The Lightning Catcher: The Secrets of the Storm Vortex (17 page)

“Look out.” Indigo nudged him in the ribs a moment later as Pixie and Percival Vellum took the last two empty seats close by. Percival glanced over at Angus, with a distinctly wary look. He mumbled something to Pixie, and they both turned to face the front without a single snide remark.

“Is it my imagination,” Dougal said quietly, “or do those two gargoyles look a bit . . . scared of you?”

Angus stared at the back of Percival Vellum's head. A familiar knot tightened in his chest as images of rancid rain and fire dragons flashed before his eyes once again. He was glad when the lights began to dim and Principal Dark-Angel stepped to the front of the weather bubble. She turned to face the audience as an expectant hush fell all around.

“Good evening to you all, and welcome to our first demonstration by the winners of the Lightning Catcher of the Year award.”

There was a smattering of polite applause.

“We are very honored to have with us this evening a lightning catcher whose research into frost quakes has helped many of us on our expeditions into cold climates. She is here tonight to talk to you about Arctic shimmer sharks. So please welcome Catcher Edna Smithwyck.”

“Shimmer sharks?” Angus raised his voice above the applause. “Didn't Jeremius mention those in the Rotundra once?”

Indigo nodded, and Dougal suddenly looked apprehensive. Catcher Smithwyck entered the weather bubble and stood behind a large table, her mousy-colored hair illuminated under the light fissures. There were several large lumpy-looking objects before her, covered with a cloth.

“For lightning catchers, the weather holds many hidden dangers.” She began as soon as the clapping died down. She shuffled her notes nervously. “There are fog yetis, piranha mist fish, and fog mites, to name just a few. But many of you here tonight have yet to encounter shimmer
sharks in your travels. First spotted by a party of lightning catchers in the Arctic, they were initially thought to be nothing more than an optical illusion caused by the severe polar winds and the unhappy intestinal consequences of eating an undercooked beef stew. It was ten years later, in 1929, when Bartholomew Basildon accidentally captured some of the minuscule creatures in a pair of socks he was drying outside on a tent pole, that he realized he'd discovered an entirely new species of weather pest. Bartholomew brought his socks back to Perilous, where the shimmer sharks were studied extensively and their characteristic teeth, fins, and sharklike shape were documented. It is much easier, however, to show what they look like with some large-scale models. So let's have a big round of applause for my shimmer shark volunteers!”

She turned to nod at someone who was hovering by the door at the back of the bubble. A moment later half a dozen figures filed into the room awkwardly; they were dressed in colorful shark-shaped foam suits. They stopped beside the table, trying not to make eye contact with anyone in the front row.

A roar went up around the weather bubble as the
audience slowly began to recognize the lightning cubs inside the fishy costumes.

“Hey, I don't believe it, that big one's Clifford Fugg!” Dougal laughed, pointing.

“Look at his face!” Indigo said.

Clifford Fugg stood with his head hung low, looking mortified. Next to him, Theodore Twill was squirming with embarrassment, his cheeks hotter than a boiled beet. Nicholas Grubb, Kelvin Strumble, and Joshua Follifoot, however, looked as if they were having the time of their lives. They beamed at the audience, waving.

“Catcher Mint must have volunteered them for shimmer shark duty after they had those water fights the other night,” Angus said, grinning widely. The pointing and sniggering finally died away, and Catcher Smithwyck continued with her presentation.

“Now, if our volunteers would kindly give us a twirl, you can see clearly that shimmer shark teeth and fins are disproportionately large, compared to the size of their bodies, which explains why they have long been a hazard for lightning catchers. And if we observe the way a shoal moves through the Arctic winds . . .”

The volunteers began to weave their way between and around one another, elbows and fins clashing. Clifford Fugg barged into the other volunteers, knocking them over in a very surly fashion. Theodore Twill stood completely motionless, refusing to budge. But Nicholas Grubb, Kelvin Strumble, and Joshua Follifoot threw themselves into the demonstration with gusto, darting left and right, wiggling their fins vigorously at the audience, crashing into one another on purpose, and then rolling around the floor with uncontrollable hysterics.

“Yes, well, that's not strictly shimmer shark behavior, of course,” Catcher Smithwyck said as they staggered to their feet again and scuttled off to one side, still grinning.

“Now to show you what real shimmer sharks look like in the wild . . .” She pulled a cloth off one of the lumpy objects on the table, revealing a large glass jar underneath. The contents glittered with a pearly iridescence, shifting direction slowly at first as if the sharks had been snoozing in the darkness under the cloth. “This batch was caught on an ice core expedition a few weeks ago.” She continued as the entire audience leaned forward in their seats for a closer look. “Hidden in the depths of a blizzard, they
sweep across the ice and snow on fierce Arctic winds, causing serious damage to weather equipment, clogging up storm vacuums, and ripping tents and clothing to shreds with their razor-sharp teeth.” The shimmer sharks began flitting about with nervous flicks and darts. “One tiny shimmer shark would cause absolutely no damage, of course, but because they occur in such large numbers, they can sweep through a research site with devastating consequences. This is what happened to the ice core team as they tried to collect some samples.”

She whipped the cloth off another of the lumpy objects and slotted a plate into the back of a projectogram box, then—

“Whoa!” Angus said, through the sudden hiss of astonished gasps and whispers. He stared at the three-dimensional scene, shocked. There was nothing left of the campsite. Tents, equipment, and snow boots had all been reduced to piles of dust by the plague of chewing pests.

“Unfortunately, shimmer shark attacks are on the increase.” Catcher Smithwyck continued. “As lightning catchers explore some of the most remote places on the planet . . .”

Somebody sneezed directly behind Angus, breaking his concentration. He turned automatically to see who it was and froze. Several rows behind the sneezer, Catcher Coriolis, the keeper of the crypt, was locked in an intense private conversation with Creepy Crevice. Angus nudged Dougal gently and jerked his head in their direction. Indigo turned to see what they were both looking at.

“I wonder what those two are talking about,” she said quietly.

“I dunno,” Angus whispered, “but I'd bet my weather watch it's got nothing to do with shimmer sharks.”

At that moment the keeper of the crypt shot to his feet.

“No, I'm sorry, but it's simply out of the question,” he said in firm but hushed tones. “I absolutely refuse to share my tomb with anyone, even in the name of restoration. Principal Dark-Angel has already allocated you some very comfortable living quarters in another part of the Exploratorium, and I'm afraid you will have to be content with those!”

The conversation had come to an abrupt end. Catcher Coriolis swept down the stairs, his forehead creased with indignation. Angus twisted in his seat to face the
front again, before Catcher Coriolis caught him staring. Dougal hastily pretended to clean his glasses on his sweater. Indigo hid her face behind a curtain of hair as he hurried past them and disappeared out of the weather bubble. Creepy Crevice followed a few moments later.

“What was that all about?” Angus whispered as soon as the coast was clear.

“Only a bone merchant would want to share somebody else's tomb,” Dougal said, looking revolted by the very idea.

“I wonder what's wrong with the rooms he's been given,” Indigo said.

Angus grinned. “Not enough bats at midnight? Or maybe he prefers sleeping in a coffin.”

Indigo giggled quietly. Dougal shivered. “It wouldn't surprise me if he sprouted wings and did a few laps of the crypt while he was down there.”

It took Angus several moments to remember that they were still sitting in the middle of a shimmer shark presentation. He turned his attention back to Catcher Smithwyck.

“. . . to tackle the problem, therefore, I have designed a portable, breathable, transparent, pop-up net that can be
thrown over any area the lightning catchers are working in to preserve their campsite and any important research from a sudden shimmer shark attack.”

Angus tried to concentrate. Catcher Smithwyck was about to demonstrate her invention and the very reason she'd been invited to Perilous with the other winning lightning catchers.

“Inspired by the emergency instant weather shelter, it can be deployed in under ten seconds, providing complete and instant protection.”

She had already placed the device at the feet of the audience in the front-row seats. It looked like a neatly folded paddling pool, the kind that Uncle Max liked to dip his feet into on a hot summer's day at the Windmill.

“The net should be deployed only after a verbal warning has been issued. So, three, two, one, firing!” she shouted.

The net exploded with a blast like the weather cannon. One of the smallest volunteers yelped and staggered sideways, colliding with Clifford Fugg, who lurched across the table, accidentally smashing the jar of real shimmer sharks with his flailing fins. The jar crashed to the floor, instantly setting the tiny iridescent creatures free.

Dougal leaped out of his seat. “Oh, no! This is bad!”

Several foam-clad volunteers dived under the protective net, along with Catcher Smithwyck and half the front row of the audience. The shimmer sharks rose swiftly to the ceiling, pearly white against the night sky above, and then descended upon the table beneath, reducing it to dust in a matter of seconds.

Churrr-ruga-ruga-ruga-ruga!

The noise they made was dreadful, like a thousand tiny grinding chainsaws cutting through tree trunks.

“We've got to get out of here!” Indigo grabbed Dougal by the wrist and steered him clear of the stampede now heading for the exit. Angus followed as she climbed awkwardly over the scattered seats instead.

“Angus! Look out!” Indigo suddenly shrieked, and pointed. A small group of shimmer sharks had detached itself from the main body and was now speeding toward him like a glittering arrow.

Angus dived beneath the empty seats and tucked his body into a tight curl as the sharks struck.

Churrr-ruga-ruga-ruga-ruga!

The hungry sharks demolished his shelter in seconds,
like a plate of tantalizing fish food. Angus scrambled to his feet again. The door was still twenty feet away. The shimmer sharks would turn them to dust before they made it halfway. Indigo, however, had other ideas.

“Quickly, give me Norman!” She turned to Dougal, holding out her hand.

“But . . . what do you want him for?”

“Does this look like a good time to ask me questions?” she said, glancing up at the shimmer sharks, which were already gathering for another attack.

Dougal hesitated for a second, then grabbed the lightning moth from his pocket.

“Just don't break him, okay?”

But Indigo wasn't listening. She lobbed Norman high above their heads. The lightning moth took flight instantly, stretching its wings, zooming straight up to the glass ceiling. It hovered for a second, glinting in the moonlight, before plummeting toward the shimmer sharks at lightning speed in a daring death dive.

Smash!

Several shimmer sharks were instantly knocked unconscious and began to drift aimlessly across the weather
bubble. The rest scattered far and wide, desperate to avoid another attack. Indigo caught the lightning moth as it did a victory roll overhead and handed it back to Dougal unharmed.

“Wow! Norman was brilliant! I mean, he saved us,” Dougal said, cradling the moth with deep affection.

“Er, I think Indigo might have had something to do with it as well,” Angus pointed out.

Indigo's cheeks burned with embarrassment, but there was no time to marvel at it now. The rest of the creatures were still rampaging around the weather bubble in a very destructive manner.

Indigo hurried them toward the exit. Angus ducked as another cloud of tiny shimmer sharks swooped overhead, causing a fresh wave of panic and screaming.

“Dewsnap, Midnight, McFangus! Quickly!” Catcher Sparks shouted, hurrying them through the door along with Georgina Fox and Nigel Ridgely, who were carrying a limp Millicent Nichols between them.

“That was the most dangerous lecture I've ever been to in my life!” Dougal said as they were rushed away from the weather bubble at top speed.

  
10
  
THE CRYPTIC STRANGER

A
n excited buzz filled the boys' end of the corridor the following morning. Clifford Fugg was keeping a very low profile after his star appearance as a shimmer shark, his bedroom door remaining firmly shut with no signs of life within. Several of the other volunteers, however, wore their costumes proudly and were instantly swamped by crowds of admiring lightning cubs.

“Catcher Smithwyck said we could keep the shark suits since this is the last stop on the winners' tour,” Nicholas Grubb explained as Angus and Dougal bumped into him outside the bathrooms. He gave them a quick twirl, showing off his fins, which up close looked rather floppy. “We
all got herded up to the sanatorium after the real shimmer sharks escaped,” Nicholas said, grinning from ear to ear. “It was absolutely pandemonium. The weather bubble had to be sealed off. Catcher Smithwyck had to be rescued from her own shelter. Dark-Angel was yelling at anyone who tried to sneak back in for a look.”

“Wow! I can't wait for the next demonstration. If that was only the third-place winner, imagine what's coming next,” Dougal said, sounding keen, despite the fact it had taken two mugs of hot chocolate in front of a warm fire in the Pigsty to calm his nerves after the frightening incident.

Due to the excitement of the winners' tour, all talk of the weather vortex had slowly faded into the background. No new pictures had appeared in the
Weathervane
for some time. Angus was very relieved, therefore, when Dougal announced that he had news. For once all three of them were sitting in the library. Catcher Wrascal had suddenly remembered that as part of their training in the forecasting department, they were supposed to complete a difficult homework assignment on the proper procedure for pickling the contents of a storm jar. It was complicated,
dull work involving a number of mathematical equations that Angus had no hope of solving.

“I found something in the research department last night,” Dougal said, lowering his voice and checking the tables close by for eavesdroppers, “and I think it might be important.”

“Go on,” Angus said, swiftly closing his workbook so he could concentrate.

“They've got a whole section up there about memorable weather events and accidents, and quite a few of them have caused the same kind of vortex that's now hanging over Castle Dankhart. But the biggest one I found happened right here at Perilous in 1777.”

“At Perilous?” Indigo looked up from behind a pile of books, shocked.

“I know. I couldn't believe it either,” Dougal said. “But according to this one paper, it sat over Perilous for three weeks before it finally blew itself out. It was full of rain, snow, fog, and lightning, but it also contained splinters of wood, snails, and all kinds of other rubbish. It sounds exactly like the stuff swirling around Castle Dankhart.”

“But what caused the explosion?” Angus asked.

“Was it an accident?” Indigo added.

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:

A
RCHAEOLOGIST
M
AKES
F
ULL
R
ECOVERY

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.