …

* * * * *

“Your dad’s in there?” said Baxter, pointing up at the tower.  His pudgy face was still pale and twitching from the encounter with the snake.

Morgan nodded.  “It’s bigger than I thought.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure!  I told you not to come, didn’t I?”

“You wouldn’t have made it without me.”

Morgan didn’t respond.  For once Baxter was right.

“So how do you expect to get inside?”

“I’m working on it,” said Morgan.  “Maybe I’ll just knock on the door.  The only way to find out is to get up and start walking.”

“Right now?”  Baxter gulped.  “I’m thirsty.”

A gurgling sound led them to a small spring at the base of a heap of flinty rock.  They knelt and drank sparingly, the water being brackish and bitter.  Then they buckled on their gear and set off for the tower.

It was a longer and more strenuous climb than Morgan had been anticipating.  Tur Morraigu was by no means so near to the shore as it appeared from the beach or the sea.  It only looked close because it was so lofty and imposing.  The hill upon which it was built, itself a veritable spike of black rock, rose hundreds of feet above the bay.  Nothing grew there, nor were there any trails or marked pathways winding up its steep sides.  Much of the time Morgan and Baxter found themselves climbing hand over hand up precipitous bluffs and sheer cliffs of crumbling gravel and dirt.

Sometime after noon they reached a flat place where they could stop and rest.  From this spot only the topmost tip of the spire was visible.  In front of them a graded plateau rose gently towards a notched ridge that stood out sharply against the sky.  Morgan sighed and dropped his backpack.

“We’re getting close,” he said as Baxter flopped down and lay panting in the cool autumn sunlight.  “I think we should wait here awhile.  Maybe until it starts getting dark.  We don’t want them to see us coming.”

“Them?” asked Baxter, rolling onto his side.

“Yeah.  The Morrigu.  And whoever works for her.”

“She has employees?”

“Giants.  Only they’re not always giants.  They’re called Fomorians, and they can change their shape.  Like Falor son of Balor.”

Baxter scrunched up his nose.  “Any food left?”

Morgan shook his head.

“I was afraid of that.”  Baxter lay on his back.  “Wake me when it’s over.”

“Not out in the open!” said Morgan, yanking Baxter to his feet.

Shouldering his backpack, he led the way a little further up the plateau.  About a hundred feet from the ridge were a couple of tall boulders leaning against one another and forming a small triangular nook.  Slipping into the narrow space between them, Morgan slumped heavily against the lichen-cool stone and blew a sweaty strand of hair out of his eyes.  Baxter, meanwhile, stretched himself on the ground and began to snore.

Morgan glanced at his companion.  He knew exactly how Baxter felt.  His stomach, too, was pinched and growling.  He was beginning to wonder where he would find the strength to do what needed to be done once he reached the top of the hill.  Guess I’ll find out when I get there, he thought as he lay down to rest his weary limbs.

He awoke in the twilight to see Baxter sitting on his haunches and peering out between the two big rocks.

“Who are they?” said Baxter.  “Enemies?”

Morgan poked his head out of the opening and looked.  Several dark figures, mere silhouettes against the sky, were making their way through the gap at the summit of the ridge.  He tried to count them—one, two … three, four, five.  The fifth—the one in the lead—was very tall.

“Hard to tell,” he said, ducking back under cover.  “We should probably figure that everything on this island is an enemy.  Like I said, Fomorians can change shape at will.”

“What should we do?”

“Let’s follow—at a distance.  Better to keep them in sight.  Maybe they’ll even show us the way.  Come on.”

As he said this, Morgan stepped into the open and drew the blade Fragarach from his bolg.  It flickered with a pale light as he held it up into the dusky air, turning the hilt this way and that.  Baxter looked on and said nothing; but it seemed to Morgan that his gray eyes glittered as he clambered out from between the boulders with his own Danaan sword in hand.

Swiftly and silently they climbed the ridge.  At the top, Morgan stopped and caught his breath.  Before them, soaring up into the melting heavens like a burnished spear-point, rose the spire of Tur Morraigu.  So high did it stand, so glossy and mirror-like were the sleek black stones of which it was made, that they could see the first glimmering star of evening reflected in its jet-like surface.  On every side it was surrounded by a high wall and a steaming ditch.  Its single gate was heavily fortified with tall guard towers.

“We’re going in there?” breathed Baxter.

Morgan didn’t answer.  For even as he stood gazing at the tower’s formidable outworks, the five shapes they had seen a few minutes earlier suddenly slipped out from behind a shoulder of the hill and darted across his line of vision.  The sun had gone, but a small orange cloud still glowed above the western horizon.  In its unearthly light Morgan could see them clearly.  More than that, he thought he recognized them.

Apparently Baxter did too.

“The janitor!” he shouted.  “And those munchkins!”

“Sssh!” hissed Morgan, clapping a hand over his companion’s mouth.  He could see that Baxter was right.  The five figures who were at that very moment stealthily making their way towards the gate of Tur Morraigu were familiar to him.  The tall one was Simon Brach.  The four smaller ones were his Fir Bolg companions:  Eochy, Slanga, Sengann, and Crimthann.

“What are you doing, Izaak?” spluttered Baxter.  “They’re our friends, aren’t they?”

“You don’t understand,” Morgan whispered.  “I don’t want Simon to catch me here!  That’ll spell the end of my plans!  Get down and keep quiet!”

“I won’t!” said Baxter.  “That’s crazy!  We need their help!”  Then, pulling away violently, he began waving his sword in the air.  “Hey!  Over here!” he shouted at the top of his lungs.  “It’s us!”

“Shut up!” yelled Morgan, grabbing Baxter by the shoulders and knocking him off balance.

Together they fell.  Together they rolled down the slope like an avalanche, grappling one another, pounding one another, tearing at each other’s hair.  And then—wham!—they slammed up against something massive and solid, something like a tree-trunk wrapped in a tough leathery hide.

For a moment Morgan just lay there moaning, a barrage of painful fireworks exploding inside his skull.  At last he opened his eyes.

To his surprise, his right cheek was jammed up against a sharp iron stud.  The stud was projecting from the toe of a heavy hob-nailed boot.

“On your feet, spies!” bellowed a harsh voice.

Morgan turned his head and glanced up.

Fomorians!

“What was that?” yelled Morgan, driving his oar into the water and fighting to keep the boat’s nose off the foaming reef.

“The current!” Baxter shouted back, digging in deeply on his side.  “A strong one, too.  We could end up a long way from where you want to go if we don’t do something!”

“But how?”

“The wind,” answered Baxter, wetting a finger and sticking it up into the breeze.  “It’s not exactly blowing our way, but it’s a stiff breeze and we can tack against it and the current.  Belay these sheets and hold the luff while I get this canvas up!”

“How do you know all this stuff?” cried Morgan.

Baxter laughed.  To Morgan he seemed more like his old arrogant, over-confident self than at any other time during their sojourn in the Sidhe.

“My dad owns a forty-foot yacht!” he said with a proud smirk.  “He used to make me go sailing with him almost every Sunday.  I hated it!  ‘Ready about—hard alee!’  Ha ha!  I hear him say that in my sleep sometimes!”

Under Baxter’s guidance, the two boys soon got the boat under sail.  With the help of the wind, they turned the prow and reset their course for Tur Morraigu.  A spark of reddish light had now appeared in one of the tower’s loftiest windows, and by keeping this glittering beacon in view they managed to zig-zag their way across the channel until the black shoulder of the island stood over them, high above the water and close at hand.

It was late by the time they dragged their boat up out of the surf and onto the gravelly beach.  The crescent moon had not yet risen, and the stars, though thick as a swarm of bees, gave little light.  Morgan felt grateful that they could come ashore under cover of such heavy darkness.

“Now can we stop for the night?” moaned Baxter as they shoved the boat behind an outcropping of rock.  “I’ve never been so tired in my whole life!”

“Me too,” Morgan agreed.

After a brief search, they found a dry space beneath a low overhanging bluff, where a small hollow was hidden behind a screen of prickly thorn.

“This okay?” asked Morgan.

“Any port in a storm,” answered Baxter.  “At least that’s what my dad used to say.”  Unbuckling his belt, he tossed his sword aside and threw himself down on the hard ground.  He was dead to the world within two minutes.

There’s more to Baxter than I thought, smiled Morgan as he too unslung his backpack, tucked his bolg beneath his head, and lay down to sleep.

He was awakened by Baxter’s screams.

“What is it?  What is it?  Get it away from me!”

Morgan sat up and rubbed his eyes.  It was gray daylight, and there was a thick fog clinging to the rocks and dripping from the branches of the thorn.  Baxter was standing with his back against the wall of the cliff.  Not three feet from his face flickered the long forked tongue of a huge black snake.

Without thinking, Morgan leaped to his feet.  Out came the sword.  Back and forth flashed the snickering blue blade.  There was a pop! and a kind of explosion in the air, and when the brightness had faded the serpent’s head was lying on the sand in a pool of sizzling black blood.  Morgan wiped the blade with a clump of beach grass and thrust it back into his bag.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said.  “This is an evil place.”

Together they climbed the bluff at the top of the beach until they came to a level spot above the mist.   Here, amidst nettles, furze, and tall dead grasses, they sat down to share the last of Morgan’s chocolate chip cookies.  Below them the fog stretched in a blanket across the channel and over to the mainland where, far to the west, a sliver of moon was setting behind a range of distant white hills.  Away on the other side of the island the blood-red sun was scattering sparks through the teeth of a serrated ridge.  Above their heads, jutting three hundred feet into the pale morning sky, loomed the terrible object of their quest:  the tower of Tur Morraigu, a sleek obelisk of polished stone, black as ebony in the growing light.

(To be continued …)

At the bottom of the stairway Morgan and Baxter followed the rocky ravine until it led them down into a meadow of purple asters nestled in a vale at the base of the mountains.  Here two round-topped hills of faded green sloped gently upward on either hand framing a hazy view of the long lake and grassy plain beyond.  By now it was well past mid-day, and Baxter, who was tired and hungry, pleaded with Morgan to stop for the night.  But Morgan would not delay the journey any longer than absolutely necessary.  So after a quick meal of chocolate chip cookies and tangerines, they set out across the grassland just as the sun began sliding westward.

“Do you have any idea where you’re going?” said Baxter.

“Tory Island,” answered Morgan.  “To the Morrigu’s tower.  I told you before.  She’s a wicked enchantress.  Do you remember Madame Medea’s?”

“Madame who?”

“Madame Medea’s.  It was a shop in that row of stores your father used to own down on Front Street.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Well, I’m not surprised.  One day it wasn’t there, and the next day it was.  Eny and I went inside a couple of times.  She’s the one who took my dad.  She’s got him locked up in her tower, and I’m going to get him out.”

“How can you possibly know that?”

“If you don’t believe me, you don’t have to come.”

Baxter looked sheepish and said nothing.

They pushed on, heading straight north and keeping the lake on their right hand.  After a while a dark line of shimmering blue rose up before them on the horizon; and during the next half-hour this line expanded and broadened until they could see clearly that it was another body of water.

“Look!” cried Morgan.  “That inlet leads straight out into the ocean towards Tory Island.  Come on!”  And he started to run.

“But we don’t have a boat!” Baxter shouted after him.

But when they crossed the last grassy ridge and came charging down the sandy slope to the water’s edge, what should they see lying before them but an old gray dinghy, complete with a mast, a triangular sail, and a pair of oars.

“What were you saying about a boat?” Morgan grinned triumphantly.  “I think we were meant to find this!  Help me get it into the water!”

“How about we wait until morning?”  Baxter glanced at the reddening sky.

Morgan glared at him and shoved the boat into the shallows.  “Get in!” he commanded.

Taking their places side by side on the bench, they began to row up the inlet with their backs towards the open sea and the glare of the setting sun in their eyes.  Up over the ridges of the choppy waves and down through the dividing troughs they labored while thin mists gathered in swirling eddies on the surface of the water.

Far away to his right, rising above the plain like a hog’s back, Morgan could just make out the bristling canopy of the Hill Forest.  He did not know that it was the Hill Forest, of course.  It would have taken his breath away to be told that Eny had camped there only the night before.  He knew nothing about the geography of the Sidhe or Eny’s current location.  But he was earnestly hoping to find her on Tory Island.  Never once had he doubted that this was exactly where she intended to go.

It was dusk by the time they reached the mouth of the inlet and paddled out into the open sea.  Looking over his shoulder, Morgan saw the bulk of the island brooding dark over the face of the cold and heaving ocean.  They seemed to be right on course.  Directly ahead rose the thin black spike of Tur Morraigu, like the tooth of a dragon challenging the gathering night.

“It’s not far now,” he panted.  “Half an hour more and—”

Without warning, something struck the prow of the boat, driving it straight towards a heap of sharp rocks at the foot of the promontory.

(To be continued …)

How can that be possible?

Eny gulped, sucked down a mouthful of air, and looked again.  Yes, it was Morgan’s face all right.  It had his pointy nose and his pale blue eyes.  It had his unruly straw-colored hair.  It even had his freckles and braces.  But it was definitely not Morgan.  There was no life, no breath, no spirit in it.  The eyes were hollow and vacant.  The features were dead and blank.  As she stood there gazing at it, its mouth began to work, but no sound emerged from the papery lips.  She felt she was going to retch.

Fighting to control herself, she spun around and glared at the Morrigu.

“I had hoped your young man might join us in person,” the enchantress sighed.  “When you interfered, I was forced to explore other options.  What do you think of my homunculus?”

“Homunculus?”  Eny rubbed her eyes and stared.

“A man-shape.  Of my own manufacture.  Animated with an energy distilled from the essences of the four elements.  Not quite alive, but alive enough for our purposes.”  She turned and addressed the two girls with the silver knives.  “Seal the marriage,” she said.

As if in response, the homunculus bowed its head and stumped up the steps to the marble pedestal.  Gripping Eny by the elbow, Falor compelled her to follow.  She squealed and shut her eyes; and when she opened them again, she was standing on the dais with the palm of her left hand stretched out upon the cold surface of the Stone of Destiny.  Beside it lay the right hand of the homunculus, twitching as if infused with an electrical charge.  As she watched, the creature turned its blank eyes upon her and puckered up its lips.

“No!” she screamed.  But even as she tried to pull away, one of the black-haired maidens stepped forward, grabbed her wrist, and deftly slit the tip of her middle finger with the silver blade.  The dark blood welled up in the wound and three large drops fell upon the Stone.  Then the second maiden approached, seized the hand of the homunculus, and performed the same operation upon it.  Eny was not surprised when its finger did not bleed.

Now the Morrigu herself drew near.  Dropping to her knees between Eny and the homunculus, she joined their hands between her own and pressed them down upon Lia Fail with all her weight.  In a low, plaintive voice she began to chant:

     That which is above is as that which is below,

     And that which is below is as that which is above. 

Soon the maidens were chanting with her.  They started in low, but it was not long before the Great Hall rang from end to end with the sound of their voices.  Then the Fomorians began to grunt in time with the rhythm of their song, pounding the pavement with the staffs of their halberds.

When this chorus had reached its height, the Morrigu rose and lifted her arms above her head.

“The Mystical Marriage is accomplished!” she cried.  “Now behold the power of Lia Fail restored!”

She dropped her hands in a grand dramatic gesture.  A terrible hush fell over the Great Hall.  The candles guttered.  The golden stars twinkled.  The silver harp-strings shimmered.  The Fomorian guards stood at attention and the sixteen maidens bent their heads.  Everyone held their breath.

Nothing happened.

There was a long moment of silence.  Then the Morrigu turned on Eny with green fire in her eyes.

“Something is not right!” she hissed.

Eny trembled before her.  “It’s not my fault.”

“Someone has been keeping the truth from me!  Is it you?”

“No!  I don’t know anything about it,” said Eny.  “But now that it’s all over, will you please keep your promise?  Will you let Morgan’s father go free?”

“No!” screamed the Morrigu, shaking with rage.  “A thousand curses on you, no!  There’s a missing piece!  A hidden key!  And I won’t be finished with you until I find it!  Falor!  Take her away and throw her in the dungeon!”

From somewhere in amongst the tree-pillars—and Eny noticed now for the first time how dark were the spaces between and beyond their gnarled stone trunks—came a figure she recognized at once:  the one-eyed, bull-necked, broad-backed, bald-headed shape of Falor son of Balor—the hulking Fomorian she had seen in Madame Medea’s shop, except that on this occasion he wore a long shirt of interlocking steel rings instead of a greasy black suit.

Stalking up to Eny, Falor grunted and seized her by the arm.  Without removing any of her garments he hurriedly threw a gown of fine white linen over her head.  Oh, no! she thought.  Another dress!  But she didn’t have time to protest, for after lacing up the gown, which covered her from neck to toe—clothing, bolg, and all—the great ugly Fomor gripped her by the shoulders, faced her forward, and walked her down the aisle towards the raised dais.

The Morrigu, seating herself at the harp, began to pluck a haunting melody.  The tune wrapped itself around Eny and seeped into her brain through the portals of her ears.  It pushed its way right down to the tender roots of her heart where it lay coiled like a serpent.  Suddenly she felt light and ethereal.  So pleasant was the sensation that she closed her eyes and yielded herself up to the influence of the music.  The next thing she knew, she was standing at the base of the three broad steps.

As she stood there, the seven oak doors swung open.  Out stepped seven maidens in gowns exactly like those worn by the women in the stained-glass window.  Each wore a garland of flowers in her long flaxen hair.  Each carried a golden candelabra.  The flames of the candles were dazzling-bright and the lips of the women glowed red as fire.  Around the pedestal they marched and down the steps, forming a line behind Eny.

The music of the harp flowed on, swelling and increasing in power.  Again the doors at the rear of the platform sprung open and out came another group of seven young girls with wreaths of wild roses in their thick red hair, all of them dressed in wide-sleeved tunics of scarlet velvet.  The first one carried a tall red taper.  She was followed by four who bore silver trays laden with ivory cups.  Last came two with snow-white lilies in their hands.  They descended the steps in a body and took up their places behind the first seven.

Last came a pair of slim maidens who entered from the wings.  They were clothed in white and had long, glossy black hair.  Encircling their willowy waists were golden girdles into which were thrust long, sharp silver knives.  Approaching the center of the platform, they knelt before the marble pedestal and whisked away the silken shroud.

That’s when Eny saw it:  flat, dull gray, and entirely unremarkable amidst all the shining splendors of that fantastic hall; stained and scored and pitted with innumerable scars.  Lia Fail, the lost Stone of Destiny, Jacob’s Pillow; the well-worn step from the old tower stairway at St. Halistan’s Church.  And seeing it, she caught her breath and felt a lump rise in her throat.

Falor gave her a shove and she stepped forward.  The two maidens in white came down the steps to meet her.  Eny could see the flickering yellow light of the candles glancing on the polished blades at their belts.  The Morrigu rose from her harp and glided noiselessly to center stage.

“The time has come,” she said, lifting her white arms above her head.  “Time to solemnize the Mystical Wedding!”

With a graceful, sweeping motion she stretched out her right hand and placed it on Eny’s head.  “The Bride is here!” she said, her emerald eyes sparkling in the candlelight.  “Bring in the Groom!”

Trumpets sounded and the brass doors at the rear of the hall flew open.  Fifty mailed Fomorian guards filed in and formed up behind the fourteen maidens.  Glancing up the aisle between their ranks, Eny saw a solitary white-robed figure standing in the open doorway.

The figure was slender and small and leaned slightly to one side.  Reddish light from the corridor shrouded it in a lurid halo, concealing the features of its face.  In spite of this, she could not help thinking that its gangly, awkward body looked familiar somehow.

“Come forward!” shouted the Morrigu; and with that, the figure began to move.  Eny shuddered involuntarily to see how its head wobbled as it walked.  Its gait was halting and unnatural.  Step-sluff, step-sluff—slowly it shambled towards her, tripping over its own feet like a clumsy mechanical doll.  Yet for all the repulsive inhumanness of its movements, the feeling grew upon her as it approached that she had seen it before.

The reason became clear the moment it stepped into the light.  At the sight of its face she opened her mouth to scream, but there was not an atom of breath in her paralyzed lungs.  She felt as if she’d been punched in the stomach.  She gasped and felt as if she might faint.

The face was Morgan’s.

(To be continued …)

As Eny stood mute with apprehension, the Morrigu drew near, kissed her forehead, and encircled her gently with one shapely white arm. She could feel the warmth of the woman’s body. She could smell the delicate fragrance of her breath. She could hear the musical hum of her sweetly resonant voice cooing vague words of comfort and reassurance. Then, as they stood there together watching the two piles of ash scatter slowly in the evening breeze, the enchantress lifted the edge of the Feth Fiada and swept it up over their heads. The world disappeared.

Never had Eny known such darkness. Her eyes were shrouded in a blackness that went beyond blackness and verged upon nothingness. She experienced neither heat nor cold, neither stillness nor movement; yet, for all her lack of sensation, it seemed to her that she was spinning out of control, reeling and whirling in body and mind. She closed her eyes and opened them. It made no difference—the one was as the other. She pinched herself but felt nothing. She began to get sleepy. She wondered if she might be dying.

The next thing she knew there was a light somewhere above her head. Her body was ascending in a slow spiraling motion. This went on for some time before she realized that she was in fact climbing with her own two legs, panting heavily, laboring step by step up a narrow, winding staircase. She could see and hear again. She could feel the rough texture of the stone walls on either hand. Up ahead of her went the train of a billowing black robe, filling the stairwell like a cloud of black smoke.

At length the stairway emptied out into a dim passage where red torches flared in iron sconces between tall pointed windows. At its further end stood a heavy double door of tarnished brass. Advancing noiselessly, the Morrigu approached this door, grasped the big brass handle, and pushed it open. Eny followed her inside without a word.

“This is my Great Hall,” smiled the green-eyed woman with an expansive sweep of her pale, long-fingered hand.

It was the grandest room Eny had ever seen in her life. Glancing up, she saw neither a lofty ceiling nor a high-soaring dome, but what looked like the deep blue of heaven filled with tiny gold stars and filmy white clouds. Down out of this celestial haze descended fourteen twisted columns, barely visible at their upper extremities, but thick, massy, and solid at the base. They were shaped like trees—pines, birches, oaks, aspens, and others of a kind Eny did not recognize—and they all bore delicate leaves of copper and silver and gold. The windows of the hall, which were deep, wide, and round-arched, looked out upon the clean blue slate of a cloudless evening sky and the foaming waves of a restless sea. The floor was like a pavement of luminescent pearls.

“It’s all very beautiful,” said Eny. “But none of it’s real—is it?”

The Morrigu smiled pleasantly. “We have other business to discuss.”

“We sure do,” said Eny, turning to face her. “We’re here to make a deal.”

“Those who occupy positions of power,” said the enchantress, “have no need to make deals.”

“I don’t care about that,” said Eny. “I’m here to take you up on your bargain. That’s why I came.”

“But you didn’t come. You were brought.”

“Wrong! I came of my own free will! Because you proposed an exchange. You made the offer to Morgan, it’s true. But he would never have followed through. Your messenger said—”

“Ssh!” whispered the Morrigu, bending forward and laying a cool finger on Eny’s lips. “I don’t care what she said!”

So fearsome was the light in her eyes that Eny bit her tongue and did not dare to speak another word.

“I have brought you here,” the enchantress repeated in a soft voice, “for another reason. To begin with, I have something to show you. I believe you will find it most interesting.” She raised her hand and pointed to the front of the Great Hall.

The wall at this end of the room was taken up almost entirely by a lofty stained-glass window. At its peak was emblazoned the image of a great bird the color of midnight. The curling feathers of its blue-black wings stretched all the way down the sides of the window, and below their shadowy canopy were ranged faintly radiant representations of seven women in gowns of red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet. Over their heads in letters of gold were written seven names: Dana, Badb, Macha, Etain, Eriu, Medb, and Morgana.

Underneath the window stood seven doors of intricately carved oak. These opened onto a raised dais that communicated with the main floor of the hall by three broad steps. On the left side of this platform sat a huge crow on a tall iron perch. On the right side stood a golden harp with twenty-one silver strings. In the middle, on an altar-like pedestal of rose-veined marble, beneath a shroud of pure white silk, lay a rectangular object about three feet in length.

“Do you know what that is?” asked the Morrigu, raising a shapely black eyebrow and indicating the oblong thing on the pedestal.

Eny hesitated. “The Stone?”

The woman responded with her most enchanting smile. “Falor!” she cried, clapping her hands. “It is time! The Maiden of Perfect Purity has come!”

(To be continued …)