An hour later, Fionn lingered outside Donal’s corner shop, glowering into his hot chocolate. The sun had fought its way through the thicket of clouds, bringing an icy chill with it. It settled in the gaps between his toes and clung to the tip of his nose. All around him, fellow students milled by in scarves and hats and heavy winter coats, their bags thu-thumping against their backs as they chatted animatedly along the strand. It was the last day of school before the Christmas holidays and there was a giddiness in the air.
Fionn hardly noticed it; he was too busy staring at the marshmallow in his cup.
Do something. Anything.
He ground his teeth together, refusing to blink.
Give me a bubble. Just one little bubble.
His vision was starting to go funny.
Come on. Come on. Come on.
A horn sounded in the distance, making him jump. Fionn discarded his cup and rolled his neck around, blinking the tears from his eyes. Up ahead, the morning ferry was gliding into port.
He blinked again, this time in confusion. Not one ferry, but two – the second one gliding in the wake of the first.
Fionn frowned. In all the months he had lived on Arranmore, he had never seen one ferry so full, let alone two. He stepped out on to the strand and nearly crashed into the Aguero sisters. They divided around him, tossing identical veils of black hair in affront, as they made their way towards Fionn’s sister, who was lingering outside the school gates. Tara caught his eye, then tapped her wrist, as if to say, Hurry up, loser. You’re going to be late.
Fionn ignored her, turning instead in the opposite direction and tracking towards the pier. The boats were heaving with passengers. Most of them had spilled out on to the decks, where they stood shoulder to shoulder, like tightly packed sardines. When the second ferry horn blasted, they turned as one, suddenly standing to attention. There was something eerily familiar about it all – this strange sea of faces, moving silently across the water, each one marked by wide, unblinking eyes.
Soulstalkers.
Fionn stared in silent horror as the first boat docked. A wave rolled out from under it, swelling and frothing as it galloped towards the beach.
It brought a shoal of rotting fish with it. There were so many that Fionn could hear them splatting against the sand from where he stood up on the strand. He could even see their fleshy insides, their gloopy eyes and tarnished scales piling up and up and up, with every towering wave that came after.
Down on the beach, someone screamed. Douglas Beasley tore out of the post office with a parcel under his arm and Donal appeared in the doorway to his shop, his hair floating about his head like a cloud. Up by the school, teenagers discarded their conversations and craned their necks in curiosity.
The rotten waves kept coming, dead fish filling the air with a putrid, clinging stink.
Fionn clapped his sleeve over his mouth to keep from gagging, but he could do nothing about the accompanying panic. It rose up in his chest, pounding its fists against his heart until he felt like he couldn’t breathe.
She had finally done it. Somehow, Morrigan had called her followers home, and they had brought the shadow of death with them.
The thunder of nearby footsteps interrupted his rising hysteria. It came with his name, thrown up into the air like a football. ‘OI! FIONN!’
Fionn snapped his head up to find his best (and only) island friend furiously sprinting towards him.
This was not usually the way of Sam Patton. Of the two of them, Sam was the unflappable one. He had seen so much more of the world than Fionn and was used to a less conventional life. It was what had drawn Fionn to him in the first place. That and the fact that Sam, despite growing up in London, was one of the original five families of Arranmore. He had all but announced as much when he first alighted on Fionn in September, emerging from a gaggle of zombie-tired teenagers and stalking across the schoolyard with the confidence of a celebrity. ‘Storm Keeper!’ He had scanned Fionn up and down, as though making sure of it. ‘You’re a bit scrawnier than I expected but you do have a certain look about you. You remind me of my great-grandmother.’
‘Sam Patton,’ he had announced then, sticking out a leather-gloved hand. ‘Great-grandson of the one and only Maggie. She was a Storm Keeper too. I’ve been waiting to meet you all summer.’
Sam was several inches shorter than Fionn, but his sense of ease made him seem ten feet tall. He had big brown eyes, brown skin, and curly hair. It bounced along his forehead now, as he pelted along the strand, a flute case tucked under his left arm, the other flailing around him like a windmill. He skidded to a stop. ‘Look at the size of those waves!’ he panted, before slapping his free hand over his mouth. ‘Ugh, that smell. It’s getting worse.’
The waves were still piling on top of each other, crashing and foaming as they painted the shoreline silver. ‘Where do you think they’re coming from?’ asked Sam, through his fingers.
‘Them,’ said Fionn, gesturing at the pier. ‘It looks like Morrigan’s minions have finally found her.’
Sam turned on the heel of his boot. ‘Do you mean those passengers are –’
‘Soulstalkers,’ said Fionn. ‘Can’t you tell?’
Sam narrowed his eyes in suspicion. The first ferry was releasing its passengers out on to the island. They scuttled across the pier like crabs, men and women dressed in scarves and coats and hats and suits, all moving in the same direction, one after another after another. ‘They don’t blink,’ he said, with a shudder. ‘They just sort of stare.’
‘I told you something was coming.’ Fionn’s insides were twisting and twisting. ‘I’ve been saying it for weeks now.’
Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock.
Morrigan hadn’t been bluffing; she’d been gloating.
Sam shuffled uncomfortably. ‘Is this really an I-told-you-so moment?’
‘I suppose not.’ Fionn swung his schoolbag around and pulled out his notebook. ‘Come on. We don’t have much time. Let’s get out of here before the beach fills up.’ He tucked it under his arm and gestured for Sam to follow as he stalked off up the strand and right past the school gates.
They left the bell pealing into the sky behind them.
‘Ms Cannon’s bringing mince pies in today,’ said Sam, looking forlornly over his shoulder as he hurried to keep up with Fionn’s determined strides. ‘They’re my favourite.’
Fionn passed the notebook to him. ‘If you help me save the island from oblivion, I’ll make you a batch myself,’ he promised.
‘I’m holding you to that,’ said Sam, slowing down to open the notebook. ‘And I want gingerbread men too. With buttons.’
‘Fine. Just read, please.’
On the first page, Fionn had numbered and annotated the five Gifts of Arranmore in his messy scrawl. Sam read them aloud as they walked.
1.The Storm Keeper of Arranmore: to wield the elements in Dagda’s name. Aka me. See also: useless.
2.The Sea Cave (earth): for that which is out of reach. Used that one on Tara already. V. ungrateful.
3.The Whispering Tree (fire): for that which is yet to come. Probably should sort out the present before I go snooping around the future.
4.Aonbharr the Winged Horse (wind): for danger that cannot be outrun. Might get in a bit of trouble if I fly away from the island by myself and leave it to die?
5.The Merrows (water): for invaders that may come. This looks like the only option that can help us.
After a moment of contemplation, both boys trudging up the headland in silence, Sam slammed the notebook shut. ‘Right then,’ he said, adjusting the lapels of his blue pea coat. ‘The Merrows it is.’
Fionn didn’t miss the quiver in his friend’s voice.
Merrows. Fionn had heard a dozen stories of the fin-tailed, blue-skinned army that patrolled the deep waters of Arranmore. According to Fionn’s mother, in the evenings, when lips were loosened, talk in the pubs would often turn to the sea creatures and their fabled barbarism, their shark-toothed mouths. There would be whisperings of sightings along the coast, mistaken seals and friendly dolphins re-embroidered with new details, the locals surrendering their tales like counterfeit coins. Fionn swore he had seen one once, buried in the folds of the ocean. He had felt something in his chest, a thread of magic going taut between them, but she was gone before he reached her.
‘Is it a terrible idea?’ he asked now.
‘Not necessarily,’ Sam reasoned. ‘They’d certainly be helpful in the present … situation. Terrifying and hair-raising and guaranteed to give us nightmares for years, but definitely helpful. There is one small problem though …’
‘We have no clue how to find them?’ guessed Fionn.
‘Pretty much,’ said Sam, with a shrug.
Fionn set his jaw. He had been anticipating this. ‘I think I know where we can start.’