The Lightning Catcher: The Secrets of the Storm Vortex

by Anne Cameron

  Angus stuffed it into his own pocket, wondering if they should have bought one of Cradget’s less volatile puzzles.

  There was a scraping sound from above a moment later, and Indigo descended the ladder from her room to join them.

  “What happened to the accident report you took from Vellum’s office?” Angus asked as soon as her foot touched the floor.

  “Vellum made you turn your bag out first, so I slipped it up my sleeve when he wasn’t looking,” Indigo said, pulling a rolled-up document from her sweater with a grin.

  “Wow!” Angus said, impressed by her sheer nerve. Dougal let out a long low whistle. Indigo quickly laid the paper out on the floor where they could all see it. But the rest of the report had been blacked out.

  “You mean, we went through all that for nothing?” Dougal said, glaring at the thick black lines.

  Indigo sighed, resting back on her heels. “It’s like the whole of 1777 has been wiped out of Perilous records.”

  “At least we know what caused the weather vortex now,” Angus said. “The lightning catchers were doing some dangerous experiments.”

  “Yeah, but experiments with what?” Dougal said, frowning. “You don’t get explosions and weather vortices from studying fluffy snowflakes.”

  Indigo nodded. “It must have been something really risky, something Gudgeon doesn’t want us asking questions about.”

  “And I bet you anything it helps explain what’s really going on at Castle Dankhart,” Angus said, more certain of his theory than ever. “We’ve got to search through Vellum’s stuff again. We’ve got to find out more about those experiments!”

  “Have you completely lost your marbles?” Dougal said, looking thoroughly alarmed at the prospect. “You heard what Vellum said: If he catches us again, he’ll have us catapulted straight into a storm full of lightning tarantulatis, or worse!”

  “Then we’ll have to make sure we don’t get caught,” Angus said, determined.

  When they returned to the library the following day, however, it was clear that Valentine Vellum had moved his temporary office to a different location. There was no sign of him in the reference section on the balcony or at any of the other study tables in the library.

  “I don’t believe it. We’re right back to square one again,” Angus said as they left the library in a very despondent mood. “What are we going to do now?”

  In the weather archive, Winnie Wrascal remained subdued, sniffing and blowing her nose at regular intervals. Catcher Killigrew was now checking up on her several times an hour, in an effort to prevent any more catastrophes from occurring. A few days later he also set Angus, Indigo, and Dougal to work ferrying some poorly pickled storm jars out into the Octagon. The contents of the jars had congealed and disintegrated over time and had now been earmarked for thorough decontamination.

  “Ew! This one looks like it’s got melted boogers at the bottom,” Dougal said, inspecting a small jar where a lumpy green residue had stuck to the sides. “I’m glad we’re not cleaning them out.”

  Some of the jars contained nothing but dried-up storm husks. Others had been contaminated by slivers of storm, dust particles, or cobwebs and looked fractured and worn out.

  “I didn’t realize weather could curdle.” Indigo wrinkled her nose at a rancid-smelling specimen. She carried it at arm’s length as they left the forecasting department for the tenth time that afternoon with the latest batch of jars. “I really don’t think we should—”

  She stopped suddenly as they entered the Octagon. The Vellum twins were blocking their path, with arms folded.

  “I want a word with you, Munchfungus,” Percival said, stepping forward and poking Angus hard in the chest with a thick finger.

  Angus put his own jar down and, feeling his hackles rise, pushed the twin away. “What are you going on about now, Vellum?”

  “You and Dewsnap have been messing around with those stupid Cradget’s puzzles for weeks and then somebody threw one onto the table where me and Pixie were sitting and now Vulpine’s making us dust the entire reference section, book by book!”

  “You’re barking up the wrong tree. My scare-me-not hasn’t even exploded yet, see,” Angus said, taking the last remaining puzzle from his pocket and holding it up as evidence. “And Dougal’s went off weeks ago.”

  Percival scowled, momentarily confounded. “I don’t care, Munchfungus. I know you, Dewsnap, and Midnight had something to do with it, and now me and Pixie are going to make you pay.”

  Percival headed straight for a large collection of storm jars that Angus, Indigo, and Dougal had already carried into the Octagon and arranged neatly on the floor in order of height. He picked the largest one. It still contained visible traces of an angry storm.

  “What would you do if I let this weather out, storm boy?” he said with a calculated look on his face. “Would you set a storm of fire dragons on us? Or start breathing fire? Or turn into an overgrown bat and flap around our heads?”

  “Leave those jars alone, Vellum. Even you wouldn’t be that stupid,” Angus said.

  “It might be worth it just to see how much of a freak you really are.”

  “Just ignore him!” Indigo said. “He’s trying to get you into trouble, too.”

  “I know!” Angus snapped, wondering what he was supposed to do about it. He could feel the fire dragon stirring inside his chest. But he couldn’t lose control this time. Not when they were surrounded by so many old and angry storms. He tried to shove Percival away from the storm jar, but the twin refused to budge.

  “You’re such a mutant, Munchfungus.”

  “Yeah, you don’t belong here.” Pixie snickered, nudging the jar with her foot until it wobbled dangerously.

  “Is that why your parents haven’t come home yet? Maybe they’d rather stay in their dungeon than admit their son’s a freak.”

  “Shut up about my mum and dad!” Angus tried with all his might not to picture the fire dragon chasing the storm and Percival Vellum across the Octagon, not to imagine how satisfying it would feel to scare the pants off the sneering twin. But the fire dragon was now smoldering inside his rib cage, threatening to burst free at any second, overwhelming his self-control.

  “It’s about time everyone at this Exploratorium knew exactly what they’ve been sharing their living quarters with.”

  Percival glanced around the Octagon to check that they were alone. He stretched out an arm toward the storm jar.

  “What is going on here?”

  A door flew open behind them, and Catcher Sparks appeared from the experimental division.

  “I’ve got some fourth years trying to reassemble some very tricky snow-shuffling machinery, which requires absolute silence, and all I can hear is you five arguing!”

  Percival Vellum swiftly moved away from the jar and stood beside his sister. Angus felt the flames of the fire dragon slowly cooling inside him again.

  “Midnight!” Catcher Sparks rounded on Indigo. “Explain what you’re doing with these storm jars.”

  “Catcher Killigrew told us to bring them out here, miss,” Indigo muttered.

  “And did Catcher Killigrew also tell you to stand about arguing with these two idiots?”

  Indigo shook her head.

  “Then I suggest that you, Dewsnap, and McFangus continue with your duties. And as for you two,” Catcher Sparks said, circling the twins slowly, “you’re already skating on very thin ice. Do not give me a reason to follow Miss Vulpine’s example and make you dust the entire experimental division as well.”

  Percival Vellum scowled over his shoulder at Angus as he and Pixie slouched off, disappearing down the stairs.

  “Vellum was bluffing,” Dougal said as soon as Catcher Sparks had retreated to the experimental division again. “He never would have pushed that storm jar over in a million years.”

  But Angus wasn’t so sure. What if the terrible twin really had smashed the storm jar? Would he, Angus, have sent the contents charging after him? What if
he’d been unable to control the fire dragon or the powerful feelings that had once again been stirred up inside him? Percival Vellum would have felt the full force of the storm and would now be lying in the sanatorium with some very serious injuries.

  To make matter worse, in the days that followed, Angus began to experience some tremendously unsettling sensations. They started with an odd bubbling feeling under his skin, like an itch that couldn’t be scratched, and he wondered if he’d caught Indigo’s rash. But soon they were impossible to ignore. He woke up each morning with an inferno burning inside his chest, as if the fire dragon were trying to incinerate his rib cage.

  He was enormously relieved when Rogwood collected him late one evening a few days later for his latest lesson in the Inner Sanctum. Angus quickly described the entire incident in the Octagon, leaving nothing out, as they entered the round room once again and sat in the comfy chairs.

  Rogwood smiled kindly at him. “Yes, Catcher Sparks mentioned something about an altercation between you and the Vellum twins.”

  “I’m never going to be like Moray McFangus!” Angus said, staring at the floor. “I’m going to be a rubbish storm prophet!”

  “Angus, you have already saved your fellow lightning cubs on a number of occasions. Miss Midnight might not be here today if it hadn’t been for your bravery in the Lightnarium. And it will still be a very long time before Percival Vellum forgets he owes his life to you after an incident with a certain fognado.”

  “But I wanted the fire dragon to appear! I wanted it to chase Percival Vellum!” Angus admitted, still feeling wretched.

  Rogwood chuckled deeply into his braided beard. “Do not be so quick to condemn yourself, Angus. I can assure you that your abilities are far too weak to inflict any real damage on your fellow lightning cubs, despite the intensity of any sensations you might be feeling. And I have no doubt that you were provoked. However, I would advise you to steer clear of Valentine Vellum for the time being. He seems to be rather annoyed with you, Miss Midnight, and Mr. Dewsnap for a variety of reasons.” Angus gulped. “And if that does not calm your fears—” Rogwood stood up suddenly. “There is something I wish to show you, if you will come with me, please.”

  The lightning catcher took him swiftly through the dark room, back into the rough stone Octagon, and through one of the eight doors that they had never ventured through before.

  “It is true that the storm prophets have performed many brave and noble deeds,” Rogwood said, leading the way down a narrow stone tunnel. “Numerous books and projectograms have recorded their great achievements. But nobody can behave in a heroic manner the whole time. As you may already know, the trusty Weathervane records all events that occur at Perilous, including those of a less gallant nature,” he said. “According to the Weathervane, there was an incident when a young storm prophet, Zachary Bodfish, who was showing off for his friends, managed to burn down an entire section of Perilous, which had only recently been completed. As you can imagine, he was very unpopular for some years afterward. I believe you can still see the scorch marks in the library behind Miss Vulpine’s desk if you study the floorboards carefully.”

  Angus stared at Rogwood, hardly daring to believe his ears. He made a mental note to visit the library as soon as he left the Inner Sanctum. Rogwood stopped at the end of the stone tunnel, unlocked a plain wooden door, and allowed Angus to enter first. The room was completely dark. He could see nothing beyond the small pool of light in the doorway where they hovered.

  “On another occasion,” Rogwood continued, “two of the most hotheaded storm prophets, Zebedee Bodfish and Gideon Stumps, decided to settle their differences doing battle with a thunderstorm in the dead of night.”

  Rogwood flicked on the light fissures.

  “Wow!” Angus rocked back on his heels.

  The silhouettes of two massive fire dragons had been burned into the wall, imprinted forever like giant scaly fossils. They seemed to undulate around the walls with wings spread wide, talons locked in a furious struggle, flickering flames tangled. Both fire dragons were enormous, far larger than his own, each fiery scale the size of several handprints. He could almost sense the battle that had taken place, as if the storm had also left a lasting impression in the very air around them.

  “As you can see, Angus, Bodfish and Stumps were each determined to prove that he had the greater talent and power,” Rogwood said. “According to the Weathervane, it was an epic battle that lasted all of five minutes before the storm grew too violent and both storm prophets had to be rescued, much to their embarrassment. They were punished for their foolish weather duel and sent straight to bed each night after dinner for a month. It was certainly not their finest hour, and yet each went on to perform quite astonishing acts of bravery when they were older and more in control of their skills. It took every storm prophet some years to use his great abilities wisely and with any measure of control. You, Angus, have been bombarded with new information, images, and ideas about yourself as a storm prophet, and you are feeling an awakening, a stirring of odd sensations and unfamiliar emotions.”

  Angus stared at Rogwood, wondering how the lightning catcher could possibly know of the troubling feelings he’d been experiencing.

  “You must have some patience, Angus. Try not to expect too much of yourself at this very early stage in your development. And in the meantime, be grateful that you have not yet burned down any part of this Exploratorium.”

  Angus followed Rogwood back down the stone tunnel a few moments later, still reeling from the shock of the giant fire dragons he’d just seen. When they returned to the stone Octagon, it took several seconds for his brain to register that it was no longer empty. Catcher Sparks and Felix Gudgeon were locked in serious conversation.

  “. . . been months now, and we still haven’t got a clue what the monsoon mongrels are really up to under that vortex,” Catcher Sparks said, her arms folded tightly across her chest. “Ah, Aramanthus! Has the weather station resumed taking weather samples?”

  “The vortex is still proving to be too dangerous to approach,” Rogwood said, joining his fellow lightning catchers. Angus hovered, trying his best to look completely uninterested in the conversation.

  “I still say the whole thing’s a ruse,” Gudgeon said. “Dankhart’s using that vortex to hide something bigger.”

  “Yes, but what, Felix? We’ve been going around in circles for months now.” Catcher Sparks sighed. “If only Valentine had found something before Winnie Wrascal destroyed his office.”

  Gudgeon grunted. “Fire or no fire, it wouldn’t have made any difference. Most of those records were already blacked out, crucial pages missing all over the place. Valentine found nothing useful. We’re closer to inventing lightning-proof underpants than we are to finding out what experiments those lightning catchers were performing in 1777.” He whispered the last sentence warily, glancing over his shoulder at Angus. “All we know for sure is that it resulted in a huge weather vortex.”

  “But I cannot believe that is all we know,” Catcher Sparks said, frowning. “Surely somewhere there must be records, diaries, letters . . .”

  “Whether you believe it or not, Amelia, it might be better to restrict all conversations on the subject to more private areas of the Exploratorium,” Rogwood said pointedly. And the conversation came to an abrupt end.

  Angus slept soundly that night for the first time since the incident in the Octagon. Smoldering dragons wove their way slowly through his peaceful dreams, his worries soothed by the revelation that the other storm prophets, long ago, had also struggled to control their skills.

  The next morning he headed straight up to the library to see if Rogwood had been telling him the truth about Zachary Bodfish’s burning it down. Luckily Miss Vulpine was nowhere to be seen. He knelt down to inspect the floorboards carefully behind her desk and felt his heart leap when he discovered several faded-looking scorch marks lurking beneath a wastepaper basket. He raced up to the kitchen, feeling far happier
than he had in weeks, and quickly filled Dougal and Indigo in on all the details of the conversation he’d overheard in the Inner Sanctum.

  “So you’re saying none of the lightning catchers actually knows what happened in 1777?” Dougal said, a bowl of porridge lying forgotten in front of him.

  “But Gudgeon’s been trying to stop us from finding stuff for weeks,” Indigo pointed out. “He must have some idea.”

  “They know there was a weather vortex over Perilous. They definitely think it’s got something to do with the one sitting over Castle Dankhart,” Angus explained. “But that’s all.”

  “So all this time Gudgeon, Rogwood, and everyone could have been searching for answers, just like us,” Indigo said. “That must be the real reason Gudgeon had those documents removed from the research department.”

  Angus nodded. “That’s what they were doing in Valentine Vellum’s office when Winnie Wrascal burned it down. But all the documents had been blanked out. Vellum found nothing.”

  Dougal sat back in his seat, looking flabbergasted. “In that case . . .”

  He stopped talking suddenly as Edmund Croxley appeared with the morning’s mail, which included a large envelope with Dougal’s name handwritten on the front.

  “The mailroom asked me to deliver these,” Croxley said, dropping several items onto the table, not waiting to see what the large envelope contained.

  Dougal ripped it open. “It’s a letter from Cradget’s. I don’t believe it! I’ve won third prize in the Tri-Hard Puzzle Competition!” He waved a colouful letter at them excitedly.

  “Congratulations!” Angus said stodgily through a mouthful of porridge.

  “They’ve sent the prize as well,” Dougal said, delving to the bottom of the envelope. He pulled out a chunky-looking black pen. “There’s a spy camera hidden inside it,” he said. “You’ve got to click the top of the pen to take a photo. This is so cool!”