The Maloneys' Magical Weatherbox (6 page)

I blushed furiously and sank deeper into my chair. It creaked loudly.

“So what is it?” said Liz. “Is it an elemental?”

Dad shook his head.

“No. And yes. It can control the weather, but it seems more aware than a simple elemental. I don't know what else it can be, though.”

“But, Dad,” I said, an odd feeling inside me, a sick-scared-excited feeling. “It was trapped in the Doorway. It was trapped
by
the Doorway. It must have been going through the Doorway when the Doorway was moved and it got caught. Simple elementals don't move through the Doorways, Dad.”

“No,” said Dad. “They don't.”

“Is it a Season?” asked Liz, seeing as no one else was going to come out and actually say it.

“It can't be,” I said.

“You opened the Door for it,” Mum said. “You merged with it. What was it like?”

“It all happened too fast,” I told her, remembering that shimmering image of the tall shadow standing beside the lake. “It was scared and angry and sick of being under there, but mostly it was afraid of what was waiting for it.”

“Mrs. Fitzgerald,” said Liz.

“Sounds to me,” said Ed Wharton, “as if we've got a new Season. Five Seasons. How about that? What'll we call it?”

Everything was blue and dark in the twilight cool. Ed was leaning casually against the corner of the house, arms and legs crossed. Bats flew around the eaves over his head. Or maybe his beard came to life at dusk and went hunting for food. He straightened and before anyone could challenge him for eavesdropping under the eaves, he pointed at Neetch.

“Great googly moogly! Do you know what that is? It's the Bog Beast of Moherbeg! How come he didn't eat you? He usually eats people he doesn't like, and he doesn't like
any
body.”

“He did
try
to eat us,” said Liz. “But he was … bigger at the time.”

“Bigger?” I said.

“Much bigger.”

“Well, he likes me, and I like him,” Owen said. “His name is Neetch.”

“Neetch?” asked Ed Wharton.

“Neetch,” said Owen.

Ed Wharton looked at Owen and lowered his beard to his chest and intoned solemnly.

“Son, the Bog of Moherbeg looks down on the towns and villages of three counties, where people lock their doors and fasten their windows at night, not for fear of burglars, but for fear of that terrible thing!”

Neetch had rolled on his back with the string tangled in his paws.

“Mothers warn their children not to go out after dark, and threaten them with the bog beast when they're bold. People lie awake at night shivering under their blankets in terror of his shadow falling over them when he pads across their moonlit lawns. There isn't a dog in twenty miles that isn't kept tied up in the kitchen every night! And you
like
him?”

“He's misunderstood,” said Owen.

“And
he
likes
you
?”

“We just get on well,” Owen said and shrugged. “I'm not mean to him like everyone else is.”

Dad had stood up when Ed Wharton had first spoken, and he and Mum closed in on either side of the Tourist now, their faces grim. He smiled nervously at them.

“Mr. Wharton,” Mum said. “Perhaps you could explain yourself.”

“Explain? Explain what? I'm just a tourist.”

“You're no more a tourist than I am the Pope,” Dad said. “You know about the Weathermen. You had a bog beast in your trailer in the shape of a kitten—”

“Much bigger!” interrupted Liz. “And the old hags! They said the cat was theirs, so he must know about them, too!”

“Oh, now, please,” Ed said. “Don't let them hear you call them that!”

“I'll call 'em what I like!” Liz grumbled.

“Shush!” he said. “They'll hear!”

“You are incredibly lucky,” Mum said softly, “that none of our children were hurt. Sit down and explain yourself, Mr. Wharton. Then we will decide what to do with you.”

Even in the fading light I could see his face turn red. Head bowed he sat on a lawn chair that creaked under his weight, even though it wasn't cracked.

“Look,” he said. “You have absolutely nothing to worry about. All I want to do is watch the ceremony! I want to see the Autumn arrive! That's all.”

“There isn't much to see,” Dad told him.

“Of course not. These things occur on several different levels. Sight is not the only sense! Anyway, just to be there when it happens … that's enough! You see, I
am
a tourist. I travel the world, seeking wonders and marvels to behold—but not just any wonders and marvels! Not the Leaning Tower of Pisa or the Grand Canyon or the Taj Mahal. I seek secret wonders,
hidden
wonders!

“When I was a little boy, no older than Owen, there, I wanted to be a magician. Not the sort that pulled rabbits out of hats and did card tricks on stage. I wanted to have power. Power to crack the earth! Part the seas! Pull the stars down to a mountaintop and command them to dance! I left school early, lied about my age, and got a job driving trucks. That took me all over the world. I read books, I talked to people and, slowly but surely, I tracked down magic, real magic. A cottage in the Black Forest. A stone on the Russian steppes. An oasis in the Sahara. Magic places guarded by magic folk! I visited these places and I discovered two things. One was that I would never be a magician. I have no talent for magic. None. But I do have a nose for it. That was the second thing. I had a talent for finding magic, and that's what I do. I find magic.”

“And when you find it?” Mum asked.

Ed Wharton smiled and shrugged.

“What do tourists do? We experience it. We witness it. We remember it. And then we bore people to tears telling them crazy stories about it that they never believe. So, on the morning of the twenty-first, all I will do is stand back and watch and enjoy. Then I'll shake your hands and pay my bill and be on my way. And—who knows?—you might even have me back next year!”

“And that would be fine,” Dad said, “but I'd like to know how you got here and why you brought a bog beast with you.”

“And two old women!” Liz put in.

“And two old women,” Dad agreed.

Ed Wharton tapped his fingers nervously on the table.

“It was a story I heard, you see, from an old Irish laborer I met at a bus stop in south London. He'd emigrated when he was twelve and worked on the building sites his whole life. Never went home. What money he didn't send to his family, he drank away. He told me his granny used to say that there were three old women, sisters, who guarded a black pool up in the mountains in Ireland, living in the shell of a giant snail. They stirred the pool with their sticks and sang songs. The stirring was to keep the thing in the pool awake; the singing was to keep it calm. If the thing ever slept, the whole world would go out. If the singing stopped, the thing would get mad and climb out of the pool and knock the land into the sea.

“When I was back in Ireland I tracked the sisters down. I discovered their giant snail shell, turned to rock long ago, deep in a bare mountain hollow—but there were only two of them, along with their pet bog beast, who chased me round the mountain a few times before picking me up in its mouth and carrying me back to the shell. They said that one day their sister had stopped her singing and her stirring and told them she was going outside to have a look at the sun. They begged her not to, but out she went and she never came back.

“By the time I found them, their sister had been gone a long time. At first they'd been worried about her. They missed her terribly. Then they got mad at her for abandoning them and leaving them to stir and sing alone. They told me all this themselves, taking turns to sing while the other one talked, though they were constantly interrupting each other. So I fixed up their shell a little, mended a few holes, put in a bit of dry lining and insulation, laid down a proper floor, and put in a few scraps of furniture and a stove. I brought them some pasta and, er, chorizo and canned goods and stuff.

“They'd taken their miserable existence for granted until I introduced them to a few home comforts. Now their shell is waterproof, insulated, has a water boiler and electricity, and they get regular deliveries from the local supermarket.

“On my last visit they'd decided they'd had enough. Their sister was out and about having a great time, leaving them to look after the black pool and they were sick of it. They decided to go look for her. I wasn't sure it was a good idea, but they said if they didn't do it now they'd never be able to do it. I don't really know what they meant by that but, anyway, we plugged in a CD player and put a disc of last year's Top Ten hits on repeat, and they put a spell on some sticks so they'd stir the pool by themselves, and then they got into my truck—it took ages to get the bog beast in—and off we drove.

“They told me where to find you, and all about the Weathermen, and they said that while they were finding their sister I could relax for a few days and see the Autumn arrive, and then we'd all head back. So, you see, it's all quite simple really!”

When he finished, we sat in silence. Full night had fallen. A million billion stars had come out. None of them cared about us or what we said or did, but still it made me feel better to see them all up there, twinkling seriously, as only stars can.

“What about the man?” Owen said.

“The man?” asked Ed Wharton.

“The laborer who told you the story. What happened to him?”

Ed Wharton said nothing for a moment. He turned his head very slightly so he was looking down at the grass and not at us.

“He, uh. He was dead, I'm afraid. He'd frozen to death at that bus stop one night years before. After we talked, I put his ghost in a bottle and I brought him back to Ireland and buried him next to his granny. He just wanted to go home. He wanted to lie down and rest under the mountains where he was raised.”

Owen nodded thoughtfully, then looked up at Mum and Dad.

“The Tourist is OK,” he said. “Let him stay.”

Mum and Dad looked at each other.

“OK,” Mum said.

“OK,” Dad said.

I was staring at Ed Wharton, thinking about what he'd told us. Everything was swirling around in my head, and even though it was crazy, when the thought surfaced I just said it out loud.

“Is Mrs. Fitzgerald their sister?”

Ed stared thoughtfully back at me. “How old is she?” he asked.

“She looks as if she's in her late twenties,” Mum said.

“She's looked like that since I was Neil's age, when I first saw her,” Dad added.

Ed Wharton lifted his head to look at the stars, moving his lips silently, as if counting them all.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “It's possible.”

Mum and Dad looked at each other for a very long time. Finally Mum gave a nod.

“If her sisters want her to go home with them, maybe we should help them out. If she's stirring and singing to a black pool in a giant snail shell, she can't very well be bothering us, can she?”

“Mum,” said Liz, “I don't think they're very nice.”

“We don't want nice,” Mum said. “Nice is the opposite of what we need.”

“Yeah,” Dad said heavily. He sighed, and, for some reason, looked over at me.

“We need the club, if it still exists,” he said, and paused. “And we need the Shieldsmen, too.”

“Dad—” I began, but Liz had jumped to her feet and was doing one of her dances.

“Yes, yes, yes! The Shieldsmen! We need the Shieldsmen, yes, we need the Shieldsmen!”

“First priority is the Autumn,” Dad said. “Then … well, then…”

His shoulders slumped, and he looked tired and depressed and worried, and so did Mum.

“Mr. Wharton,” she said. “I'll understand if you want to leave—with a full refund, of course…”

“No, no, no,” said Mr. Wharton heartily, shaking his head. “Not at all. Wouldn't dream of it.”

“… but perhaps we could ask a favor of you.”

“My dear lady, anything, anything at all.”

“Would you take my husband to Dublin tomorrow? After the ceremony, when the Autumn is safely here.”

“To Dublin?”

“To the Weathermen's Club.”

Mr. Wharton pursed his lips.

“And, uh, would I be allowed to enter the club itself? As an escort? A bodyguard? A guest?”

Mum shrugged and looked at Dad.

“Mm? Oh, yes, I'm sure. I'm sure, yes…” he trailed off. Mr. Wharton beamed.

“It would be my pleasure, then! My absolute pleasure!” He clapped his hands with delight.

“Can I go? Can I go?” Liz danced and whirled in front of Dad, and he held up his hands and waved her quiet.

“We'll see, we'll see!”

“What about tonight?” I asked. “What about tomorrow? What about the Autumn?”

Dad looked grim.

“We're on our own. That'll have to do for now.”

That was not a very cheerful thought to go to bed on, but go to bed on it we did. We put the creaking plastic furniture away, decided to leave any washing up till tomorrow, hugged and kissed and told each other everything would be fine, and went to our rooms. I crawled under the covers and started to dream …

Something was stalking me through the house. I stumbled over furniture and fell down stairs as though everything familiar had been altered and rearranged. The whole house felt strange and foreign and something that hissed and growled was sometimes before me, sometimes behind me, sometimes above me and sometimes right outside. I tried to close my eyes. Whatever it was, I didn't want to see it.

When I woke, blue had just started to creep into the eastern sky.

I went down for a drink of water and found Ed Wharton sitting at the kitchen table eating toast. Low music came from the radio, something jazzy and slow. Mr. Wharton reached over and turned it off.