Fionn’s magic somersaulted inside him, the heat in his chest blazing a trail through his entire body. He plunged the rest of his arm into the water. The fire climbed up his throat. Another minute like this and he felt sure he could open his mouth and breathe it across the lake like a dragon.
‘Careful!’ warned Sam. ‘You might fall in.’
The water blinked, and a new reflection appeared. It was much wider than the first, painting itself all the way across the surface.
There was an almighty gasp. Fionn couldn’t tell whether it belonged to him or Sam, only that somewhere, in another world, Dagda was standing on the banks of the same lake. He was as tall as Fionn remembered, his snow-white hair cascading over his shoulders. By his feet an emerald glinted, its underside wedged into a gnarled wooden staff. In his arms he held a writhing blue body – webbed hands and webbed feet, a long neck slashed with gills and wide, yellow eyes rolling in their sockets.
‘Lír!’ Fionn plunged his other arm into the vision, until the lake tickled the underside of his chin.
Dagda laid the merrow down and bent over the water, his brow furrowing as he searched for something beneath the lake’s skin. He came close enough that Fionn could see the trouts’ glowing bodies reflected in his eyes, the thin coils in his cloudy beard.
The sorcerer peeled backwards, a look of triumph on his face, as he pulled something hard and shiny from the lake. He settled it in the palm of his hand, and from another world its glittering rims winked at Fionn. It was a conch shell. And it was steeped in magic. Fionn could taste it on the back of his tongue, sharp and zingy as a citrus fruit.
There was a sudden, sharp pull in his chest.
Mine.
He surged forward, grasping through the looking glass, as Dagda rolled back on his haunches and raised the shell to his lips. Fionn’s knees gave way, his weight tipping too far forward. Sam lunged for him and lost his balance, both boys yelping as they fell head first into the reflection, shattering it into a thousand bubbles.
They were yanked backwards, saved from full baptism by the hoods on their coats. Fionn coughed and a mouthful of lake-water trickled down his chin. Sam loosened the button around his neck and gasped at the air.
There was a new face glaring at them from the lake. They looked up over their shoulders to find an old woman standing on the bank behind them. Her fingers were still twined in their hoods. ‘You’re welcome,’ she said, releasing them.
Fionn’s hair was dripping down his face. The top half of his coat was stained four shades darker and the sleeves were welded to his skin. Dagda’s reflection was gone, along with every lick of magic that had set his bones on fire. He felt as cold and grey as the lake before him.
He sighed, empty again. ‘Thanks.’
The woman scowled at him. ‘You’re running out of time.’
Fionn and Sam exchanged a bewildered glance.
The old woman pointed skyward, to the weak sun. ‘The winter solstice casts night across the land like a shadow. When the light is weakest, dark magic is at its most powerful.’
Fionn rolled on to his feet. ‘What solstice?’ he asked warily. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Timing is everything.’ She was already moving away from them, towards the trees, her shawl pulled tight around her face. ‘There are no merrows here, only memory. And not the kind that might help you.’ Her last words drifted over her shoulder, carried on a harsh winter breeze. ‘Tick-tock, Storm Keeper.’
Fionn gaped after her as she slipped between the trees. ‘Who on earth was that?’
Sam pushed a sopping curl out of his eyes. ‘That was Rose, from over the hill,’ he said, coming to Fionn’s side. ‘She’s a bit cracked. Plays bridge with my nan on Sundays.’
Rose. Fionn was sure he had heard that name before, but he couldn’t catch the memory it belonged to. It was a firefly, flitting in a jarful of competing thoughts.
Timing is everything.
‘I need to go home and talk to my grandad,’ said Fionn.
Sam nodded thoughtfully. ‘Honestly, you probably should have done that first. It’s a lake, not the Bat-Signal. It was never going to solve this mess for us.’
‘Thanks for that,’ said Fionn sarcastically.
Sam only grinned at him, a dimple pressed into his right cheek. ‘You’re welcome.’
* * *
Fionn’s grandfather was sitting at the kitchen table when he slipped back into the cottage, damp from head to waist. ‘Well, well, well … If it isn’t Aquaman.’
Fionn eased the door closed behind him. ‘Please don’t tell Mam I didn’t go to school,’ he said, hopping from one foot to the other to warm up. ‘She’ll kill me.’
His grandfather raised his brows over the rim of his mug. ‘Calm down, Riverdance. I’m no snitch.’
‘Thanks,’ said Fionn, shrugging his sodden jacket off.
‘Were you out chasing dolphins?’
Fionn flung his schoolbag into the corner. ‘Merrows, actually. There’s been a … development.’
His grandfather set his mug down.
Fionn dropped into a kitchen chair, and told him everything that had already happened that morning, from the mass arrival of dead-eyed Soulstalkers right up to why ice crystals were now hanging from the ends of his hair. His grandfather listened with practised impassivity, a muscle feathering in his jaw when Fionn told him of Rose and her warning.
Timing is everything.
‘The winter solstice,’ his grandfather muttered. ‘That’s December the twenty-first. The longest night of the year.’
Fionn stiffened in his seat. ‘The twenty-first. But that’s only three days away!’
Tick-tock, crumbling rock.
Three days, watch the clock.
‘The countdown!’ Fionn leapt to his feet. ‘They’re going to bring her back, Grandad. That’s why they’re here. Now that Morrigan’s finally awake, they’re going to raise her on the winter solstice!’
Fionn’s grandfather dragged his hands across his face. ‘The winter solstice is a time of darkness and ritual. Morrigan’s magic will be strongest then.’ He shook his head ruefully. ‘You’re right, lad. It’s no accident that the Soulstalkers are here now.’
Fionn said nothing. He was waiting for a flicker of his grandfather’s trademark optimism, a wisecrack or a witty comment, even just a half-smile to ease the tension.
‘I’m sorry, lad. I should have predicted this.’ His grandfather closed his eyes and tipped his head back, releasing a sigh that seemed to go on and on and on. ‘I’m afraid you were right. We’re almost out of time.’
Chapter Four
THE BEACHED WHALE
Fionn’s grandfather was waiting in the sitting room when Fionn got out of the shower. He was wearing his brown winter coat and stripy green scarf, his favourite flat cap already settled on his head. He greeted Fionn with his most mischievous smile, as though their previous conversation had never happened.
Fionn was still towel-drying his hair. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Your mother will be home from the library soon. Hurry up and get dressed. I’ve had a genius idea while you were showering.’ Then he marched towards his bedroom with the purposefulness of a drill sergeant, clapping his hands as he went. ‘Chop-chop, lad! Time waits for no one.’ He chuckled under his breath, before adding, ‘Except me, of course.’
Fionn got dressed at lightning speed, hurrying into his grandfather’s room, only to find him nose-deep in his wardrobe.
‘Just a second, lad,’ he said, in a muffled voice. ‘I know it’s in here somewhere.’
His grandfather’s bedroom was as chaotic as ever. The wardrobe was wide open, with shirts falling from their hangers and ties spilling out of their drawers. His stacks of books had doubled in size since the last time Fionn had snooped around in there. The same floral curtains were pulled back in neat little loops, and beneath them, his grandfather’s private collection of candles were lined up like straggling soldiers – the few an
d the special.
There were only four left now. With the absence of Record Low Tide 1959, which had seen Fionn nearly splattered on a rock during the summer, and Cormac, which had sent a fissure right through his heart, the shelf seemed particularly paltry. Beside Record High Tide 1983 was the star-sprinkled Perseid Meteor Shower. Next was Blood Moon, which was shaped like an orange and dyed a vivid, fire-engine red. The last candle was fluorescent green, winding itself into an intricate spiral, before ending in a pointed silver wick. Aurora Borealis. The Northern Lights.
Fionn picked it up and rolled it in his hands. His chest grew warm almost immediately, his cheeks prickling as his magic cracked an eye open. ‘This one must be full of magic,’ he muttered.
His grandfather turned from where he was rustling inside his wardrobe. ‘There isn’t a single candle in this cottage that I would keep from you, lad. Except that one.’
At Fionn’s look of confusion, he added, ‘That was the night your grandmother died.’
‘Oh,’ said Fionn, handing it straight back to him. ‘Sorry. I didn’t know.’
His grandfather traced the green spirals with his index finger, his wardrobe search momentarily forgotten. ‘The sky was brushed through with purples and greens so vivid it seemed like they were dancing along the Milky Way,’ he said quietly. ‘I came home late from the lifeboats and Winnie was outside in her chair, her beautiful face tipped back to the beautiful sky. It would have taken anyone’s breath away …’ He trailed off, staring too hard at the wax. ‘I thought she was sleeping.’
Fionn swallowed. ‘Oh,’ he said again quietly.
His grandfather raised his head. ‘When it’s my time to go, I’m going to burn this candle and find my way back to her.’ His smile was small, but there was a quiet kind of certainty behind it. ‘If the island allows me, I’ll sit beside her under that same shimmering sky and we’ll go together.’
Fionn remembered what his grandfather had once told him, fadó fadó – long, long ago. You can die in any layer of Arranmore. They’re all as real as each other.
His grandfather set the candle back on the shelf. ‘It wouldn’t be useful to you anyway, lad … It’s just the other half of this old man’s heart.’
‘It must be very big,’ said Fionn. ‘You could never tell any of it was missing.’
‘That’s because you’re distracted by my rugged good looks.’ He winked at Fionn over his shoulder, gathered all the strands of his grief and straightened up, until he suddenly seemed much taller than before. ‘Now come on, we didn’t come in here to wallow about things we can’t change. We came in here to solve a problem.’
He turned back to the wardrobe and dived in head first, flinging old shirts over his shoulder and whistling to himself as he rifled through shelf after shelf. Finally he removed a small shoebox from the back of his sock drawer and tipped its contents out. Nine candles, varying from deep blue to lilac grey, tumbled on to the duvet.
‘Just when I think I’ve seen them all,’ muttered Fionn. ‘This place sprouts more of them.’
‘Dolphin days, and the like!’ said his grandfather triumphantly. ‘These memories brought particular aquatic delights with them …’ He poked at the candles with his finger, rolling them around to check their labels. ‘I inherited most of them,’ he told Fionn. ‘Winnie and I used to burn them on your dad’s birthdays when he was a young lad. Cormac loved watching the dolphins … These ones I suppose he grew out of.’ He smiled sadly. ‘It’s such a shame when children grow up. They become so moody and serious.’
Fionn looked through the candles, his fingers drawn to a fat grey one, with deep, white ridges. He plucked it from the litter and raised it to his nose.
‘Ugh.’ It was surprisingly pungent – a smell and a taste both at once. There was a distinct whiff of fishiness – salmon and mackerel and trout soaked in acid and bile, all fermenting together in a cooking pot. Then came the blubber – oil-slicked and swollen with salt. ‘This one does not smell like a dolphin,’ said Fionn, without having the slightest idea what a dolphin smelled like.
His grandfather’s eyes lit up as he swiped it from him. ‘There it is!’
He held it up to the window, double-checking the label. ‘Míol Mór,’ he said, leaping to his feet and marching from the room. ‘Let’s get our skates on, lad.’
Fionn ran after him. ‘To where?’
‘To the day the whale washed up!’ His grandfather plucked a dry coat from the stand by the door and threw it at Fionn. ‘This candle contains the last known sighting of a merrow, Fionn. Muiris Beasley told anyone who would listen that he saw one watching them from the beach that day. Emily Patton wrote a short story about it years later and flogged it to The Times. Didn’t credit Muiris though. Big hullaballoo at the time,’ he said, striding out the door. ‘It was all my mother talked about for weeks. She used to say the Beasleys would bicker with their own reflections if they were left alone long enough. Then the Pattons would go away and write about it. Anyway, what do you say we get down to the beach and see if we can find that merrow?’
‘I’d say it’s the best plan we’ve got,’ said Fionn, slipping into his grandfather’s old coat and following him outside. They joined hands under the clear sky. The front door shut behind them and the gate flung itself open. Fionn’s grandfather held the candle out and Fionn grabbed a lighter from his pocket and flicked it open.
He stopped abruptly as common sense caught the tail of his excitement.
‘Wait,’ he said, his hand hovering above the candlewick. ‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’
Fionn wasn’t keen on plunging into the past by himself, but he had seen first-hand how dangerous it was to anchor his grandfather to a different memory – especially one that would come and go with the wind. ‘I mean, for you to come with me,’ he added awkwardly.
His grandfather stared at him. ‘Well, obviously not,’ he said, jabbing the wick into the flame. ‘But when has that ever kept me from an adventure?’
And just like that, the wind was at their backs, kissing their cheeks and tugging their sleeves. The island dissolved, and a new one rustled into being. Afternoon skies gave way to morning blush as the headland stretched out before them. They walked, and then they jogged, and then they ran, and Fionn remembered what an island spinning on a magical axis felt like when it whipped by you.
‘I’ve missed this,’ yelled Fionn’s grandfather, waving the candle back and forth at the changing sky. An endless sheet of sapphire blue snapped into place and a blazing sun climbed up its seam.
Fionn loosened the buttons on his coat as he ran. ‘I think we’re a bit overdressed though!’
The grass was emerald green again, and full of purple flowers – the same ones that had winked in and out at him during his first few days on the island. ‘Look!’ he said, as they disappeared under his feet and resprouted by the roadside, waving at him as they went by. ‘They’re saying hello!’
‘Forget-me-nots,’ said his grandfather, slowing to stroke one. It turned its face to him, its petals unfurling in plumes of violet. ‘They come and go as they please – just like us!’
Fionn bent down to do the same, but the flower ducked and then disappeared.
‘Tricksy little beggars.’ His grandfather chuckled. ‘You can tell why they were your grandmother’s favourite flower!’
The island was slowing down. Trees exploded with summer foliage, while thrushes swept down from the sky and chirped in greeting. Carts and horses clopped by, islanders in open shirts and shorts milling by them unsuspectingly.
The beach came upon them in a swell of activity. There was a crowd gathered down by the shore, women in cotton dresses and men in straw hats chatting animatedly along the strand. Children weaved in and out between them, laughing and skipping, while others pressed their faces to their mothers’ skirts, too afraid to look.
Fionn and his grandfather hopped over the wall. The wind came along, prodding them further into the memory.
This way. Over he
re.
They took a wide berth of the crowd, sloshing through the shallows in their socks and shoes, the warm water threading cockle shells into their laces. Seafoam climbed up Fionn’s ankles but his eyes were glued to the spectacle before them. Without the wall of shoulders and craning necks, it unfolded like something from a storybook. There, on the Arranmore strand, under a cloudless sky, a gigantic whale had beached itself along the waterline.
Fionn’s grandfather let out a low whistle. ‘Dagda’s beard! Look at the size of that thing.’
The thing was a marvel; a fully grown whale, bigger than the island’s largest lifeboat. The grey-black of its hide was slick with ocean spray, its tub-like mouth opened to reveal its fleshy insides. Fionn could have climbed right in, curled up on its pink tongue, and still had room to toss and turn.
Along the sand, the locals were sporting matching shades of wonder. The sheer mass of the whale had cowed them, and as they stood in animated curiosity, the creature let out a keening groan that shook the earth beneath their feet. The air from it wafted such a stink that Fionn had to pinch his nose closed. The onlookers peeled backwards, and a little girl at the front threw up on to the sand.
‘That’s your grandmother,’ said Fionn’s grandfather, smiling fondly at the swaying girl as she was carted away by protective parents.
Fionn tore his gaze from the beach as they circled the mammoth beast, daring to step where no one else would. ‘Poor thing.’ He reached out to trace its ridges. ‘I think he’s scared.’
‘Don’t touch him,’ warned his grandfather. ‘If you mess too much with the memory, the island will kick you out.’
‘But he’s frightened.’ There was something about this creature – ancient and indestructible, now stranded in its helplessness – that frayed the edges of Fionn’s heart.
The whale jerked its flipper; it flapped against the damp sand. Spurts of seawater misted from its blowhole, while the waves lapped uselessly at its underbelly. The tide was giving up on him.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Fionn, looking into his glassy eye. ‘We can’t help you.’
The Lost Tide Warriors Page 3