The Storm Keeper's Island

by Catherine Doyle

His grandfather sat up and blew his nose extremely noisily until the awkwardness of the moment broke apart. ‘Ugh,’ he said, balling up the tissue. ‘Colds are so much worse when you have this much nose to contend with.’

  Fionn crossed his eyes so he could see his own nose, and then frowned at the reminder of its size. ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘Then again, a refined sense of smell is no less impressive than baking the best blueberry muffins this side of the Atlantic Ocean,’ his grandfather mused. ‘Or perfectly hitting all the notes in “Bohemian Rhapsody”.’

  ‘I have no idea what that is.’

  His grandfather regarded him with unconcealed horror.

  ‘I’ll get your tea,’ said Fionn, glancing at the shelf below the window. ‘And some toast too.’

  He left the room with curiosity sitting on his shoulder.

  His sister spent the afternoon stirring the biggest cooking pot in the cottage the way a witch would tend to her cauldron. ‘I’m making special soup,’ she told Fionn when he came to inspect her concoction. ‘It’s going to cure him. Just watch.’ The rain continued, tap-tapping on the window as Fionn whiled away the hours with the A to F encyclopedia, imagining himself in Camelot, as a knight at King Arthur’s Round Table.

  When he knocked on his grandfather’s door to tell him tea was ready, there was no answer. He eased it open and peeked around it. His grandfather was fast asleep, his breath snuffling out of him in little snores. Fionn tiptoed over to the bedside table to collect the plate from the toast he had delivered earlier. Then he crept across the room to study the shelf.

  The rain plinked against the windowpane, and Fionn felt very certain the island was watching him.

  There were six candles arranged in a neat little row.

  The first two were dyed in varying shades of blue: Record Low Tide 1959, Record High Tide 1982. The third, which was pitch black and punctured with a hundred glistening stars was called Perseid Meteor Shower. The fourth candle, Blood Moon, was round as a coin and deeper than crimson. The fifth candle wound upwards in a perfect spiral and was rendered in swirling brushstrokes of luminous green. It was called Aurora Borealis.

  The sixth candle was called Cormac.

  The plate shook in Fionn’s hand, the crumbs tumbling over the edge on to the floorboards.

  The candle looked as though it had been carved from the storm itself, plucked out of an angry sky and moulded into a column that bubbled along the sides, as though clouds were bursting from it. They were dark grey in the middle and purple around the edges. Along the top, the wax sloshed back and forth like waves, their swirls bleeding into a deep, fathomless blue. The wax was slashed through with a streak of silver that glittered unnaturally in the dimness.

  It’s just a memory, Fionn tried to tell himself. Even if it was pouring heat into his cheeks and making his lips tremble.

  His grandfather was snoring again. It was louder now, like a motorbike revving into gear.

  It’s not just a memory, said a different voice. It’s my dad!

  So take it!

  Fionn’s fingers hovered over the candle. The wind rattled the windowpane and his grandfather rolled over, his snore slipping into a sneeze that shook him out of his slumber.

  Fionn sprang to his feet as he surrendered to wakefulness, one lazy eyelid at a time.

  ‘Th-there’s soup,’ Fionn said quickly. ‘Tara made it. It’s her own recipe. She’s been brewing it for hours. It’s bright orange. I wouldn’t recommend it, to be honest, but she seems certain it will cure you.’ He smiled, but it wobbled at the corners. His cheeks were on fire, the guilt of what he had almost done making his words tumble out of him. ‘I came in here to wake you and I knocked but you didn’t hear me so I thought I’d just come in and take the plate sorry if I scared you anyway I just wanted to tell you about the soup do you want some soup?’

  ‘Oh, how lovely,’ his grandfather yawned. ‘I was just dreaming about soup. Your grandmother used to make the most delicious chicken broth.’

  ‘Lower your expectations.’

  His grandfather smacked his lips together. ‘Put me down for a hearty bowl of Soupe du Tara.’

  Fionn was making every effort not to glance at the candles. ‘Right. OK. I’ll bring you some then.’

  His grandfather propped himself on to his elbows. ‘I’ll get up,’ he said, swinging his legs out from under the sheets and flexing his toes. ‘I could do with a walk. But only a kitchen-sized one.’

  Fionn bolted from the room before he could say something incriminating. The windowpanes stopped rattling and the rain tired itself into a light drizzle that splattered silent droplets against the glass.

  The three of them ate together. After one miserable spoonful, where Fionn’s life flashed briefly before his eyes, he politely declined the soup and made a sandwich instead. Tara made a point of drinking all her soup and his, while their grandfather treated them to an unsolicited seven-minute a cappella version of ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’. Afterwards, Tara wandered off to the bedroom to watch YouTubers playing pranks on each other on her phone.

  Once she was out of earshot, his grandfather thumped his chest like he was dying, wheezing as he pushed the bowl away from him.

  ‘Not to your liking then?’ said Fionn lightly.

  ‘Fionn, I would have refused this during the famine.’

  ‘Can you detect the secret ingredient?’

  His grandfather peered into the orange liquid. ‘… Is it despair?’

  ‘Close,’ said Fionn, taking a bite of his crust. ‘The correct answer is vinegar.’

  ‘Carrots and vinegar.’ The words came out sharp and thorny, like curses. ‘I thought she liked us.’

  ‘She tolerates us. And I did tell you she was the worst.’

  After covertly disposing of his soup, Fionn’s grandfather took himself back to bed. Fionn curled up in the armchair by the fireplace with the encyclopedia on his lap and nothing but the rain for company. As darkness fell, his thoughts turned to his father, and the candles hidden away in his grandfather’s bedroom.

  Perhaps there was another way to get that wish.

  Chapter Sixteen

  THE CANDLE THEFT

  That night the rain bucketed down with a vengeance. It lasted for several days, lashing from dawn until dusk and smearing the island into an endless grey blur. The monsoon sealed them all inside the little cottage together, Fionn’s grandfather sinking into a renewed frenzy of candle-making while ravens gathered on their roof, one by one by one, until they could hear them shrieking down the chimney.

  By the end of the week, Fionn had read three boring sports autobiographies and one about a Russian man named Rasputin while Tara had baked eight separate batches of terrible cookies. She seemed to be suffering from cabin fever the most, due in no small part to what Fionn suspected was withdrawal from one Bartholomew Bouffant-barnet Beasley, a boy who evidently did not love her more than he loved his hair frizz-free.

  Mercifully, the following Tuesday brought blue skies and warm weather. Fionn woke later than usual, forgetting, as he had done every day before then, the voice that had crooned to him in the darkness. He lay in bed, stretching and yawning, while sparrows chirped happily outside his window. He had almost decided it was going to be a pleasant day when Bartley Beasley’s haw haw haw seeped into his bedroom like a noxious gas.

  Fionn sighed at his ceiling.

  He spent an unusual amount of time getting ready, doubling his shower routine and brushing his teeth three times in the hope that when he finally emerged, Bartley would have magically disappeared. Tara had been almost friendly to him over the last few days and Fionn was unsure whether she would continue being tolerable now that their freedom had been fully restored.

  When he finally emerged, Fionn was surprised (in the worst way) to find Bartley reclining in his grandfather’s armchair, his gangly legs propped up against the fireplace. He was playing his music so loudly Fionn could hear it through his headphones from across the room.

&nb
sp; ‘Oi!’ He waved his hand in front of Bartley’s face. ‘HELLO!’

  Bartley snapped his eyes open, his foot nearly knocking into the candle on the mantelpiece.

  ‘Careful!’ said Fionn, swatting at his feet. ‘Don’t put that out!’

  Bartley lowered his legs and kicked them out in front of him, nicking Fionn’s ankle. He turned down the music blaring from his iPhone. ‘Why?’ he leered. ‘What’s it doing to us?’

  ‘Mind your own business,’ said Fionn. A preferable response to the truth which would have been I have no idea.

  Bartley stretched his arms over his head and rolled his neck around. ‘I haven’t seen you since you threw me out of my gran’s memory. It took me an hour to walk home, you know. I didn’t have phone service for half of it.’

  ‘So you had to be alone with your own thoughts? That is terrifying.’

  ‘I didn’t even have the luxury of silence with all those shrieking crows around.’

  ‘Ravens, you mean,’ said Fionn uncomfortably.

  Bartley swatted his hand about. ‘Whatever.’

  ‘Where’s Tara?’

  Bartley jerked his chin to the right. ‘She’s on the phone to your mum telling her how awful you’ve been.’

  ‘My mam called?’

  Fionn didn’t wait for Bartley’s answer. He swung the front door open and went outside in search of his sister. The sky was cloudless and blue, a warm sun hanging overhead. Tara was out on the headland, tracking up and down with her phone pressed to her ear.

  Fionn jogged towards her, waving his hands in the air to get her attention. She kept walking, only glancing at him once before abruptly hanging up the phone and shoving it back into her pocket.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he said when he reached her. ‘Why did you hang up?’

  ‘She had to go,’ said Tara. ‘She only gets a certain amount of time every week.’

  Fionn stared at his sister. ‘What do you mean, every week?’

  Tara cocked her head. ‘What part of that sentence is confusing for you?’

  ‘Has she been calling you?’ he asked, breathless with unexpected hurt.

  ‘Of course she has. You didn’t think she’d just ship us off to this place and forget about us, did you?’

  That was exactly what Fionn had thought. ‘Why hasn’t she called me?’

  Tara turned from him and made her way back to the cottage, her arms swinging purposefully by her sides. ‘I don’t know, Fionn. She said she’s been trying, but you obviously haven’t been charging your phone.’

  Fionn followed her. ‘Why didn’t you tell me then? Why didn’t you let me speak to her?’

  ‘Because I forgot!’ she said, stomping up the garden path. ‘Just calm down, all right?’

  ‘You should have told me she’s been calling!’ Fionn said, his voice rising. ‘You know how badly I’ve been wanting to talk to her!’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ said Tara, without bothering to turn around. She marched into the sitting room and collapsed in the chair across from Bartley. ‘Hey,’ she said, in a completely different voice, all love-struck and gooey. ‘Sorry about that.’

  ‘Hey.’ He grinned. ‘How’s your mum?’

  ‘Getting there. She was a little quiet today.’

  Fionn stood between them. ‘Am I suddenly invisible or something?’

  ‘What do you want?’ said Tara, exasperated.

  ‘Aren’t you at least going to apologise?’

  Tara rolled her eyes. ‘For what, Fionn?’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ Fionn said. ‘I knew you were mean but I didn’t think you were this bad.’

  Tara bristled. ‘My phone calls with Mam are none of your business.’

  Fionn had the sudden urge to smash something. How could she not see how hurt he was? How could she leave him out like this again and not even care? ‘Why do you have to be horrible to me?’ he said, crestfallen. ‘Are you really so determined to leave me out of everything to do with this family?’

  Bartley reclined in their grandfather’s chair, his arms splayed out on the armrests. ‘Tell him, Tara. It will shut him up.’

  ‘Tell me what?’ said Fionn.

  ‘Just leave it,’ said Tara wearily.

  ‘Go on,’ pressed Bartley.

  Tara chewed on the corner of her lip, the way their mother did when something was bothering her.

  ‘Say it,’ said Bartley.

  ‘Say what?’ asked Fionn.

  Tara pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘It’s Dad’s anniversary tomorrow. Have you forgotten that?’

  Fionn felt himself go very pale. He’d known it was coming up but he must have lost track of the days – they slipped by on the island and he hadn’t been thinking about the date lately because his phone wasn’t working properly and he wasn’t in school any more and – ‘Of course not!’

  Tara narrowed her eyes. ‘Well, Mam is extra sad.’

  ‘I don’t see why you’re punishing me for it,’ Fionn protested. ‘It’s not my fault!’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ Bartley snarled. ‘It is your fault, Boyle. Haven’t you figured that out yet? Don’t you get it?’

  ‘Don’t,’ said Tara.

  Bartley ignored her. ‘It’s your fault because you look exactly like your dad and every time your mum looks at you, she’s reminded of his death and that makes her sad. And then it makes her sick!’

  ‘Bartley,’ said Tara on an inhale. ‘Stop.’

  ‘That’s what you told me, Tara.’ Bartley got to his feet and towered over Fionn, his beady eyes flashing. ‘Do you understand that, Boyle? Is that making sense to you now? It is your fault. So why on earth do you think your mum would want to talk to you?’ Fionn reeled backwards, the words landing in his chest like knives. ‘That’s the reason she shipped you off here in the first place! Next time you burn a candle why don’t you do us all a favour and blow away with a tornado?’

  Fionn’s vision tunnelled until it was just Bartley Beasley standing there, red-faced and grinning. ‘That’s not true.’

  Bartley smirked. ‘Ask your sister.’

  ‘Tara?’ said Fionn quietly. ‘Tell him it’s not true.’

  Tara wouldn’t even look at him.

  The truth sucked all the warmth out of the room.

  How could he not have known?

  He had broken their mother.

  He was the reason she had to go away.

  He was the reason she could never vanquish the shadow behind her eyes – at least not properly and never for long enough.

  Bartley flicked his hands like he was shooing a dog. ‘Now run along and leave us alone. We’re trying to track the bloody tide.’

  ‘Fionn,’ said Tara weakly.

  Fionn didn’t wait to hear what she had to say; her silence had said everything. He left the room, stomping away so they wouldn’t hear the strange noises hiccoughing out of him.

  In the half-light of the little hallway, Fionn tried to steel himself. It was up to him to fix this mess, not wallow in it. He might not be able to wish for his dad back, but his mother was still alive and she was suffering because of him. He owed it to her to take that away. To make her well again. For good.

  His grandfather was out in the back garden at his workbench, but his bedroom door was open a crack and this time Fionn didn’t care if the island was watching him or not. He was going to find the Sea Cave today and he was going to fix their mother and then he was going to make Tara eat all those horrible words Bartley had just hurled at him.

  We’re trying to track the bloody tide.

  Fionn was going to go one better. He was going to sink it.

  He slid through the door and ducked under the window sill. He grabbed the Record Low Tide 1959 candle, half expecting something dramatic to happen, but the wind didn’t seem to notice and the birds outside continued to mind their own business. Fionn peeked through the corner of the window. His grandfather was leaning over his workbench, stirring a pot of wax.

  The candle disappear
ed seamlessly into the pocket of Fionn’s hoodie. He moved the others closer together so its absence wouldn’t be obvious. His heart clenched when he touched his father’s candle but he forced himself to leave it there. To take two at the same time would be much more noticeable, and besides, today was not a day for remembering – for testing the perimeter of his heart. Today was a day for action.

  In the sitting room, Tara and Bartley had fallen suspiciously silent. Fionn grabbed the box of matches from the mantelpiece without looking at either of them, then he stalked outside and slammed the door behind him.

  Chapter Seventeen

  THE SINKING SEA

  Fionn curled his fingers around the candle in his pocket as he made his way across the island. Time passed quickly, the afternoon sun turning the Arranmore grass a deep, vivid green. He cut through the middle of the island where the fields were wild and deserted, the faraway bustle of island life replaced by wild flowers and birds.

  When he reached the lighthouse, Fionn peered over the cliffs. The tide was as high as he had ever seen it but the water was unusually calm. Somewhere far below the surface, the wish was waiting for him. He pulled the candle from his pocket.

  ‘Fionn Boyle!’

  Fionn wheeled around to find Ivan strolling across the headland towards him. He had appeared from nowhere, as though he had just climbed out of the ocean and scaled the cliff-edge to get to him. He was wearing his usual black attire, his hair wild in the sudden updraft of wind.

  ‘Where did you just come from?’ called Fionn.

  Ivan glanced over the shoulder at the sloping grass. Then he looked at Fionn, his lips spreading into a wolfish smile. He crooked his finger at him. ‘I’ll show you.’

  Fionn didn’t move.

  Ivan used his whole hand, like he was scooping up the air and throwing it over his shoulder. ‘I said come here.’

  He was still smiling, but it brought a strangeness to Fionn. He couldn’t figure out if it was his grandfather’s warnings or Ivan’s affiliation with the Beasleys that made him back up a step. And then another.

  Fionn squeezed the Low Tide candle in his fist as Ivan strode towards him, his arms swinging purposefully by his sides. Fionn was suddenly aware of how alone he was out here. There wasn’t another person in sight, or even in hearing distance.