The Storm Keeper's Island

by Catherine Doyle

  Morrigan howled. The fleet quickened their advance, the hulls cutting through the water like butter, while iron spears soared through the storm.

  Dagda swept his staff above him and the wind took the spears and flung them back out to sea. The islanders marched on, pushing the shoreline out.

  The war-boats made it to the shallows.

  ‘They’re really going to fight all those Soulstalkers,’ said Fionn breathlessly. ‘They don’t even look human any more.’

  Dagda’s cry rang out again and a gust carried it into the sky, where the clouds were beginning to spark with electricity. The clans charged on Morrigan’s warriors, their answering cries echoing in every chamber of Fionn’s heart, until a small, unused part of him felt like racing down to the beach to join the battle. ‘Let’s get closer!’

  His grandfather’s grip was tight as a handcuff. ‘We can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  As if in answer, the clumpy candle’s flame sputtered, once, twice, and then went out.

  The island inhaled.

  The wind splintered the storm and the islanders dissolved into another layer, taking their battle cries with them. Fionn gaped at the shimmering sand, the sudden, jarring emptiness before him.

  ‘Why did it go out?’ He pointed accusingly at the candle. ‘There’s still wax left! Did you blow it out?’

  His grandfather released his hand and touched the lighter to the candle. ‘Watch.’

  Fionn twined his fingers in the bottom of his grandfather’s jumper just in case the flame lit up again and he was left behind. No matter how his grandfather held the lighter to the wick, it wouldn’t work. The wax remained untouched, a ring of green hovering above the darkness underneath. ‘The candle never burns past this point,’ said his grandfather. ‘The memory stutters and the flame fails. Then it starts to remake itself again.’

  Disappointment bubbled up inside Fionn. It was like watching a film and missing the best part. His feet were itching to carry him down to the cove. ‘Why does it fail?’

  ‘Nobody knows. Who can say what it’s keeping from us?’ mused his grandfather. ‘Perhaps the flame is too weak to protect us from Morrigan’s darkness, even in memory.’

  They turned from the beach, Fionn kicking stones into thin air as they trudged home. ‘I feel cheated.’

  ‘Well, we do know what happened. We have the stories.’ His grandfather nudged him in the ribs. ‘Dagda and Morrigan fought on the shores and in the sea surrounding Arranmore. Neither one was strong enough to kill the other, but somehow Dagda found a way to best her in battle. How he did it remains a mystery to this day. By all accounts, he was on the brink of defeat, and then the tide turned suddenly. He buried her deep beneath the earth, but he went down with her, spreading out every last drop of his magic against hers, like a shield, so that she could not rise again. In her defeat, the remaining Soulstalkers fled back to the mainland. Their souls stopped stirring underneath the earth. Over time, they forgot their leader and her resting place along with it.’

  ‘Wait.’ Fionn stopped abruptly. ‘They both had to die?’

  His grandfather kept walking, his strides long and leisurely as the island peeled over them, the wind guiding them back home at a much more leisurely pace. ‘They are not dead, Fionn. Only buried.’

  ‘But if they’re not dead, does that mean Morrigan could come back?’ said Fionn, jogging to keep up.

  His grandfather’s jaw tightened. He glanced sidelong at him, a shadow flitting behind his eyes, gone as quickly as it came. ‘That’s why I’m here, Fionn. And you. And Tara and Bartley and Shelby and all the islanders. If that darkness should return, it will be up to us to defeat it.’

  The wind whirled busily around them as the island reset itself, but Fionn was barely paying attention to the landscape now. He was halfway to a heart attack. ‘It sounds to me like we’re sitting on top of an evil volcano that could blow at any moment!’

  ‘Well, you don’t have to be quite so Pompeii about it.’

  ‘But I sprained my wrist from playing too much Mario Kart last year! And you lose your glasses every other hour! And what would Tara do? Nag Morrigan to death?’

  His grandfather clapped him on the shoulder, as though he was trying to press a morsel of strength into him. ‘Morrigan can’t rise on her own, and the island is designed to help us if anyone ever tries to help her.’

  ‘The island! What can the island do?’

  ‘There’s magic here,’ he said, his brow quirked. ‘Or haven’t you noticed?’

  ‘Like candles?’ said Fionn in an unusually high-pitched voice. He was suddenly keenly aware of the ancient power-crazy sorceress buried somewhere below his feet. His palms were sweating; he wiped them on the sides of his jeans. ‘What can they do to protect anything?’

  Houses rose up from the ground like plants. Roads swallowed grassy fields as the pier and its boats re-formed, the land stretching and groaning as layers of time peeled over it. His grandfather wasn’t looking where he was going, but the island seemed to be doing that for him. Instead, he was watching Fionn, with a peculiar expression on his face.

  ‘Dagda drew his power from the elements, Fionn. Nothing on Arranmore is inconsequential. No blade of grass, no drop of rain, no wisp of cloud. There is magic in everything.’ He pressed his lips together, like there was a secret underneath his tongue, swelling and swelling, until he chewed it up, and then simply said, ‘There is magic in memory.’

  Fionn opened his mouth to protest but his grandfather spoke over him. ‘Watch your feet.’ He linked his arm. ‘Don’t look at the island while it’s changing. It’s terribly rude. Now where was I? You can find Dagda’s magic all over the island. Gifts, we call them, though in truth they belong to the island, not to us.’

  ‘Like the Sea Cave, you mean?’

  His grandfather glared at him over the bridge of his spectacles ‘Aye. But as I have told your sister a thousand times, you are not allowed to go anywhere near the Sea Cave. It’s much too temperamental. And besides that, the deeper into the island you go, the nearer you are to Morrigan, and that is never a good thing.’

  The cottage appeared up ahead. The island was growing steadier but Fionn’s heart was thumping wildly.

  ‘So, Dagda left an evil sorceress somewhere underneath the ground and gave us a moody dangerous cave to defeat her?’

  ‘Don’t be trivial, Fionn,’ his grandfather said. ‘This is serious.’

  ‘I know it’s serious!’ said Fionn desperately. ‘That’s my whole point!’

  His grandfather smiled, the darkness in his warning dissolving between his teeth. ‘Well, he left a flying horse too, if that makes you feel better.’

  ‘Are you joking?’

  They stopped just outside the garden. The briars had re-emerged in their tangled, messy glory and the seagulls were freewheeling through the sky above them.

  Fionn’s grandfather leaned against the gate, wobbling uncertainly as though the grass had suddenly been pulled out from underneath his feet. ‘Oh dear.’

  Fionn hovered next to him, anxiety buzzing inside him like a hive of bees. ‘Grandad?’

  ‘Sorry, lad,’ he huffed. ‘I find I’m suddenly not feeling myself.’

  Fionn threaded his arm through his. ‘Can I do something?’

  His grandfather looked at him. Then he looked at his hand, frowning at the dried rivers of green wax striping his fingers, the candle stub still in his palm. He held it out to Fionn. ‘What is this? Is it yours?’

  Fionn stared at the melted candle. ‘I – no. I think it belongs to Dagda …’

  His grandfather blinked at him.

  Fionn took the candle and shoved it in his back pocket. ‘Let’s go inside.’

  In the sitting room, his grandfather wandered over to the fireplace and perched on the arm of his chair, his breathing trundling noisily through his nose. ‘What were we talking about again? It’s on the tip of my tongue.’

  ‘Magic,’ said Fionn quietly.

 
‘Magic,’ his grandfather muttered.

  Fionn pressed his back against the front door. He was only just noticing how musty it was inside the cottage. The air was stale and there was dust spiralling in the thin slants of sunlight that had managed to slip inside. It was still unnaturally dark, the flame on the mantelpiece casting strange shadows along the wall. They were a thousand miles away from where they had just been. A thousand layers too, and Fionn was surprised to find himself yearning for that oak-lined walk, the easy flow of conversation that had come with it.

  ‘I think I need to close my eyes for a bit.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Fionn quickly. If he had learned anything from his mother, it was not to make a person feel bad for feeling bad. It only made the whole thing worse. ‘I’m pretty tired too, actually. I mean, we did just take a thousand-year round trip. That’s like flying to California, five times in a row. You’re probably jet-lagged,’ he suggested. ‘Or time-lagged.’

  ‘Time-lagged,’ his grandfather repeated, the edge of his mouth twitching. ‘I like that.’ He took himself away to bed, pottering down the narrow hallway and shutting the bedroom door behind him.

  Fionn watched him go.

  Then he started in the corner of the sitting room and inched along the shelves, trying to read every single candle label. As long as it happened before on Arranmore Island, it can happen again. Above the armchair, the portrait of his grandmother smiled down at him. There was a candle nestled on the lip underneath. It was small and round – a pebble the colour of midnight – with a rainbow arcing across the middle.

  Winnie’s Moonbow, the label said.

  Winnie Boyle had visited Fionn twice in Dublin when he was just a baby. Fionn couldn’t remember his grandmother but his mother said she smelled like roses and smiled like sunshine, spoke like a poet and laughed like a pirate. Fionn stared at the little wax pebble for a long time. In a cottage full of sunsets and blizzards and everything in between, he had already found his mother and his grandmother. Who else had the candles caught over the years?

  They stood in silent reverie, the labels winking back at him as he trailed his fingers over them and yet, no matter how hard Fionn searched, he couldn’t find the one he was looking for.

  The one that bore his father’s name.

  Chapter Seven

  THE HUNGRY SHADOW

  Fionn sat cross-legged on the sand and watched the Arranmore ferry glide out to sea. The sound of bagpipes wafted from the pub up on the road, where islanders were singing and laughing, and down by the water’s edge, two little boys with pasty legs and yellow sunhats were giggling uncontrollably as they fired clumps of sand at each other. The sun was sitting in the sky like a plump orange, its edges feathered by cloud as fine as candyfloss. It was turning the back of Fionn’s neck a rosy pink, but he didn’t notice.

  He was thinking about the Sea Cave.

  He had been thinking about it for the last two days, wondering just how much trouble he would be in if he went behind his grandfather’s back to find it, and more importantly, whether he should risk disturbing an ancient sorceress. He had come to the decision that it was worth searching for. For one thing, he had heard that the Beasleys’ grandmother was perfectly fine with her grandchildren adventuring to the Sea Cave, and for another, Fionn’s grandfather seemed prone to being overly cautious. Already he was reaming off lists of things Fionn shouldn’t do while out and about, checking on him several times during the night, and frowning at him over dinner as though he was expecting him to suddenly flip a table or throw his dinner plate across the room.

  So, Fionn had reached the following conclusion: some things, and impossible things most especially, were worth the risk of punishment.

  He had come down to the beach after breakfast, drawn to the spot where the ancient Battle of Arranmore had taken place, in the hope that the cave might be hidden in the rock face nearby. But the tide had rolled out and taken his hope with it. Now he was staring so hard at the waves his eyeballs were beginning to vibrate.

  The little boys went tumbling past him, the leader brandishing a miniature green shovel while the other squealed helplessly in pursuit. A harried-looking woman with a face full of freckles jogged after them, her arms laden with towels and buckets and shoes. When she passed Fionn, she smiled distractedly before stopping to do a double take over her shoulder. ‘Hang on. Are you – ?’

  ‘I’m Fionn,’ he said, before old ghosts could rise up between them.

  The woman brushed the hair from her eyes with the heel of a jelly sandal. ‘You look … Well, I thought for a second –’

  ‘I’m Malachy’s grandson,’ he said quickly.

  ‘Oh. Fionn. Of course, that’s right. You’re Evie’s boy.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Fionn, puffing his chest up.

  ‘I’m Alva Cannon.’ She tried to rearrange a towel-stuffed bucket to shake his hand but thought better of it at the last second, hitching it up her arm and smiling apologetically. ‘Evie was a few years ahead of me in school. She used to tutor me in French on the weekends. I was useless at it,’ she added sheepishly. ‘How’s she doing? I haven’t seen her since … well …’ She trailed off.

  ‘She’s great, thanks,’ said Fionn automatically. ‘So you grew up here too?’

  Alva nodded proudly. ‘Been here all my life. I teach English and History up at the school.’

  ‘Have you heard of the Sea Cave by any chance?’

  ‘Dagda’s cave?’ said Alva, her attention flitting back to her boys, who were digging themselves into a giant hole. ‘Find me an islander who hasn’t.’

  ‘Do you know where it is?’ said Fionn eagerly.

  She levelled him with a dark look. ‘That place is hidden for a reason, Fionn. Your mum wouldn’t want you to go looking for it.’ At his look of disappointment, she added, ‘Did you say you were staying with Malachy?’

  ‘Yeah. I’m here for the summer.’

  ‘Just the summer?’ She drew her brows together. ‘I assumed you –’ She was interrupted by a high-pitched squeal. One of her little boys had just taken a plastic shovel to the face. ‘Ronan! Put that shovel down this instant! Sorry, Fionn,’ she called over her shoulder as she scurried towards the commotion. ‘Send my regards to the Storm Keeper! You can tell him he was right about the terrible twos!’

  ‘I will,’ said Fionn, but Alva Cannon was already out of earshot, corralling her boys off the beach in a flurry of flailing arms and wriggling legs.

  Fionn tried not to dwell on his frustration. If it was that easy to find the Sea Cave, Tara would have got to it already. He had time still. Nothing but time.

  So what if there was an evil undead sorceress simmering somewhere underneath the ground? If no one else cared about her then why should he? She hadn’t set foot on this beach in hundreds of years. Maybe even thousands. They couldn’t even get to her with the candle.

  I wonder why?

  He pulled the remains of Fadó Fadó from his back pocket and rolled it along his fingers.

  Why make something that can’t be used?

  He blinked in surprise – twisted the candle this way and that, just to be sure. There was at least an inch of fresh green wax bubbling along the top. The candle was remaking itself.

  Fionn jolted as an idea jumped out of his head. If he burned those remade minutes down here on the beach, he would see so much more than he had seen when they were stuck up on the headland peering over the past. He would get to walk beside Dagda. He could answer his rallying cry and stand shoulder to shoulder with his ancestors.

  There would be boats racing towards them. Ravens shrieking overhead … and there would be her. Fionn shuddered at the memory of Morrigan, the shadows that moved with her across the sea.

  It’s just a memory.

  She would still be at sea when the candle ran out again.

  So, be brave.

  He could do this. He had to.

  Tara would squirm with envy when she found out.

  Fionn’s heart was thumping wild
ly. The wind had picked up, and a faint breeze was curling around his ears as if to say, Go on. Try it.

  The beach was deserted now. It was just Fionn and the storm in his palm.

  He rolled on to his feet and touched the lighter to the wick.

  The candle fizzed into life.

  The island inhaled.

  The wind slammed into him like a sledgehammer and Fionn went face first into the sand. He lay in a semi-conscious heap, the flame flickering vigorously as a thousand islands whipped over him, one after another after another. When he roused himself, his mouth was full of beach and the beach was full of war.

  The battle cries had returned, but they were closer now – so close that Fionn could smell the tang of dried leather mixed with fresh blood. The sea had rolled back on itself and taken the empty warrior boats with it. Soulstalkers and clansmen were fighting in the shallows, where spears slashed at swords and heads rolled into the sea.

  The sky was a deep, bruised purple. Dagda’s storm clouds pressed down on Fionn as he staggered to his feet, their underbellies crackling with whips of electricity.

  The wind was prodding him, sharp and pointed like a finger. Walk, said a voice inside him. They’re here somewhere.

  Thunder growled through the sinking sky.

  They’re waiting for you.

  Fionn didn’t venture too close to the Soulstalkers, though he could see them well enough in his periphery: flashes of wild hair, and empty eyes that seemed to look through the world instead of at it. A wrongness squirmed inside Fionn. He was in the midst of something that should not exist – shells without souls, humans devoid of humanity.

  The Soulstalkers wielded swords glistening with blood. Arms and legs were visible beneath swathes of leather and sheepskin fastened like battle armour. Some were taller than others, some quicker on their feet, but they moved with unnatural fluidity, and each one had been branded with twisting black swirls that crawled along their shoulders and up their necks. Where Fionn could see flashes of bare chests, there was an imprint of a raven tattooed in black.

  The islanders were smaller and thinner, with wafer-thin skin stretched over sharp bones. They seemed so breakable in comparison, but somehow they were holding the line. Fionn watched one hurtle into the waves with nothing but a stone-tipped spear. She landed on the back of a Soulstalker and swung from his neck, dragging him backwards into the ocean. She moved around him in a circle, her spear twisting, like she was stirring the sea. The ocean was twisting too. She raised her weapon as if to strike, and the water leapt into the air, pouring itself down the Soulstalker’s throat and into his body until his limbs splayed out like a starfish, and his face turned blue. He sank into the sea, like a boulder.