Free The Maloneys' Magical Weatherbox by Nigel Quinlan Page A

“What have you done? Dear God, what the hell have you done?”
    â€œWhat have you done, Weatherman? Why does the Summer linger? If the Weatherman does not know, then who does? Who does the Weatherman answer to? How long do you think it will take before they grow tired of your failure? A day? Two? They will grow restless and angry, Weatherman, and then they will come, and you will answer for yourself. They will find you wanting, and I will be there to take your place.”
    And then Dad grew, and changed, and for a moment he wasn’t Dad but something huge and green and earthy and alive. Mrs. Fitzgerald’s face was eager.
    â€œThat’s it, Weatherman. Unleash your power. Set the seal on your failure. Only a coward and a weakling would stand before a mortal enemy who would take from him everything he possessed, strip him to the bone of all he loved and leave that enemy alive and whole to do their worst when he has the means to scour her from the earth.”
    Dad was doing that one thing a Weatherman is utterly forbidden from doing. He was becoming Summer right before our very eyes. I could feel the heat radiating off him. He was going to roast her to a crisp and scatter her ashes with a south wind and when he was done the Seasons would come and throw him off the planet.
    â€œThat’s enough.”
    Mum suddenly stood between Dad and Mrs. Fitzgerald, and the heat faded and Dad was Dad again, small and human and struggling for control.
    â€œI know you,” Mum said. She was a head shorter than either Dad or Mrs. Fitzgerald and wearing a worn dressing gown and fluffy slippers, but her voice was level and cool.
    â€œI know your sort and I know your make and I know your mark. By the cow in the barn and the goat in the pen and the oak in the grove, I say you, be away before the sun rises no more than the length of my fingernail or the black waters can have you and the rushes fill your hair.”
    Without another word, Mrs. Fitzgerald swept away to the gate, dragging Hugh with her, and she and her husband and her son crossed the road and vanished into the trees. We rushed to the phone box. Neil was still staring at the sun. Dad had both hands in his hair. Owen cradled Neetch. Mum looked like thunder, and Ed Wharton just looked sad and bewildered and scared.
    I put my head back and screamed my rage at the sky.
    A phone rang, but it was the phone in the house. No one moved to go in and answer it. It stopped, and then started ringing again.
    The Weatherbox was silent.

 
    CHAPTER 11
    NEIL
    It was an hour later and Liz was still making a flipping eejit out of herself.
    â€œTwiggy man, bring the cold. Twiggy man, bring the cold.”
    â€œGod, Liz, shut UP!”
    She ignored me and kept dancing and chanting.
    â€œTwiggy man, bring the cold! Twiggy man, bring the cold!”
    At least she wasn’t screaming at the sky anymore.
    Mum and Dad were sitting side by side on the wall, heads close together, talking in low voices. Now that Mum had Dad calmed down a bit, I could barely hear what they were saying, even though I was sitting beside Dad. Ed sat beside Mum. Owen had taken poor hurt Neetch inside to put cream on his sore bits. And Liz kept embarrassing us all with her stupid antics. On today of all days—the most horrible day ever.
    Can you imagine? Can you understand how huge this was? It was as if the world had stopped turning. If you stop a car suddenly and you’re not wearing your seat belt you get thrown through the windshield. I looked up and wondered if we were all going to get thrown through the sky and off the planet. People, animals, trees, cities, mountains, seas, all pitched into space because Mrs. Fitzgerald had put her foot on the brake.
    And yet nothing happened. Nothing changed. Today was the same as yesterday. Of course it was. Yesterday was Summer, and so was today. But that was the problem. Things can’t stay the same in this world. Things change or things die.