The Storm Keeper's Island

by Catherine Doyle

  His grandfather’s eyes were glinting. Fionn understood that spark, the reflection of the sun in his irises. It was wonder. ‘But she wasn’t always there, Fionn. And I was not always here.’

  Fionn glanced again at the wax. It was sitting innocently between them, gathered up in a neat little puddle. There was a dull throbbing in the base of his skull, the two sides of his mind jostling for what to believe.

  ‘Where did I go when I burned that candle?’

  ‘You followed the storm.’ His grandfather said it very casually, as though he was describing a piece of carrot cake he had eaten after lunch. Then he stood abruptly, forgetting about the pot on the workbench as he strode past Fionn and beckoned him inside the cottage. ‘The island is made up of many layers, Fionn. All of the moments that have gone before us. Last night, by burning that candle, you chose a different layer to visit and in the process, you lost this one.’ His grandfather stopped in the middle of the sitting room and swivelled around to face him, a look of triumph on his face. ‘It is as straightforward as that.’

  ‘That is the most complicated thing I’ve ever heard,’ said Fionn, but in the corner of his mind – in the space that was becoming more and more open to such impossibilities – Fionn could believe it. The grandfather he had seen last night was not the grandfather standing in front of him now. His mother had not been his mother – but the woman she was right before he was born, just after his father drowned.

  ‘Let me put it very plainly, Fionn. As long as it happened before on Arranmore island, it can happen again. I just have to catch the weather before it fades away.’ His grandfather snapped his hand open and shut, like he was trying to catch a fruit fly. ‘The people are not the focus of the candles, but sometimes I end up catching them too. You see, when you record the weather, you record the world.’

  Understanding dawned on Fionn, slow and lazy as the rising sun. ‘Storm Keeper,’ he remembered. ‘That’s what the shopkeeper called you.’

  His grandfather grinned. ‘The storms are my favourite.’

  Fionn scanned the shelves, a thousand different moments gathered before him, smells and storms and people bundled into wax, all lined up like history books in a dusty old library. And all he could think to say was, ‘Why do you record any of it?’

  His grandfather chewed on the corner of his mouth and Fionn thought he could sense a secret, trying to get out. But in the end, all he did was shrug again. ‘Well, why not?’

  Fionn looked at the candle blazing on the mantelpiece and licked the sea from his lips. ‘It’s a weird kind of magic.’ He didn’t want to say pointless, but the more he thought about the Sea Cave, and how helpful it would be, the more he wished he was outside hunting for it, instead of wondering at the usefulness of candles which showed things that had already happened. Painful things.

  Thoughts of the Sea Cave brought ugly reminders of Tara’s secrecy. It was still festering inside him, like an open wound. He shouldn’t have to swallow all of this in one big bite – magical caves and weather from long ago – if this was his history then he should have grown up with it … had a chance to get used to it.

  ‘Why did no one bother to tell me any of this stuff?’ he demanded. ‘Why have I never known about Arranmore?’

  ‘Because it’s a secret,’ said his grandfather, as though this was the most obvious thing in the world.

  Fionn glared at him. ‘Well, why isn’t it still a secret?’

  ‘Because you’re here now,’ said his grandfather cheerfully. ‘I thought it might be better if you discovered the candles first, like your sister did. It helps dispel any suspicion that I might be lying when I inform you that you are standing on a hotbed of ancient magic that contains possibilities beyond your wildest dreams and so must be kept fiercely secret from all those who dwell outside Arranmore.’ At Fionn’s look of alarm, he threw his head back and laughed. His cheeks were still twitching when he said, ‘And now that we are both official islanders, you may set aside your seething indignation and ask me anything you want.’

  Fionn took a deep, purposeful breath. ‘I want to know exactly who Dagda is. Tell me everything. And start from the beginning.’

  His grandfather arched an eyebrow. ‘The very beginning?’

  ‘I want to know everything,’ said Fionn firmly.

  What he really meant was, I want to know more than Tara.

  His grandfather trailed his finger along the rows of candles behind the armchair, stopping at a mottled cylinder that was dark and murky around the bottom and green along the top, where the wax puckered in on itself. It looked more like a clump of grassy dirt than a candle and was certainly the least impressive one in the entire cottage. Even the streak of silver zigzagging across the middle was lopsided. Fadó Fadó, the label said. ‘Long, long ago’. He plucked the candle off the shelf. ‘Perhaps it’s better if I just show you.’

  Fionn eyed the candle with unconcealed suspicion. Such a messy, murky blob couldn’t possibly be the holder of the island’s story.

  His grandfather stalked past him, swung open the front door and stepped out into the garden. When Fionn didn’t follow him, he turned around, his brows drawing together. It suddenly felt as though there was a barrier between them, a gossamer-thin veil hanging from the door frame of the cottage. The fire of Fionn’s resentment was melting away, and in its absence there were other things tugging at him – uncertainty and hesitation. ‘What do I have to do?’

  ‘You just have to walk, lad.’ His grandfather held out his hand. ‘Will you do that, Fionn? Will you walk with me?’

  There was more in that question than those five words. There was hope and caution and excitement … and something else. Something cloudy and grey that felt a little like sadness. In the end, the decision wasn’t difficult. Fionn was standing alone in the dusty little cottage and he decided that he would much rather be with his grandfather, wherever he was going. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I’ll walk with you.’

  Fionn stepped over the threshold and took his grandfather’s hand. ‘Hold on tight, lad.’

  Together, they lit the candle.

  This time when the flame fizzed to life and the wind whirled around them, Fionn was expecting it.

  ‘Where exactly are we going?’ he asked, as the cottage gate creaked open for them.

  His grandfather waved the candle above them like a flag. ‘Back to the very beginning, Fionn. The first storm.’

  The wind whooshed them onwards.

  The road disappeared under their feet and rolling meadows of emerald green grass rose in its place. When Fionn looked back, the cottage had dissolved into a field of wild flowers.

  ‘Once you light a candle, the wind takes you back to the time it contains. You simply have to go with it.’ His grandfather relaxed against the wind, like he was reclining his seat on an aeroplane. ‘Once you arrive you must take care not to let the flame die or you’ll find yourself back in the present. And don’t let go of me either, or you’ll be dumped out on your behind!’

  Fionn was too out of breath to respond. Even though the wind was doing most of the legwork for him, he was struggling to lean into it the way his grandfather was. He wondered how long they would be herded like this, and more importantly, if there was a bench where they were going.

  As they made their way down the headland, the last of the houses disappeared, and big, sprawling oak trees sprouted in their place. The grass grew well past Fionn’s ankles and then his knees, while the sky turned to a dappled, milky white. It wasn’t long before civilisation was pulled out of the island like threads in a tapestry.

  Arranmore became a wild, rugged thing.

  When the wind lulled, they slowed to a walk.

  Fionn had lost all sense of the familiar, and the silence was making him jittery. He glanced at his grandfather, at the crisp edge of his shirt collar, the little woollen balls along his jumper, the gloopy candle in his hand. ‘Not really your best work, is it?’

  His grandfather harrumphed. ‘I am certainly n
ot old enough to have made this candle, Fionn. Fadó Fadó is the oldest one we have.’

  ‘Is that why it’s so ugly-looking?’

  ‘Every time we burn it, it remakes itself,’ said his grandfather. ‘Over the years, it’s lost its shape.’

  Fionn poked the clump of wax. ‘Why does it do that?’

  ‘Because Dagda created it.’ Fionn wasn’t sure whether his grandfather meant the storm they were chasing or the candle itself. Perhaps they were the same thing. ‘It’s the very root of our history, Fionn. I think he intended for us never to forget it, no matter how time marches onwards.’

  By the way his grandfather was now strolling through the long grass, his hand swinging Fionn’s back and forth, Fionn could tell he had been here before. He wasn’t jumping out of his skin every time an oak tree sprouted up beside them and he was completely unconcerned by the disappearance of every single house and shop and road and person who brought their Arranmore – the right Arranmore – to life.

  If this was the very root of their history, then their history was a feral island full of trees and plants and little else.

  Fionn’s attention was drawn to the forest, where swaying branches shook their leaves, as if saying hello. ‘Have many people burned this candle then?’

  He was trying to imagine his father in this place, studying the same ancient trees, or his mother, who had held on so tightly to the secret of Arranmore she must have squeezed it out of her memory before she came to Dublin. That, or she had kept it from Fionn all his life, and the idea of her doing such a thing lit a furnace so hot and uncomfortable in the pit of his stomach that he didn’t dare dwell on it.

  ‘You’d be surprised how few people care about the past, Fionn.’

  ‘I bet I wouldn’t.’ Last year, Fionn had dodged history projects about the First World War and the Renaissance by faking the measles twice. He picked up a stick and flung it over his shoulder, where it landed in the bough of a tree and sent birds squawking from their nests.

  His grandfather glared at him. ‘Don’t mess with this layer or the island will kick us out.’

  Fionn abandoned the perfectly sized rock he was trying to pluck from the grass. ‘Fine.’

  They came to a halt at a bend on the headland, where the island dipped towards a beach that stretched on and on, the sand unblemished and golden along the frothy shore.

  Across the deserted cove, Fionn could make out a stone fort, and hundreds of thatched dwellings and animals – horses and cows and sheep – wandering around it all. Smoke rose above the camp into the sky, painting it with thick grey clouds that swelled and swirled and clung to each other – the early makings of a storm.

  The past had settled around them, and there was life here, between the trees and the fields. Ancient life.

  ‘Oh,’ said Fionn quietly. ‘We’re not alone.’

  His grandfather glanced sidelong at him. ‘We most certainly are not.’

  Then the sky started shrieking.

  Chapter Six

  THE LAST SORCERER

  The throaty kraa-ing of ten thousand ravens flooded the air like a terrifying aria. Fionn’s fingers itched for the rock he had left behind, anything that might keep a bird or ten from pecking his eyes out. ‘I suppose you should explain this.’

  His grandfather squeezed his hand, while the flame in his other one twisted and thrashed. ‘A very long time ago, the world found itself under threat from a very powerful sorceress called Morrigan. One of a rare and precious few, Morrigan was born with ancient magic in her veins, a gift that was intended to help protect our world. But as she got older, something happened that caused it to go wrong. Her magic twisted, until it became dark and dreadful and all-consuming. She began to draw her power from the souls of others, wearing them around her like a cape so that she could control them.’

  Fionn’s mouth had gone curiously dry. ‘What did she want?’

  ‘Morrigan believed her magic gave her the right to rule over ordinary people. To take their souls at will, and leash their bodies to hers, like guard dogs.’ His grandfather sucked a breath through his teeth. ‘Power is an ugly thing, Fionn. It’s intoxicating and addictive and if you’re not wary of its lure then it can lead you down a very dangerous path. As Morrigan grew, so did her twisted magic. She didn’t just want to be feared. She wanted to be worshipped, like a god. To the exclusion of all others.’

  ‘She came for the other magic-born first, swift as a knife and stealthy as night. Those who sensed her coming couldn’t hide from her; those who saw her couldn’t run fast enough. Parents and children were slaughtered in their beds. Brothers and sisters were burned side by side. Thousands died in the first wave of her terror. More were stripped of their humanity and remade as Soulstalkers. They became cold-blooded and cruel beings, bound to her for all of eternity, chasing souls she would never release …’

  ‘I don’t remember this from my history book,’ muttered Fionn, his eyes still glued to the sky. ‘Why did we spend so much class time studying stones with weird swirls on them?’

  ‘Because it is very hard to believe in magic until it grips you by the shoulders and shakes you awake, Fionn.’

  Fionn’s spine was as stiff as a rod. If he was asleep before, he was wide awake now. ‘What happened?’

  ‘After months of slaughter, Morrigan brought her reign of terror to Ireland, in pursuit of the final sorcerer. She turned the country upside down, uprooted forests and fields and boulders and hills while her ravens scoured the skies, but as hard as she searched, she could not find the last surviving magic-born.’

  ‘Dagda,’ guessed Fionn a little breathlessly.

  His grandfather nodded. ‘Dagda was a benevolent sorcerer. He drew his power from the elements and bent nature to his will. While Morrigan was out terrorising the land, Dagda was moving inside storms and travelling through rivers, amassing a secret force. Powerful as he was, he was not strong enough to face Morrigan’s growing army alone. So, he found five clans to fight one final battle with him. A war to end all wars.’

  The warmth left Fionn’s cheeks in little prickles. ‘Just … five?’

  His grandfather’s answering smile was entirely serene, as though to him this number was perfectly reasonable and not drastically optimistic. ‘Dagda chose the bravest clans he could find. There were the Boyles, the Beasleys, the Cannons, the Pattons and the McCauleys. He brought them here, to a wild and forgotten island to draw Morrigan away from everyone on the mainland.’ He rolled back on his heels, his gaze travelling upward. ‘On the day she arrived, her ravens turned the sky black.’

  Just as he said it, the ravens’ shadow crawled over them like a veil, and the island fell into darkness. On the horizon, hundreds of boats rose up out of the water like a tsunami, their black sails spilled out like a slick of oil.

  The wind blew a shiver down Fionn’s spine. He glanced across the beach, where hefty dark clouds were still puffing into the sky like smoke from a steam train. ‘They’d better get their act together,’ he said nervously.

  His grandfather pointed the candle towards the middle of the fleet, where the ravens were gathering. They dipped and swirled in a tornado of black feathers until from within, a figure emerged as though it had formed from the birds themselves. She stood on the bow of the foremost warrior boat, her long black hair bleeding into strange shadows that billowed from her like a cape.

  ‘Morrigan.’ The word tasted acrid in Fionn’s mouth.

  ‘Darkness incarnate,’ his grandfather whispered. He squeezed Fionn’s hand. Fionn squeezed back.

  The candle was over half melted now, streaks of emerald green wax dribbling over his grandfather’s fingers, but the flame was still flickering vigorously.

  Fionn decided it was a good time to ask a question. ‘Can you die in a memory, Grandad?’

  ‘They’re not able to see us, if that’s what you’re asking.’ Before Fionn’s shoulders could untense, he added, ‘But you can die in any layer of Arranmore. They’re all as real as each o
ther.’

  Fionn grimaced. ‘Fantastic.’

  Across the cove, a battle cry rang out.

  The clouds arced over them, bruised around the edges, where shades of indigo and violet bled into grey and black. Fionn could feel the static building in the air, the answering hum of activity thrumming in the earth around him.

  The ancient clans had emerged from the settlement and were gathering along the shore. There were thousands of them – many more than Fionn was expecting, but still not enough to match Morrigan’s fleet. Over half of them were brandishing torches. ‘Everywhere Morrigan went, the darkness came with her,’ said his grandfather in a low voice. ‘Their fire helps protect them from her hungry shadows.’

  Fionn glanced at the flame in his grandfather’s fist and willed it to climb higher.

  Their attentions were seized by a sudden, powerful gust. As if from nowhere, a man as tall as Fionn’s grandfather appeared at the helm of the islanders below. He had thick white hair that rippled past his shoulders and a beard that looked like a runaway cloud. He was striding so fast it seemed as if the wind was carrying him.

  The storm clouds moved with him.

  ‘Dagda,’ whispered Fionn, the name wreathing his bones in warmth. He remembered to breathe again.

  ‘Dagda,’ said his grandfather with quiet reverence. ‘Giver of gifts.’

  Dagda stopped at the water’s edge and raised his wooden staff. An almighty roar ripped through the sky, the clouds opening like the maw of a snarling lion.

  Fionn could feel the power vibrating through the soles of his feet.

  Dagda stepped into the ocean, his white hair tinged green from the glowing emerald set into his staff. His clans fanned out on either side like the wings of a great eagle, their torches and spears raised to the sky. As if tugged by an invisible string, the sea retreated to make way for them. Waves rolled backwards in great arches, crashing against Morrigan’s fleet and upending three of the boats along the frontline. Soulstalkers spilled into the ocean, like toy soldiers.