“Uh, maybe?” I said. “Kind of? I mean, yes.”
There were more cracks and groans and a kind of gurgling. Ed and I were getting nervous and anxious to be on our way, but the three scientists were in front of us, and the security guard was behind us.
“Ah, don’t mind them, they’re clearly in shock,” said Clive, gesturing toward us. “The pipes have burst, obviously.”
“Is that it?” the security guard demanded. “Did you burst the pipes? You’ve the whole place destroyed!”
“No, listen!” said Cherie. “Didn’t Holland say something about controlling the weather one time? We all laughed, but I think this is tied in to the project, you know—the phone box and all. This is amazing!”
Clive rolled his eyes. “It’s hard enough keeping things on a scientific footing without all this mystical rubbish creeping in. We’ll never be able to publish any credible findings at this rate.”
Creak. Crack. Groan. Gurgle. Hiss.
“Don’t mind us,” I said. “Come on, Ed.”
“I think you should leave, too,” Ed told them as we pushed through the scientists and headed for the exit. “I don’t know how much longer that door’ll hold.”
“You’re not going anywhere!” said the security guard, taking long, leaping strides through the water until he was blocking our way. “Stay right there, you, you pipe bursters, you!”
“Is the big bad elemental going to come and eat us all up?” said Clive with a laugh.
“It’s trying to eat Neil and me all up, actually,” Ed told him. “But I don’t think it cares who else it eats on the way. Hey!” Bob had started moving cautiously toward the door. “I really wouldn’t do that!”
Bob looked over his shoulder at us.
“It’s either burst pipes, or a hitherto undiscovered species capable of manipulating energy and matter. One way or another, I’ve got to know.”
“Could you please get back to salvaging the equipment?” demanded Clive with exasperation. “We don’t have time for this nonsense!”
“Just a peek!” said Bob.
“I’m not so sure, Bob,” said Cherie.
“Nobody! Move!” yelled the security guard. Everybody looked at him. “Nobody moves until we get to the bottom of this!”
“Look,” I said. “We need to get out of here. That door’s going to—”
The door exploded, dissolving in a spray of splinters. The deluge surged out. We were swept off our feet and sent rolling into the pile of equipment. Boxes tumbled and bobbed around us. I was pushed up against one of the tinted windows that lined the wall of the lobby.
The elemental came howling through the doorway in a blast of fog and rain that churned the choppy waters of the lobby into a frenzy. Whitecapped waves rolled over the pile of equipment and more sharp-edged stuff flew at us and at the windows. The glass cracked and splintered without breaking. I splashed and kicked and thrashed with my arms to stay afloat, fending off heavy boxes and tangling loops of wire and all sorts of big metal things that were bobbing crazily around me.
The clouds swirled around the center of the lobby, turning like a cyclone, going from white to gray to dark to black. Blue-white flashes lit them from the inside. The waves were being whipped higher and higher. Ed, the guard, and the three scientists were clinging together in a sort of human raft. The storm was working its way up to a hurricane, and then to whatever it is that’s worse than a hurricane. We had to get out.
The bare metal legs of a chair gleamed under the tossing waves. I grabbed the chair by a leg, then fought to get my feet under me and stand steady in the heaving water. The wind whipped around me and waves tried to swamp me, rising up to my chin, then pulling away and then rolling back again. In the gap between rolling and pulling I swung the chair with all my strength and smashed it into the window. It didn’t do much. In fact, it barely scratched the surface. Never mind. Wave up, wave down, and swing. Crash. Again. Again. Nothing but scratches.
The others must have got the idea, because as I drew back to swing again, they came out of the waves like bedraggled merpeople with boxes and computer monitors. Clive had what looked like a very thick book—a technical manual of some sort. When he threw it, the pages fluttered and it stuck to the window and slid down. The box and the computer monitor and another chair did more damage. The glass cracked and bulged.
The waves were getting higher now, knocking us off our feet and threatening to suck us into the middle of the lobby—where we’d survive about as long as a snowflake in a furnace. We had to grab each other to stop ourselves from being washed away. I really, really hoped that the workers on the upper floors had the good sense to stay where they were, or that there was a fire escape that would take them out the back. We were getting weaker by the minute.
Then Ed and the guard rose out of the foam with a big metal bench held over their heads. With an enormous heave and a pair of mighty roars they sent it smashing into the window like a spear or a battering ram. The window didn’t so much break as fall out of its frame and collapse onto the grass outside. Water poured out, and we poured out with it, pulling each other along until we were away from the glass and the water and the wind, on warm dry grass, in the sunshine. We fell together, heaving great gasps of air and shivering in our soaked clothes, while the storm vented through the broken window like a high-pressure leak from a hosepipe full of weather.
“It’ll … it’ll blow … blow itself out … soon…” I said, between gasps. “I hope.”
I scanned the park and the road and the canal in case there were more elementals hanging around. I could see lots of curious onlookers staring at AtmoLab, and four or five big men in colorful sweaters and red skirts strolling across the grass. No elementals.
Ed was lying on his back, arms and legs splayed wide, breathing rapidly.
“Everyone … OK?” he asked.
None of us were OK, not really, but we might get to OK with rest and warm dry clothes and only a little bit of medical attention. Maybe one of the big men in the colorful sweaters and skirts who were getting nearer and nearer would turn out to be a doctor. That would be nice.
A shadow fell across us, and a friendly male voice spoke.
“All right, by?”
I looked up in surprise. “Not really.”
The five men in colorful sweaters and red skirts, which I suppose were actually kilts, stood around us in a semicircle. They were all smiling.
“A little birdie told us we should stop by, by. What are ye all wet for, by? Did ye go swimmin’ or what? What’d ye go swimmin’ for, like?”
“You look like me auntie’s cat after it fell in the Lough that time, by,” another one said.
“What the hell were you doin’ throwin’ the poor cat round the Lough for, anyway, by?”
“Sure the cat loved it! Just me aim was put off when me auntie fired the flippin’ shotgun at one of the ducks, like. She hated them ducks, by.”
“There’s always a flippin’ duck to blame with you, isn’t there?”
“Hello?” I said.
“Howaye, by?”
“What little birdie? Who?” I said. My voice came as though from a far-off world, a world of ghosts and spirits. My voice sounded like the voice of a ghost. I began to get worried.
“Never mind that now, by. Just tell us which of you is the Weatherman, all right? The big man wants to see him.”
“But,” I said. “No, you see, that’s my dad. He sent me to … he sent me up here to … er, who are you?”
“Plenty of time for tellin’, by. So it’s you, is it?”
“Hey,” said Ed. “What are you doing?”
“Never you mind, by,” said one of the men. “Stay where you are, like, OK?”
“All right, like,” said another one. “We haven’t got all day, by.”
Five bulky shapes stooped and strong hands grabbed my arms and legs. I was raised off the ground. My weak protests and struggles were ignored. They carried me away across the grass, swinging between them like a sac
k of grain. I twisted my head and saw Ed rising, soaked and slow, hand outstretched after me, face contorted in terror. I could tell what he was thinking.
He was thinking about what Mum was going to do to him when she found out he’d lost me.
CHAPTER 16
LIZ
Mrs. Fitzgerald’s hand lashed out, quicker than a striking snake. The arrow jumped off its path, vanishing into a clump of nettles. I took the bow by one end, raised it over my head, and smashed it down on the hands in which the Gray Thing was holding Neetch.
It snatched its hands back, and made a sound like an animal or a bird, or like rain falling a certain way. It was a sound like nothing I’d ever heard—a gasp of hurt and puzzlement and betrayal. How could this be a Season, a mighty and powerful being, one of the great spirits of the skies? It was older than me, but maybe, for a Season, it was still just a baby.
“I’m sorry, Baby Season!” I whispered. I felt like I’d just kicked a puppy.
Neetch fell to the ground, landing with all his feet churning. He tore off like a small red cannonball across the clearing, to the sound of claws ripping through greenery. I sprinted along behind him, slinging my bow back over my shoulder.
Now I could feel her at my back, feel her reaching for me, black hair blowing wild around a face white as bleached bone, dress billowing like huge black wings. I didn’t bother to turn around to see if she was really there. If I’d made her angry, we could be in real trouble. I’d fired an arrow at her son. She was probably furious. Worse still, maybe it was all for nothing. She had managed to force Neetch to come all the way up here against his will. All she had to do now was call him back again. Maybe the two hags below were awake now. Maybe they’d noticed their pet missing. Maybe they’d call him back to them.
I caught up with Owen and slowed down to stay behind him. Neetch was darting along the path ahead of him, stopping every few seconds to let Owen catch up.
Behind us, I heard rustling and crunching, as something big slipped through the trees and down the path. I grabbed Owen’s shoulder, pulling him off the path and behind a tree. The Baby Season went past, searching, its head lowered, turning this way and that, its black eyes peering up and down. Neetch leaped out of a bush and Owen and me followed him.
The Baby Season stopped and turned, swinging around after us, moving gracefully and easily.
“Neetch!” I yelled desperately. “Get big! It’ll squash us!”
Neetch didn’t, though. Maybe he couldn’t because he was still too hurt after last night. He zigged and zagged ahead of us, leading the way through the trees. The Baby Season was moving fast on its long bendy legs, barely touching the branches or the leaves overhead or the undergrowth below as it went, stepping carefully, bending away from and around anything in its way. It was right on top of us.
I skidded to a stop, my sneakers raising a shower of dirt and twigs and leaves, grabbed a long crooked stick from the ground, and swung it wildly at the Baby Season. It was wet and rotten and fell apart in my hands. The Baby Season caught me and lifted me up, cupping me in its palm.
Its skin was warm and soft and bendy, like a rubber band. Its fingers wrapped around me and held me tight, lifting me up like a waiter holding a tray of food over his head as he moved through a crowd. It was carrying me back to the path. Back to her. It was me it had been sent after, not Owen or Neetch. Swinging and swaying, way up where the tops of the trees all crowded together, I spat and screamed, not because I thought anyone would come and save me, but because I did not want to die quietly. If the worst I could do was give the enemy a splitting headache, well, so be it.
When I paused to take a breath between screams, I heard something come ripping through the canopy. Neetch, leaping from tree to tree, a screeching streak of red, legs splayed, claws gleaming, mouth spread to show his teeth, plunged down into the Gray Thing’s head and began to rip and tear. The Baby Season stopped, shuddered, and screamed, groping for Neetch with its free hand. A stone crashed into its shoulder. I saw Owen below on the path, bringing his arm back for another shot.
I grabbed a finger and pushed, bending it back and back until if it had been one of my fingers it would have been broken and I’d have been on my way to the hospital to get a splint put on it. The Baby Season didn’t like it. It was pulling Neetch away from its face and trying to dodge Owen’s stones at the same time. It shook its hand, the hand with me in it, and flung me away, out into the air over the path, with a long way down to fall.
I heard Owen shout.
I tried to scream. I had no breath. Nothing to grab hold of. Nothing to land on. The ground came up with sickening speed.
I landed on a flying carpet.
Landing on the ground would probably have been softer. Under the red carpet were thick, hard muscles that moved and bunched and flexed. I grabbed handfuls of fur and held tight, and Neetch landed feet first on the path. I lost my grip and rolled down his flank to hit the ground after all. I couldn’t even groan. Owen was tugging at my arm. It hurt.
“Come on! Come on! It’s coming!”
It wasn’t just coming. It was standing right there over us. Its eyes and its mouth wide and black like something wild and howling and hungry. There was no escaping that. Not for me anyway.
“Run,” I said to Owen. “Get away. Go!”
“Come on!” he said, and kept pulling.
I forced myself upright, if only to push him under a bush or something. He pulled me toward Neetch.
Neetch was crouched low, waiting for us to climb on his back. He was the size of a horse, trembling with tiredness.
I hoisted Owen up and threw myself over, barely managing to grab some fur before Neetch was off and running.
Riding a cat is not like riding a horse. Horses have those long legs and big barrel-shaped bodies. Even barebacked, it’s all about gripping with your legs and, like, rolling with the movements of the horse. Cats have short legs and all their power comes from their flanks and their haunches. It’s like riding a bag of angry stoats. Every movement tries to throw you off in a different direction, and cats don’t run straight. They’re always speeding up and slowing down, and they sort of crackle with static electricity, and if they’re being chased through a wood by a magic monster it’s even worse than that. Still, it was better than the Baby Season and her. So we hung on.
Neetch ran down the path away from the Gray Thing. Owen and me bounced so hard our legs came loose from around his sides and we were hanging on just by the handfuls of fur. He didn’t like that and screeched in pain, and we didn’t like it and screeched in terror. The Baby Season was not as fast as Neetch, but those long bendy legs kept it right behind us, lashing at us with those weird fingers, punching trees and pulling out small bushes and tearing up thorny undergrowth in frustration. Neetch jumped and leaped and howled and dodged and hopped and climbed. All this time we were slipping down his back and down his sides, trailing our legs, bouncing them painfully off hard things and through soft things.
But no matter how much he jumped and leaped and dodged he couldn’t get ahead of the Baby Season’s long legs and long hands. They kept blocking him off, herding him in and out. We were going around and around in circles. It stooped down and reached for us, its arms and hands all tangled now with ivy and briars and broken branches. Owen let go of Neetch’s fur and slid down his back. I grabbed the collar of his shirt. He dangled behind us like an extra tail.
And Neetch started to shrink.
He was tiring fast. I could hear his breathing becoming more labored, feel the weakness in his muscles and in the way he slumped every time he paused. Now he was pony-sized, staggering and limping. The fur I was holding on to was coming loose. My arm was in agony.
Neetch was big-dog-sized now. Without letting go, I let my legs slide down and tried to sort of run alongside him. He went from big-sized dog to medium-sized dog and both my shins bashed into a root. I let go. Neetch tripped and fell with me. Owen rolled along with us, and we all slipped and slid and rolled,
and when we came to a stop we were out from under the Baby Season, lying in a heap on the path. I could see the boggy pools of the Ditches through a gap ahead. Behind us the Baby Season was bent over, turning this way and that, searching for us.
I pushed Owen down the path and picked up the tiny mewling Neetch. He was so small I could have slipped him into my pocket.
Ignoring the pain and the tiredness, we ran down the path, out from amongst the trees, and into the Ditches. I didn’t bother with the tussocks. I knew where the highest parts were and the flooded paths. I splashed right through, hopping over places where I thought the deeper holes were. I could see the hedge and the road. Nearly there. Nearly there.
By now the Baby Season had worked out that we weren’t underfoot. It turned to give chase with a long honk like a goose or a hunting horn. It came crashing out of the woods and into the bog behind us, taking great long strides that ate up the distance, sending ripples like waves rolling across the flood. We had seconds.
I turned away from the road and took three long, loping leaps to the left, landing on a tiny, muddy island of heather and reeds. Right in front of that island should be the deepest bog hole in the county—or so they said. I stopped and handed Neetch to Owen and stood in front of them with my arms spread wide.
“Come on, then!” I screamed.
The Baby Season took another step, sending bog water flooding over the island and around my legs. Its left foot landed in the bog hole, and sank. It tried to pull it out, stumbled, and its right foot went into the hole. That sank, too, right down. It waved its hands to keep its balance as it pulled and struggled and heaved, sloshing black mucky water all over us, but sinking deeper and deeper. It pushed down with its hands, and they sank down into the mud and became stuck. Its face was scared and confused now, its long stiff hair, all wreathed in ivy and thorns from the chase in the woods, was bending from side to side as it shook its great head and let out a long wail of fear.
I wondered then why, it if was a Season of some sort, it didn’t use weather to get out of the bog hole, and why it hadn’t used weather to catch us. A strong wind or a block of ice or a blast of lightning would have stopped us before we’d gone ten yards. I guessed that Mrs. Fitzgerald wouldn’t even let it do that, keeping it as her slave, keeping the weather for herself and Hugh.
The Maloneys' Magical Weatherbox Page 11
