The Lightning Catcher: The Secrets of the Storm Vortex

by Anne Cameron

  “Carry on, boy, read the next bit,” Gudgeon barked as Dougal paused.

  “‘The same water that exists on our planet today has been here since the early earth was formed. It has been recycled again and again, completing the water cycle millions of times over,’” Dougal read, sounding startled.

  “Which means that the same water that Percival Vellum brushed his teeth with this morning might one day fall across the Himalayas as snow,” Gudgeon informed them.

  “That’s if he even bothers brushing his teeth,” Angus whispered to Indigo, staring at the twin’s mossy-looking molars.

  “It also means that in 1666, Philip Starling could have washed his socks in the very water that is now used to boil your eggs for breakfast.”

  “Ew! Gross!” Georgina Fox grimaced.

  Angus quickly decided to have toast in the mornings from now on.

  “Read the rest of it, Dewsnap,” Gudgeon said.

  “‘It can take thousands of years for a single drop of rain to complete its journey around the planet,’” Dougal continued, “‘as it can be frozen at the polar ice caps, become part of slow-moving glaciers, or be stored as groundwater in aquifers before continuing its journey through the water cycle once again.’”

  “There’s only one type of rain that gives you a glimpse of the endless journey water takes around our planet, and it’s called ancient rain,” Gudgeon said. “It’s rare. You won’t ever see it here on Imbur, so I’ve brought a sample with me that was collected some years ago.”

  He took a familiar glass sphere from his pocket. Dougal nudged Angus in the ribs. It was a long time since either of them had seen a storm globe. The last time they’d tried to use one it had almost flooded the Pigsty.

  “Right, stand back!” Gudgeon warned.

  Angus jumped out of the way as Gudgeon smashed the storm globe on the ground. Broken glass skittered across the floor, releasing gray wisps of mist.

  “Each drop of ancient rain contains a fleeting image of the last thing it fell on,” Gudgeon explained as a cloud quickly began to form above their heads. “It can be seen only for a fraction of a second from the corner of the eye. But it’s one of the most amazing spectacles a lightning catcher will ever witness, and you lot are extremely lucky to see it.”

  Angus stared up as the first drops began to fall, but he was still too angry with the Vellums to see anything except a soggy blur of rain. His eyes flitted from left to right, his head twisting in every direction in short, jerky movements.

  “What are you trying to do, boy, give yourself a stiff neck?” Gudgeon asked as he moved around the storm hollow. “Stand still and let your eyes slip out of focus. That’s when you’ll see it.”

  Angus concentrated hard, trying to put all thoughts of the Vellum twins out of his mind. His eyes went blurry for a fraction of a second and . . . “Wow!”

  The ancient rain was astonishing. He caught a quick, breathtaking glimpse of lush forests, gargantuan trees, deep valleys, and spectacular river-filled gorges. There were swaying meadows full of delicate flowers and buzzing bees, crashing waves on rocky shorelines, and even the shifting sands of a desert. Angus felt his head spin. It was like taking a whirlwind tour of the planet before people even existed, before pollution, highways, cars, and cities.

  The shower stopped just as suddenly as it had started, leaving the ground glistening and wet. Angus turned and grinned at Indigo. Dougal wiped a smattering of opalescent raindrops off his glasses.

  “Right, now you know all about ancient rain and the water cycle, it’s time to tell you more about this stuff,” Gudgeon said, drawing their attention back to the storm jar. After the wonders of the ancient rain, it looked even gloomier than before. “Instead of traveling freely through the oceans of the world, falling over mountains, forests, and valleys, rancid rain is deliberately captured and sealed inside a series of dark tunnels underneath Castle Dankhart by the monsoon mongrels. It then gets filtered through a range of bleak and sinister projectograms showing images of terrible storms, deadly lightning strikes, desolate landscapes, and horrors such as fog phantoms.”

  “I knew it!” Dougal gasped. “I knew they were real!”

  “Rancid rain is tremendously potent; some say it’s the most terrifying of the deadly seven. It acts upon the brain, via the optical nerve, causing fearful delusions, anxiety, and disorientation. It probably won’t kill you,” Gudgeon added. “But it can cripple even the best lightning catchers with feelings of overwhelming fear and panic, leaving them extremely vulnerable. Closing your eyes won’t help,” he said, pointing at Georgina Fox, who was swaying on the spot, both her eyes screwed tightly shut. “Your best defense against it is to get undercover as quickly as possible. These guardian glasses will provide some protection for a short period of time,” he said, taking a pair from his leather jerkin and holding them up so everyone could see. “A special silvery coating on the lens filters out some of the more terrifying images, but they won’t be much use in prolonged showers or torrential downpours. And you won’t be using them today. You’ll be facing this shower alone. Right, spread out so you’re not standing too close to anyone else.”

  Angus glanced swiftly at Dougal, who had turned a shocking shade of white. Indigo looked determined to face the rain bravely. The rest of the lightning cubs moved reluctantly away from one another. Gudgeon waited until Pixie and Percival Vellum finally separated; then he pulled the stopper from the top of the storm jar, releasing the rancid rain.

  A small cloud drifted upward, slowly expanding into the full height of the storm hollow. Angus felt his skin prickle almost instantly. An odd taste like salted peanuts filled his mouth, making his tongue stick to the back of his teeth. The cloud grew darker and darker until—

  Flash!

  Long chains of dazzling lightning streaked past him to the left. He swung around just in time to catch a momentary glimpse of a gnarled forest full of twisted, tortured-looking trees. Within seconds, everyone around him had disappeared behind a curtain of black rain. The sound was deafening. Disturbing images of violent, bone-chilling blizzards cascaded past him. There were vicious typhoons that flattened houses, trees, and everything that stood in their path like flimsy cardboard. Great fognadoes whirled past him, each one tugging at his senses, causing an instant tide of panic to rise up inside him, just as Gudgeon had warned.

  He closed his eyes, trying to shake off the unsettling nightmarish visions. If he could just make them stop for a fraction of a second . . .

  “What’s the matter, Munchfungus, scared of the rain?” His eyes shot open. Percival Vellum had somehow muscled his way through the weather, wearing a pair of guardian glasses that he’d clearly sneaked into the storm hollow. He was also wearing the smuggest smile Angus had ever seen.

  “Where’s your fire dragon now, storm boy?” he jeered. “Has the rancid rain drowned it?”

  It happened in the blink of an eye. Angus felt a violent jolt inside his chest that threatened to crack his ribs wide open and then—

  BANG!

  The fire dragon leaped before his eyes, its wings unfolded and stretched wide through the rancid rain. The creature dived swiftly toward Percival Vellum, dragging the storm with it, herding heavy black raindrops with each flap of its great wings.

  “W-what’s happening?” Percival staggered backward in a sudden panic. “No! Munchfungus, you—you’re doing this! I know you are! You freak! Make the rain stop!”

  He turned and charged helter-skelter across the storm hollow, desperately trying to escape the rancid rain.

  “Arghhhh!”

  But large swaths of the storm were now following his every move.

  “No!” Angus yelled, racing after the blazing tail of the dragon, feeling just as shocked as the fleeing twin.

  For a fraction of a second he’d wanted to scare the pants off Percival Vellum, to make the vile twin think twice before taunting him again, to punish him for knowing everything most secret and personal about his life, and in that second
the dragon had appeared. But it wasn’t here this time to warn him of imminent danger. The creature had burst into the storm hollow with one purpose, to control the weather, to drive the rancid rain after Percival Vellum and bombard the twin with terrible images of hurricanes, tornadoes, and deadly wisps of poisonous fog, almost as if Angus had ordered it to do so. He had to make it stop! He raced through the dense rain and crashed into someone’s shoulder, knocking him sideways.

  “Stop! Please . . . stop!” he shouted hopelessly, chasing the flash of golden flames up ahead. But the dragon had now herded Percival into a dark corner. The storm hovered ominously over the snivelling twin’s head as he pulled his legs and arms up into a tight ball.

  “Make way! Stand back there!” Gudgeon came tearing across the storm hollow.

  The fire dragon vanished in an instant. The painful throb in Angus’s chest subsided. Lightning cubs all around emerged from the gloom soaked through and shivering as the storm fizzled and died.

  Gudgeon crouched down beside Percival, who was now shaking uncontrollably. Angus kept his distance in case the fire dragon appeared again and inflicted even more damage.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Pixie ran to her brother’s side.

  “He’s had a nasty shock to the system, nothing more. Doctor Fleagal will give him something to calm his nerves,” Gudgeon said, helping Percival onto his feet again. “You lot had better get yourselves back to the Octagon, and remember, no talking about anything that’s happened in this storm hollow!”

  And he led Percival Vellum to the door without looking back.

  9

  SHIMMER SHARK SURPRISE

  “Ha! This is brilliant!” Dougal guffawed with laughter as Angus related the whole horrible incident to him and Indigo later that evening in the Pigsty. “It serves him right for bugging you about fire dragons and storm prophets. No wonder he was looking so sorry for himself!”

  “But I turned the weather against him!” Angus said as Dougal continued to laugh, holding his sides. “Storm prophets are supposed to predict dangerous weather, not send their fire dragons chasing after people. What if—what if none of the other storm prophets ever did that?”

  “They would have done if they’d known Percival Vellum,” Dougal said with conviction.

  “But what if I’m the only one?” Angus persisted. “What if this makes me just as bad as the monsoon mongrels?”

  “Of course it doesn’t!” Indigo said earnestly. “You didn’t do it on purpose.”

  “Yeah,” Dougal said, removing his glasses and wiping the tears from his eyes. “Dankhart and his monsoon mongrels do everything on purpose. I mean, Dankhart’s seriously twisted when it comes to the weather, er, no offense,” he added as an afterthought, turning toward Indigo.

  Indigo rolled her eyes. “And it’s not like you went into the storm hollow planning to scare Percival. It was an accident,” she added.

  Angus hoped Indigo was right. But how could he be sure? For the first time ever he’d made the fire dragon appear without anyone’s being in a life-threatening situation. He’d used it to turn the rancid rain against Percival Vellum. Like a weapon. And there’d been nothing he could do to stop it from happening. He wasn’t even sure how it had happened. What if he did the same thing again with something more dangerous next time, or he lost his temper with Dougal and accidentally set a thunderstorm loose on him?

  “Do you think Vellum will tell anyone what really happened?” he asked.

  Dougal shook his head. “Even if he did, he’s got no chance of proving it; you’re the only one who can see the fire dragon.”

  Percival Vellum appeared in the kitchens the next morning pale and subdued and avoiding all eye contact with Angus, Dougal, and Indigo. In the days that followed, Angus replayed the terrible events over and over inside his head like a ghastly movie that wouldn’t end. Each time the tight knot in his chest throbbed painfully, threatening to crack his ribs wide open, just as it had done in the storm hollow, leaving him afterward with a dull, empty ache.

  To make matters worse, they were now spending every evening in the Pigsty studying The Dankhart Handbook. The highly informative guide contained detailed descriptions of each of the deadly seven, with photographs and eyewitness accounts. Some, such as ice-diamond spores that floated through the air, freezing lungs, blood cells, and hearts, they’d already encountered. Others, including giant exploding hailstones, sounded so terrifyingly deadly that Dougal turned green and sat with his head between his knees for several minutes before they could continue reading. After that, he retreated to the far corner of the Pigsty, where he immersed himself in documents about weather explosions and the science of vortices.

  Angus, however, sat glued to the guide each evening, poring over every detail of the Castle Dankhart floor plans, most of which had been drawn by Jeremius McFangus, he discovered, spotting the familiar name at the bottom of each page. He tried to imagine every inch of the grand hall, Dankhart’s private rooms, and the monsoon mongrels’ living quarters, which, according to the neatly drawn plans, were situated in the turrets. The lower reaches of the castle contained storerooms, experimentation chambers, and the dungeons. Night after night he stared at the drawings until his brain ached with the effort of picturing which dungeon his parents had been imprisoned in for the last year. Did Jeremius know? Had he completed the drawings during his mysterious adventures at Castle Dankhart?

  A few mornings later they were met by the delicious smell of hot cinnamon toast coming from the kitchens and the thrilling news that the Lightning Catcher of the Year award winners would be arriving at Perilous in seven days.

  “Catcher Sparks made an announcement a few minutes ago,” Jonathon Hake informed them as they passed his table. “They’ll be staying here at the Exploratorium, eating in the kitchens and everything. Sparks told us not to bug them for autographs and stuff, though,” he added, frowning.

  Fresh copies of the Weathervane had been placed next to the serving tables. Dougal grabbed one and raced over to their usual table, flicking to a special report in the center pages as he munched on a slice of cinnamon toast.

  “There’s a picture of all the winners together,” he said, excitedly turning it around so Angus could see. “There’s Catcher Smithwyck; we already know she came third.”

  Next to Catcher Smithwyck stood someone called Herman Hornbuckle, with crooked teeth, sideburns, and a long beard; and the first-place winners, Lettice and Leonard Galipot, clutched a lightning-shaped trophy.

  Indigo joined them a moment later. Before she could speak, however, she caught sight of Germ, who had just entered the kitchens and was now helping himself to double bacon and eggs at the serving tables. Germ glanced in their direction and waved.

  “Oh, no, not again!” Indigo jumped up out of her seat, a folded piece of paper fluttering out of her pocket as she darted off in the opposite direction.

  “Hey, Indigo, wait! You’ve dropped something!” Angus called after her, but it was already too late. She dashed out of the kitchens without looking back.

  “What’s up with her?” Dougal asked, mystified.

  “Germ’s still bugging her about the rash on her hand,” Angus explained. “He cornered her in the library yesterday at lunchtime and wouldn’t let her go until she’d let him take a skin rubbing and some photos.”

  Instead of coming to sit at their table, however, Germ joined a group of his own friends. Angus scooped up the sheet of paper that Indigo had dropped and unfolded it.

  “Hey, these are the missing pages from the Weathervane,” he said, surprised. “It’s got the last bit of that interview with Catcher Smithwyck.” The rest of the pages were covered in garish ads for Cradget’s crazy half-price sale, sticky sausage doughnuts at the Frog’s Bottom Bakery, and a book signing at the Horrible Endings Bookshop by someone called Demelza Slype.

  “I don’t get it.” Dougal scratched his head, peering over Angus’s shoulder. “Why did she rip that out of the magazine? Hang on a minute; s
he’s circled something.” He pointed to a colorful promotion at the bottom of the page for Fawcett Family Tree Hunters:

  “Tired of trying to fill the empty spaces on your family tree? Bamboozled by endless names on birth certificates, gravestones, and census records? Fawcett Family Tree Hunters can complete your family tree for you!”

  Underneath the ad another small paragraph had been added in tiny letters:

  “Fawcett’s takes no responsibility for uncovering any of the following undesirable ancestors during our research: criminals, confidence tricksters, bossy ancient aunts, and swamp dwellers. Fee must be paid in full in advance. Terms and conditions apply.”

  “Why on earth would Indigo want to know more about her ancestors?” Dougal said, sounding mystified.

  Angus frowned at the ad. “It doesn’t make any sense. She spends most of her time pretending they don’t exist.”

  “So how is ordering a Dankhart family tree going to make her feel any better? I mean, after everything she’s said about them. Do you think we should tell Germ?” Dougal added.

  Angus glanced across the kitchens. Indigo’s brother was laughing and joking with Kelvin Strumble and Joshua Follifoot. She definitely wouldn’t thank them for involving him in her private affairs.

  “She’ll go ballistic if we tell anyone,” he said.

  “Maybe we should talk to Indigo then?” Dougal suggested. “Get her to see some sense before she does something really brainless?”

  But Indigo was notoriously private when it came to her family. It had taken her months to tell them Dankhart was her uncle in the first place. If they tackled her directly, she was likely to clam up and reveal nothing.

  Angus folded the page from the Weathervane and stuffed it deep into his pocket, hoping that Indigo wasn’t setting herself up for another big family disappointment.

  Meanwhile, excitement levels over the winners’ tour had reached fever pitch. Large, noisy groups of lightning cubs gathered in the living quarters each evening to discuss the latest rumor, started by Germ, that Catcher Smithwyck would be carrying out her demonstration in the Lightnarium in the middle of a thunderstorm. Several heated arguments on the subject followed. Things quickly got out of hand, however, when Theodore Twill’s lightning moth ripped Nicholas Grubb’s homework to shreds, then chased Clifford Fugg in circles around his own bedroom. Several minor scuffles and water fights instantly broke out before Catcher Mint intervened, sending everyone to bed in a huff.