them.
Owen and his cat, well, kitten, actuallyâI could have sworn it was bigger earlierâwere playing on the grass with a piece of paper tied to some string. At least someone was having a good time. Liz was sitting in a chair next to me, half listening to the interrogation and half watching Owen and the kitten intentlyâas if one of them was going to grow fangs or something.
Dad sat back in his chair and crossed one leg over the other and rubbed his chin. He was frowning, and his face looked worn and worried and haunted.
âThe thing under the lake has been sending strange weather to us all Summer. I think it was trying to get our attention. After the first few times, I knew something would have to be done, but I couldnât risk doing it alone. Iâve been trying to contact the Weathermenâs Club for the last two months. Iâve phoned, e-mailed, written letters. No response. Theyâve either vanished from the face of the Earth or theyâre sulking because I havenât tried to get in touch with them since ⦠well, since I became Weatherman. Iâm a bit worried.â
âCouldnât you just go to them?â I asked.
Dad made a face.
âWe Weathermen donât travel,â he said. âItâs not a rule, exactly, but thereâs a strong taboo against going farther than a few miles from the Doorway. It looks like Iâll have to, though, doesnât it? Iâve been putting this off too long. Tomorrow, when the Autumn has arrived, Iâll see about getting a lift to the train.â
I nodded. No farther than a few miles? As the future Weatherman, I did not really like the sound of that.
âWeâve always known thereâs something ⦠off about Mrs. Fitzgerald,â Dad said. âWeâve stayed well away from her. Now it turns out we were right and we should have been more on our guard. Mrs. Fitzgerald wanted the thing free from the lake. For some reason only the Weatherman or his heir could do it. My guess is that though she couldnât get at it, she must have scared it somehow. It became desperate and reached out to meâto the Weathermanâin the only way it could. Now sheâs captured it, and God knows what sheâs going to do next.â
I blushed furiously and sank deeper into my chair. It creaked loudly.
âSo what is it?â said Liz. âIs it an elemental?â
Dad shook his head.
âNo. And yes. It can control the weather, but it seems more aware than a simple elemental. I donât know what else it can be, though.â
âBut, Dad,â I said, an odd feeling inside me, a sick-scared-excited feeling. âIt 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 donât move through the Doorways, Dad.â
âNo,â said Dad. âThey donât.â
âIs it a Season?â asked Liz, seeing as no one else was going to come out and actually say it.
âIt canât be,â I said.
âYou opened the Door for it,â Mum said. âYou merged with it. What was it like?â
âIt all happened too fast,â I told her, remembering that shimmering image of the tall shadow standing beside the lake. âIt was scared and angry and sick of being under there, but mostly it was afraid of what was waiting for it.â
âMrs. Fitzgerald,â said Liz.
âSounds to me,â said Ed Wharton, âas if weâve got a new Season. Five Seasons. How about that? Whatâll we call it?â
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
Lightnin' Hopkins: His Life, Blues