Fionn watched, as one after another, the eighteen survivors of the SS Stolwijk were pulled across the buoy-line and dragged into the lifeboat, their skin tinged blue around the edges, their teeth chattering as they tried to speak. Logically, Fionn knew the process had taken hours, the falling sky a true indicator of evening, but the storm flew past in fast forward until they found themselves pushing through the water again, headed for Arranmore.
The little boat was still swamped by heavy seas but the rocking wasn’t so terrible now and Fionn couldn’t tell whether it was the extra weight of eighteen men steadying the vessel or reality overtaking his fear. He hunched against his grandfather beside the motor – the only inch of space left in a boat filled to the brim with twenty-seven seafarers and two secret stowaways.
They sat in silence, watching the Dutch sailors huddling together just the same, while the island men steered them home. Fionn’s grandfather’s eyes were glassy but it was impossible to tell whether it was the rain spitting down on them or the sight of his father, not twenty feet away, staring through him.
Fionn glanced at the candle in his grandfather’s fist. The wax was dripping down his skin and melding it to his hand. It had all but burned into nothingness.
Finally, the storm passed over them. The island crawled out of the sea and the sun flicked its rays through the clouds and blanched the grey from the sky. Fionn’s teeth stopped chattering and his fingers began to thaw.
‘See,’ said his grandfather. ‘There’s no fear in the doing of it, is there?’
‘I suppose not,’ said Fionn uncertainly.
The pier rose before them. Huddles of onlookers were crowding at the end of it. Shouts of joy rang out, and floated the little boat towards home. They were almost there when Fionn’s grandfather pulled Fionn to his feet. ‘Remind me, lad. Did you say you could swim?’
‘Not very well. Why?’
He glanced at the candle in his grandfather’s hand. It had dissolved into a little puddle of wax on his palm. The flame was dying right before his eyes.
‘Because I have some unsettling news …’ his grandfather said, just as the candle went out.
Fionn screamed as the island took a shuddering breath. The boat disappeared from under them and they plunged feet first into the sea.
Chapter Fourteen
THE FALLING SKY
Fionn inhaled a lungful of seawater. His vision blurred as he kicked for the surface, his arms and legs flailing desperately. He couldn’t figure out which way was up, and the harder he struggled, the heavier his limbs grew. The lights were winking out inside his head and he knew, somewhere deep inside his panic, that he was drowning.
The sea had come to claim him.
A hand snaked under his arm and tightened over his chest. He was dragged up from the depths of the ocean like a puppet on a string. He broke the surface and hiccoughed violently, streams of water pouring out of him as he gasped at the cool air.
His grandfather kept him afloat, one arm fastened across his chest like a seatbelt, the other propelling them towards the sandbank. ‘You’re all right, lad,’ he heaved. ‘Lean your head back to the sky. I’ve got you.’
Fionn let his head flop against his grandfather’s shoulder. The moon peered over them, a blanket of stars glistening over the water as they moved through it. It was midnight again and the island was eerily quiet.
They crawled on to the sand with their heads bent to the island. Fionn knew they had only been in the sea for a matter of minutes but it had felt like hours. His head was throbbing and his throat was raw from coughing. ‘You saved me,’ he croaked. ‘I thought I was a goner.’
His grandfather sat back on his haunches and blinked up at the moon. Then he turned his head and looked at Fionn. ‘Cormac?’
Something cold and slimy trickled down Fionn’s back.
‘Wh-what?’
His grandfather looked at the sand, where their shadows bled out around them. He looked back at Fionn, his brows drawing low over his eyes. They were darker than usual. The blue had turned dull and cloudy and the stars weren’t catching inside them like they usually did. ‘What are we doing here, Cormac? It’s cold. I’m cold.’
Fionn stared wide-eyed at his grandfather. ‘It’s me, Grandad. It’s Fionn.’ He pointed at himself, and then regretted the absurdity of it. ‘Are you feeling OK?’
His grandfather shook his head. ‘I want to go home,’ he said in a small voice. ‘Take me home, Cormac.’
Fionn rolled on to his feet and held out his hand. ‘OK. Let’s go home.’
His grandfather took it, squeezing tight like he was afraid he might let go.
Fionn led them back up the headland, their way marked by the light of the moon. ‘I wonder how long we’ve been gone,’ he said, picking strands of seaweed from his hair.
His grandfather trudged along behind him, watching his feet.
‘Do you think Tara noticed?’ Fionn asked him. ‘I bet she didn’t. I bet she’s still asleep.’
His grandfather didn’t say anything.
‘She’s always been a heavy sleeper,’ said Fionn. ‘When I was little I used to take her pulse while she slept to make sure she was still alive.’
They crunched onwards.
‘She’s not so bad,’ Fionn continued, desperation creeping into his voice. ‘When she’s asleep, I mean. She’s actually quite tolerable when she’s unconscious. Except sometimes she snores and it sounds more like a horse than a human. I told her that one morning and she didn’t speak to me for a week. It was the best week of my life.’ Fionn ignored the pain in the back of his throat, the rough edge of his words as he croaked them out. ‘Mam made me apologise to her in the end. It was really unfair in my opinion, but I think it’s because Mam snores too and maybe she was afraid that she sounds like a horse as well.’
His grandfather’s grip was so tight Fionn’s fingers were turning purple but he didn’t dare shake him off.
‘Mam doesn’t sound like a horse when she snores though. She sounds like an elephant. Especially when she has a cold. But I can forgive her for that because it’s not really her fault, and unlike Tara, she has many redeeming qualities.’
After a while, Fionn gave up speaking. He couldn’t stand the silence that came afterwards, or the sound of his own voice getting higher and higher as he jabbered on about nothing. The wind swayed against their backs, the island clearing pebbles and rocks from their pathway as they trundled up the headland side by side.
Thank you, thought Fionn. It wasn’t much but it was enough to make him feel not quite so alone just then. Thank you for helping us. And in the answering rustle of the trees, the hoot of an owl sprinkling stardust along their shoulders, the island said, You’re welcome.
When they were almost at Tír na nÓg, Fionn’s grandfather said, ‘I hope your mother isn’t still up. She hates it when we go out after dark.’
Fionn paused at the gate. ‘Mam’s back in Dublin, Grandad.’
His grandfather let go of his hand. ‘Winnie was terrified of the dark when she was small, you know. I don’t think she ever grew out of it. But don’t tell her I said that, Cormac, or she’ll take the wooden spoon to both of us.’
Fionn followed him up the path, his turn for silence now. They went inside and he shut the door, sealing them in the cottage. His grandfather drifted over to the mantelpiece, and stood in front of the blazing candle, inhaling noisily through his nose. Fionn flicked the kettle on and went to the bathroom to grab the two biggest towels he could find.
When he came back, his grandfather was sitting in his chair with his eyes closed. The light from the candle danced along his head and painted flames of shadow across his cheeks. Fionn held a towel in front of him. ‘You should dry off,’ he said. ‘We’ll catch a cold if we don’t warm up.’
His grandfather took the towel from him.
‘Do you want me to run a bath for you?’ asked Fionn.
He shook his head. ‘Just don’t tell your mother where we were. She hates it when we go out
after dark.’
‘I won’t,’ said Fionn quietly.
Fionn removed his grandfather’s damp hat and set it back on the coat-rack. He helped him slip his shoes off and replaced them with the thickest socks he could find in his suitcase. ‘Winnie was terrified of the dark when she was a little one, you know,’ his grandfather told him, flexing his toes inside the socks. ‘I’m not sure she ever grew out of it, to tell you the truth. But don’t tell her I said that, or she’ll come after me with the wooden spoon.’
‘I won’t,’ said Fionn, traipsing back into the kitchen. He made a mug of tea and passed it to his grandfather as his heart climbed up into his mouth.
His grandfather stared into the tea, as though searching for something inside the milky brown liquid.
‘Is there anything else I can get you?’
He took a sip, and then shook his head. The blue was returning to his eyes. ‘You go on to bed. I’ll be going soon myself.’
Fionn hovered in the doorway, glancing at the candle on the mantelpiece. ‘Goodnight, Grandad.’
His grandfather smiled, the mug in his hand shaking just a little. ‘Goodnight, Fionn.’
Fionn got changed into warm pyjamas and climbed into bed. Then he pulled the covers up to his chin and stared at the ceiling for a long time. His grandfather was right when he said there was no fear in the doing of something but he was wrong about the rest. There was fear in the beforehand and there was fear in the afterwards. In the darkness, it climbed down Fionn’s throat and filled him up until he felt like he couldn’t breathe.
Fionn had been so distracted by what the island might choose for him that he hadn’t stopped to consider what would happen to the old Storm Keeper when a new one came along. As he drifted into an uneasy slumber, he wasn’t thinking about the fathomless ocean; he was thinking about the storm clouds in his grandfather’s eyes, and the new, burgeoning fear that the sky might be falling somewhere inside him.
Deep in the blackness, the lullaby found him again.
Come to me, my fearless Boyle,
And see the magic I can brew, crooned the voice.
Visit me beneath the soil.
Come and wish me back to you.
Fionn stood before the mouth of the cave and watched the shadows crawl out of it like skeletons.
Find me where the ravens flock
And wake me from my endless sleep.
The voice grew louder and shriller, the words changing until Fionn found he was not mesmerised, but terrified.
Unbury me from endless rock
And give to me your soul to keep!
Chapter Fifteen
THE SECRET SHELF
The following morning, Fionn waited for his grandfather to come out of his room.
‘What’s got into you?’ Tara demanded, when she wandered into the kitchen just before noon. ‘How long have you been sitting in that chair doing nothing?’
Fionn tore his gaze from the Moonbow candle underneath his grandmother’s photograph. He’d been wondering about the memory inside it. His sister was standing in the archway between the kitchen and the sitting room with her hands on her hips. She was still wearing her pyjamas and her hair was piled on top of her head like a bird’s nest.
‘Nowhere near as long as you’ve been sleeping,’ Fionn told her. ‘I think you’ve set a new record.’
‘Don’t annoy me today,’ warned Tara, as she padded into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of orange juice from the fridge. ‘I’m not in a good mood.’
‘What a rare and unfortunate occurrence,’ said Fionn sarcastically. ‘How come?’
Tara put two slices of bread in the toaster. ‘Because I haven’t been sleeping very well lately. Plus it’s raining, which means I can’t go outside today.’
‘Why? Are you afraid you might melt?’ It had been drizzling on and off all morning, the humidity shifting some time after sunrise. Mercifully, the weather had been keeping Bartley Beasley away from the cottage.
Tara threw a tea bag at him. ‘Don’t be such a brat.’
It sailed past Fionn and landed in the fireplace.
‘Pick that up,’ she said.
‘No.’
‘Ugh. I can’t believe I’m going to be stuck here all day,’ she moaned. ‘It’s so unfair.’
‘Burn a heatwave candle and go stand in it then,’ said Fionn. ‘Preferably as far away from me as possible.’
‘I can’t burn any candles without Grandad’s supervision because someone wasted the end of Fadó Fadó.’ She cut her eyes at him. ‘Allegedly.’
Fionn scowled at her through the archway. ‘Next time I’ll take a leaf out of your book and just not tell you anything.’
The determined scrape of knife-on-bread wafted into the sitting room as Tara buttered her toast. A sigh whistled through her nose. ‘We’re not supposed to talk about the magic when we’re not on the island. Grandad told me not to. Mam doesn’t even talk about it to me, just so you know.’
Fionn wondered at how much effort it had taken his sister to skirt this close to an apology when her lips had never formed the word sorry in her life. ‘She never mentioned it to you? Not even after you got back?’
Tara set her knife down. ‘What would she have said? That the island we come from killed our dad? That the storms are magical and the magic swept him away from us. No, Fionny. You have to see it to believe it.’ She left her toast and wandered into the sitting room, where she plucked a snowflake candle from a shelf and twirled it in her fingers. ‘Grandad didn’t even tell me until I burned one of these and ended up in a blizzard. I almost got frostbite in one of my toes.’
Fionn regarded her with mounting suspicion. ‘Is this an … apology?’
Tara slid the candle back on to the shelf. ‘It’s a fact. You had to wait. Just like I had to. That’s how it’s supposed to go.’
‘Sounds like an apology to me,’ said Fionn.
‘It’s not.’
‘Does this mean I can come with you to the Sea Cave then?’ he asked hopefully. He hadn’t figured out what he would wish for now he knew he couldn’t have his dad, but he still knew for certain he had to thwart Bartley’s wish. Even if Fionn wasn’t brave enough to be the next Storm Keeper of Arranmore, Bartley would be a disaster.
‘No,’ said Tara firmly. ‘Bartley says you can’t come and it’s his thing, Fionny.’
‘You’re really going to let him make that wish, aren’t you?’ Fionn shook his head in disbelief. ‘You do realise the cave only grants one wish per Keeper? You’re going to let him use it – no, waste it – in order to become the Storm Keeper and probably destroy the island while he’s at it.’
‘Oh, don’t be so dramatic. Bartley’s not a bad person.’
‘If you believe that, you’re more blinded by his ice-cream-cone hair than I thought,’ said Fionn, leaving the room before the hostility between them spiked again.
In the hallway, he knocked on his grandfather’s door and then pressed his ear against it. ‘Grandad?’
‘What’s the password?’ came his voice from within.
‘I don’t know.’
His grandfather made a noise like a buzzer going off. ‘WRONG. Try again.’
Fionn pressed his forehead against the door. ‘Abracadabra?’
‘Blasphemy!’ cried his grandfather.
‘Arranmore?’
‘Getting warmer,’ came his grandfather’s muffled response. ‘But you’re still in Antarctica.’
Fionn sighed. ‘Is it Malachy-Boyle-Is-Very-Handsome?’
There was a long pause. ‘You may enter.’
Fionn closed the door behind him. Despite the fact the cottage was little bigger than a shoebox, he had never been inside his grandfather’s bedroom before. He was always careful about keeping his door closed. The room, now that Fionn was standing in the middle of it, was exactly as he had imagined – complete, organised chaos. It was small and square but he had still managed to cram a lot into it. The wardrobe was wide open, shirts and ti
es spilling out of the drawers, like they were trying to escape. There were books crammed into every corner, teetering in haphazard stacks, and underneath the floral curtains at the window, there was a wooden shelf, where a small selection of candles had been lined up like soldiers.
Curiosity crept up Fionn’s spine and tapped him on the shoulder.
At the other end of the cramped bedroom, his grandfather was half buried under a mountain of sheets and pillows, surrounded by crumpled tissues.
‘Do not worry, Fionn. This is not my deathbed, despite what it may look like. I merely have a terrible cold.’ Fionn could see that. The tip of his nose was red, and his voice, now that he could hear it properly, was unusually nasal. ‘And as you are no doubt aware, it is always significantly worse when a man catches a cold.’
‘So Mam says,’ said Fionn solemnly. Fionn was sorry to see his grandfather ill but he was relieved to have him back to his normal, chattering self. ‘Can I get you anything? Tea?’
His grandfather flopped back against his pillows. ‘Fionn, I thought you’d never ask.’
‘Do you want honey and lemon in it?’ Fionn had no idea whether they had these things in the kitchen cupboards.
‘Don’t offend me,’ said his grandfather. ‘I’ll have it the right way. One tea bag left in for exactly two and a half minutes and a thirty-millilitre splash of milk.’
Fionn edged closer to the bed, studying the lines in his grandfather’s face, the blue tinge that lingered around his lips.
His grandfather sighed. ‘At least one of us survived last night unscathed.’
‘If it helps, I am definitely emotionally scarred.’
His grandfather frowned. ‘You know, I can’t quite remember how it finished.’ He rubbed the spot between his eyebrows with his index finger, like he was trying to warm the memory up. ‘The adventure seems to have eclipsed the ending.’
Fionn looked at his feet, unsure whether he should remind his grandfather of the forgetting. ‘Well, it was certainly … eventful,’ he said instead. ‘I won’t be going for a dip in the sea for a long time, that’s for sure.’
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