The Maloneys' Magical Weatherbox by Nigel Quinlan Read Free Book Online Page B

Neetch.
    â€œGreat 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.”
    â€œHe did try to eat us,” said Liz. “But he was … bigger at the time.”
    â€œBigger?” I said.
    â€œMuch bigger.”
    â€œWell, he likes me, and I like him,” Owen said. “His name is Neetch.”
    â€œNeetch?” asked Ed Wharton.
    â€œNeetch,” said Owen.
    Ed Wharton looked at Owen and lowered his beard to his chest and intoned solemnly.
    â€œSon, 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.
    â€œMothers 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?”
    â€œHe’s misunderstood,” said Owen.
    â€œAnd he likes you ?”
    â€œWe 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.
    â€œMr. Wharton,” Mum said. “Perhaps you could explain yourself.”
    â€œExplain? Explain what? I’m just a tourist.”
    â€œYou’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—”
    â€œMuch bigger!” interrupted Liz. “And the old hags! They said the cat was theirs, so he must know about them, too!”
    â€œOh, now, please,” Ed said. “Don’t let them hear you call them that!”
    â€œI’ll call ’em what I like!” Liz grumbled.
    â€œShush!” he said. “They’ll hear!”
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œLook,” 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.”
    â€œThere isn’t much to see,” Dad told him.
    â€œOf 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!
    â€œWhen 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