The Lost Tide Warriors

by Catherine Doyle

  Fionn’s mother filled up the doorway, like a spectre. ‘Leave my family alone, you leery little creep!’ With a candle in her left hand and her free palm facing out, she ripped a rose bush clean out of the earth and sent it spiralling at Ivan.

  He leapt backwards, bringing his hands to his face.

  Fionn’s grandfather wheezed a chuckle. ‘Nice one, Evie.’

  Fionn’s mother gritted her teeth as she grappled with another rose bush. The branches creaked and then went limp, their roots dug tightly in the frosty earth. She staggered backwards, the candle falling from her fist.

  ‘Let me guess,’ said Ivan, as he sauntered towards her. ‘Over your dead body, right?’

  Fionn charged through the doorway and ran at Ivan. They went down hard on the grass, kicking and punching each other. Fionn tasted blood on his tongue and felt himself fill up with it. His teeth were chattering in his mouth, his magic thrumming hot inside his veins. He arched his back and tried to kick out at Ivan as he tightened his grip on Fionn’s throat.

  The ground thumped, the island’s heartbeat as fast as his own. The earth vaulted upwards, like something was trying to burst out. Ivan was thrown skywards. He landed on his pile of Soulstalkers with a bone-cracking thud. He sat up, bleary-eyed, the Tide Summoner clutched to his chest.

  The earth thumped as Fionn stalked towards him. Ivan struggled to his feet and backed away from Fionn, beckoning to his fallen comrades. ‘Get up, you fools. Move! Quick!’

  There was fear clouding the Soulstalker’s eyes, not of Fionn but of what was coming up the headland behind him. Fionn glanced over his shoulder to find a small crowd marching up the hill. Sam was leading the way, swinging his flute like a battleaxe. Behind him, his father was carrying his illegal hunting rifle, and his mother was spinning what looked like a metal curtain pole. Niall Cannon had come too, carrying a battered hurling stick. Tom Rowan followed up the rear with his pitchfork.

  It was by no means an army.

  But it was enough to chase the worn-out Soulstalkers away.

  They stumbled over each other in retreat. Ivan glared at Fionn over his shoulder, angry spittle foaming in his beard. ‘When the sun sets, this island is mine, Storm Keeper!’

  With the Tide Summoner held hostage in his grasp, he turned on his heel and bolted.

  Chapter Twenty

  THE END OF TIME

  The wind carried the dead rose bushes over the cliff and tossed them into the sea. In their absence, the winter sun streamed in through the broken windows at Tír na nÓg, banishing the shadows from its corners. While his family slept, Fionn and the other islanders plucked the broken candles from the floor. The Soulstalkers had destroyed most of them, cracked their spines and crushed the wax. They tidied the casualties away; old storms and shattered sunsets, falling skies and weeping rainbows – irretrievably broken. Gone forever now.

  ‘There’s less than four hundred left,’ said Sam, who had set about counting them in the sitting room. ‘Three hundred and eighty-seven, to be exact.’

  Niall, who was fixing the Christmas tree, stuck his head out from between the branches. ‘That’s over one hundred shy of the island’s population.’

  ‘Not if you don’t include the non-descendants. Not to mention the elderly and the young,’ said Sam’s mother, who had set her curtain pole aside to wipe down the walls, which were marred by bloody fingerprints and dark burn marks. ‘There’ll be enough for those who can use them.’

  ‘Just enough,’ heaved Sam’s father, as he and Tom hoisted the kitchen table right-side up.

  Fionn sighed. It would be enough for one last stand.

  Which might not be enough at all.

  With Niall’s help, he culled the snapped branches on the Christmas tree and mended the string of blinking lights. He cleared the broken baubles from its feet and rearranged those that had rolled away in the scuffle.

  Tom removed the headless Santa Claus from the hallway, dragged it outside and wedged it in the garden shed, while Sam arranged the salvaged candles in a sprawling pile on the couch.

  Little by little, they erased the Soulstalkers from Tír na nÓg. But Fionn couldn’t erase the memory of the Tide Summoner carted off in Ivan’s greedy hands, their greatest weapon come and gone in the same morning. What a fool he’d been – arrogant and thoughtless and impetuous, a poor imitation of Hughie Rua. He should have been more careful. He should have protected Shelby in that ocean. He should never have become Storm Keeper in the first place.

  What was the island thinking?

  When the others had gone, with the promise of meeting again shortly in the school hall, and the cottage had been restored to a glimmer of its former self, Fionn resettled the Storm Keeper ornament atop the tree. It twirled slowly, watching him with its little hollow eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said quietly. ‘I know I’m useless.’

  The Keeper only twirled, turning its gaze to the world outside.

  Fionn wandered into the kitchen and collapsed in a chair. The island meeting would soon be upon them, and he had nothing to show for it. He would have to tell all the islanders the truth – that the Tide Summoner was lost, and their supply of candles hopelessly dwindled. Who would stand with him now?

  After a while, Fionn’s grandfather stirred from his nap and wandered into the kitchen. He sat on the other side of the table, drumming a steady rhythm against the splintered wood while Fionn catalogued the cuts and bruises on his face. The silence stretched out, the sound of crashing waves filtering through the broken window and settling around them until it felt like they were bobbing together on an endless ocean.

  It was Fionn who broke the silence. ‘Ivan is Morrigan’s brother.’

  His grandfather hmm’d. ‘Well, that explains the sense of entitlement.’

  ‘There are two more brothers buried in Black Point Rock,’ added Fionn. ‘He was more than happy to tell me about them.’

  ‘Well,’ said his grandfather distantly. ‘Who doesn’t love a good reveal?’

  ‘Aren’t you scared?’ Fionn blinked at him. ‘Ivan has the Tide Summoner and two brothers in his back pocket. Do you realise what this means? What we’re facing now?’

  His grandfather sighed. ‘There is a more pressing matter than Morrigan’s family reunion, I’m afraid.’ He rolled his shoulders back, took a deep breath and spoke the words Fionn had been dreading all winter. ‘My candle has almost run out.’ He gestured through the archway into the sitting room, where a flame flickered weakly from the glass trough on the mantelpiece. ‘I would like you to help me remake it into something less … unwieldy.’

  Fionn stared through the archway at the candle, as his world began to spin. There was an aching fullness gathering in the base of his throat. A twin ache behind his eyes.

  ‘I’d like to do it now, if we can,’ said his grandfather gently. ‘Is that all right?’

  ‘Fine,’ said Fionn, in a hollow voice. ‘Let’s get it over with it then.’

  They crossed into the little sitting room, stood at either end of the mantelpiece and lifted the candle. The trough was heavy – weighted not by the meagre puddle of wax inside but the glass that bordered it. They carried it across the sitting room and down the little hallway, where Fionn’s grandfather pushed through the back door. They settled it on the workbench and stood over the flame.

  The wax made a thin coat of blue paint on the glass bottom, most of it turned to liquid by the candle’s heat. Fionn imagined tipping over the edge of the trough and pouring himself in, using his blood and his magic and his heart and his soul to squeeze more time from this place. More impossibility.

  ‘There’s so little of it left,’ he said. ‘I could have sworn there was almost double this last night.’

  His grandfather rummaged underneath the workbench and set a new candle mould between them. ‘Time is funny here,’ he said, rolling the stalk of a new wick between his fingers. ‘It crawls. It flies. There’s no predicting it.’

  ‘Time is cruel here,’ said
Fionn bitterly.

  His grandfather flicked the silver disc until it pinged. Then he stuck it to the bottom of the mould. ‘This candle has been an impossible, imperfect gift. And that’s how we must look at it.’

  Fionn sat down and pressed his fists against his eyes. ‘But why can’t we just be angry? Doesn’t that feel much more satisfying?’

  ‘Because gratitude for what we have been gifted is the antidote to the grief we feel when we must give it back.’ His grandfather unfurled the burner flame from underneath the workbench and turned it on. ‘Don’t you think that would make an excellent fridge magnet?’

  ‘No,’ said Fionn sulkily.

  His grandfather chuckled. ‘Well, in any case, we are not yet out of time.’ He tapped the side of the trough, his fingernails click-clacking along the glass. ‘I bled enough to make this candle, and believe me when I tell you, lad, I intend to use every last drop of it.’

  Fionn folded his hands on the bench. There was a robin perched on the garden shed, chirping happily at them. He glared at it. ‘Shut up.’

  The robin puffed its little red breast up and trilled louder.

  ‘Ugh.’

  ‘Shush,’ said his grandfather. ‘Don’t you know they spy for Santa?’

  Fionn rolled his eyes.

  ‘Are you ready then, lad?’ he said more seriously.

  ‘Yeah. I’m ready.’

  ‘Quick as you can. Let’s go.’ His grandfather leaned over the trough and blew the candle out.

  The workbench shook. A thin curl of smoke rose up into the sky, and Fionn swore the breeze stopped jostling the bare branches.

  His grandfather slumped on the stool. ‘What … what time is it?’

  ‘It’s about half eleven.’ Fionn got to his feet. ‘Can you help me lift this, please? I need to heat the rest of the wax in the trough.’

  His grandfather knitted his brows together. ‘Why?’

  ‘We’re making a new candle,’ said Fionn.

  Fionn’s grandfather got to his feet and lifted the other end of the trough. ‘It’s awful heavy, Cormac. Can’t you just melt new wax?’

  ‘This is special wax,’ said Fionn. ‘Just hold it steady, please. It will be done soon.’

  They suspended the trough above the burner, moving it back and forth above the blue flame until the wax inside turned runny and smooth.

  ‘What are we doing?’ His grandfather peered into the trough. ‘What is all this?’

  ‘We’re making a new candle,’ said Fionn. ‘A smaller one.’

  ‘Where’s your mother? I should probably get down to the boats before lunch.’

  ‘It won’t be lunch for a while yet. We’re almost finished now.’

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘About half eleven.’

  ‘Is your mother inside?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Fionn. ‘Can you hold your side up, while I tip the wax into the new mould?’

  His grandfather frowned. ‘I should check on the boats. I want to be back in time for lunch.’

  Fionn pulled the used wick from the glass bottom and set it aside. Then he tilted the trough and carefully poured the remaining wax into the new mould, making sure he saved every single drop. It was no bigger than a pint glass, the wick white as winter snow.

  Then the trough was empty. They set it down. A small part of Fionn wanted to smash it into pieces. He rotated the new mould as the wax dried inside it.

  Fionn’s grandfather collapsed on to his stool. ‘What is that?’

  ‘It’s time,’ said Fionn quietly. ‘The end of time.’

  ‘Time,’ his grandfather repeated on a breath.

  The wax shimmered, the faintest scent of summer seas rising from it, the final minutes of a blazing sunset. His grandfather sniffed. ‘Oh,’ he said, drawing back. He looked at Fionn, the crevices in his forehead deepening. ‘Cormac?’ he said uncertainly.

  Fionn held a breath.

  ‘No.’ His grandfather shook his head. ‘But Cormac is dead.’ He thumped his chest. ‘My poor boy. My boy is dead.’

  Fionn prised the new candle from the mould. ‘Hang on.’

  ‘And Winnie,’ said his grandfather, his hands coming to his face. ‘Oh, my darling Winnie. My Winnie has left me.’

  Fionn lit the new candle with shaking fingers. The flame climbed, pouring the ocean into the garden, and sprinkling the blue back into his grandfather’s eyes.

  Fionn set it down between them.

  Come on, come on, come on.

  His grandfather groaned. ‘I don’t …’ He trailed off. ‘I’m not sure what … I’m confused.’

  ‘I know,’ said Fionn. ‘It’s OK. I promise.’

  ‘I’m afraid,’ he whispered.

  Fionn squeezed his eyes shut. ‘I know you are, Grandad.’

  I’m afraid too.

  He opened his eyes and glared at the candle. He couldn’t tell what he wanted more – to stretch its magic out and live inside it, not moving forward, not moving at all. Or to speed time up, so the pain could come all at once and drown him in a waterfall.

  His grandfather touched his fingers against the wax. ‘Fionn,’ he sighed. ‘Fionn.’

  Fionn nodded. ‘Yeah. Fionn.’

  His grandfather wiped the tears from his cheeks. ‘You did it, lad. Well done. It looks perfectly fine, doesn’t it?’

  The candle looked perfectly small.

  ‘I can’t believe that’s all that’s left,’ he said, lifting it to inspect it. ‘After all this time.’

  ‘At least it’s done,’ said Fionn, shoving his stool away from the table, from this moment, and from everything it meant for his family.

  ‘Fionn,’ his grandfather called after him. ‘Wait.’

  Fionn froze with his hand against the back door.

  ‘There’s one more thing …’

  Fionn turned on the heel of his shoe. ‘What … one thing?’

  His grandfather was tracing the lip of the empty trough.

  Fionn drifted back to the bench. ‘Whatever it is, just say it.’

  His grandfather pushed his spectacles up his nose and looked him straight in the eyes. ‘I made this candle with my blood and my magic, Fionn. I’m sure you can see how it was almost an impossibility. But I made a plea to the island to give me more time. Just a little more time.’

  Fionn felt like he was standing on the edge of a cliff, and any second, his grandfather was going to push him over it.

  ‘Because you see, lad, you were a little late getting here,’ he went on. ‘And, well, I was losing bits and pieces of myself while I waited.’ His smile was faint. ‘It was important I was here when you arrived, so that I could help you in whatever way you needed me to …’

  ‘What do you mean I was “late”?’ said Fionn.

  His grandfather glanced at the cottage, the ghost of a thought passing over his face. ‘I suppose that doesn’t matter much now, lad. You came in the end.’

  In the end.

  Fionn lowered himself to the workbench, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

  ‘The island answered my plea,’ his grandfather went on. ‘It took my blood and my magic and it mixed them together to give me more time. Time with you. However …’

  ‘No,’ said Fionn, hearing it before he said it. ‘Please don’t.’

  ‘I made the bargain with my mind and my body.’ He glanced at the candle. ‘The strength from one side of me to feed the other. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?’

  Fionn swallowed. The truth had grown jagged teeth; it gnawed at him in the silence, tearing strips from his heart. ‘Please don’t say it,’ he whispered.

  ‘When the wax melts, my memories will fade for good. And my life will follow soon after.’ He stared at Fionn blankly, his mouth set into a hard line. It was as if he had been preparing for this moment his entire life, navigating the tightrope of his own impending doom with unnerving composure. ‘So you see, Fionn, it will soon be time for me to go. For good. The timing, I admit, is less than
ideal.’

  Fionn felt like he had swallowed a balloon. It burst open in his chest. ‘You’re going to leave me,’ he sobbed, and his whole body shook. ‘I’ll be all alone again.’

  ‘Oh, Fionn.’ His grandfather leaned across the workbench and took his hand in his. ‘You will be with your mother and Tara and Shelby and Sam. And I will be with Winnie and Cormac. What could be more wonderful than that?’

  ‘If you were with me,’ said Fionn, with a burst of wet anger. ‘If you stayed with me!’

  ‘But I’ll always be with you, Fionn, no matter where I am. Don’t you believe that?’

  Fionn eyed the candle. He hated the flame for its greediness, hated the wax for its paltriness. He curled his arms around his stomach. ‘I’m not ready,’ said Fionn. ‘I don’t want to say goodbye yet.’

  ‘Then we’ll say “see you later”,’ his grandfather said, shedding his melancholy as easily as a raincoat. ‘We mustn’t be sad.’

  It was like telling the sun not to shine or night not to fall. It was Fionn’s condition – a pendulum that swung ceaselessly, from fear to pain, and pain to fear. ‘All I am is sad.’

  His grandfather lifted the candle from the workbench. ‘There is a time to weep, lad, but it is not this day,’ he said in a steady voice. ‘We have work to do and plans to hatch, and I’m afraid to say there’s no time to be sad about any of it right now. You’ll have to wait. Do you see this beautiful hunk of wax?’ He rotated the candle. ‘This is a gift and we’re going to use it. Time will not end when I do. The wind will not stop blowing and the world will not stop turning. The sun will set and the moon will rise. You will still have work to do, and places to go, and people to lead and people to love. It is up to us to fight for that right. It is up to us to reach out and grab that possibility before it’s taken away from us for good.’

  ‘What if I had never come here, Grandad? What if I had never woken her up?’

  His grandfather looked past him. ‘It’s hard to wonder about roads not taken, Fionn, but it is my belief that we couldn’t have stopped this by avoiding it. The island was weakening without you. I could feel it in my own veins, the waning of my magic. It would have left us, eventually, and then there would have been only darkness breathing through the earth. Morrigan was always going to wake up, Fionn.’