The Maloneys' Magical Weatherbox by Nigel Quinlan

be a magician. I have no talent for magic. None. But I do have a nose for it. That was the second thing. I had a talent for finding magic, and that’s what I do. I find magic.”
    â€œAnd when you find it?” Mum asked.
    Ed Wharton smiled and shrugged.
    â€œWhat do tourists do? We experience it. We witness it. We remember it. And then we bore people to tears telling them crazy stories about it that they never believe. So, on the morning of the twenty-first, all I will do is stand back and watch and enjoy. Then I’ll shake your hands and pay my bill and be on my way. And—who knows?—you might even have me back next year!”
    â€œAnd that would be fine,” Dad said, “but I’d like to know how you got here and why you brought a bog beast with you.”
    â€œAnd two old women!” Liz put in.
    â€œAnd two old women,” Dad agreed.
    Ed Wharton tapped his fingers nervously on the table.
    â€œIt was a story I heard, you see, from an old Irish laborer I met at a bus stop in south London. He’d emigrated when he was twelve and worked on the building sites his whole life. Never went home. What money he didn’t send to his family, he drank away. He told me his granny used to say that there were three old women, sisters, who guarded a black pool up in the mountains in Ireland, living in the shell of a giant snail. They stirred the pool with their sticks and sang songs. The stirring was to keep the thing in the pool awake; the singing was to keep it calm. If the thing ever slept, the whole world would go out. If the singing stopped, the thing would get mad and climb out of the pool and knock the land into the sea.
    â€œWhen I was back in Ireland I tracked the sisters down. I discovered their giant snail shell, turned to rock long ago, deep in a bare mountain hollow—but there were only two of them, along with their pet bog beast, who chased me round the mountain a few times before picking me up in its mouth and carrying me back to the shell. They said that one day their sister had stopped her singing and her stirring and told them she was going outside to have a look at the sun. They begged her not to, but out she went and she never came back.
    â€œBy the time I found them, their sister had been gone a long time. At first they’d been worried about her. They missed her terribly. Then they got mad at her for abandoning them and leaving them to stir and sing alone. They told me all this themselves, taking turns to sing while the other one talked, though they were constantly interrupting each other. So I fixed up their shell a little, mended a few holes, put in a bit of dry lining and insulation, laid down a proper floor, and put in a few scraps of furniture and a stove. I brought them some pasta and, er, chorizo and canned goods and stuff.
    â€œThey’d taken their miserable existence for granted until I introduced them to a few home comforts. Now their shell is waterproof, insulated, has a water boiler and electricity, and they get regular deliveries from the local supermarket.
    â€œOn my last visit they’d decided they’d had enough. Their sister was out and about having a great time, leaving them to look after the black pool and they were sick of it. They decided to go look for her. I wasn’t sure it was a good idea, but they said if they didn’t do it now they’d never be able to do it. I don’t really know what they meant by that but, anyway, we plugged in a CD player and put a disc of last year’s Top Ten hits on repeat, and they put a spell on some sticks so they’d stir the pool by themselves, and then they got into my truck—it took ages to get the bog beast in—and off we drove.
    â€œThey told me where to find you, and all about the Weathermen, and they said that while they were finding their sister I could relax for a few days and see the Autumn arrive, and then we’d all head back. So, you see,