The Lightning Catcher: The Secrets of the Storm Vortex

by Anne Cameron

  Dougal shrugged. “It didn’t say, and I got chucked out of the research department before I could find anything else that mentioned it. But it must have been something major. I’m going straight back after dinner tonight to find some answers. I’ll look up everything that happened at Perilous in 1777 if I have to.”

  “What do you three know about 1777?”

  Indigo jumped as a large shadow suddenly fell across the table. Gudgeon was towering over them, his arms folded across his chest.

  “Er, nothing,” Angus said, quickly trying to cover their tracks. “D-Dougal was just doing some reading . . . about weather vortices.”

  “It’s part of our homework for Catcher Wrascal in the weather archive,” Indigo added, indicating the books on the table in front of them with a nervous twitch.

  “Hmm.” Gudgeon studied all three of them shrewdly, looking unconvinced.

  “Is there any news on the weather vortex over Castle Dankhart?” Angus asked before the lightning catcher could ask them any more questions.

  “Principal Dark-Angel’s sent me to give you an update,” Gudgeon said, still eyeing them suspiciously. There were dark smudges under his eyes; the rest of his face was pale and drawn; even his bald head somehow looked more tired than usual. “The weather station has been forced to retreat to a safer distance to avoid being sucked into the swirl and torn to pieces, so we’ve stopped taking samples for the time being. The only thing we know for sure is that in the last few days the cloud has grown bigger.”

  “B-bigger?” Angus exchanged worried glances with Dougal and Indigo.

  “We’ve also detected two new types of weather we’ve never seen before, razor rain and tumblewind, both as nasty and vicious as any of the deadly seven,” Gudgeon said. “I’d still bet my best pair of self-cleaning socks there’s been no real weather catastrophe. But Dankhart and his blasted monsoon mongrels are up to something, and until we find out what, you three had better watch it!” He glared at each of them in turn. “Don’t go poking your noses into stuff that doesn’t concern you. This is lightning catcher business, understand?”

  Dougal nodded vigorously. Gudgeon hesitated for a second, looking as if he might say more; then he turned and marched away, shaking his head.

  “That settles it; there’s definitely something funny going on!” Angus said quietly as soon as Gudgeon was safely out of earshot. “Did you see Gudgeon’s face when he heard us talking about 1777?”

  “We’ve got to find what caused that explosion,” Indigo said eagerly.

  “Yeah, because whatever it was, I bet it’s got something to do with what’s happening at Castle Dankhart now. I mean, why else would Gudgeon get all angry about it?”

  Dougal nodded. “I’ll go straight up to the research department after dinner tonight, and with any luck we’ll have some real answers by the end of the day!”

  Angus found it extremely difficult to concentrate on anything else for the rest of the afternoon. After dinner he paced up and down the Pigsty, checking the clock every few minutes, waiting eagerly for Dougal’s return. When Dougal finally appeared, however, he brought bad news.

  “Gudgeon must have gone straight up to the research department after he overheard us in the library,” he said, chucking his bag onto the floor and slumping into the chair beside Indigo. “All the books about weather accidents and vortices have been removed.”

  “You’re joking!” Angus said, stunned. “But what about the Weathervane? Doesn’t it report on everything?”

  “All the copies from 1777 have disappeared as well. There was nothing left on the shelf except a pile of old mouse droppings.”

  Angus stared at him, flabbergasted.

  “So what do we do now?” asked Indigo.

  “I don’t know, but thanks to Gudgeon, we’ve got more chance of discovering what’s at the end of a rainbow than of finding out what happened in 1777.”

  At the end of the week an announcement that the second winners’ demonstration would take place in the cloud gardens appeared in the latest issue of the Weathervane, along with a brief biography of Herman Hornbuckle. And a sense of excitement began to build once again.

  “It says here Catcher Hornbuckle trained at Perilous years ago and he’s an expert in fog,” Angus said. He, Dougal, and Indigo were sitting in the Pigsty after another long day in the weather archive. Angus turned the magazine around, showing Dougal a picture of a middle-aged lightning catcher with impressive sideburns, crooked teeth, and a long beard, whom they’d already spotted in the kitchens on a number of occasions.

  “According to the Weathervane, he spends most of his free time reading books on droplet densities, vapor sickness, and fog disorientation.”

  “Brilliant!” Dougal grinned. “He’s an even bigger nerd than me! Does it say what he’s doing in his demonstration?”

  “Um.” Angus scanned the rest of the article. “No.”

  Indigo looked up from behind her copy of The Dankhart Handbook. “I heard a first year telling his friends this morning that Catcher Hornbuckle’s going to make everyone rappel over the edge of the Exploratorium, so we can all study a top-secret killer rain cloud, from the inside.”

  Dougal’s face fell. “You don’t think it’s true, do you?”

  Angus continued to flick through the Weathervane, which was now running a series of features on recent developments in storm vacuums, until a more interesting article caught his eye.

  “Hey, there’s something in here about Edwin Larkspur, you know, the archaeologist who uncovered the lightning tower remains.”

  He turned the magazine around again so Dougal and Indigo could read the article:

  ARCHAEOLOGIST MAKES FULL RECOVERY

  Mr. Edwin Larkspur, thirty-five, from Clapham Common, London, appeared in a number of newspapers yesterday claiming to have regained his memory after the traumatic robbery at the Museum of Ancient Archaeology. He has now given the police a full description of the thief who broke into his office and stole valuable lightning tower remains, several rare Victorian toilet seats, a pair of ancient Roman nosehair clippers, and a special presentation set of gilded archaeology brushes, which were presented to Mr. Larkspur at a Ruin of the Year awards ceremony. Police have issued an artist’s impression of the thief.

  Angus stared at the picture underneath and almost choked. The man in the drawing was wearing a smartly tailored suit; his short, wavy curls had been styled to perfection.

  “Er, is it my imagination or does that artist’s impression look nothing like Adrik Swarfe?” Dougal said, squinting at it through his glasses.

  Angus grinned. “That’s because it’s Catcher Tempest from the London office.”

  “You’re joking!”

  “Didn’t Catcher Tempest visit Mr. Larkspur at the museum after the theft?” Indigo said.

  “Yep.” Angus nodded. “And it looks like Larkspur’s still got some of his wires crossed if he thinks Catcher Tempest stole the lightning tower remains.”

  Angus was so wrapped up in thoughts of the weather vortex and the next demonstration that he was extremely surprised when a note from Rogwood appeared under his bedroom door, announcing his next early-morning storm prophet lesson. Less than twenty-four hours later he was back in the Inner Sanctum.

  “I must apologize, Angus, for the long delay since our last adventure,” Rogwood said as he led the way from one Octagon to its mirror image inside the mysterious department. “The winners’ tour has made it extremely difficult to organize a quiet time for your lessons.”

  “Oh, um,” Angus said, not sure if Rogwood was expecting a longer, more intelligent answer. With so many other distractions it had been hard to think about retrospectacles and storm prophet tombs. The throbbing sensation that he’d felt in his chest after the storm hollow had also faded, and he’d been keen not to think or do anything that might set it off again.

  “Has there been any more news about the weather vortex, sir?” Angus asked, seizing the opportunity.

  “I’
m afraid not. We still don’t know what’s going on underneath the cloud. There has been no word about your parents either.”

  “But my uncle Jeremius . . .” Angus said hopefully.

  “I cannot discuss what Jeremius is doing. I’m sure you understand, Angus, that it wouldn’t be wise.”

  Rogwood ushered him straight into the dark room they’d already visited, with the trapdoor that led down to the crypt. Angus wondered if they were about to pay another visit to the storm prophet coffins. This time, however, Rogwood led him to the far side of the room and through another door, concealed in the shadows.

  The room behind it was small, round, and exceedingly cozy. Bookshelves ran from floor to ceiling, with rickety-looking ladders reaching up to the highest tomes. Several comfy armchairs with footstools had been arranged around a crackling fire. Pens, pencils, and paper had been laid out neatly on a table.

  Rogwood lowered himself into one of the armchairs. “Please take a seat, Angus.”

  Angus sat, feeling his tense muscles relaxing slightly. It was not the kind of room where old machines suddenly went berserk.

  “Now that you have seen the Great Fire of London through the retrospectacles and have visited the Perilous crypt, it is time to learn more about each of the storm prophets and their extraordinary lives,” Rogwood said, folding his hands together. “I will try to answer all your questions honestly and tell you the facts as they are known. All the information we have, however, is historical, and some of the accounts tend to glorify events, as was the fashion at the time, and must be taken with a pinch of salt,” he warned. “There is no one left to ask directly, of course, for which I am truly sorry, Angus. It is a great shame that you have no one to share your thoughts and experiences with at this important time in your life.”

  Angus swallowed, finding it easier to stare at the braids in Rogwood’s beard than to meet the searching gaze of the lightning catcher directly.

  “To make things a little easier to understand, I will use a series of projectograms.” Rogwood bent forward and reached under his chair. He took out a small box with two lenses on the front. “These are mere re-creations of the people and events that I am about to describe and nothing more.”

  He placed the projectogram box on the footstool in front of him and slid a small plate into the back.

  “As you already know, Angus, it is believed that the talents of the storm prophets date back to the days when lightning towers pierced the skies of London, when the operators of those mighty towers were infused with the very forces they were trying to capture and control. Their abilities were only truly explored once Edgar Perilous and Philip Starling came to Imbur and founded this great Exploratorium.”

  Rogwood twiddled with the lenses on the box. Click.

  Angus gasped as a three-dimensional projectogram suddenly filled the entire room. The books and ladders faded into the background, and he found himself sitting instead before a long line of fidgeting figures, leaning awkwardly against a rough stone wall.

  “There were ten original storm prophets. Their names were Benedict Swarfe, whom you already know something about.” Rogwood pointed to a tall, lanky figure on the far left who was dressed in an old-fashioned leather jerkin with woolen leggings. Swarfe scratched his nose and blinked, staring directly at Angus. “He was killed by the Great Fire in London before his talents could be explored, of course, his blood fusing with the lightning tower to form the very powerful lightning heart. I think it is fair to assume, therefore, that he would have gone on to perform a number of interesting deeds had his short life continued. What you are seeing here is a mere image of the boy as he might have been, if he’d had the good fortune to join the other storm prophets at Perilous. Please feel free to wander among your fellow storm prophets, Angus, should the urge arise.”

  Angus hesitated for a second, then stood up awkwardly. The projectogram was incredibly lifelike. Each of the storm prophets looked as real and solid as any living lightning catcher at the Exploratorium. Some turned to watch him with interest as he made his way down the line. Benedict Swarfe had the same intelligent features as the only other Swarfe he’d ever met. Angus poked the projected image, just to make sure it wasn’t real. It wobbled gently, like the ripples on a pond.

  “Next we have Gideon Stumps and Jasper Flinch,” Rogwood said as Angus continued down the line to where two young-looking storm prophets stood with their arms folded. “Both went on to become experts in cold-climate dangers and made many important discoveries about blizzards and ice storms. Ah, now we come to the Bodfish brothers, Zebedee, Zachary, and Zephyrus.”

  The Bodfish brothers were three inches taller than anyone else around them, with striking features and long black hair; they were shoving one another playfully and generally larking about. Angus couldn’t help smiling as he stood among the charismatic brothers. He had a strong feeling he would have liked all three of them a great deal.

  “The Bodfish brothers used their unique connection as siblings to great effect and developed a storm prophet sixth sense that allowed them to work as a formidable team. They used it once to rescue a party of new lightning cubs who got separated and lost on the Imbur marshes in a thick fog.

  “Then we have Moray McFangus, whom you have inherited your own storm prophet skills from.”

  Angus felt his heart leap. The family resemblance was striking. Moray was unmistakably a McFangus, with the same gray eyes and small bear-shaped ears that he, his dad, and Uncle Jeremius all shared. Moray McFangus also had a strong, proud face, masses of brown hair, and a twinkle in his eye. Close up, he smelled like candle wax. He watched Angus intently, scratching the stubble on his chin, as they stood face-to-face.

  “Is—is that what he really looked like, sir?” Angus asked.

  Rogwood nodded. “As far as we can tell, according to eyewitness accounts, letters, diaries, and portraits painted at the time.”

  Angus walked all the way around his ancestor, trying to take in every detail.

  “Who are the others at the end, sir?” he asked when he finally managed to tear his gaze away from Moray McFangus. The last three storm prophets stood with their backs turned to the rest of the group, talking quietly among themselves.

  “Their names are Nathaniel Fitch, Tobias Twinge, and Nicholas Blacktin.” Angus kept his distance, feeling no desire to approach them for a closer look. Tobias Twinge was breathing loudly through his mouth, as if he had a head cold. “I would prefer to deal with those particular storm prophets at another time, Angus. I do not wish to confuse you with too many names at once,” Rogwood said, looking slightly uncomfortable.

  Before he could ask any more, Rogwood had removed the projectogram and slipped another one in the back of the box.

  Click.

  Angus was now surrounded by a group of six children, roughly the same age as he was, with two standing separately from the rest.

  “Eventually the ten original storm prophets each married and had children of their own, and a second generation was born. Only six of those children showed any storm-spotting skills, but of a much watered-down variety. There were no storm prophets in the generation that followed theirs. And nobody knows why exactly, although I would guess that it has something to do with the fact that after the Great Fire nobody at Perilous was allowed to capture lightning bolts from live thunderstorms. It is possible that these talents resurfaced in you, Angus, when you were presented with a potentially life-threatening situation in the Lightnarium.”

  “So there were only sixteen storm prophets in total, sir,” Angus said, doing a quick mental calculation.

  “Seventeen, including you, but only the ten originals had true storm prophet capabilities, until now.”

  Rogwood bent forward and slid another plate into the back of the box.

  Click.

  Angus had now been transported to a wild and windy moorland devoid of all trees and shrubs, with just a few rocky outcrops to shelter behind. Violent lightning storms were closing in from every dir
ection, filling the air with the crackle of electricity. Angus felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise in warning, his instincts suddenly taking over. His heart leaped again as Moray McFangus and several people he didn’t recognize appeared beside him.

  “Moray McFangus came to Imbur after the Great Fire.” Rogwood continued speaking from his armchair, which looked bizarre sitting among the barren tufts of moorland. “He was very young at the time, just seventeen years old, and it took some time for his skills to develop fully. He was particularly adept at predicting lightning strikes and was one of the most talented storm prophets. He headed several important expeditions to regions of the world famed for their extreme electrical storms, making many vital and dramatic discoveries about this dangerous force of nature that were essential after the disastrous events in London.”

  Angus flinched as several very real-looking bolts of lightning flashed around him. The weather was growing more frightening by the second. The knot in his chest tightened.

  “It was during one such expedition, re-created here, that he saved many of his fellow lightning catchers from a very close encounter with a storm cluster filled with lightning tarantulatis.”

  CRASH!

  Angus spun around. Another storm was approaching from behind, trapping him and the lightning catchers in a pincers movement that left very little hope of escape.

  “Quickly! Everyone, take shelter!” The firm, clear voice of Moray McFangus sent the rest of the lightning catchers scurrying for cover under an overhanging crag. Angus felt himself being pushed and shunted toward it. He tripped and fell, staggering to his feet again only just in time as the storm finally broke overhead.

  CRASH!

  The lightning tarantulatis spun a dazzling web of light above their heads; it jumped aggressively from storm to storm, gathering power, striking the ground with deadly force.

  BANG!

  There was a sudden flash of flame. Angus toppled over backward as a fire dragon burst onto the scene with a magnificent roar. It soared above Moray McFangus, who stood alone before the gathering storm. Molten fire dripped from the creature’s outstretched wings, cutting a fiery swath through every cloud.