Neetch.
âGreat googly moogly! Do you know what that is? Itâs the Bog Beast of Moherbeg! How come he didnât eat you? He usually eats people he doesnât like, and he doesnât like any body.â
âHe did try to eat us,â said Liz. âBut he was ⦠bigger at the time.â
âBigger?â I said.
âMuch bigger.â
âWell, he likes me, and I like him,â Owen said. âHis name is Neetch.â
âNeetch?â asked Ed Wharton.
âNeetch,â said Owen.
Ed Wharton looked at Owen and lowered his beard to his chest and intoned solemnly.
âSon, 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!â
Neetch had rolled on his back with the string tangled in his paws.
âMothers warn their children not to go out after dark, and threaten them with the bog beast when theyâre 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 isnât a dog in twenty miles that isnât kept tied up in the kitchen every night! And you like him?â
âHeâs misunderstood,â said Owen.
âAnd he likes you ?â
âWe just get on well,â Owen said and shrugged. âIâm not mean to him like everyone else is.â
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.
âMr. Wharton,â Mum said. âPerhaps you could explain yourself.â
âExplain? Explain what? Iâm just a tourist.â
âYouâre no more a tourist than I am the Pope,â Dad said. âYou know about the Weathermen. You had a bog beast in your trailer in the shape of a kittenââ
âMuch bigger!â interrupted Liz. âAnd the old hags! They said the cat was theirs, so he must know about them, too!â
âOh, now, please,â Ed said. âDonât let them hear you call them that!â
âIâll call âem what I like!â Liz grumbled.
âShush!â he said. âTheyâll hear!â
âYou are incredibly lucky,â Mum said softly, âthat none of our children were hurt. Sit down and explain yourself, Mr. Wharton. Then we will decide what to do with you.â
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 wasnât cracked.
âLook,â he said. âYou have absolutely nothing to worry about. All I want to do is watch the ceremony! I want to see the Autumn arrive! Thatâs all.â
âThere isnât much to see,â Dad told him.
âOf course not. These things occur on several different levels. Sight is not the only sense! Anyway, just to be there when it happens ⦠thatâs enough! You see, I am a tourist. I travel the world, seeking wonders and marvels to beholdâbut 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!
âWhen 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
Lightnin' Hopkins: His Life, Blues