The Lost Tide Warriors

by Catherine Doyle

  Fionn stalled in the archway to the kitchen.

  He had almost forgotten about Christmas.

  How could he have forgotten about Christmas?

  It was less than a week away. Back in Dublin, it used to be the highlight of his year, the one time when he could ask for a present and not feel bad about it. The one time when Tara made a special effort not to be extremely terrible. She was in the kitchen now, singing to herself as she placed lopsided gingerbread men on a baking tray.

  In the sitting room, Fionn’s grandfather was jamming an evergreen tree into the corner. Fionn’s mother had disappeared somewhere underneath it, her legs poking out as she attempted to screw the bottom of the trunk into a plastic stand.

  The tree was swaying back and forth, his grandfather adjusting his stance as his mother’s orders climbed up through the branches. ‘Straighter! No, left! Left. Hold! Hold it there, Malachy! Stop swaying! I can feel you swaying!’

  Fionn stood and watched his grandfather holding in his laughter as his mother finally emerged from the boughs of the tree with half of its pine needles in her hair. The two of them twirled the tree around to find the fullest angle, arguing over which side was the best one, and whether it should face the window or the sitting room. Fionn’s mother laughed as she flicked pine needles at his grandfather, who then pretended to shove them in his mouth and chew them up, hmm’ing things like ‘Surprisingly rustic’ and ‘Could do with a dollop of mustard’ while Tara giggled at them from the kitchen.

  ‘Sweetheart.’ Fionn’s mother’s face split into a grin. ‘I didn’t hear you come in. How long have you been standing there?’

  ‘Long enough to be skiving off work,’ said his grandfather, unfolding himself like a greeting card. His eyes were stormless and blue. ‘Tara says you went off looking for that shell today. We thought we’d prepare Christmas while you were gone. This place was getting awfully grim, and we thought it might cheer you up.’

  Fionn frowned. ‘When I failed to find it, you mean?’

  ‘Well, there was no harm in having a look,’ said his grandfather cheerfully. He lifted a cardboard box from the floor and plonked it on the couch. Dust spiralled from the surface as he raised the lid to reveal a cavalcade of Christmas lights and sparkly baubles, strips of tinsel and little wooden ornaments thrown haphazardly together. ‘Come and help me decorate this beast. Your mother has no eye for interiors.’

  Fionn’s mother glared at the back of his head as he rifled through the box. ‘If you would just let me renovate the place …’

  ‘As we have already discussed, Evie, I like my cottage walls draughty and partially exposed,’ he said, waving his hand behind him dismissively. ‘It adds a certain authenticity to the whole affair.’

  In the kitchen, Tara turned her attention on Fionn. ‘Well? Aren’t you going to tell us about your failed adventure?’

  ‘It wasn’t a failure,’ said Fionn, without meeting her eyes.

  ‘Then where’s the shell?’

  Fionn sighed. He would just have to do it now; he would tell her exactly what happened and then ask for her help. He would endure the horrible smugness of it, and then it would be over, and he could put it behind him.

  Their grandfather pulled a wooden figurine out of his box and jabbed it into the air with triumph. ‘Ta-da! Found it!’

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Fionn, seizing the brief distraction.

  I’ll do it. I will, I will, I will.

  ‘It’s the angel for the top of the tree,’ said his grandfather.

  ‘Hang on a second.’ Fionn’s mother took the figurine from his grandfather and rotated it in her hand. ‘Is this … you, Malachy?’

  It was indeed a wooden ornament of Malachy Boyle. The same blue eyes and bald head, the same horn-rimmed glasses sitting on the bridge of his large nose. It was even wearing his favourite blue jumper.

  Fionn’s grandfather threw his head back and laughed.

  ‘We are not putting you on the top of our Christmas tree!’ said Fionn’s mother. ‘It’s supposed to be an angel, or a star.’

  ‘Well, now it’s both.’

  She set the ornament down, and tried to chew the smile from the inside of her cheeks. ‘You are ridiculous.’

  ‘Where did that even come from?’ said Tara. ‘It looks like something out of a horror movie. It better not come alive in the night and try to kill us.’

  ‘Some of the island kids made it for me in a woodwork class about ten years ago,’ said Fionn’s grandfather, stroking it lovingly. ‘As a gift for their Storm Keeper. Just look at that craftsmanship. I mean, am I looking at a statue, or am I looking in a mirror? I can hardly tell.’

  Fionn’s mother rolled her eyes.

  Tara giggled.

  ‘Well,’ said Fionn, taking it from his grandfather, and fixing it in place over the highest branch. ‘You should put it on top of the tree then.’

  ‘All right,’ Fionn’s mother relented, ‘but we’re not having tinsel. It’s too garish.’

  ‘Booooo,’ said Malachy. ‘Who let the Grinch in?’

  ‘And we’re not eating the cake until Christmas Day,’ she added. ‘I still have to ice it.’

  ‘But why?’ he said, crestfallen.

  ‘Don’t be so heartless, Mam,’ said Tara. ‘Surely we can all have a little piece. To taste it.’

  ‘Just in case there’s arsenic in there,’ said Fionn’s grandfather. ‘You never know these days.’

  ‘Why would I put arsenic in my own Christmas cake, Malachy?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know. Why do you drink that God-awful Rooibos tea?’

  ‘You have got to stop nagging me about that,’ she muttered.

  ‘I can’t and I won’t. It’s far from posh tea you were raised, Evelyn McCauley, and I won’t let you forget it.’

  Fionn stood back from the tree and watched the little statue of his grandfather twirl round and round, tugged by an invisible breeze.

  His mother came to his side. ‘Don’t be too disappointed about this shell business, love. It was such a long shot to begin with.’

  Tara prodded him in the arm. ‘You hardly thought you’d actually track it down, did you?’

  ‘I did track it down,’ said Fionn. ‘In fact, I know exactly where it is.’

  Fionn’s mother blinked in surprise.

  ‘Really?’ said Tara sceptically.

  ‘Yes, really,’ said Fionn seriously.

  Fionn’s grandfather looked up from his decorating. ‘You mean you’ve seen it?’

  Fionn nodded. ‘Sam, Shelby and I burned the Saoirse candle today. We went back to the pirate invasion and followed Hughie Rua out of the cove. We saw him use the Tide Summoner. We heard it. And then we saw him drop it into the sea afterwards too.’

  ‘You did what?’ said Tara, aghast.

  Fionn’s mother pressed a hand to her collarbone. ‘Fionn, you could have died.’

  Fionn’s grandfather laid down the bauble he was holding. ‘Goodness.’

  Fionn turned to his sister and before he could lose his nerve, he forced the words out. ‘I know where the Tide Summoner is. More or less. I just … I need your help to get it.’

  THUMP, THUMP, THUMP!

  Fionn jumped. ‘Don’t answer it,’ he said, shooing them away from the door. ‘I think it’s Ivan.’

  ‘Ivan?’ said his grandfather with alarm.

  ‘Why would it be Ivan?’ said Fionn’s mother. ‘He’s not back on Arranmore. Is he?’

  Tara jabbed him in the ribs. ‘Fionn?’ she hissed. ‘What’s going on?’

  THUMP, THUMP, THUMP!

  This time, they all jumped.

  ‘I know you’re in there! I can hear the chatter!’ came a familiar voice through the door. ‘It’s Donal! Can you open the door?’

  Fionn’s mother swung the door open and Donal bustled into the cottage, his skin paler than his hair. ‘Come quickly,’ he said, grabbing Fionn by the shoulders. ‘There’s no more time to waste.’ He pulled him towards the open door. �
�They’re gathering down on the beach. Everything was quiet and then all of a sudden that last ferry arrived and they crawled out of the ground like insects!’ He caught a panicked breath and swallowed it down with a gulp. ‘They’ve ransacked the shop and upended the pub. Now they’re burning all the fishing boats.’

  Fionn was already re-buttoning his damp coat. ‘Let’s go!’

  Fionn’s mother was at the coat-rack in a flash, wrapping herself up. ‘Will you be OK here by yourself, Malachy?’

  ‘I’ll use the candles if anything crawls up this way,’ said Fionn’s grandfather. ‘Though let me tell you, it’ll be the last thing they do.’

  Tara was already stuffing her coat with candles. Their grandfather was helping her, shoving them in three at a time. ‘Don’t reveal the magic unless you’re in direct danger,’ he warned her. ‘Stick together. Buy more time. See what they want. If Fionn really has found the shell, then every hour from now counts. Be smart.’

  They bustled out on to the headland, following Donal into an unforgiving winter. Crystals hung from the trees, swaying precariously in the wind. The flowers were coated in frost, their coloured heads lost to the plummeting temperature.

  Fionn smelled the smoke before he saw the flames. The fishing boats were burning, all of them lined up along the dwindling tide, spitting dark fumes into the sky. The islanders were huddled on the roadway, their backs to Donal’s looted shop, to the post office and the ransacked pub with all its lights still on. On the bridge, Sam and his family were watching the commotion too.

  Niall and Alva spotted Fionn immediately, weaving through the panicked crowds until they reached him.

  ‘There’s no plan for this,’ said Niall, glancing over his shoulder. ‘Our final meeting isn’t until tomorrow. We’re not prepared.’

  ‘We need more time,’ said Alva, her breath stuttering. ‘We still have children here. And elderly.’

  ‘It’s all right, Alva,’ said Fionn’s mother, taking her by the arm and squeezing tight so her own hands wouldn’t shake. ‘Let’s just figure out what’s going on first.’

  Niall set his mouth in a hard line. ‘It seems clear to me, Evie. They have their commander here now. They’re following orders.’

  Fionn scanned the length of the strand, picking out Ivan just as he stepped away from his army and raised his hand in the air.

  The Soulstalkers fell deathly quiet.

  Up on the roadway, the islanders did too.

  ‘Dwellers of Arranmore, Descendants of Dagda,’ said Ivan in a loud, gleeful voice. ‘Your fate lies now in my hands. Your Storm Keeper has failed to protect you. Your island is no longer your own. The old world has returned to Arranmore, and it answers only to me.’

  Fionn ducked away from the others and pushed through a sea of shoulders until he stood at the very forefront of the islanders.

  Ivan took a step towards him. ‘Your island has buckled under the failure of your leader, and now he must pay the price.’

  Another step.

  ‘The winter solstice falls tomorrow night. At sunset, I will return to this beach. If you give me the Storm Keeper, I will spare you your lives – and those of your animals. That is my first and final offer. Refuse, and you will see those you love perish before your eyes. Choose to protect the person who has failed to protect you, and you will spend the rest of your days drowning in the blood of those you hold dearest.’

  There was an awful stretch of silence. Nobody moved. Nobody breathed. Not even Fionn.

  ‘Sundown tomorrow,’ Ivan repeated. ‘Your fate is one. The island will live or die together.’

  He raised his hands and clicked his fingers. Over his shoulder an almighty explosion ripped a hole in the sky. All the stars went out, the clouds turned to plumes of black and grey as both ferry boats went up in a torrent of flames. The sea bled red and orange as metal rained down on the strand.

  The islanders scattered, screaming as they covered their heads.

  The Soulstalkers roared with laughter. One unending robotic laugh that rattled all the way through Fionn’s bones.

  Tara tore through the chaos with a candle raised to the sky. ‘I’ll drown him!’ she screamed. ‘Let me try! Just let me try!’

  Fionn lunged for Tara. ‘No!’ he hissed, pulling her back. ‘It won’t be enough! Don’t show him our magic. We have to save it. We have to plan!’

  Tara was panting so hard, she could barely speak. ‘What plan? We don’t have one, Fionn!’

  ‘We do!’ he said, dragging her back, with the help of his mother. ‘If all goes well, we’ll have the shell by sundown tomorrow. We can blow it when all of his creepy minions are standing on that beach, and use the candles to keep them there – right where we want them. The Merrows will chew them up before they can even open their mouths to scream. It’s perfect, really.’

  ‘Listen to your brother,’ said Fionn’s mother urgently. ‘There’s a smarter way than this.’

  ‘Take my message and carry it throughout the island,’ Ivan called after them, the flames still rising at his back. ‘Spread word to those too afraid to leave their homes tonight, to the people who believe that looking away from the fire will stop it from burning. Find the measure of your courage – what are you willing to do to save yourself? Will you sacrifice the boy who has been sacrificing you? Perhaps, you won’t have to think too hard, after all. Tick-tock, Arranmore.’

  Tick-tock, Storm Keeper.

  Tick-tock, here’s the Reaper.

  Back at Tír na nÓg, Fionn’s grandfather listened to their account with uncharacteristic gravitas. ‘It’s clever, isn’t it?’ he muttered, pacing the length of the room. ‘He’s only just arrived and he’s sowing dissension in our ranks. Cutting off our options. Burning them. Blaming Fionn. He’s isolating the lad so he’ll be easier to pick off.’

  ‘I’ll wring his scrawny neck,’ fumed Tara.

  Fionn blinked at her.

  ‘What?’ she said, folding her arms. ‘Only I’m allowed to be mean to you.’

  Fionn’s mother had taken to her phone, her fingers flying across the screen so fast they turned blurry. ‘I’ve been on to Alva and Phil and the others,’ she said without looking up. ‘We’re meeting tomorrow in the school hall to arrange our plan of attack.’

  ‘Good,’ said Fionn’s grandfather. ‘That’s the island way.’

  ‘Yeah,’ echoed Tara, a tremor in her voice. ‘Good.’

  ‘They’ll want to hear from Fionn,’ said Fionn’s mother, her eyes still on her phone. ‘He’s our leader, after all.’

  Fionn ignored the hollowness in that word – leader. He was just as afraid as the rest of them, but he was determined not to show it. ‘Tara and I can get up at sunrise and go back to Hughie Rua’s Cove,’ he said, pacing the room too. ‘The shell is on the seabed, somewhere between the beach and Black Point Rock. I have a pretty good idea of where it went down. When we push the tide out, I should be able to find it. Then we can bring it to the island meeting and show everyone.’

  ‘Stage a false handover with Ivan on the beach at sundown,’ said his grandfather, picking up the thread of his plan.

  ‘Then blow the shell and drown the Soulstalkers,’ said Fionn.

  ‘And use the candles to stop the ones that try to get away!’ said Tara excitedly.

  ‘Excellent plan,’ said their grandfather approvingly. ‘You’d make a fantastic bank robber, Fionn.’

  ‘And if we don’t find the shell?’ said Fionn’s mother, looking up from her phone. ‘Just in case something goes wrong, what then?’

  Fionn stared at the candles in their midst, reams of unused wax simmering with secret magic. He thought of all the islanders who would have to risk their lives against Ivan’s promised barbarity and felt a sharp pain in his gut. ‘We’ll cross that bridge if we come to it.’

  They fell into silence, lost to their own thoughts – visions of what might unfold in the morning light, of the future fragile as an eggshell in their hands. When night fell in earnest, and the smok
y sky crept up over the headland and down the chimney at Tír na nÓg, Fionn’s mother suggested that they all set up camp in the living room. It would be a way to keep watch over each other, and Fionn most especially, until dawn broke. Until the lingering scent of the ferry-boat explosion finally passed over them. She laid out three sleeping bags on the sitting-room floor, piling them with enough pillows and blankets to reach halfway to the ceiling. Tara arranged a bunch of candles and lighters around them, just in case Ivan or his cronies decided to pay them a visit in the night.

  Fionn surrendered the couch to his mother, his grandfather insisting on sleeping on the floor, ‘like the good old days at American summer camps I never went to’. He made his bed beside the fire grate, the glowing embers casting a soft glow about his face. Fionn slept head-to-toe with Tara, her feet twitching perilously close to his nose, until he had scooted so far across the room his head ended up under the Christmas tree.

  Tara was the first to fall asleep, her nose-whistle breath whinnying in the silence. His mother dropped off soon after, flinging her arm down the side of the couch. Her breathing deepened, until she sounded like an elephant giving birth. Fionn lay in the dark and stared very hard at the ceiling.

  ‘Fionn?’ whispered his grandfather after a while.

  ‘Yeah?’ Fionn whispered back.

  ‘If I sterilise a kitchen knife, will you please cut my ears off?’

  Fionn smiled. ‘Only if you promise to cut mine off afterwards.’

  His grandfather chuckled.

  A few minutes later, he spoke again. ‘Are you afraid, lad?’

  ‘I’m always afraid,’ said Fionn. ‘Aren’t you?’

  ‘Not a bit. Let the Soulstalkers come. They’ll only live to regret it.’ His grandfather hmm’d under his breath. ‘Actually, they won’t be able to regret it because they will be dead.’