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Authors: Charles Mathes

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L
ucy felt a little better.
She had dragged herself and the rock back into the house, peeled off her sweat-drenched clothes, and taken a long, hot shower. Then she had sat down in the tub and soaked for another half an hour.
Tomorrow she would lay Julius Fingon to rest in the hole
she had dug, there with the bones of her namesake, there beside the rest of her family, there beneath the beautiful tree. Now Lucy lay on the white spread of the huge, four-poster bed in the old man's room, propped up by pillows.
Julius's cat, a white Persian with one green eye and one blue, was curled up in her lap, apparently bearing no resentment over being left out of the will.
Lucy could see herself in a mirror across the room, looking like an Oriental potentate in Julius's oversized terrycloth robe, a towel wrapped around her hair.
The rock lay next to her.
Now that she had scrubbed the centuries of dirt from it with Julius's bath brush, the rock looked better. It was white, smooth, oval-shaped—slightly flattened on top. Lucy thought it might be marble. Carved into its face was an inscription, which Lucy recognized from her Catholic childhood as being in Latin:
Nifallit Fatum, Scoti, quocunque locatum
Invenient lapidem, regnare tenetur ibidem.
Lucy fingered the letters, mystified. Did
Scoti
have something to do with Scotland? Lucy certainly didn't have the knowledge to translate the words. Was it an explanation of where a real treasure was hidden? It was lucky that Lucy happened to know someone who understood Latin. At least she hoped he did.
Lucy reached over, pulled the phone onto the bed with her. The cat looked over with an expression between boredom and annoyance.
“Sorry,” Lucy murmured and dialed a now familiar number.
“Hello?” answered the voice after a few rings.
“Hi, it's me.”
“Lucy!” A warm voice filled her ear. “I was waiting for your call. You get in all right? How was the flight?”
“Fine,” she said, happy just to hear his voice again.
Lucy had been seeing Mike Fraser since the day after she returned from Lis. Wing knew something was up, even though Lucy hadn't mentioned how serious the relationship was getting. She couldn't keep her happiness a secret much longer. Nor was there any reason to anymore, now that she was sure of how she felt about Mike.
“I miss you already,” he said.
“Listen, Michael. I've come across this Latin inscription that I need you to translate for me.”
“No ‘I miss you, too'?”
“I miss you, too, silly man. You do understand Latin, don't you?”
“Just want me for my mind, huh? You know what they say:
Mens sana in corpore sano
.”
“What is this? A little Ph.D. humor?”
“That's Latin. A sound mind in a sound body.”
“Yes, I know.”
“All right. So what's your quotation?”
Lucy read the inscription on the rock as best as she could. Halfway through, Mike stopped her with a chuckle.
“Where did you come across that?”
“An old book,” Lucy said. She didn't want to say anything about the rock, even to Mike, until she knew what it was she had found. “Do you know what it means?”
“Sure. It's the inscription that was supposed to be on the Stone of Destiny.”
“The what?”
“The Stone of Destiny, the Palladium of the Scots, the Stone of Scone. All the kings of the Scots were supposed to be crowned seated on it.”
“Come on,” said Lucy. “You're kidding me, right?”
“Why would I kid?” asked Mike. “Wait a second.”
Lucy was glad he had put down the receiver. She was too stunned to think straight. The cat had begun to purr happily in her lap. In a minute Mike returned.
“I had to get a book,” he explained.
“You mean Ph.D.'s don't know everything?”
“That's right,” he said. “But we know where to look everything up. Listen to this:
Unless the Fates are faithless found
And prophet's voice be vain,
Where'er this monument is found
The Scottish race shall reign.
At least that's the way Sir Walter Scott translated the verse.”
“I don't understand. What was this stone? Where did it come from?”
Mike chuckled. “Got a little while? It's a great yarn, but a bit involved.”
“Go ahead.”
“The Stone of Destiny,” he said, savoring the words. “According to legend it was the stone that Jacob used as a pillow at Beth-el.”
Lucy stared at the receiver, trying to remember the story of Jacob's pillow, which the nuns had told her so many years before. Could this stone beside her be the same stone that was in the Bible? The room seemed to spin.
“After Jacob's death,” Mike continued, “his sons are supposed to have carried the stone—some of ancient texts describe it as a marble seat—to Egypt.
“When Moses brought the plagues upon Pharaoh, the stone came into the possession of Scota, Pharaoh's daughter, and her husband, King Gathelus, son of Cecrops, the legendary builder of Athens. They took it with them to Spain. From there the stone was carried by the Spanish king's son, Simon Brech, on his invasion of Ireland in seven hundred B.C.”
“My God,” said Lucy.
“Anyway that's one story,” said Mike. “Another version makes the stone the capstone of the first temple in Jerusalem. After the death of Zechariah, the prophet Jeremiah is supposed
to have taken it to a colony in Ireland. Actually, this version's quite intriguing. On Devenish Island in Lake Erne there's a man-made cave which has been called Jeremiah's Tomb by the local inhabitants from ancient times. What do you think of that?”
“Very interesting,” Lucy said, surprised that she could still speak.
“In either event,” Mike continued happily, “the stone was then placed on the sacred hill of Tara, where it became an integral part of the coronation ceremony of Irish kings. You know the Scots were an Irish tribe?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Ireland is where the stone picked up another nickname,” he continued. “
Lia Fail
, the Fatal Stone.”
“It fell on somebody?”
“No, not at all,” he laughed. “During these ancient coronations the stone was said to roar when a claimant of royal race sat on it. It remained silent for a pretender, which presumably was fatal.
“Anyway,” Mike continued, “when Fergus Mor mac Erc invaded Scotland he brought the stone with him. All of Fergus's descendants were crowned seated upon it, including your friend, Kenneth mac Alpin. Kenneth moved his capital further inland to Scone and, of course, he brought the stone with him, hence the name, the Stone of Scone. All the MacAlpin kings were coronated seated upon it. Kenneth, in fact, is the one who was supposed to have carved those Latin verses.”
“Where is this Stone of Scone, Michael?” said Lucy, after a breath.
“Edward I of England carried it off to London after he invaded Scotland in twelve ninety-six. The Latin prophecy was still fulfilled, however. No other king ruled on Scottish soil. But a Scottish king, Mary Queen of Scots's son, sat on a coronation chair containing the Stone of Scone to be crowned James I of England. His descendants down to the
present monarch were crowned rulers of Great Britain, Scotland included, seated on that same coronation chair.”
“You mean the Stone's still in England?” Lucy exclaimed, glancing at the marble object beside her, totally confused.
“Yes. At the Shrine of Edward the Confessor in Westminster Abbey.”
“Are they sure it's the right stone?”
“Well, there are people who think Edward was duped into taking a phony in twelve ninety-six.” Michael laughed.
“Did he?”
“It's possible, I suppose. There are no Latin verses carved into the stone at Westminster Abbey. It's not made of marble. In fact, it's just an unimpressive chunk of sandstone. A few years ago some geologists tested it. They expected to find an origin at least as exotic as Irish Dalriada, but it turned out to be calcareous sandstone identical to that quarried in Scone. So, yes, the real Stone of Destiny might still be out there somewhere.”
“What would happen if it turned up?”
“Who knows?” laughed Mike. “What would happen if somebody found the Holy Grail or the True Cross? A lot of trouble, most likely.”
“Yes, I suppose.” Lucy marveled, smiling at the thought. Trouble was practically her middle name these days.
“So how long are you going to be up there?” asked Mike.
“I'm not sure. A week, maybe more.”
“When you come back I have all sorts of Latin words I'd like to try out on you.”
“Sounds interesting.”
“So why did you want to know about the inscription on the Stone of Scone anyway?” asked Mike.
“One day after you've plied me with shrimp cocktails I might tell you,” said Lucy.
They made their good-byes. Lucy put down the phone and ran her hand over the stone.
There was an old family Bible on Julius's bedstead. Lucy
hadn't touched a Bible since she was sixteen. Now she extricated herself from the sleepy cat and picked up the heavy book.
In the front was a page listing the births and deaths of Fingons going back to 1715. Lucy stared at the lines that had led to her feeling connected to the world at last. Then she leafed through Genesis until she came to the passage she was looking for:
And Jacob went out from Beer-sheba and went toward Haran. And he lighted upon the place, and tarried there all night, because the sun was set; and he took one of the stones of the place, and put it under his head and lay down in that place to sleep. And he dreamed, and behold a ladder set up on the earth, and the top of it reached to heaven; and behold the angels of God ascending and descending upon it. And behold the Lord stood beside him, and said, “I am the Lord, the God of Abraham thy father, and the God of Isaac. The land whereon thou liest, to thee will I give it, and to thy seed … . And, behold, I am with thee, and will keep thee whithersoever thou goest, and will bring thee back into this land; for I will not leave thee, until I have done that which I have spoken to thee of.” And Jacob awaked out of his sleep, and he said: “Surely the Lord is in this place; and I knew it not.” And he was afraid, and said: “How full of awe is this place! this is none other than the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven.”
Lucy closed the book and put it back on the table. What would Mike say when she told him about the stone? Should she tell him? Should she tell anyone?
Lucy touched the cold marble. Why had she been given
this treasure? What in God's name was she supposed to do with it?
The cat had returned to her lap and was again purring happily. Lucy smiled. She didn't have to decide right away. She would think about it, listen to her heart, find the right thing to do.
Lucy had already figured out the right thing to do with Julius's money, the Fingon loot. She was going to follow Wing's example and release its trapped energy. She was going to plant trees on all the Fingon lands on Lis—millions and millions of trees until the whole island was once again the vast forest it had been before there were any Fingons. And she'd hire all the unemployed people of Lis to do the planting.
Lucy read the words in the Bible again:
The land whereon thou liest, to thee will I give it, and to thy seed … . And, behold, I am with thee, and will keep thee whithersoever thou goest, and will bring thee back into this land.
Dare she believe it? Could God really not be angry with her? The thought made her want to keep Trelaine after all. It would be a good environment in which to raise children—about as far from the slums of Boston as you could get. Perhaps this was where she was meant to be.
Lucy looked up at the big oak beams in the ceiling and smiled. She had a wonderful man in her life, a family in Weehawken, a new home—but most important she had herself. Lucy Fingon was ready to claim her destiny.
With her heart full and her mind roaring with dreams, she put the stone beneath her head and went to sleep.
THE GIRL WITH THE PHONY NAME. Copyright © 1992 by Charles Mathes. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
 
 
Design by Judith A. Stagnitto
 
 
eISBN 9781429936453
First eBook Edition : May 2011
 
 
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Mathes, Charles.
The girl with the phony name / Charles Mathes.
p. cm.
“A Thomas Dunne book.”
ISBN 0-312-33170-3
I. Title.
PS3563.A83543G57 1992
813'.54—dc20
92-24911
CIP

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