Chapter 8

Sliabh na Gaoithe

NOTHING can possibly go wrong,’ Tom said, giving Oisín a quick thumbs-up before throwing a blanket over him. Oisín lay down in the boot of the Houlihans’ van and groaned. ‘Nothing can possibly go wrong’ was exactly the kind of thing that you weren’t supposed to say before you went through with a plan. Especially a plan that involved lying to every adult Oisín had met on the island.

‘Where’s Oisín?’ Cathleen Houlihan asked from the front. ‘Doesn’t he want to say goodbye?’

‘We said goodbye upstairs,’ Caoimhe said sweetly.

It was agreed that she was better at lying than Tom, who, Oisín was sure, was blushing at that moment.

‘Bye, Stephen!’ Caoimhe called out.

Oisín felt a twinge of guilt. They hadn’t told Stephen about the plan. He’d be standing in the tree-house, getting smaller and smaller as the van bumped its way down the Houlihans’ road.

Oisín tried not to think of the names Stephen would invent for him when he found out that he’d been abandoned. This was easy enough, as it took most of Oisín’s energy not to get sick. The vehicle that he was hiding in wasn’t really a van, but a contraption that Cathleen had made out of twigs and branches. Gramophones and old Hoover pipes collected sunlight on the roof and Cathleen used her wrench croíacht to steer. Even the wheels were mostly wooden, which made for a very bumpy ride. From the sharp twists and turns, it seemed like they were climbing up a mountain road, and Oisín thought it better not to know how close to death he was each time Cathleen swerved around a corner at the last minute.

At least he had the Book of Magic. The twinge of guilt expanded to fill his stomach as he held the Book. It had been Caoimhe’s idea to give her father a few drops of forget-me-not potion. Oisín had been worried that Jimmy’s head would turn midnight blue or he’d never forget anything, which had sounded more likely, given the name of the flower. However, it had worked (‘Of course it did,’ Caoimhe had snapped) and Jimmy Houlihan was now sitting in the front seat happily, without any idea that he was supposed to deliver the Book of Magic to Mrs Fitzfeather.

‘It’s just a precaution,’ Caoimhe had said. ‘Once you get to the top of Sliabh na Gaoithe, they’ll have to take you on board. But if you have the Book, maybe that means you can keep it. And it will help you if you have any problems.’

Oisín didn’t want to think about what the problems might be. Caoimhe and Tom had both been very hazy about what Sliabh na Gaoithe actually was.

‘It just means the Mountain of Wind,’ Tom had said, shrugging his shoulders as if this was no big deal.

‘Remember, I’m going to make a ladder out of ivy,’ Caoimhe had reminded him. ‘All you have to do is climb up.’

Right, Oisín thought to himself. All he had to do was climb an ivy ladder up a mountain of wind, making sure that nobody tried to take the Book of Magic. Or saw him. No problem.

Oisín’s head was so full of things he was trying not to think about that the three-hour ride flew by. Before he knew it, the van veered around another tight corner and came to a stop.

‘Here we are,’ Cathleen announced.

Oisín swallowed a gulp. They’d made it to the mountain already.

‘Tom! Watch it!’

That was Tom spilling his blackcurrant juice all over Caoimhe’s bag. Oisín’s cue to get out of the boot.

‘Stop making such a fuss, Caoimhe,’ Cathleen said brusquely.

Oisín only had a few seconds. He lifted up the blanket, gently pushed up the lid of the boot and jumped to the ground.

Snow crunched beneath his feet. Oisín ran towards a large rock, hoping everybody was too distracted by Tom and Caoimhe’s argument to notice. When he peeped from behind the boulder, he saw Jimmy Houlihan smiling absently as he walked round the car.

‘Guess I left the boot open,’ he said, scratching his head and closing the boot. Caoimhe must have given him quite a lot of forget-me-not potion.

Oisín tried to ignore his stomach, which was squirming guiltily now. He felt the Book of Magic nestle into his hands and wondered yet again at the things it made people do. He pushed the thought away and looked over at Sliabh na Gaoithe.

Any excitement Oisín might have had about magic was quickly fading. He thought of Sorcha and stopped himself from running back to the van. It wasn’t just that Sliabh na Gaoithe rose towards the clouds until he couldn’t see the top. It wasn’t just the enchanted winds, which whipped ferociously around the mountain while the air a few feet away was perfectly calm. It was the group of about thirty children standing at the bottom, shuffling their feet in the snow and waiting. Oisín had been getting on all right with Tom and Caoimhe but he’d never been one to make lots of friends. Something about the group of chattering children made Oisín feel just as nervous as the mountain of wind in front of him did.

Oisín watched as Tom, Caoimhe and Antimony joined the group. Tom had told him that Eachtra accepted children over twelve from all of the magic islands around the coast of Ireland. There was a red-haired girl who sounded like she was from one of the western islands. A chubby boy with expensive-looking runners had a Northern Irish accent. Another boy who was kicking a football sounded like he lived closer to Dublin. Oisín had never heard of any magic islands, so he was amazed to see so many children his own age who had grown up in such a different world.

He was even more surprised to see how many children had come from magic communities in other countries. The red-haired girl made everybody say where they were from and Oisín could barely keep up with the different places that children had travelled from. There was an American boy, playing a flute. A small Japanese girl was blowing on her hands to keep them warm. A pair of Guatemalan twins shared squares of magic hot chocolate. An Australian boy popped one into his mouth, looking like he wished he’d worn something more than Bermuda shorts and a T-shirt. They had all been practising for ages to join Eachtra. Did Oisín really think he could just climb up a ladder?

He tried to listen to the snatches of conversation to distract himself.

‘Canada?’ the red-haired girl said to another girl, not sounding very impressed. ‘I didn’t know there were druids in Canada! Of course, not everybody gets accepted as part of Eachtra’s crew. Although, if you can’t use Air Magic to climb this thing, you might as well go home anyway! I’m just waiting until Madame Q picks her new Quints …’

‘Me too,’ the chubby Northern boy announced. All the McIntosh clan have been Quints. I’ll be the thirteenth Conor McIntosh to travel aboard Eachtra.’

‘Oh, you’re a McIntosh, congratulations,’ the red-haired girl said with a hard laugh. Two curly-haired girls giggled behind her as if she’d said something very funny.

‘I’m Medb Gaultney,’ she said, playing with a curved gold necklace around her neck. ‘From the Gaultney goldsmiths. And yes, this is a real torc.’

Oisín was starting to feel cold inside. It wasn’t just the snow: he didn’t know anything about magic or Quints or where anybody came from. At least Medb couldn’t see him to quiz him. Antimony wasn’t so lucky.

‘No need to ask where you’re from,’ Medb said. ‘I heard the Ogonis’ daughter was on the island.’

‘What’s it to you?’ Antimony snapped.

‘I heard standards were slipping. But I didn’t think Eachtra would ever let traitors’ children aboard.’

Antimony looked like she was about to set something on fire, but at that moment a pair of huge white wings swooped down from the mountain. Oisín gazed at the giant swan: it was six feet tall with wings the size of front doors. And it was talking.

‘I’m Angus Óg,’ the swan said in a grand voice. ‘I’ll be piloting Eachtra through the magic mountains. As you know, only the bravest and brightest of children will be selected to join the crew. Your first task stands before you. You may use any means at your disposal to ascend Sliabh na Gaoithe. Those who do not make it will not board Eachtra. You have two hours. Begin.’

Without so much as a ‘Good luck’, Angus Óg was gone, flapping his huge wings and disappearing into the clouds. Oisín noticed quite a few nervous gulps in the crowd and saw that, unlike Tom and Caoimhe, not everybody had realised how difficult the first task was going to be. One girl was walking further and further away from the mountain, searching to see if her parents had left yet. Others were getting started. Antimony had already put some fire-sticks in her slingshot. Tom was making strange animal sounds. Conor McIntosh was whispering to his runners, which were starting to grow wings. Medb picked off a ruby from her necklace. It looked like one boy was trying to scale the mountain with his bare hands, though Oisín could hardly see with the wind whirling around.

Oisín tried not to think about all the incredible magic and turned towards Caoimhe. The grass from her pen had made a tent to keep off the winds and she was crouched on the ground, tickling a small patch of ivy with her pen. It curled lazily into a crevice, as if it wanted another few minutes in bed. Caoimhe persisted and, bit by bit, the ivy stretched into a ladder. It wasn’t the most stable of structures with which to scale a giant mountain beset by ferocious winds, but it was something. Oisín promised himself that he wouldn’t look down.

‘Watch out!’

Oisín and Caoimhe dived out of the way as soon as they heard Antimony’s cry. There was an enormous crash as a huge chunk of the mountain fell to the ground and flattened Caoimhe’s tent, smashing into several pieces of snow and ice as it landed and leaving jagged rocks scattered along the base of the mountain.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Antimony shouted. ‘You’re not supposed to use dynamite magic. You could have killed us all.’

Medb stroked her necklace. Oisín had a feeling that each jewel was very dangerous.

‘Any means at your disposal,’ Medb said in a sweet voice. ‘Besides, I thought your family was the expert on murder.’

Before Antimony could do anything, Medb was already performing some sort of Air Magic on one of the chunks that had fallen, whispering to it until it rose off the ground like a kind of icy magic carpet. She hopped on and smiled, not at all bothered about the wreckage she had left below.

‘Oisín!’

Oisín turned to where Caoimhe’s voice came from and realised with a sickening jolt what had happened. They had jumped in different directions and now there were several giant boulders between him and Caoimhe – and her ladder. Caoimhe could still climb up to the top of the mountain, but there was no way Oisín could reach her ladder. Caoimhe looked at him desperately over the rubble, flicking through one of her herbal books as if it might provide some solace.

‘The problem is that nothing grows here,’ she said in a tight voice. ‘I can’t change the direction of this ladder and I’ve left most of my herbs at home. Tom’s already turned into a mountain goat, so he can’t help either.’

Oisín had no idea how he could climb Sliabh na Gaoithe. He didn’t have a board to surf up the mountain like the Australian boy. Nor was he able to charm a flock of seagulls to carry him like the American boy. He certainly couldn’t turn into a crane and fly like the Japanese girl.

‘You’ll have to use the Book,’ Caoimhe said.

‘But I don’t know how!’

‘Of course you do – you’re its Keeper.’

Caoimhe looked at her ladder, which was stretching up into the air, clearly torn. She wanted to help Oisín. But she’d been waiting to board Eachtra for as long as she could remember. Now that she’d got her first potion right (even if it was a mild poison on her father) she couldn’t turn back, could she?

‘Go on,’ Oisín said, sensing her struggle. ‘I’ll use the Book. I’ll be grand.’

Caoimhe gave a relieved smile.

‘I’ll see you at the top.’

The winds almost stole her words and in a few seconds, she’d disappeared up the ladder. Oisín looked up at the mountain hopelessly. Everybody else was using their croíachts. Conor McIntosh’s runners had sprouted wings and were fluttering tentatively. One of the giggling curly-headed girls had pulled out knitting needles and was knitting a magic rope. The Guatemalan boy was quickly sketching an escalator with his magic paintbrush croíacht. Even the boy who was climbing the mountain with his bare hands was getting closer to the top.

Oisín thought about jumping on the escalator, but the boy was rubbing it out as he went up. Oisín picked up the Book of Magic and shook it. Nothing happened. He could feel Sorcha and Eachtra slip further and further away from him. He moved closer to the mountain. The wind knocked him over in seconds, whipping mercilessly through him, as if it was playing a triumphant song with his teeth as its instrument.

It was easy for the wind, Oisín thought bitterly, all it had to do was blow.

And then, as he sat there in the terrible wind, something clicked in his head. It was like the moment when they’d started algebra in fifth class. At first, the blackboard had been a swirl of letters and symbols and Oisín couldn’t understand at all what the alphabet had to do with sums. Then one day he saw beyond the chalky letters and understood the meaning. He felt like he was stretching, reaching for something on a shelf several feet above. And when he grasped the shelf, when it all made sense, it was as if he had learnt a different language.

That was sort of how he felt now, sitting in the wind at the bottom of Sliabh na Gaoithe. Before this, he had just done what the Book of Magic had wanted. Suddenly, he had his own idea of how magic worked – it was a shelf almost within reach. He flicked quickly to the Air Magic section.

‘Wind, wind, wind,’ he whispered to the Book. If it was easy for the wind, why not become it?

Nothing happened. Oisín wasn’t concerned. He knew he was right, even if he couldn’t say why. He just wasn’t speaking the right words. Or the right language. Most of the other words in the Book had been in Irish. But what was the Irish for wind? Oisín wished he’d spent less time looking out at the clouds in Irish class. Scamall, that was the word for cloud, but that wasn’t any use. Spéir. Bogha báistí. An ghrian ag taitneamh. Lots of weather words spun through Oisín’s head but not the one he needed. How was he supposed to climb Sliabh na Gaoithe if he couldn’t think of the word for –

Sliabh na Gaoithe! Of course!

‘Gaoth!’ Oisín shouted.

He repeated the word to the Book, sure he was onto something. The Book shifted slightly, the tiniest of movements. Oisín whispered the word again, concentrating as hard as he could. Just when he was about to give up, the pages started to move, flapping in time with an invisible wind of their own. When they stopped, Oisín saw a picture of a tiny cloud blowing five words across the page. He peered at the page to read them: Rith ar nós na gaoithe.

Oisín searched his brain. Rith was the Irish for run, that was easy. Nós was harder. He remembered Granny Keane saying something about sean nós music, and he knew that meant ‘old-style’ music. Run in the style of the wind?

‘Run like the wind!’ Oisín shouted, and seconds later that was what he was doing, legging it around the mountain as fast as he could manage. He ignored the wind whooshing at his face, concentrating instead on the words, rith ar nós na gaoithe, calling them again and again.

Oisín wasn’t exactly sure how or when it happened. One moment he was running, the wind whacking him in his face, the Book of Magic fluttering in his hands. And then the next, he couldn’t quite feel the ground underneath his feet or the weight of his hands. He’d had dreams before where he’d been running and jumping and then suddenly he was flying and this was a little like that, except much, much better. He couldn’t feel his legs or hands because he didn’t have any: he’d turned into the wind.

Oisín gasped (or he felt like he did, since he wasn’t sure if he still had a mouth to gasp from) as he looked down and saw the road Cathleen’s van had swerved along far below. He was about halfway up the mountain face, but he was being pulled further and further from it by the gusts of wind. Oisín twisted whatever particles he was made up of now and found a current that was going in the right direction. Up, he thought, and tried to turn his wind-self up towards the clouds. It was harder than he might have thought, but he managed it and then he was zipping along with the wind, travelling faster and faster, up and up and up.

It was the most wonderful feeling he had ever had. Snow-covered fields and icy rivers were far, far below and he was high above the ground in the open air. He was the air, at once himself and part of everything around him. He did a little loop-the-loop through the wind currents with joy, suddenly feeling very free. Oisín might have continued flying and flying if he hadn’t seen the top of Sliabh na Gaoithe coming into view. Making his way into a downward current, he focused on reaching the mountain top where he could see Angus Óg and a number of figures. Down, down, he thought to himself and then he was doing it, dipping like a plane approaching a runway. The ground gulped up to meet him, closer and closer and then it was right in front of him and –

‘You might need to work on your landing,’ a crisp English voice said.

Oisín had bowled into a tall blond boy. He was about fifteen and impeccably dressed.

‘Sorry,’ Oisín said, glad to see that he still had his voice, and the rest of his body for that matter. The Book of Magic was still in his hands, the words already invisible as if nothing had happened.

The boy stood up, dusting snow off his blazer and casting an appraising glance at Oisín.

‘Wind magic is very advanced. How did you manage it, Pipsqueak?’

‘It’s Oisín.’

‘Right. But what’s your secret?’

The boy’s blue eyes landed on the Book of Magic. He checked himself and held out his hand.

‘I’m Lysander Quicksilver,’ he said in a confident voice. ‘One of Madame Q’s Quints.’

Lysander shook Oisín’s hand very formally, as if he were fifty rather than fifteen, but his eyes remained fixed on the Book.

‘Lysander? Are you keeping time or not?’

It was Angus Óg, flapping over towards them. Lysander rolled his eyes.

‘Of course I am,’ he said, pulling out a sleek silver pocket watch from his blazer. Lysander’s clear voice rang across the mountain.

All right, everybody, ten seconds before this party is closed to all losers.’

Oisín looked around the mountain. Most of the other children had made it to the top. Caoimhe gave him a smile. Tom beamed at him with curled horns still on his head. Antimony looked at him in surprise. Medb Gaultney gave him a curious look, as if she hadn’t quite decided where he slotted into her life.

‘Nine, eight, seven.’

Oisín scanned the crowd. He couldn’t see any sign of Mrs Fitzfeather. She’d have to let him stay once the deadline had passed.

‘Six.’

The two curly-headed girls heaved themselves up their woollen rope in a fit of giggles. Angus Óg flapped his feathers irritably.

‘Five, four, three, two …’

‘One.’

Lysander turned to see which voice had stolen his line.

‘He made it!’ the boy with the magic football cried in admiration as everybody turned around to see the last child who had made it up the mountain. It was the boy who had climbed up with his bare hands, which were now chafed and cut with the cold. He didn’t seem to want to relish his moment, hiding his face in his hood.

‘This doesn’t count,’ Lysander said, irritated. ‘You have to climb Sliabh na Gaoithe by magic.’

‘No,’ Angus Óg said with a slow shake of his head. ‘“Use any means at your disposal.” That is the phrase. It’s never been interpreted in this way. But that is the phrase. You’ve made it just in time.’

The boy nodded, as if that had never been in doubt.

‘Well, this is a day of firsts!’ Angus Óg continued. ‘One boy turns into wind, another climbs the mountain without magic! Well, whatever your methods, you have passed the test. What is your name?’

The boy sat down on the snow and answered in a defiant voice that was very familiar to Oisín.

‘Stephen Keane.’