by Anne Cameron
“But why didn’t you tell us?” Dougal asked.
“I couldn’t tell anyone, not even Germ. Besides, the diary was written years ago. There’s nothing in it that could help Angus or his parents. I would have told you straightaway if there had been,” she said earnestly.
Angus didn’t doubt it for a second. Indigo was the most honest and trustworthy person he’d ever met.
“So why are you showing us now?” he asked.
“It was only when I saw that photo of Swarfe and Vellum that I realized . . . and I just knew I had to—”
Indigo opened her mum’s diary and extracted a faded old photograph from the pages in the middle. “I found this hidden inside.”
The photo showed a young boy and a girl sitting together on a trunk. Indigo’s mum was laughing. And the boy . . . even with short hair and an innocent-looking face, he was obviously Scabious Dankhart. The resemblance to Indigo was striking, and Angus was glad she didn’t have any pictures of her uncle after his ugly, malevolent transformation had taken place. But there was something else. Tucked into a corner, at the bottom of the picture, was another smudged thumbprint.
“I wasn’t sure at first, but if you look closely, it’s exactly the same as the thumbprint on that photo of Valentine Vellum and Swarfe. It matches the one on your dad’s message, too.”
Dougal frowned, looking skeptical.
“But how can you tell?” Angus took the photo and looked at it closely. “Don’t all thumbprints look the same unless you study them under a magnifying glass?”
Indigo nodded. “That’s why it took me so long to notice. But then you showed me that photo in the supply room, and I suddenly realized there’s a lightning bolt inside each thumbprint. It’s hard to see at first, but once you know it’s there . . .”
Angus laid the photo of Swarfe and Vellum and the note from his dad on a table next to Indigo’s photo, but the thumbprints were baffling, with barely visible zigzags, lines, and ridges. How had Indigo seen a lightning bolt? He picked up the picture of Indigo’s mum and studied it from every angle. It was only when he squinted at it, through half-closed eyes, that he finally saw it. Running straight through the middle of the thumbprint was a very distinct lightning bolt.
“I can see it!”
Once he’d spotted it, it was impossible to ignore. He grabbed his dad’s note and held it up against the photo. Indigo was right! All three thumbprints were identical.
“Indigo, this is brilliant!” He quickly passed the diary over to Dougal. “I never would have spotted it.”
Indigo blushed.
“But I wonder who it belongs to?” Dougal said. “I mean, how come the same person’s managed to smudge a thumbprint onto two separate photos and a secret message from your dad?”
Angus shrugged. “Maybe the thumbprints are a clue, and my dad’s just trying to help us.”
Indigo nodded enthusiastically. “All we’ve got to do now is figure out what it means.”
They sat in the Pigsty, discussing the possibilities, until the first light of dawn began to brighten the sky outside the window.
At breakfast they were met by the appalling news that the silver lightning moths had escaped from the supplies department overnight and were now flapping about the Exploratorium, causing panic and chaos. Loud squeals could be heard coming up from stone tunnels and passageways as the moths swooped after terrified huddles of lightning cubs. The entire experimental division had to be sealed off while Catcher Sparks and her team tried to catch the silvery pests with some powerful magnets and giant strips of extra-sticky flypaper.
“If I ever get hold of the idiot who let those blasted moths out . . .” Gudgeon grumbled when Angus, Indigo, and Dougal bumped into him outside the research department.
Angus shot a guilty look at Dougal, who was staring down at the floor, his ears pink. Indigo looked thoroughly shamefaced and bit her bottom lip until it turned white. Luckily, nobody had the faintest suspicion that they had accidentally set the moths free. But if Gudgeon, Catcher Sparks, or Dark-Angel ever found out . . .
“We’re already stretched to the limits as it is,” Gudgeon told them, shaking his head wearily. “We’ve got icicle storms going off all over the globe, lightning catchers coming and going at all hours. If this carries on, we won’t have enough experts left to run the Lightnarium.”
Angus felt his face burn. The experimental division was already working around the clock to repair battered storm vacuums. The kitchens were open twenty-four hours a day because of the high demand for tea and toast. And the supplies department was now in imminent danger of running out of rubber boots.
“Oh, but couldn’t we help?” asked Indigo, trying to make amends. “I mean, the lightning cubs could work in the kitchens or clean out some storm vacuums.”
Gudgeon shook his head. “The last thing Principal Dark-Angel needs right now is for you three to go wandering off, getting yourselves into trouble.”
When most of the moths had finally been recaptured, however, Indigo got her wish, and all trainees were sent to help with the sizable backlog of cleaning and repairs that had now built up. Dougal was dispatched to the kitchens to peel carrots and potatoes. But Angus and Indigo were sent to the experimental division, where they were met by Catcher Sparks. She led them briskly into a familiar room filled with rusty coils of wire and large bolts. Angus, Dougal, and Indigo had spent many hours there during the previous term, removing pockets of earwax from hailstone helmets. To make matters worse, Percival and Pixie Vellum were slouched against the wall, scowling.
“A party of lightning catchers has just returned from dealing with some icicle storms in Texas,” Catcher Sparks said, pointing to a pile of weatherproof coats that had been dumped in the middle of the floor. They were covered in a thick, tarlike substance that smelled strongly of rotting fish. “Unfortunately, the lightning catchers were forced to run for cover across an extremely unpleasant swamp, and their coats now need cleaning thoroughly. You will find plenty of hot water, gloves, and buckets in the back.”
“But that’s not fair!” Percival Vellum folded his arms. “Why should we have to clean those horrible coats? It’s not our fault some stupid lightning moths escaped.”
Angus glanced furtively at Indigo, who was trying hard not to look anybody in the eye. Her face, however, was burning with guilt.
“Principal Dark-Angel expects everyone to help get Perilous back on its feet, and that includes you two.” Catcher Sparks poked Percival in the chest with a bony finger. “I expect those coats to be spotless by the end of the day. And try not to get dirt all over the floor. It has just been steam cleaned after spillage from one of our oldest storm jars.” She strode out of the room and slammed the door behind her.
It was the most revolting thing Angus had ever done. The tarry substance proved highly resistant to cleaning. It oozed and dripped as he scraped the worst of it off. Then he quickly dunked each coat into a bucket of hot, soapy water and scrubbed away the dreadful stench, deciding he’d never eat sardines again.
The minutes dragged by at a snail’s pace. Angus was convinced the disgusting heap of coats was actually getting bigger, not smaller. He was just wondering if Catcher Sparks would force them to stay all night to finish the job when—
“Watch where you’re flicking that water, Munchfungus. It’s going all over me!” Percival Vellum was glaring at him.
Angus shifted his bucket away from the twin, trying to keep the peace. But Percival hadn’t finished with him yet.
“At least this is more interesting than those stupid survival lessons we’ve been doing with your uncle, Munchfungus,” he said.
Angus clutched his scrubbing brush tightly. “Shut up, Vellum. I’m not interested in what you think.”
“I’d rather clean a hundred rotten, stinking coats than go back into that Rotundra again,” Percival continued.
Pixie giggled.
“But Angus’s uncle is teaching us something really useful,” Indigo said quickly.
“You two wouldn’t last five minutes in a real blizzard.”
“Stop getting your rubber boots in a twist, Midnight. I couldn’t care less if his uncle can knit an emergency shelter out of his own beard. He’s still a McFangus, and who’d want to be one of those?”
“Yeah.” Pixie snorted with giggles. “Our dad says that your uncle Jeremius ran away to the Canadian Exploratorium because Dark-Angel hates him, and nobody wants him here at Perilous.”
“That’s not true!” Indigo dropped her scrubbing brush into her bucket and stood up to face the twins defiantly. “Your dad’s making things up! Just because everyone thinks he’s a gormless gorilla.”
“Does your uncle live on an iceberg back in Canada, Munchfungus?” Percival said, ignoring Indigo. “Does he share his lunch with penguins and spend his days digging for ice worms?”
“There aren’t any penguins in Canada, you idiot,” Angus said. He clenched his fists, resisting the urge to dump a bucket of dirty water over the sniggering twin’s head.
“Is that why nobody ever sees your mum and dad around here anymore? Has Dark-Angel sent them on a secret assignment to your uncle’s iceberg?”
Angus shot to his feet, accidentally kicking over his bucket of water. “Shut up about my mum and dad!” He flicked the coat he’d been cleaning at Percival Vellum, showering the twin in disgusting globs of filth and muck.
“Urgh!” Percival spluttered, staggering backward. “You’re dead, Munchfungus! You and your feeble little friends will pay for that!”
Bang!
The door suddenly burst open behind them, making all four of them jump.
“What on earth is going on in here?” Catcher Sparks stormed into the room, her nostrils flared in anger. “I can hear your voices from the other side of the experimental division. And why is Percival Vellum dripping all over the floor?”
The twin glared at the lightning catcher but said nothing. The silence stretched on for several uncomfortable moments.
“Very well, if none of you are prepared to explain yourselves . . .” Catcher Sparks folded her arms. “Miss Vellum, there’s dirty water all over this floor. Get a mop and clean it up at once, and then report to Catcher Trollworthy. She has some snow boots that need to be deodorized. Your brother will clean himself up and then proceed to the Octagon, where he will find a fresh pile of storm bellows waiting to be moved to the supplies department.”
Percival groaned.
“And you two!” She pointed a finger at Angus and Indigo. “You will remain here until every single one of these coats has been cleaned. I will not tolerate this kind of behavior in my department!”
The stench grew steadily more disgusting as Angus and Indigo scrubbed coat after reeking coat. They were allowed to leave only after Catcher Sparks had checked all the pockets for any lingering specks of swamp.
“Ew!” Dougal wrinkled his nose as they finally entered the Pigsty after dinner. “What have you two been doing? You stink of rotting fish.”
Indigo explained quickly about the marathon coat-cleaning session. And Angus filled Dougal in on his argument with the Vellums.
“They definitely know something about my mum and dad.” He pulled off his smelly sweater and flung it into the far corner of the room. The tarlike substance had somehow managed to work its way into his hair and now covered most of his clothes, face, and boots in long, sticky smears. “Vellum’s been hinting at it for weeks now, making snide remarks. But how could he know anything personal about my family?”
“I’ve got two words for you,” Dougal said darkly. “Valentine Vellum. He’s always poking his nose into things that don’t concern him, and I bet he’s told those two gargoyles everything. Anyway, never mind about them now. I’ve been doing some digging.”
“Into the lightning heart or the thumbprints?” Angus asked, hoping something could be salvaged from the day.
But Dougal shook his head. “Into Adrik Swarfe. I still can’t believe he was ever a lightning catcher here at Perilous. And then you found that photo in the supplies department. So I decided to find out more about him.”
“And?” Indigo sat down on the floor beside him as Dougal spread out a pile of old Weathervane magazines. Angus kicked off his swampy boots and perched on an armchair.
“And you’ll never believe what I’ve discovered. Adrik Swarfe comes from a long line of lightning catchers who go all the way back to the Great Fire of London,” Dougal said. “And they’ve lived and worked at Perilous ever since. All of his ancestors were well respected; they believed in the Perilous philosophy about protecting mankind from the worst weather. Everyone says Adrik Swarfe is a brilliant inventor. He’s got a real genius for it; he showed great promise in his early years at Perilous.”
“How do you know all this?” Angus asked.
“Because Swarfe won the Lightning Catcher of the Year award two years in a row, before he scarpered off to join Dankhart. And the Weathervane covered the whole thing.”
“There’s a Lightning Catcher of the Year award?” Indigo asked as Dougal riffled through the magazines and plucked out a particularly moldy copy. A photograph of Swarfe covered the front page. His face, however, was hidden behind a gleaming trophy shaped like a lightning bolt.
“It’s a really big deal! All the Exploratoriums across the globe can enter. There’s an awards ceremony and a big celebration afterward. The winner gets a huge trophy and a lifetime supply of luxury all-weather lightning-proof leather jerkins. Then they do a lecture tour and demonstrations and stuff. Rogwood has won it loads of times. It was awarded to some guy called Kristof Wideflake two years ago, for his work with stretchable snow. And . . .” Dougal paused, suddenly looking uncomfortable.
“What?” Angus asked.
“Your mum and dad won it ten years ago for writing their McFangus Fog Guide. There’s a picture of them collecting their prize.”
Dougal pulled another Weekly Weathervane from the pile and pushed it toward Angus. Angus stared at the faded photograph dumbfounded. It was like discovering the world was no longer round. How could his parents have won such a major prize without ever telling him? He gazed at the picture, soaking in every detail. His mum and dad were both dressed in smart new leather jerkins, looking happy and relaxed. They were holding an impressive lightning-shaped trophy between them, standing among a larger group of lightning catchers, including Rogwood, Principal Dark-Angel, and Catchers Grimble and Sparks. It was the first time Angus had ever seen his parents with anyone else from Perilous. He studied the photo for several long moments before finally turning his attention back to his friends.
“S-so what did Swarfe win his award for?” he asked Dougal, who was patiently waiting beside him.
“According to the Weathervane, he did some really inventive work with extra-high-voltage lightning. It’s far more formidable than the normal stuff; they’ve been using it to power the light fissures at Perilous. And that’s not all.”
Dougal picked up another magazine and flicked through a large section on Scottish rainfall patterns before he came to a column called “The Weekly Debate.”
“Swarfe appeared in this editorial column a lot,” Dougal said, “and it didn’t make him many friends at Perilous, either. He was always going on about how the weather should be used for power, as a weapon. He thought that if you can control it, you have the right to use it.”
Angus blinked. “But that’s exactly what Dankhart believes.”
“Yeah. He even tried to persuade Dark-Angel to let him hunt for the lightning vaults. He wanted to open them up again for experimentation.”
“I’m amazed she didn’t let him,” Indigo said.
Dougal nodded. “Most of the lightning catchers hated the idea, though. And the only other person who really agreed with him at the time was Valentine Vellum.”
“Vellum?” Angus said. “So they definitely knew each other?”
Dougal shrugged. “I know none of this helps us much with finding the lightning heart. . . .”
“Yeah, but at least we know a bit more about Dankhart’s chief monsoon mongrel now. So why did Swarfe leave Perilous?”
“That’s the really odd part.” Dougal shuffled through the Weathervanes once again and retrieved a tatty, dog-eared copy. “From stuff I’ve read in other magazines, I managed to pin down the exact date he left, twenty-two years ago. But when I looked through the news for that week, most of it’s been blacked out. All the photos have been removed, too, and three whole pages are missing.” He showed Angus and Indigo what was left of the mutilated Weathervane. “It’s as if no one wants to remember what happened, and they’ve literally ripped it from the pages of history.”
Angus frowned. “So we still don’t know why Swarfe left?”
“No, but judging by the state of this Weathervane, he must have done something really, really terrible.”
It took five hot baths and four long days before the smell of rotting fish finally faded enough for Dougal to sit with Angus and Indigo at their usual table in the kitchens.
“Sorry! It’s nothing personal,” he said, still keeping his distance. “But you two were putting me off my breakfast.”
Angus decided to stay out of everyone else’s way until the last lingering whiff of fishiness had gone. He and Indigo therefore spent as much free time as possible in the library, searching for anything they could find about the strange lightning thumbprints.
Angus flicked through endless maps, old dictionaries, and an amazing lightning compendium, where he got totally sidetracked by some brilliant photos of volcanic lightning. There were whole sections on paleolightning, St. Elmo’s fire, protons, and electrons. There were red sprites, green elves, and blue jets, all brightly colored flashes that appeared high above a thunderstorm and often took the shape of vegetables. He was deeply impressed by superbolts, cool-sounding upward lightning, which none of the lightning catchers had ever mentioned before.
But there was nothing that even hinted at the existence of the lightning thumbprints. The closest thing he found to it was a drawing of some rare finger-shaped lightning. He had no idea how that could help them solve the puzzle and find the lightning heart.