The Lost Tide Warriors

by Catherine Doyle

  ‘Terrifying,’ murmured Fionn’s mother.

  The Merrows circled the empty ocean, their tails shining like jewels in the moonlight.

  ‘I did that,’ said Shelby from where her legs dangled over the cliff-side. ‘I called them, and they came. For me.’

  Fionn knew what she was really saying.

  I belong.

  She was right.

  But what about him? What of this strange magic inside him? This thing that so rarely answered to him, that took even Morrigan by surprise? Far ahead, the jagged edges of Black Point Rock rose into the sky. The fissures were near invisible from here, the seas around them deceptively calm, but Fionn had heard the stone rupture, and knew those tombs were no longer sealed.

  ‘Fionn?’ Tara tapped Fionn on the shoulder. ‘Can you get up? It’s Grandad. There’s something wrong with him.’

  Fionn rolled on to his feet.

  ‘He won’t talk to any of us,’ said Tara, leading him across the grass. ‘I don’t think he knows who we are.’

  Fionn’s heart sank at the sight of his grandfather. He was sitting alone on the headland, cast in the moon’s spotlight. He had tucked his knees up to his chest and was holding his head in his hands. The last of his magic had finally deserted him.

  He had survived, only to die.

  ‘Say something to him,’ whispered Tara.

  Fionn dropped to his hunkers and placed a hand on his grandfather’s arm. He could hear the faint whistle as he took in breath. ‘Grandad? It’s me, Fionn.’

  His grandfather raised his head. There was a deep red gash along his cheek, and behind his cracked spectacles, his eyes were full of clouds. ‘I don’t know any Fionn.’

  Fionn’s mother joined them; her face was drawn, the crinkles around her mouth much deeper than before. ‘What about Cormac?’ she said softly. ‘Do you remember Cormac, Malachy?’

  Fionn’s grandfather settled his head into the cradle of his arms and stared at the grass between his knees. ‘I don’t know Cormac,’ he said in a muffled voice. ‘I don’t know anyone.’

  A fissure zigzagged through Fionn’s heart – a new lightning bolt in an old storm.

  Tara crouched down beside him. ‘He’s dying, isn’t he?’ she said, close to his ear.

  Fionn didn’t want to answer her.

  ‘Yes,’ he said eventually. ‘I think so.’

  ‘So … this is the end then?’ she whispered.

  ‘Yes,’ said Fionn.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Fionn turned on her. ‘Yes,’ he said angrily. ‘Open your eyes!’

  ‘Fionn,’ chastised their mother.

  Tara sniffed, and reached into her pocket. ‘Then I’m supposed to give you something,’ she said. ‘It’s from Rose. She was here earlier.’

  She opened her fist to reveal a candle. It was a perfect spiral, rendered in winding swirls of green and violet.

  Fionn stared at the wax as it rolled along his sister’s palm.

  ‘Do you know what it is, Fionn?’ asked his mother.

  He took the candle from Tara. It was warm against his skin, the wax gleaming with one last sprinkle of impossibility.

  Aurora Borealis.

  ‘Yes,’ he said quietly. ‘I know what it is.’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  AURORA BOREALIS

  ‘Can I borrow your lighter?’ asked Fionn.

  His mother patted her coat pockets. ‘I thought I had two,’ she said, frowning. ‘I must have given my last one to Niall.’

  ‘Sam took mine,’ said Tara, looking around her. ‘He’s over there with his parents.’

  Fionn’s mother turned on her heel. ‘I’ll find one,’ she said, marching away.

  Fionn stared at the candle with prickling eyes. Then at his grandfather, still frozen on the grass.

  A hand appeared above him, a silver lighter dangling from two fingers. ‘You can use mine.’

  It was Bartley. He looked worse than Fionn had ever seen him – his hair stuck up in every direction, as if he had been electrocuted. His eyes were red-wired, and his skin was paler than the moon watching over them.

  Fionn made no move to take the lighter. The last time he was this close to Bartley Beasley, he was getting choked and carted off by Soulstalkers. Now Morrigan had risen and his grandfather was dying.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be on the mainland with your gran by now?’

  ‘My family decided to stay,’ said Bartley stiffly. ‘My gran’s back at home.’

  ‘Licking her wounds then.’

  ‘Just take it,’ said Bartley, dropping the lighter on the grass.

  ‘Tell her she got what she wanted,’ said Fionn bitterly. ‘Her precious boat in exchange for the ruin of Arranmore. You might as well use it.’

  Bartley glared at him. ‘I didn’t know what she was up to, Boyle. I think that was pretty obvious.’

  ‘You let them take me.’

  ‘What else was I supposed to do?’ snapped Bartley. ‘Kick up a fuss and get dragged off with you?’

  ‘Coward,’ spat Fionn.

  ‘Fionn,’ said Tara. ‘Bartley’s the one who told us what happened. He followed Ivan here and then came back to tell Grandad. We wouldn’t have found you so fast if it wasn’t for him.’

  ‘Why is it that he’s always involved in our kidnappings?’ said Fionn pointedly. ‘Constantly tattling, but never rescuing.’

  ‘He tried to make it right,’ said Tara. ‘He’s here, isn’t he?’

  Fionn turned on her. ‘Morrigan is risen. Or did you miss that part?’

  ‘What a luxury it must be to have a family who believes in all the same things that you do,’ said Bartley, turning on his heel and stalking back across the grass to where Shelby was still sitting on the edge of the cliff, enamoured with her sea-ful of Merrows.

  Tara picked up the lighter. ‘There are worse people out there than Bartley, you know.’

  ‘You can have more than one enemy,’ said Fionn.

  ‘Not right now you can’t.’ She looked meaningfully at their grandfather. ‘You’re just choosing to be angry so you won’t have to be sad.’

  She was right. It was easier to be angry at Bartley than heartbroken over his grandfather.

  ‘Whatever,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Are you ready?’ she said, handing him the lighter. ‘We can go together.’

  Fionn passed the candle to Tara and wound his fingers in his grandfather’s hand. He let him do it, his grip limp as a dead fish. On the other side, Tara did the same.

  With a heavy heart, Fionn flicked the lighter open.

  Tara brought the wick to the flame, and Aurora Borealis lit up with a faint whoosh!

  They held on tight to their grandfather as the wind spun them into another layer. The islanders dissolved and Fionn imagined what they must look like – a grandfather and his grandchildren, melting away just the same. They huddled around the flame as the wind busied itself pulling layers through the skies and stitching new ones underneath their feet.

  The grass grew tall around their ankles. The sea shrank, and swallowed the Merrows, and the Sea Cave groaned as it put itself back together, rock by rock. The moon was smudged from the sky, the starless obsidian brushed to navy.

  Clouds churned around the edges, and the first luminous brushstroke shimmered into being – it was green as the island grass, green as a precious emerald. An owl hoo-hoo’d from a nearby tree, welcoming them to a very different Arranmore, where they sat alone on a deserted headland underneath a glowing sky.

  As though waking from a deep sleep, Fionn’s grandfather raised his head and blinked at Fionn. There was a moment of nothingness, and then his smile grew, the edges curling as his eyes turned a brilliant, blazing blue. ‘Hello, stranger.’

  ‘Hello, Grandad.’

  He turned to Tara, who was doing her very best not to cry. ‘You look a little glum, love.’

  ‘Just a bit,’ she sniffed.

  He turned back to Fionn, his gaze lingering on the ring of brui
ses around his throat. ‘And you look a little worse for wear, lad.’

  Fionn smiled weakly. ‘I’ve seen better days.’

  ‘I suppose I have too.’ His grandfather crossed his eyes at the crack in his spectacles. ‘Though I confess I can’t fully remember this one.’

  ‘That’s probably for the best,’ said Tara.

  Fionn could feel grief coming for him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, another clock was ticking.

  ‘Will you walk with us, Grandad?’ he said, rising to his feet.

  His grandfather looked at his hands entwined in theirs, noted the candle blazing in Tara’s fist. A shadow passed behind his eyes, gone as quickly as it came.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’ll walk with you.’

  They helped him stand up, his knees creaking in the silence. The breeze was soft against their backs, gently guiding them as they ambled onwards, three wanderers bathed in green light. Fionn had never witnessed a night so iridescent with magic. He had never felt quite so connected with the ancient power of this place, and yet it left an aching sadness in the deepest part of him.

  His grandfather seemed to be having the very same thought. ‘Phosphorescent skies,’ he said wistfully. ‘For ten years, I’ve dreamt of this night.’

  Fionn heard the words he didn’t say.

  I know this night.

  I know this end.

  He didn’t feel like replying. Neither, it seemed, did Tara.

  The moment was so perfect, Fionn was afraid he might shatter it with the truth of what they had left behind – what they would have to return to, without their grandfather to guide them. They walked a while in silence, the breeze frittering about their ankles. The owl followed overhead, its dappled wings gleaming turquoise underneath the Northern Lights.

  ‘What aching beauty,’ said Fionn’s grandfather in a faraway voice. ‘I think if I could do it all again, I would spend more time outside.’

  ‘You spent most of your life outdoors,’ said Tara.

  ‘Passing through it,’ he said, his head still tipped back. ‘The magic was all around me and I never really stopped to take it in.’

  Before long, they found themselves in the heartland of Arranmore. The grass grew wilder, the meadows laden with thick-headed purple flowers that swayed back and forth; saying hello, saying goodbye.

  The sky was purple too. It chased the green around the stars, soaked the Milky Way in glowing violet. The wind changed and Fionn felt those invisible hands against his chest.

  ‘Fionn?’ said Tara, at that same moment.

  They slowed to a stop.

  Their grandfather pulled his gaze from the sky. ‘What is it?’

  Fionn noticed the crack in his spectacles had been repaired. There was colour in his cheeks again, the skin soft and new where his cut had been. The lines had been smoothed from his forehead, and Fionn could see a light dusting of dark hair on the top of his head.

  He glanced at the candle. The wax was streaming over Tara’s fingers. ‘I don’t think we can go any further,’ he said. ‘I think this is where we’re supposed to leave you.’

  His grandfather frowned. ‘Oh.’

  Tara nodded at the ground. ‘Sorry, Grandad.’

  Fionn’s grief was in his throat now, making his tongue heavy in his mouth.

  ‘Well, of course you two can’t come with me,’ said his grandfather, rolling his shoulders back and shedding the skin of his melancholy. He cleared his throat gruffly. ‘That would be very silly indeed. You both have entire lives to lead.’

  Do we? thought Fionn.

  ‘You haven’t eaten a whole ice-cream cake for dinner or had a two-day-old pizza for breakfast yet,’ said his grandfather. ‘Nor have you bought a single turtle or bunny rabbit for no good reason.’

  ‘No,’ said Tara sadly.

  ‘You haven’t failed your driving test at least once.’

  ‘We’re too young to drive,’ said Fionn.

  ‘You haven’t driven a tractor all the way to Dublin, only to end up in Galway by accident.’

  ‘I wouldn’t do that,’ said Tara. ‘I’d use Google Maps.’

  ‘You haven’t fallen in love yet,’ said his grandfather, winking at Fionn.

  Fionn felt his cheeks burn. ‘Ew.’

  Tara giggled. ‘I have.’

  Fionn grimaced. ‘I might vomit.’

  ‘You haven’t written a terrible love poem for someone and then suffocated in your own embarrassment when their father finds it instead and reads it out at Sunday mass,’ their grandfather went on serenely. ‘You haven’t experienced the hellish poison that is airplane coffee.’

  ‘Should we?’ asked Tara.

  ‘Of course you should,’ he said, with such certainty Fionn added it immediately to the top of his bucket list. ‘You haven’t wandered into a St Patrick’s Day parade and ended up accidentally leading the procession.’

  ‘How did you even …?’ Fionn trailed off.

  ‘You haven’t known the immense joy of having a child who is exactly as perfect and handsome as you. And then grandchildren – oh, they are the real treasure,’ he said, smiling broadly. ‘For goodness sake, neither of you have ever been arrested.’

  ‘Well, erm, no,’ said Fionn.

  His grandfather peered at each of them over the bridge of his spectacles. ‘And do either of you know what income tax is?’

  They shook their heads.

  ‘Try to avoid that last one for as long as you can,’ he said gravely. ‘It withers the soul.’

  ‘OK,’ said Fionn.

  ‘We will,’ said Tara.

  The wind was picking up. The flame grew higher in warning.

  Fionn cleared his throat; he tried to pretend he wasn’t crying, but his cheeks were wet and his eyes were stinging.

  His grandfather’s cheeks were wet too. ‘Oh dear,’ he said quietly. ‘My eyes are leaking.’

  ‘Same,’ whispered Tara.

  Fionn hiccoughed. ‘Mine too.’

  ‘Must be the flowers.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Definitely.’

  Their grandfather’s smile began to wobble. ‘Am I still handsome though?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Tara quickly.

  ‘You’re always handsome,’ said Fionn.

  In fact, Fionn had never seen his grandfather look so handsome.

  ‘Are you two too old to hug your grandfather?’ he said, squeezing their hands. ‘Or can I have one for the road?’

  Fionn and Tara curled into their grandfather so fast they bumped heads. Tara flung her free arm around Fionn, the candle burning just above his shoulder, until they were all huddled together. Their grandfather laid his head on top of theirs. His jumper was scratchy against Fionn’s face, the thick blue threads mottled with sea-salt and adventure.

  The air grew warmer, the breeze wrapping its arms around them as grief seeped out of their hearts and made them weep. There were droplets on the wind, the distant cry of faraway gulls carried with it, and Fionn thought perhaps the island was weeping too.

  Their grandfather lifted his head first, his eyes shining behind his spectacles. He turned to Tara, and pressed a kiss into the crown of her head.

  ‘Goodbye, love,’ he murmured. ‘You’re a wonder.’

  Tara passed the candle to Fionn. He took it with his free hand, lurching as the wind cut through him. The memory held firm around them, like a bubble.

  ‘Goodbye, Grandad,’ sobbed Tara.

  ‘Be brave,’ he said, kissing her hand, and then releasing it. ‘And look after each other.’

  ‘Always.’

  The wind carried her away.

  Fionn’s grandfather turned to him then.

  Fionn’s bottom lip was quivering so badly, he couldn’t speak.

  His grandfather laid a heavy hand on his shoulder, his sadness dissolving for a fleeting moment. ‘Listen to me carefully, lad.’

  Fionn went very still as the candle flame thrashed in his fist.

  ‘Now that Morrigan
is risen, she will be much harder to defeat. It’s only a matter of time before her full power returns to her, and you can’t face that kind of darkness alone,’ he said, with unerring certainty. ‘Not with a thousand oceans of Merrows. Not with a hundred flying horses. That sort of magic has only one true match.’

  Fionn swallowed hard, searching for words and finding none.

  His grandfather pushed his spectacles up his nose. His skin was unlined, and his hair was full and dark on his head. The longer Fionn stared at him, the more he saw his father in his features; the more he saw himself. ‘It’s time to figure out your magic, lad. What you did back there to Ivan … that force that came out of you. You weren’t controlling the weather, Fionn. You were creating it.’

  ‘But I don’t know how I did that,’ said Fionn. ‘Or how to do it again.’

  ‘I believe there is someone here who can help you with that.’ Fionn saw the idea spark in his grandfather’s eyes – a flicker of light behind the blue. ‘The time has come to raise your own sorcerer, Fionn.’

  ‘But how?’ said Fionn, in barely more than a whisper.

  ‘Talk to Rose. If there’s anyone left on Arranmore that knows the ways of old, it’s her. For every dark spell, there is a light one just as strong, lad. If Morrigan can be raised, then so can Dagda. If you both stand together, she won’t stand a chance.’

  The wind blew a sudden gust between them.

  The candle was leaving turquoise bracelets around Fionn’s wrist.

  His grandfather pulled back from him, his face crumpling. ‘That’s all I can give you, I’m afraid. That’s the last of it, lad.’

  ‘It’s enough,’ said Fionn, as grief reared its ugly head. ‘You’ve done more than enough.’

  His grandfather smiled. ‘I’m proud of you, Fionn. Your islander’s soul. Your warrior’s heart. You’re the bravest of us all, lad, you’ll see.’

  Fionn felt like there was a dam inside him, and it was perilously close to breaking.

  ‘You just follow the wind, Grandad,’ he said, in a watery voice. ‘It will take you through those trees and down by the strand first. Then just track the headland back to Tír na nÓg. Back to Granny.’