by Anne Cameron
“Welcome aboard the dirigible weather station.” A bored-sounding lightning catcher greeted them as they stepped out of the basket and handed over their bags. “Passengers are requested not to disturb any members of the crew while the weather station is in flight, except in an emergency. Passengers are also asked to refrain from shouting or waving at members of the general public, should we be forced to land unexpectedly. Cloud sickness tablets are available from the first aid station. We hope you enjoy your flight.”
It was much quieter on the inside, Angus was relieved to discover. It also reminded him of a picture he’d seen of an old Spanish galleon, with dark, narrow passageways and creaky-looking timbers.
“But what does the weather station do?” he asked.
Jeremius led Angus past a string of portholes, through which he caught one last glimpse of the Windmill before it disappeared behind misty wisps of gray.
“The weather station disguises itself as a cloud most of the time, passing over towns, cities, and continents largely unnoticed,” Jeremius replied. “Its purpose is to collect samples from around the world, from blizzards, tornadoes, and hurricanes, so they can be analyzed and better understood. There are still some mysterious aspects about the weather that even lightning catchers don’t understand.”
Angus peered curiously into a row of adjoining cabins to the left. A team of lightning catchers was busy studying the contents of some sturdy-looking canisters, each of which had been labeled with words like SILENT SIBERIAN BLIZZARD—HIGHLY VOLATILE and EXTRA GUSTY GREENLAND GALES.
He followed Jeremius up a narrow wooden staircase, and suddenly they were standing on the bridge, with dozens of extra-large portholes in the ceiling and one long windshield at the front for navigating. It was both thrilling and terrifying to watch great whorls of cloud roll past and catch glimpses of the earth, a very, very long way below.
At the very center of the bridge stood a massive ship’s wheel. It was manned by three lightning catchers who were all struggling to keep it steady and steer the weather station safely through the skies.
“Hold her steady there! And mind that jumbo jet!” bellowed a woman with a telescope dangling on a chain around her neck. She was dressed in a smart, heavily embroidered coat with gold trim and gleaming buttons.
“That’s Captain Claudine Frobisher,” Jeremius told Angus. “She knows these skies like the back of her hand. The weather station is frequently used for ferrying lightning catchers right into the thick of things when we’ve got a major weather catastrophe on our hands . . . and for rescuing them if they run into trouble. Do you remember the great Romanian snowstorms we had four years ago?”
“Er, not exactly,” Angus admitted sheepishly, not entirely sure he even knew where Romania was.
“Well, they were some of the fiercest we’ve had for half a century, but Captain Frobisher scooped up a whole troop of lightning catchers who’d become surrounded by a dangerous storm cluster without losing a single snow boot.”
Angus stared at the captain, feeling instantly awestruck.
“I think it might be wise if we make our way up to the passenger observation deck,” Jeremius added, steering Angus toward another flight of stairs in the corner. “Things can get a bit bumpy when she really picks up speed. I promise you’re in for the ride of your life!”
They were not the only passengers aboard the weather station. Several other Perilous residents were also being ferried back to Imbur on the same flight.
“That’s Catcher Greasley.” Jeremius pointed out a short lightning catcher. He had his head pressed against the cool glass of a porthole as he held a spotted handkerchief over his mouth. “And you might already know Catcher Trollworthy,” he added as they crept past a silver-haired woman, whom Angus vaguely recognized from his time in the experimental division. She was snoring quietly in her seat.
Angus smiled at a tall fifth-year lightning cub, Juliana Jessop, who was being accompanied by her anxious-looking mother. Two rows in front of them sat a pale, moon-faced man whom Angus had never seen before. He was dressed in a long tweed coat and matching trousers, and his strange, unblinking eyes were magnified through a thick pair of glasses. He instantly reminded Angus of an overgrown owl. The man watched them carefully as they made their way to the front of the observation deck.
“Who’s that?” Angus asked quietly when Jeremius offered no explanation.
Jeremius frowned. “He’s not someone I know very well. I believe he works in a very quiet part of Perilous. It’s unlikely that you will ever see him in your time as a trainee.”
Angus considered asking more, but no sooner had they found two empty seats than they were off.
It was like being on the longest, most stomach-churning roller coaster in the universe. Captain Frobisher threw the weather station around the skies with wild abandon, skimming so low over the Houses of Parliament, in a very misty London, that Angus was convinced they were about to collide with Big Ben. But it was also the most exhilarating thing he’d ever done, and he gripped his seat with white knuckles, swallowing down a mad urge to laugh out loud.
They shot through great puffs of cloud, scattering flocks of seagulls and giving one startled glider pilot a terrible fright when he briefly entered their cloud space.
“But won’t he tell everyone about the weather station?” Angus asked as they sailed past.
“It wouldn’t matter even if he did.” Jeremius shrugged. “Nobody’s going to believe a far-fetched story about a great galleon sailing across the skies.”
Angus was flung violently off his seat twice, when they were forced to do two emergency stops to avoid serious collisions with passenger jets. Turbulence shook the entire weather station with such force that he was convinced he was about to lose the contents of his stomach, and he wished he hadn’t eaten quite so much curried sprout marmalade at breakfast. By the time they’d hitched a ride on the back of an exceptionally bumpy warm air thermal, he was starting to feel desperately cloud sick and far too queasy to open his mouth and ask for some tablets. But it was still the most exciting journey he’d ever taken in his life. And he found it impossible to stop smiling.
On and on the weather station flew, over endless choppy seas and through ever-darkening clouds.
“Some of the more senior lightning catchers refuse to travel in the weather station,” Jeremius said as they banked hard left to circumvent a large flock of geese. “But as you can see, it truly is the fastest way to reach Imbur in an emergency.”
He pointed out the window as a familiar island came into view below. Angus felt his heart leap as he caught sight of Perilous in the distance. Perched on top of a tall tooth of rock, and towering over the town of Little Frog’s Bottom, it looked more magnificent than ever in the dramatic clouds. In less than half an hour he’d be back on solid ground, helping himself to some excellent food from the kitchens, looking forward to a long sleep in his comfortable bed. He couldn’t wait to see the look on Dougal’s and Indigo’s faces when he walked straight back into the Exploratorium, with thrilling tales of a long-lost uncle from Canada and a hair-raising ride in a dirigible weather station.
However, even though dusk was now falling, it was obvious that Imbur was in the grip of a ferocious winter. Angus stared out the window at the fields, woods, towns, and rivers below, all covered in thick layers of ice and snow. Several sinister-looking icebergs were floating just off the coast. Farther to the west the weather had closed in, completely smothering the mountains in a shroud of icy white, making it impossible to see anything beyond them, including Castle Dankhart. Angus felt a twinge of disappointment. He’d been hoping to catch a brief glimpse of the castle where his mum and dad were being held.
“Icicle storms.” Jeremius frowned, staring hard at the squall. “We could be in for a bumpy landing, I’m afraid. Captain Frobisher might have to set us down in Little Frog’s Bottom instead.”
“But I thought we were going straight back to Perilous,” Angus said.
“Th
e weather’s closing in too fast. It might be unwise to approach Perilous in these conditions. The weather station would be flying blind, with a ton of ice barnacles stuck to its bottom, and strictly speaking, this isn’t an emergency. Captain Frobisher won’t risk it. Stay here while I find out what’s going on.”
Jeremius hurried away without another word. Angus stared out at the vicious storm, which already looked closer. The rest of the passengers on the observation deck were also watching its progress with trepidation. Two bearded men were pointing nervously out the window. But the man with the moon-shaped face and the thick glasses was paying no attention to the storm whatsoever. He was staring directly at Angus instead.
Angus turned away quickly, with a strange prickling sensation on the back of his neck, as if he could still feel the stranger’s gaze.
Jeremius reappeared a few moments later.
“I was right. Frobisher says it’s too hazardous to land over Perilous tonight. She’s heading for shelter on the far side of the island and will keep all the passengers there until morning,” he informed Angus hurriedly. “She’s agreed to set us down at an old friend’s house in Little Frog’s Bottom first. It’s risky, but if we leave right now before the icicle storm can reach us . . .”
Back down through the lower decks they dashed. Angus swayed to and fro as the dirigible weather station was buffeted by the wind, and he couldn’t help wondering why they didn’t just stay on board overnight with the other passengers.
They finally entered a room where a spacious eight-person landing basket was being hastily prepared for their departure by the same lightning catcher who had welcomed them aboard. Angus swallowed down a nervous hiccup. Being hauled up from the balcony of the Windmill in a basket was one thing, but riding it hundreds of feet straight down into a volatile storm?
“Passengers are advised to keep their mouths shut at all times during the descent, in order to avoid frozen gums, chipped teeth, and glacier tongue syndrome.” The lightning catcher recited the list of safety instructions at top speed, passing their luggage over the wicker railings as Angus and his uncle climbed inside. “Exit the basket as soon as it has landed, and evacuate the area immediately. In the unlikely event of an emergency, a warning claxon will sound and a safety device will be deployed.” He pointed above their heads to a rather flimsy-looking parachute, which was torn and frayed around the edges. “We hope you’ve enjoyed your journey on the dirigible weather station. Good-bye!”
“Just keep your elbows tucked in and don’t look down,” Jeremius said calmly, as if riding wicker baskets through bitter storms was perfectly normal. “Ready?”
Angus nodded, wondering if he’d ever been less ready for anything in his life.
A second later the loading doors beneath them opened. There was a great blast of freezing air, and suddenly they were being lowered into an angry storm cloud. Down through the skies they plummeted, through thick, gray, swirling mists that made it impossible to see anything. Angus closed his eyes . . . which made things ten times worse, and he quickly opened them again before he was sick. The basket lurched to the left, causing a fresh wave of turbulence to hit his stomach.
“The wind’s changed direction!” Jeremius yelled above the howling gale. “We’re flying straight into the icicle storm!”
Angus flinched as something hit the ropes above their heads and shattered, showering them both in frozen splinters. And suddenly they were being pelted with dozens of lethal-looking icicles. Long, sleek daggers of ice flashed past his ears, grazing his knuckles as he gripped the basket.
“Keep your head down!” Jeremius roared.
Angus ducked below the outer rim of wicker, shielding his head with his arms. The wind buffeted them from all sides, flinging the basket about violently, and Angus was almost tossed over the safety rail. He caught a brief glimpse of the ground below and gulped—the town of Little Frog’s Bottom was zooming up toward them far too rapidly, a jumble of twisted chimneys.
“We’re coming in for a heavy landing!” Jeremius warned. “Brace yourself!”
Angus planted his feet firmly on the floor of the landing basket, moving his frozen fingers away from his face to clutch the ropes above his head.
“OOOF!”
The basket hit a flat roof with a sickening crunch and shattered like a bundle of twigs. Angus was instantly flung high into the air like a human rocket, his arms and legs pedaling furiously. A split second later he was plummeting back down toward the roof again, heading straight for a deep pile of soft snow. . . .
THUD!
Cold slush filled his ears. Purple stars danced before his eyes as he lay awkwardly on his front, the wind knocked out of his lungs. He wriggled his fingers and toes. Nothing seemed to be broken. The icicle storm had now stopped. And everything had gone strangely quiet.
“Uncle Jeremius?” he called anxiously, rolling onto his back, trying to remove himself from the snowdrift. And he hoped that his uncle had also made it down to earth in one piece. “Uncle Jeremius!” he called again, more urgently.
The voice that answered him, however, belonged to a different person entirely.
“What in the name of Perilous are you doing here?”
A startled face stared down at him from above, eyes wide behind a familiar pair of small, round glasses.
“D-Dougal?” Angus blinked in surprise. “What—where are we?”
“Number thirty-seven Feaver Street. You’ve just landed on the roof of my house!” Dougal said, looking just as shocked to see Angus. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming back? Has Dark-Angel given you a second chance or what?”
“I hate to interrupt this happy reunion.” Jeremius suddenly appeared behind Dougal’s shoulder from the shadows of a chimney, brushing snow off his coat. Angus was extremely relieved to see that he’d survived the landing unharmed. “We need to get out of this weather as quickly as possible.” Jeremius scowled up at the threatening skies above them. “I’m afraid there is another icicle storm on the way.”
It took several minutes to sort through the splintered wreckage of the landing basket for their luggage. Dougal then led them swiftly across the snowy roof, past several chimneys and a skylight, through a sloping trapdoor, and down a staircase into a long, narrow hallway.
“Dougal is a friend of yours?” Jeremius asked as soon as the door was safety shut behind them.
“Yeah, you could say that.” Angus grinned, feeling that “friend” was a totally inadequate word to describe what Dougal was. In the space of four short months at Perilous, they had completed a treacherous fog field trip, been attacked by a raging storm globe, and done a dangerous dash through the weather tunnel together.
Short and slightly rounded, with jet-black hair and glasses, Dougal was more than just an ordinary friend. Angus knew he was the best friend he was ever likely to have.
“And your father is at home?” Jeremius turned toward Dougal as the next icicle storm began to pelt the roof noisily above their heads. “I need to ask him if we can stay here for the night.”
“You’re staying? Brilliant!” Dougal grinned. “Dad’s in the kitchen.”
Jeremius nodded, then disappeared down the stairs without another word.
“Who on earth is that?” Dougal asked, gawping after him with a stunned expression.
“My uncle Jeremius. He works at the Canadian Exploratorium for Extremely Chilly Weather.”
“You’re kidding! I’ve always wanted to visit the Canadian Exploratorium. They do amazing stuff with blizzards.”
“So you knew there was an Exploratorium in Canada?” Angus asked.
“Yeah, they’ve got them all over the place, in Iceland, New Zealand, Africa, Scotland. . . . Most of them are much smaller than Perilous, though. You didn’t think we were the only ones, did you?”
Angus shrugged, smiling. “Yeah, I suppose I did.”
“Anyway, never mind about that now. Why haven’t you ever mentioned Jeremius before?”
“It’s a long
story,” Angus said.
His whole body ached from colliding with Dougal’s roof. But now that he was suddenly faced with the happy prospect of staying at Feaver Street for the night, he couldn’t wait to tell Dougal everything.
He followed his friend down the stairs, peering around at the high ceilings and florid wallpaper. The house was large and rambling, with corridors and staircases disappearing off into the darkness every few steps. It reminded him of an old-fashioned museum, with flickering gas lamps, faded rugs, and one choked-looking houseplant that obviously hadn’t seen the sun in years.
Most of the rooms looked dusty and unused. The curtains were drawn, and a musty smell lingered in the air. Mr. Dewsnap’s office was a large room on the ground floor and had a far more homey feel about it. It was overrun with tottering piles of books, on top of which various cups of tea, half-eaten sandwiches, and unopened letters had been abandoned.
Mr. Dewsnap himself leaped up from the scrubbed wooden table as Angus and Dougal entered the kitchen. Dougal’s father was short and rather plump, and his jet-black hair was flecked with gray. He was dressed in a long, patterned housecoat that resembled a quilted bedspread, and he wore a pair of small, round glasses perched on the end of his nose.
“Aha! Angus, my fine young fellow! ’Tis a great pleasure to meet you at last.” Mr. Dewsnap shook him heartily by the hand. He spoke with a lyrical, singsong sort of voice, as if he were addressing the audience in a theater. Angus took half a step backward in surprise. He’d been expecting to meet somebody much more scholarly and serious, someone a lot more like Dougal, in fact.
“Jeremius has just been telling me about your thrilling journey in the weather station,” Dougal’s father said. “I’ve lost track of the number of times your uncle has turned up at Feaver Street with tales of crash landings and daring escapes from turbulent storms.”
Dougal was frowning. “Hang on a minute. If Angus’s uncle has been here before, how come I’ve never met him?”