The Storm Keeper's Island

by Catherine Doyle

  At half eleven, his grandfather pottered in from his workstation to find Fionn flipping through an old encyclopedia (letters Q to Z), trying to pretend he cared about volcanoes. He shoved a five-euro note into Fionn’s hand, his fingers mottled in grey wax, and dispatched him to the shop for emergency tea bags (Barry’s, not Lyons, or I’ll send you packing).

  ‘Can I go later?’ Fionn asked. ‘Or maybe tomorrow?’

  ‘Mount Vesuvius will still be here when you get back.’ His grandfather gestured to the window, where a slash of sunlight was peeking through the dirty panes. ‘I don’t want you to miss any of it.’

  ‘Any of what? The deceptively cold sun?’

  His grandfather yanked the front door open and that strange island wind whistled through the archway, wrapping itself around Fionn.

  ‘You can take that sarcasm with you too. Bury it under a rock before you get back here with my tea bags.’

  Fionn laid the encyclopedia down slowly. ‘I really want to know what happened in Pompeii though,’ he said wistfully.

  His grandfather opened his arms and made an explosion noise. ‘Big eruption. Everyone died. Tragic stuff.’

  ‘Spoiler alert,’ grumbled Fionn. ‘Do you want to come with me?’

  His grandfather was already retreating to his workbench, his answer thrown carelessly over his shoulder. ‘Nope.’

  Fionn glared at the five-euro note, trying to figure out just how necessary this errand was. He once read that humans could survive up to ten days without food and water. Tea, he wasn’t so sure about.

  When he shut the front door behind him, the wind pushed him out of the garden, past briars and brambles that scraped him goodbye. He fixed his gaze on the horizon beyond the headland and nearly swore when the cliff-edge started to roll towards him. He blinked and found it back to normal again, the ocean far below him minding its own business.

  It’s a short walk, he told himself, as the sea roared, droplets hitch-hiking on the wind until he tasted the spray on his tongue.

  When he looked down at the ocean, it was still as a lake – flat and shiny in the morning sunlight.

  It’s just an island.

  It was just an island. Even if sometimes there were birds squawking in the sky but when Fionn looked up, they had disappeared entirely, replaced by a cloud or –

  A seagull dipped over Fionn’s head, startling him into the kind of jump that only happens in silent movies. It definitely hadn’t been there a moment ago, but when he tried to find it overhead it was gone, leaving nothing but the echo of its cry on the wind.

  Was this the secret Tara was referring to? The island shifting and stretching and blinking as if it was alive?

  Or was it withdrawal from Minecraft?

  Fionn was paying close attention to how the grass grew tall and then short in the same moment, how sometimes the patches by the road were lush and green, and then dried up and brown at second glance, like a drought had sucked them dry. Sometimes there were flowers lining his way, like purple-tipped soldiers, but when he blinked for too long, the air shimmered and they disappeared.

  What on earth was going on?

  The next time he saw a flower, he yanked it out of the grass so fast he fell backwards, sliding down the hill and scuffing his tracksuit bottoms with clouds of dirt. He glanced around. No witnesses. Phew. He leapt to his feet and clamped the limp flower in his fist. Ha! His miniature green hostage. Proof that he wasn’t losing his mind.

  By the time he reached the pier, where shops and houses crowded together like little old ladies looking over the port, Fionn had a fistful of purple flowers in his hand. He was so busy Sherlocking the island, that he didn’t notice the girl springing directly into his path, until he was almost nose-to-nose with her.

  ‘Oh!’ said Fionn, skidding to a stop. ‘Sorry. I didn’t see you.’

  The girl was just as tall as Fionn and looked around the same age too. She had sandy hair that fell straight past her shoulders, a wide, curved mouth and big bright eyes that were studying him very closely. She pointed her half-eaten ice cream at his nose. ‘My impressive powers of deduction tell me that you are Tara Boyle’s little brother.’

  ‘Only by blood,’ Fionn lamented. ‘I’m Fionn.’

  ‘Shelby,’ said the girl, around a mouthful of Twister. She inclined her head in the direction of the shop, where Bartley and Tara were peering over a case of ice creams. ‘They’ve been in there for ages. And there’s only about six options.’

  Fionn could tell from Shelby’s elaborate eye-roll that they both suffered from the same affliction – sibling-related-annoyance. He decided that he liked her.

  ‘Where are you guys going?’ he asked casually, trying to keep the gnawing curiosity from flashing in his eyes.

  ‘To find the Sea Cave.’ Shelby’s braces winked at him in the sunlight. Her eyebrows were perfectly arched so that in her excitement she looked like a cartoon character. ‘Bartley couldn’t find it last year but that’s only because he didn’t have me. I have an amazing sense of adventure, which my teacher likes to refer to as “a proclivity for time-wasting”,’ she said, while making finger quotes in the air. ‘But that’s only because she doesn’t understand me on a deep, human level. And also because she’s extremely boring.’

  Fionn stared at Shelby Beasley for longer than was socially appropriate.

  She stared right back, her eyes glowing even brighter. ‘It should be quite simple, really. It’s not like the island is that big. But don’t say that to Bartley because it makes him feel very incompetent about the whole thing. I don’t suppose you have any clues as to where it might be, do you?’ she added hopefully.

  Fionn shook his head. ‘You could always look at a local map?’

  ‘You must be joking! We’d never find it on a map!’ Shelby waved her ice cream around at the preposterousness of such a suggestion. ‘It’s hidden for a reason.’

  ‘Oh. And why is that?’

  ‘Because it’s magical,’ said Shelby, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

  Fionn waited for her to smirk but she pressed her mouth into a hard line and watched him with the same intensity. ‘Why are you making that face at me?’ she asked.

  Fionn tried to smooth his features but his eyebrows kept hunching together. ‘Did you just say the Sea Cave is magical? Did I hear that correctly?’

  ‘Clear as a bell,’ said Shelby, unfazed. ‘I had elocution lessons as a child. It was either that or fencing and since I’m not a sixteenth-century monarch, I chose the speech stuff.’

  ‘What’s so magical about it?’ said Fionn, focusing on the important part.

  ‘Well, I’m sure an avid geologist would tell you all caves are magical in their own way. But this cave grants wishes.’

  ‘That sounds … far-fetched,’ said Fionn, with much suspicion.

  Shelby frowned. ‘You don’t believe me?’

  ‘Nope. But I do think you were right about the fencing lessons.’

  She gestured at the crushed flowers in his fist. ‘Can I see those?’

  Fionn handed them over.

  Shelby rotated the wilting bouquet, grimacing at it from every angle. ‘My mother would lose sleep over these,’ she muttered. ‘My father bought her pink roses instead of red roses one year for Valentine’s Day, and she didn’t speak to him for a week. These would haunt her. Now, florally, I don’t like to discriminate, but I will say I prefer flowers that aren’t so … how do I put this delicately? Miserably and irreparably squished.’

  ‘They’re not intended for human appreciation.’

  ‘Good. So you won’t mind parting with them then.’

  Before Fionn could answer, Shelby chucked the flowers into the air. They fell like confetti, fanning out around them in an array of wilted stems and crumpled petals.

  ‘What was the point of –’ Surprise batted the end of Fionn’s sentence away.

  He gaped at the flowers as they disappeared into the earth, stalk by stalk by stalk, the petals followin
g in silent succession, like they were waiting their turn.

  He smudged his feet along the gravelly dirt, just to be sure they weren’t still there, hiding somehow. Then he scrunched his nose up towards his forehead. ‘Where did they go?’

  ‘Look.’ Shelby skipped to the edge of the road, and Fionn swivelled like a robot, his gaze unblinking as it followed her.

  The flowers were resprouting along the grassy edges, popping up one by one.

  Shelby whipped them out of the grass and shoved the new bouquet in Fionn’s face. ‘Explain that,’ she said triumphantly.

  Fionn took the flowers from her and rotated them. He was silent for ten very long seconds. So, he hadn’t been imagining it all up on the headland. The strangeness wasn’t in his mind but in the earth around him. He shook his head in dawning belief. ‘I … I’m not sure I can explain it.’

  He thought, perhaps, that was the point of magic.

  Magic.

  Goodness.

  Shelby took a self-satisfied bite of her Twister.

  Fionn squinted at the new flowers in his fist. The closest he had ever come to magic back in Dublin was finding a fiver at a bus stop. And even then, his mother had made him split it with Tara, who completely wasted her share on yoghurt-covered raisins. ‘Where does it come from?’

  Shelby yanked the end of her ice cream from her mouth. ‘Wait. Do you mean you haven’t even heard of Dagda?’

  ‘I only just got here yesterday,’ said Fionn defensively. And I think my head is about to explode.

  What else had he missed out on?

  ‘Well, shouldn’t someone have at least mentioned him before now? You’re a Boyle. This is where you come from.’

  Fionn glanced inside the shop, where Tara was finally paying for her ice cream. Bartley Beasley was swaying behind her, like a big, clingy palm tree. His sister had had plenty of time to tell him about Dagda, whoever Dagda was, and she hadn’t bothered. It had just been Bartley Bartley Bartley all year round.

  At Fionn’s look of dismay, Shelby waved her hand around, the last dregs of her Twister blurring to streaks of green and white. ‘Never mind. You’re here now and we’ve come this far. I’ll just tell you.’ She rolled her shoulders back and beamed so wide the sun sparkling along her braces momentarily blinded him. ‘A long time ago – like way before roads and Snapchat and computers and even houses and stuff, two ancient sorcerers fought each other right here, on the shores of Arranmore. Their names were Dagda. Woooooo!’ Shelby made an exaggerated thumbs up, before flipping the gesture upside down. ‘And Morrigan. Booooo!’

  ‘You really are a fantastic storyteller,’ said Fionn.

  Shelby snorted, then inclined her head in the direction of the pier. ‘After Dagda defeated Morrigan, he left his magic behind. It’s gathered in different places across the island. The Sea Cave is one of his gifts.’ She took the final bite of her ice cream, licking the ring of green from around her mouth. ‘Our granny says if you can find your way in, the cave will grant you a wish. But it’s really difficult to find, not to mention extremely treacherous. Which makes it the perfect summer adventure!’

  ‘A magical wish,’ said Fionn quietly. A kernel of wonder had ignited inside him, and it was warm and golden as the summer sun. ‘So … you can wish for anything?’

  Shelby’s eyes were glowing again, both of them dwelling in the dazzling light of absolute possibility. ‘Of course,’ she said a little breathlessly. ‘It’s magic, isn’t it?’

  Fionn’s heart was thumping so loudly he wondered if she could hear it. He was afraid to believe it … afraid to hope, and yet … he kept glancing at the flowers in his fist. Remembering the empty fire grate … ‘So, how are you going – ?’

  ‘Boyle!’ Fionn was interrupted by the unceremonious arrival of Bartley Beasley, who stalked out of the shop with all the confidence of a male runway model. He elbowed Shelby out of the way, and looked down on Fionn through the column of a long, slim nose.

  He gestured to the flowers in his fist. ‘Trying to woo my little sister, are you?’

  Fionn dropped them like they were on fire. ‘What! No.’

  Bartley’s laugh came out in exaggerated syllables: haw haw haw. He had already opened his Calippo ice cream, and had a faint ring of orange around his mouth. ‘Relax, Boyle. Don’t have a heart attack.’

  Now that he was face-to-face with his sister’s crush, Fionn really couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about. He was every bit annoying as his profile photo had suggested. OK, Bartley was tall (his hair adding at least three inches) and was wearing a nice (if a bit posh) jumper, but he still looked like a bird. He had a pointed chin, small, beady eyes, and a pinched mouth that didn’t seem used to smiling; it wasn’t broad and bow-shaped like Shelby’s, who looked as though she lived on the edge of a joke.

  Bartley tapped the side of his nose. ‘I see you’ve inherited Malachy’s honker.’

  Fionn glared at the perfectly coiffed hair on Bartley Beasley’s head and wished a plague of head lice upon him. As if in answer, the wind whipped up, pushing Bartley’s hair from its overly gelled swirl, until it looked like he had fallen into a tumble dryer face first.

  ‘Fionn!’ Tara charged out of the shop with her white chocolate Magnum pointed at him like a sword. ‘What are you doing here? You better not be embarrassing me!’

  Fionn wanted to say, Your jumper is doing that all by itself, but instead he said, ‘Shelby was just telling me about Dagda.’ He narrowed his eyes, his lips twisting with fresh hurt when he added, ‘Thanks for filling me in.’

  Tara glared at Shelby. ‘I was going to do that.’

  Shelby stared at her Converse, her bright hair falling around her face like a curtain. ‘Oops.’

  ‘When?’ demanded Fionn. ‘You’ve had plenty of time to fill me in.’

  ‘Don’t be so dramatic. I was getting around to it.’

  ‘Did you tell him where we’re going, Shel?’ said Bartley accusingly.

  ‘Of course I did.’

  ‘Blabbermouth,’ he said viciously. ‘Why don’t you learn how to actually keep a secret for once in your life or will I get Gran to send you home so you can’t ruin all our plans?’

  Tara jabbed her finger at Fionn’s forehead. ‘Do not tell Grandad where we’re going or I’ll cut up all your T-shirts. He’ll kill me if he finds out.’

  ‘Why don’t I just come with you?’ Fionn suggested, his heartbeat galloping at the thought of that wish … of the impossible things he wanted.

  ‘No,’ said Bartley flatly.

  The word landed square in Fionn’s chest.

  ‘No,’ echoed Tara, twisting the knife. ‘It’s the Sea Cave and you’re terrified of the ocean. You cried when you heard we had to come out here on the ferry.’

  Fionn inhaled sharply. His eyes were prickling. His eyes should not have been prickling. Even if Bartley Beasley had just slammed the friendship-door in his face, even if his sister had just blown his deepest secret up like a balloon and floated it between them to impress him, even if Shelby was suddenly looking at him like he was a wounded animal. Fionn took a deep breath and freed his fingers from the fists at his side. Then he said, ‘Tara still plays with her dolls when she thinks no one’s home.’

  Tara nearly choked on her ice cream.

  ‘And they’re always stealing each other’s boyfriends and slapping each other!’

  Bartley stared at Tara with unconcealed horror.

  ‘Sounds scandalous,’ said Shelby.

  ‘Fionn!’ Tara gasped, her cheeks rapidly turning pink.

  ‘You started it!’ said Fionn.

  ‘I did not, you absolute gremlin.’ Tara turned from him, tugging Bartley by the sleeve. ‘Come on. Let’s just go.’

  Fionn didn’t say anything else. He just stood there and watched them walk away from him.

  Shelby twirled her ice-cream stick in mournful farewell to Fionn. Bartley whispered something (probably unhilarious) to Tara that made her laugh like a hyena and Tara ignored Fionn
entirely.

  Fionn stared after them, the flowers crushed at his feet and hated how badly he wanted to go with them.

  Instead, he went into the little shop across from the pier and picked out a box of Barry’s tea bags and a milk chocolate Magnum.

  The shopkeeper smiled at him as he slid the items across the counter. He had creased, papery skin and grey hair that stuck out in every direction, as if he had been electrocuted. ‘Well, if you’re not Malachy’s grandson, I’ll eat my hat.’

  ‘You’re not wearing a hat,’ said Fionn, failing to return the full wattage of his smile. ‘But you’re right about my grandad, so I suppose it doesn’t matter. I’m Fionn.’

  The shopkeeper’s laugh sounded like a wind chime. It went on and on and on. ‘How is Malachy doing? I haven’t seen him down here in a while. Usually Rose from over the hill does the shopping for him.’

  ‘He’s great, thanks,’ said Fionn automatically. He had been trained to give this answer whenever people asked after his mother, so it had tumbled out unbidden. He didn’t really know if it was true or not.

  ‘Any word on the coming storm?’ asked Donal.

  Fionn shook his head. ‘Um, I don’t think so.’

  A man wandered out from one of the aisles and set up camp at the magazines by the door, momentarily distracting them from their conversation. He had the reddest hair Fionn had ever seen. It was redder than a cherry. Redder than a fire engine. And as if that wasn’t enough colour for one person, he had a matching beard-ful of it too.

  The shopkeeper eyed him warily, his lips folding into a frown. ‘Peculiar-looking fella, isn’t he?’ he said, dropping his voice.

  Fionn glanced over his shoulder to get a better look. The man’s crimson hair was braided into a series of intricate knots and his beard reached all the way down to his collarbone, ending in two miniature plaits. The cheek that Fionn could see was bright red, probably owing to the thick black polo neck he was wearing on such a warm day.

  ‘Beard as big as Dagda’s, I reckon,’ muttered the shopkeeper, as he swept the tea bags and the Magnum into a paper bag.

  Dagda again! Did everyone know except him?