The Storm Keeper's Island

by Catherine Doyle

  Fionn couldn’t believe his eyes. He had raced across the island to save Tara from the schemes of this follically gifted Voldemort, and here she sat, lecturing Fionn on basic nutrition as if she hadn’t once tasted her coconut shampoo because it smelled so delicious. And also, as if this place would sell prawn cocktail flavoured crisps. ‘I thought you were going to the Sea Cave,’ said Fionn.

  ‘Ssssh!’ said Tara. ‘Grandad will hear you!’

  ‘The tide wouldn’t go out,’ said Shelby, through a mouthful of Starburst. ‘It was too high to see anything and there were all these birds getting in the way, so we gave up and got treats from the shop so we could eat our feelings instead.’

  ‘So that’s why you weren’t at the lighthouse,’ muttered Fionn.

  He regretted the words the second they slipped out. He wished he could stuff them back in and chew them into nothingness.

  Bartley spun around. ‘Following us, were you?’

  Tara set her phone down. ‘Oh my God. Were you spying on us?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Fionn, surprising himself. ‘Obviously.’

  Bartley’s grin nearly split his face in two. ‘That’s so embarrassing.’

  ‘So’s your hair,’ said Fionn, lightning fast.

  ‘What’s got into you?’ Tara looked so like their mother when her eyebrows were pulled close together like that. Her eyes were the same dark brown, but she wore them differently – with anger and impatience.

  ‘What’s your wish going to be, Bartley?’ Fionn demanded. ‘I know it’s something to do with my family.’

  Bartley leered at him. ‘Met my gran, have you, Boyle?’

  ‘Yeah. She’s terrible. What’s your wish?’

  ‘No, she’s not,’ said Shelby defensively. ‘She just has a very different … vision for Arranmore. And she makes really delicious gluten-free cookies, which equate to a very passable normal cookie.’

  ‘Why do you care about Bartley’s wish all of a sudden?’ said Tara. ‘You have no interest in the Irish Olympic Swim Team.’

  ‘That’s not his wish,’ said Fionn, his eyes still trained on Bartley. ‘It’s something to do with our family.’

  Tara turned on Bartley. ‘What’s he talking about?’

  ‘Actually, it’s something to do with my family,’ said Bartley, ignoring her. He snatched a thin gold candle from a shelf by the fireplace.

  Fionn marched after him. ‘Hey! That’s not yours! Put it back!’

  ‘No,’ said Bartley, holding it out of reach. ‘These are all mine! Or at least they will be soon. And you’d better believe I’m going to destroy every single one.’

  ‘Grandad!’ yelled Fionn, but Bartley was already at the front door.

  Tara was on her feet too. ‘Fionn! Don’t –’

  ‘Grandad! Bartley’s stealing from us!’

  ‘Bartley! Come back!’ said Shelby, but nobody was listening to anyone now.

  Fionn chased Bartley all the way out on to the headland. ‘Give that back!’

  Bartley whirled around, his eyes flashing with determination. ‘This one has my gran’s name on the label!’ He jabbed his finger into the candle. ‘Explain that!’

  ‘No!’

  ‘It’s hers!’

  ‘You’re not allowed to burn that!’ said Fionn, stalking closer.

  Bartley grabbed a lighter from his pocket and flicked it above the wick.

  ‘Stop!’ Fionn lunged at him, his fingers circling Bartley’s wrist as the flame whizzed to life.

  The island inhaled.

  The wind swept them up in its current. They were whooshed across the headland so fast Fionn had to gasp air into his lungs to breathe.

  ‘Let go of me!’ yelled Bartley.

  ‘No!’ shouted Fionn, gripping him like a handcuff. ‘Blow it out! We don’t know what’s in it!’

  ‘No way, idiot!’ Bartley was jumping like a gazelle, nearly tripping over himself with excitement, as he tried to outrun Fionn. ‘My gran is in here somewhere!’

  ‘There might be other things in here too!’ panted Fionn. He tried to match him stride for stride, but his fear had tossed a lasso around his neck and Morrigan’s icy fingertips were tugging on the end. ‘This is dangerous!’

  ‘Then let go of me and go home, coward!’ Bartley was still leaping through the long grass, whooping and laughing, as the island peeled over them.

  He couldn’t leave Bartley Beasley unaccompanied in one of his grandfather’s candles. What if he never came back? Or worse, what if he came back even smugger than before?

  What exactly did this candle know about Elizabeth Beasley?

  An old storm was rising. Thick grey clouds loomed over them, spitting static into the air.

  Bartley stopped running. ‘Let go of me,’ he said, bending at the waist. ‘I think I’m going to vomit.’

  ‘Good.’ Fionn used his free hand to yank the candle out of his grip.

  ‘Hey!’ Bartley grabbed Fionn’s sleeve before he could pull away. ‘Give that back!’

  Fionn brandished the candle above them. ‘If you think I trust you with anything belonging to my grandad, then you’re an idiot.’

  Bartley was too weak to argue. He circled Fionn’s wrist, his fingers still trembling from his wind-sickness. ‘Fine.’

  At least now Fionn had control of the memory. He could blow it out at the first sniff of danger …

  And if the worst came to the worst, Morrigan could devour Bartley’s soul first.

  They started walking again, an errant breeze guiding them through rolling plains of grass as the air grew thick with mist.

  Soon they found themselves in a meadow of wild flowers. The stalks reached all the way up to their noses, curving around the field in rows that spiralled towards the centre.

  Bartley bent the head of a purple flower towards him and sniffed. ‘It’s lavender.’

  ‘Now is not the time to make soap,’ said Fionn.

  ‘Obviously. It means the Whispering Tree is nearby.’ He took another whiff for good measure. ‘That must be where we’re going.’

  The stalks were swaying back and forth, beckoning them into the maze.

  ‘What makes you so sure?’

  Bartley released the sprig of lavender and it sprang back into line, like a soldier. ‘Because the location of the Whispering Tree is ever-changing. You know you’re nearby when you find the maze of lavender,’ said Bartley, in an unusually high-pitched voice. At least his information made him more bearable to be around, if only very, very slightly. ‘Then you just have to follow it!’

  ‘Oh. Cool.’

  ‘You really don’t know anything, do you?’

  ‘I know you’re socially incompetent,’ said Fionn.

  Bartley pulled him into the maze, his chin raised to the heaving sky. ‘I don’t waste my energy on losers.’

  ‘Then how do you feed yourself?’ said Fionn, striding after him.

  They followed the wild flowers, sweeping inwards with every spiral until the maze tightened around them. They had to turn sideways then, the flowers brushing their cheeks as the thunder growled like a lion.

  At the centre of the maze, they stood on either side of a small dark hole in the earth.

  ‘What now?’ asked Fionn, glancing at the candle in his fist before peering into the infinite blackness.

  Bartley looked around uncertainly. ‘I think we have to jump into the hole.’

  ‘You can still die in these memories, you know.’

  ‘The path to the tree is different every time. This must be the one my gran had to take. Otherwise, why would a candle with her name on it lead us here?’

  There was only one place to go now. For the first time since they had been pulled into this layer, Fionn was reassured that they were holding on to each other. ‘All right.’

  ‘Don’t let go, Boyle.’

  ‘Are you afraid I’ll hurl you into oblivion?’

  He watched with satisfaction as Bartley bit back his insult. ‘Only slightly.’

 
‘Well, don’t worry. I’m not a Beasley.’

  ‘To your eternal regret. On three?’

  Fionn nodded. ‘One. Two. Three.’

  They jumped together, their screams rising up in perfect harmony as they plummeted into the earth. It lasted all of six seconds, both boys free-falling through the ancient layers of Arranmore until they emerged from the hole the right way up, their stomachs flipping as they shot out of the earth like rockets.

  They landed in a heap of tangled limbs, back in the same field of lavender. This time, there was no maze. The stalks were shorter, brushing against their knees and arranged as wild flowers should be – completely haphazardly. The storm clouds were back, only now they were glittering around the edges.

  They got to their feet.

  On the other side of the meadow, an ancient oak tree climbed out of the earth. It was prouder and taller than any tree Fionn had ever seen before. Most of its branches wound into the sky, like the gnarled arms of a victorious warrior, while some reached down to the earth like they were searching for something in the soil. The trunk was impossibly thick, and twisting in so many directions it looked as though a hundred faces had been carved into the bark.

  ‘Cool,’ Fionn and Bartley chorused.

  Some things you had to agree on. Nemeses or not.

  On the ground, in front of the tree, two teenagers stood side by side.

  One of the teenagers was Elizabeth Beasley.

  The other was Malachy Boyle.

  He might have been decades younger with a full head of brown hair but Fionn recognised the slant of his grandfather’s shoulders, the way he leaned a little more on his left leg, the profile of his nose as he turned to say something to Elizabeth.

  They pressed their palms against the trunk.

  The sky ignited.

  Fionn and Bartley jumped, their shoulders slamming together as a bolt of lightning whipped down from the clouds and struck the tree right in its centre.

  Malachy and Elizabeth leapt back as a long, dark fissure cracked the trunk in two.

  The tree was set alight, the fire ripping through the bark and exploding along the branches until every part of it was glowing a bright, brilliant gold.

  ‘This is way cooler in the flesh!’ said Bartley, and for a precious, fleeting moment, both of them forgot their enmity and watched the burning tree in matching states of wonder.

  The branches swayed back and forth, shaking their leaves loose. Pockets of flame dripped on to the grass until Malachy and Elizabeth were enclosed inside a circle of golden light.

  Fionn couldn’t tear his eyes away. ‘Are they OK?’

  ‘Of course they’re OK, you moron. They’re still alive in the present, aren’t they?’

  ‘I’m this close to kicking you out,’ warned Fionn.

  The oak tree was whispering. It was a loud, hissing noise that rustled in the wind and vibrated in the earth. They crept closer, craning to hear above the whip and crackle of flame. ‘Sssspeak or be sssspoken to …’

  ‘This is the part where your grandfather steals the gift,’ said Bartley sourly. The excitement had faded, the adventure of discovery replaced with the very real resentment of their families’ history. ‘My gran said it all happened in a flash.’

  Up ahead, Elizabeth Beasley cleared her throat, her reedy voice arcing across the meadow as she said, ‘The island storm has returned. Maggie Patton’s time is coming to an end. I want to know if I am going to be the next Storm Keeper of Arranmore.’

  For a long moment, the tree was silent. Elizabeth grew impatient, drumming her fingers across the bark, her sighs growing longer and noisier.

  Then Malachy Boyle fell to his knees and started trembling. His eyes were shut, his face tipped back to the burning tree, while the shadow of its flames crawled across his skin. His body twitched and lurched, and Elizabeth started screaming.

  ‘What’s happening to him?’ said Fionn in horror.

  ‘What’s happening to him,’ mimicked Bartley. ‘He’s stealing the gift from right under her nose!’

  ‘Malachy! Open your eyes!’ yelled Elizabeth. ‘It’s me! Say it’s supposed to be me! You don’t even want it!’

  Fionn and Bartley inched closer, through blackened leaves and wild flowers that tipped their heads to the earth in reverie.

  ‘There hadn’t been a Beasley Storm Keeper on the island for nine generations,’ said Bartley. ‘Malachy knew it was time for a Beasley heir but he didn’t care. He took the gift from my family all those years ago and now it’s time for me to bring it back!’

  It started to rain. Big, fat drops hurtled to the earth, like bullets.

  Fionn barely noticed. He couldn’t tear his eyes from his grandfather, who was still writhing on the ground like a snake. It looked like his spine was breaking. He made a mental note never to ask this tree anything.

  ‘Why do you want it so badly anyway?’ asked Fionn. Elizabeth Beasley was stomping up and down, screaming at the tree, like it had just murdered her dog. Fionn could feel a whisper of that same desperation in Bartley as he watched her. ‘I mean, do you really care that much about the candles?’

  Bartley turned on Fionn. His face blocked out the tree, the flames crowning his head until it looked like his hair was on fire. ‘You really don’t know anything, do you, Boyle?’ he sneered. ‘The Storm Keeper doesn’t just make weather candles. The Storm Keeper controls the elements.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The island pours its magic inside you. You have all the gifts at your fingertips. You have the island’s power at your fingertips!’

  Fionn stared at Bartley for a long time, the crackle of fire filling up the silence while rain trickled down their faces. This version of Malachy Boyle made no sense to him. He couldn’t picture his grandfather away from his workbench, his dusty shelves and pots of wax. He couldn’t even begin to imagine him standing in the ocean as Dagda had done, calling the elements to him, pushing the sea, corralling the wind … How would he even do it?

  How does he make the candles? said a little voice inside his head. How does he put the weather in wax? Isn’t that just as impossible?

  ‘Why do you think everyone in Arranmore respects Malachy so much?’ said Bartley, spitting raindrops from his mouth. ‘Do you really think it’s because he spends all his time making stuffy old candles full of useless rain showers and stupid sunsets?’ He didn’t wait for Fionn to answer. ‘Malachy helps the islanders grow crops. He keeps their animals healthy. He calms the tides for the fishermen.’ He smirked then. ‘He can’t stop this storm from coming though.’

  Fionn shook his head in disbelief. ‘That doesn’t make sense.’

  Bartley rolled his eyes so hard the irises disappeared. ‘What doesn’t make sense to you, Boyle? The Sea Cave, for that which is out of reach. Earth,’ he growled. ‘The Whispering Tree, for that which is yet to come. Fire.’ He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder in proof. ‘The Merrows, for invaders that may come. Water.’ He had raised his hand between them and was counting off his fingers. ‘Aonbharr, the Winged Horse, for danger that cannot be outrun. Wind.’ He took a shuddering breath. ‘And the Storm Keeper. To wield the elements in Dagda’s name!’

  To wield.

  Not to record. But to wield.

  To lead.

  ‘I think I would know if my grandfather was that powerful,’ Fionn said uncertainly.

  Bartley arched his eyebrow. ‘Would you?’

  ‘Why would he hide it?’ Fionn shot back, not feeling so sure now.

  ‘Because Malachy Boyle is a small-minded old man who’s afraid of the past,’ said Bartley, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. Fionn could almost hear his grandmother’s voice coming out of his stupid pinched mouth. ‘Do you realise how much better life would be if we stopped hiding Dagda’s magic? If we stepped out from behind the scenes for once?’ The more Bartley talked, the brighter his crown of flames burned and the wilder his eyes became. He jabbed his finger in the direction of the Whispering Tree. ‘T
hink of all the things I could do. I’d be a king. And not just here, but outside Arranmore too. People would love me! The whole world would know the name Beasley. We wouldn’t have to be on the sidelines any more, standing by and watching while the Boyles squander our gift.’

  The more Bartley talked, the more he sounded like his grandmother. She had drilled the vision into him so deeply, he couldn’t see how ridiculous it made him seem.

  ‘You sound deranged,’ said Fionn, stepping away from him. And yet, he could imagine it too well. Bartley would make himself all-powerful and people like Alva Cannon and Donal would have to obey him. He would make them miserable, all in the name of forgotten Beasley glory. There were the wider implications too – the secret blown wide open for the whole world to see. Morrigan’s followers returning in droves, searching for their forgotten souls.

  ‘The magic isn’t meant for showing off,’ said Fionn. ‘It’s meant for protecting the island! There’s an evil sorceress buried here!’

  Bartley rolled his eyes. ‘Morrigan hasn’t so much as moved in hundreds of years! The past is dead and buried. The Beasleys are the future and Ivan is helping me make sure of that!’

  ‘Ivan?’ said Fionn. ‘You don’t even know him!’

  ‘He’s a long-lost cousin,’ said Bartley defensively.

  ‘More like a long-lost liar. He looks nothing like any of you. And I’ve never heard that accent before either!’

  ‘You’re just jealous because he’s on my side,’ challenged Bartley. ‘He showed us his family tree.’

  Fionn pulled at his hair. ‘That doesn’t mean he is who he says he is! What if he’s not? What if he’s a Soulstalker?’

  Bartley snorted. ‘You’re more paranoid than your grandad, Boyle.’

  ‘And you’re more stupid than I thought,’ Fionn shot back. ‘Which is really saying something.’

  ‘If Ivan isn’t a Beasley then why did he tell me where the Sea Cave is?’

  Fionn gaped at Bartley.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said smugly. ‘He’s been studying this place his entire life. Only took him a couple of days to figure it out. Now all I have to do is get to it.’

  ‘If he really is a descendant, why doesn’t he just take the wish for himself?’