‘The sun’s almost up! Anyone could see you out here!’ He glanced over his shoulder to where an old woman in a grey shawl was pottering along the strand. ‘See,’ he hissed.
‘Don’t be so paranoid,’ said Tara, not bothering to look. ‘You’re always down here. You’re just afraid the islanders will see how much better than you I am at this. How the waves actually listen to me. And then they’ll start to wonder about your magic. Why they’ve never seen it. Oooh. The Storm Keeper’s sister – maybe they’ll say the island should have chosen me.’ Her lip curled in amusement, knowing she had touched a nerve. ‘Maybe they’re right.’
‘No,’ said Fionn quickly. ‘You’re just an idiot who’s going through our stash of weapons faster than a bag of skittles, because you’re incapable of thinking of anyone but yourself!’ He took a shaky breath. ‘If you didn’t have less than ten brain cells, you’d realise that.’
Tara stuck her chin out. ‘I have loads of brain cells. I always beat Grandad at Scrabble.’
‘Then prove it,’ said Fionn, glancing over his shoulder again. The old woman was gone. ‘Put it out.’
‘Fine.’ Tara crushed the remains of the candle in her fist and swung her free hand around until it was no longer facing the ocean but his face instead. In one icy deluge, the whirlpool leapt from the ocean and crashed over his head, soaking through his hat and pouring itself down his neck and into his clothes until streams of icy water gushed out of his trouser-legs, bleeding into puddles along the sand.
‘Happy now?’ she said, smirking at him.
Fionn glared at his sister, his words chattering violently through his teeth. ‘I wish, just once, we could bury you under a rock for all of eternity.’
‘Try it,’ she said, sashaying away. ‘I’d be back before the week was out.’
Chapter Two
THE ROTTEN WAVE
An hour later, Fionn lingered outside Donal’s corner shop, glowering into his hot chocolate. The sun had fought its way through the thicket of clouds, bringing an icy chill with it. It settled in the gaps between his toes and clung to the tip of his nose. All around him, fellow students milled by in scarves and hats and heavy winter coats, their bags thu-thumping against their backs as they chatted animatedly along the strand. It was the last day of school before the Christmas holidays and there was a giddiness in the air.
Fionn hardly noticed it; he was too busy staring at the marshmallow in his cup.
Do something. Anything.
He ground his teeth together, refusing to blink.
Give me a bubble. Just one little bubble.
His vision was starting to go funny.
Come on. Come on. Come on.
A horn sounded in the distance, making him jump. Fionn discarded his cup and rolled his neck around, blinking the tears from his eyes. Up ahead, the morning ferry was gliding into port.
He blinked again, this time in confusion. Not one ferry, but two – the second one gliding in the wake of the first.
Fionn frowned. In all the months he had lived on Arranmore, he had never seen one ferry so full, let alone two. He stepped out on to the strand and nearly crashed into the Aguero sisters. They divided around him, tossing identical veils of black hair in affront, as they made their way towards Fionn’s sister, who was lingering outside the school gates. Tara caught his eye, then tapped her wrist, as if to say, Hurry up, loser. You’re going to be late.
Fionn ignored her, turning instead in the opposite direction and tracking towards the pier. The boats were heaving with passengers. Most of them had spilled out on to the decks, where they stood shoulder to shoulder, like tightly packed sardines. When the second ferry horn blasted, they turned as one, suddenly standing to attention. There was something eerily familiar about it all – this strange sea of faces, moving silently across the water, each one marked by wide, unblinking eyes.
Soulstalkers.
Fionn stared in silent horror as the first boat docked. A wave rolled out from under it, swelling and frothing as it galloped towards the beach.
It brought a shoal of rotting fish with it. There were so many that Fionn could hear them splatting against the sand from where he stood up on the strand. He could even see their fleshy insides, their gloopy eyes and tarnished scales piling up and up and up, with every towering wave that came after.
Down on the beach, someone screamed. Douglas Beasley tore out of the post office with a parcel under his arm and Donal appeared in the doorway to his shop, his hair floating about his head like a cloud. Up by the school, teenagers discarded their conversations and craned their necks in curiosity.
The rotten waves kept coming, dead fish filling the air with a putrid, clinging stink.
Fionn clapped his sleeve over his mouth to keep from gagging, but he could do nothing about the accompanying panic. It rose up in his chest, pounding its fists against his heart until he felt like he couldn’t breathe.
She had finally done it. Somehow, Morrigan had called her followers home, and they had brought the shadow of death with them.
The thunder of nearby footsteps interrupted his rising hysteria. It came with his name, thrown up into the air like a football. ‘OI! FIONN!’
Fionn snapped his head up to find his best (and only) island friend furiously sprinting towards him.
This was not usually the way of Sam Patton. Of the two of them, Sam was the unflappable one. He had seen so much more of the world than Fionn and was used to a less conventional life. It was what had drawn Fionn to him in the first place. That and the fact that Sam, despite growing up in London, was one of the original five families of Arranmore. He had all but announced as much when he first alighted on Fionn in September, emerging from a gaggle of zombie-tired teenagers and stalking across the schoolyard with the confidence of a celebrity. ‘Storm Keeper!’ He had scanned Fionn up and down, as though making sure of it. ‘You’re a bit scrawnier than I expected but you do have a certain look about you. You remind me of my great-grandmother.’
‘Sam Patton,’ he had announced then, sticking out a leather-gloved hand. ‘Great-grandson of the one and only Maggie. She was a Storm Keeper too. I’ve been waiting to meet you all summer.’
Sam was several inches shorter than Fionn, but his sense of ease made him seem ten feet tall. He had big brown eyes, brown skin, and curly hair. It bounced along his forehead now, as he pelted along the strand, a flute case tucked under his left arm, the other flailing around him like a windmill. He skidded to a stop. ‘Look at the size of those waves!’ he panted, before slapping his free hand over his mouth. ‘Ugh, that smell. It’s getting worse.’
The waves were still piling on top of each other, crashing and foaming as they painted the shoreline silver. ‘Where do you think they’re coming from?’ asked Sam, through his fingers.
‘Them,’ said Fionn, gesturing at the pier. ‘It looks like Morrigan’s minions have finally found her.’
Sam turned on the heel of his boot. ‘Do you mean those passengers are –’
‘Soulstalkers,’ said Fionn. ‘Can’t you tell?’
Sam narrowed his eyes in suspicion. The first ferry was releasing its passengers out on to the island. They scuttled across the pier like crabs, men and women dressed in scarves and coats and hats and suits, all moving in the same direction, one after another after another. ‘They don’t blink,’ he said, with a shudder. ‘They just sort of stare.’
‘I told you something was coming.’ Fionn’s insides were twisting and twisting. ‘I’ve been saying it for weeks now.’
Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock.
Morrigan hadn’t been bluffing; she’d been gloating.
Sam shuffled uncomfortably. ‘Is this really an I-told-you-so moment?’
‘I suppose not.’ Fionn swung his schoolbag around and pulled out his notebook. ‘Come on. We don’t have much time. Let’s get out of here before the beach fills up.’ He tucked it under his arm and gestured for Sam to follow as he stalked off up the strand and right past the school ga
tes.
They left the bell pealing into the sky behind them.
‘Ms Cannon’s bringing mince pies in today,’ said Sam, looking forlornly over his shoulder as he hurried to keep up with Fionn’s determined strides. ‘They’re my favourite.’
Fionn passed the notebook to him. ‘If you help me save the island from oblivion, I’ll make you a batch myself,’ he promised.
‘I’m holding you to that,’ said Sam, slowing down to open the notebook. ‘And I want gingerbread men too. With buttons.’
‘Fine. Just read, please.’
On the first page, Fionn had numbered and annotated the five Gifts of Arranmore in his messy scrawl. Sam read them aloud as they walked.
1.The Storm Keeper of Arranmore: to wield the elements in Dagda’s name. Aka me. See also: useless.
2.The Sea Cave (earth): for that which is out of reach. Used that one on Tara already. V. ungrateful.
3.The Whispering Tree (fire): for that which is yet to come. Probably should sort out the present before I go snooping around the future.
4.Aonbharr the Winged Horse (wind): for danger that cannot be outrun. Might get in a bit of trouble if I fly away from the island by myself and leave it to die?
5.The Merrows (water): for invaders that may come. This looks like the only option that can help us.
After a moment of contemplation, both boys trudging up the headland in silence, Sam slammed the notebook shut. ‘Right then,’ he said, adjusting the lapels of his blue pea coat. ‘The Merrows it is.’
Fionn didn’t miss the quiver in his friend’s voice.
Merrows. Fionn had heard a dozen stories of the fin-tailed, blue-skinned army that patrolled the deep waters of Arranmore. According to Fionn’s mother, in the evenings, when lips were loosened, talk in the pubs would often turn to the sea creatures and their fabled barbarism, their shark-toothed mouths. There would be whisperings of sightings along the coast, mistaken seals and friendly dolphins re-embroidered with new details, the locals surrendering their tales like counterfeit coins. Fionn swore he had seen one once, buried in the folds of the ocean. He had felt something in his chest, a thread of magic going taut between them, but she was gone before he reached her.
‘Is it a terrible idea?’ he asked now.
‘Not necessarily,’ Sam reasoned. ‘They’d certainly be helpful in the present … situation. Terrifying and hair-raising and guaranteed to give us nightmares for years, but definitely helpful. There is one small problem though …’
‘We have no clue how to find them?’ guessed Fionn.
‘Pretty much,’ said Sam, with a shrug.
Fionn set his jaw. He had been anticipating this. ‘I think I know where we can start.’
Chapter Three
THE SORCERER’S SHELL
Fionn led Sam all the way up the headland, where they slipped past Tír na nÓg, Fionn’s grandfather’s cottage, and continued north. The sea faded at their backs and the trees welcomed them into their bosom, the evergreens bending their branches back and sprinkling pine needles into Fionn’s hood.
After a while, they passed into the untamed heartland of Arranmore, and found themselves approaching the edge of a lake. It squatted stagnantly beneath the island hills, their silver crests bunched together like a crumpled duvet.
‘Here we are,’ said Fionn triumphantly.
‘Hmm,’ said Sam, staring sceptically at the lake. It was the exact colour of soapy dishwater. ‘If I’m honest, I was expecting a slightly better plan.’
‘Cowan’s Lake is where Dagda made the very first merrow,’ said Fionn, pointing somewhat unnecessarily at the wide expanse of water. ‘It’s an island legend.’
‘Trust me, I know all about this place,’ said Sam, setting his schoolbag down on a rock, and laying his flute case gently on top. ‘My sister pushed me in last winter. I definitely got frostbite in my baby finger, but Mum says it’s always been a bit stubby and that it’s not OK to sue your own family members. Plus, Una’s fifteen, so I’d be suing my parents, and what’s the point of that? They’re stretched thin with the kitchen renovation and Dad’s not had a great year creatively,’ he said, making air-quotes. ‘He’s only written four poems, and they’re all about our cat. Anyway, what I’m trying to say is, this lake is freezing.’
‘But it’s also magical,’ said Fionn. ‘Grandad says when Dagda made the first merrow, the lake was so full of raw magic that it lit up with every colour imaginable.’
‘That’s why the fish all look so stylish,’ said Sam with a grin. ‘They got their rainbow scales from Dagda.’
‘And then he just knelt in the water and pulled out the merrow, like she had been under there all along waiting for him,’ Fionn went on, shaking his head in disbelief. What power Dagda must have had to craft a creature from nothing but water. ‘Lír, he called her. It means “of the sea”.’
‘Yeah …’ said Sam slowly. ‘And then Dagda dumped our good friend Lír in the Atlantic Ocean and she swam away from Arranmore to make more of herself in the undersea. That all happened over a thousand years ago …’ He raised an eyebrow with perfect precision. ‘You’re not expecting to find another one hiding in here, are you?’
Fionn dropped his schoolbag on to the grass with a ceremonious thud. ‘I don’t know,’ he said truthfully. ‘I thought it might be worth a look.’
He didn’t surrender the second morsel of truth – that this was the best and, crucially, only plan he had come up with in all these months of defunct magic.
They peered over the waters of Cowan’s Lake. Unlike Sam, Fionn had never visited the lake before, though he knew it well enough from his mother’s stories. It was the setting of rare summer days where she picnicked with her family as a child, flew kites and threw rugby balls, cannonballed and penguin-dived, long before her brothers moved to Chicago and forgot her. It was the place she and Fionn’s father stole away to when they were teenagers, taking secret strolls in the reedy mulch, their school uniforms bunched up around their knees.
It was in this spot where, years later, Fionn’s father had got down on one knee with his grandmother’s ruby ring and asked his mother to marry him. It was the Arranmore of their wedding photos, Fionn’s mother’s dress whipped about her like a floating meringue, his father’s eyes as blue as the lake at his back.
‘No offence, but if there was an ancient sea barbarian hiding in this lake, I think someone would have noticed it by now,’ said Sam, interrupting his reverie. ‘I reckon we’d have better luck in the ocean.’
‘They don’t come when I stand on the shore and call for them,’ said Fionn with a frustrated sigh. ‘I’ve tried and they don’t answer. They’re so …’
‘Shy?’ said Sam. ‘Self-involved?’
‘Negligent.’
Yet Fionn refused to believe the Merrows were gone for good. For his magic to be useless was one thing, but for the other gifts of Arranmore to desert him was quite another. He would not admit defeat so easily. ‘Grandad says sometimes the lake shows you visions if you’re patient.’ He dropped to his hunkers. ‘He says it remembers things. Magical things.’
‘Yeah, like Storm Keepers,’ said Sam, with a trill of excitement. He knelt down beside Fionn. ‘Two summers ago, I saw Ferdia the Dolphin Rider and Patrick the Story Weaver in the same day.’ He fisted his fingers in the damp grass. ‘You should button your coat properly. Maybe fix your hair. It might be recording you right now.’
‘Patrick’s my mam’s favourite Storm Keeper,’ said Fionn. ‘He founded the Arranmore library.’
‘Mine’s Lorcan the Wise, or maybe Maggie the Wave Sweeper. The best legend is definitely the one with the Fin Whale.’ Sam grinned. ‘They’re both Pattons, obviously.’
Fionn glanced sidelong at his friend. ‘What about Bridget the Cunning?’
Sam recoiled. ‘Don’t be daft. She’s a Beasley!’
Fionn chuckled to himself as he bent over the lake.
‘My dad thinks Róisín, First and Fearless, was a Beasley, you know.
Can you imagine? The original Storm Keeper. A Beasley! All raven hair and emerald eyes,’ said Sam dreamily. ‘He’s written loads of poems about her.’
‘Yeah,’ said Fionn, a little distractedly. He was searching the lake for a different pair of eyes. A wide, yellow gaze, to be exact. Not a Storm Keeper, but a merrow hidden somewhere in the ancient ripples. Anything that might point him in the right direction. ‘Róisín’s my grandad’s favourite too.’
The lake was lapping against the tip of his trainers, but there was no sign of anyone in the grey water.
‘Nothing here but memories, mate,’ said Sam, after a while. ‘I don’t think we’re going to find our merrow.’
‘I suppose it was a long shot.’ Fionn traced his fingers in the icy water. His hand went numb immediately, but his chest grew warm. His magic was pricking its ears up. Just below the surface, streaks of colour shimmered in and out, the bellies of colourful fish turned up in greeting.
‘Look,’ gasped Sam. ‘The rainbow trout never come to the surface. They must like you!’
Fionn’s magic flared in recognition of Dagda’s fingerprints – here, still, after so much time had passed.
He watched the glowing fins until they shifted out of focus and he caught sight of himself: ashen skin and red-rimmed eyes. The water flickered, his reflection winking in and out, and suddenly there was a different face shimmering in the lake. It was pale as a winter sky, and dwarfed in an unruly bright red mane. Fionn was seized by the fleeting fear that it was Ivan coming up through the depths of time. But it couldn’t be – there was no beard, or crawling black tattoos, just a short, round nose and a wide, curving mouth.
‘It’s Hughie Rua, the pirate slayer!’ said Sam giddily. ‘We have a painting of him at home! He’s one of yours. A McCauley, like your mum! Must be why he’s come up.’
Fionn stared at the red-haired Storm Keeper as he opened his wide mouth and laughed with his teeth and his tongue and his tonsils, his shoulders moving in time with the ripples.
The Lost Tide Warriors Page 2