The Lightning Catcher: The Secrets of the Storm Vortex (24 page)

He caught the tiny movement from the corner of his eye. The man's robes, billowing around his ankles as if caught in a stiff breeze, had just flickered.

“Hey!” Angus stumbled forward without thinking and prodded the robes with his finger. The figure rippled like a reflection on a smooth pond of clear water. “He's not even real. He's a projectogram, look!”

“Oooh! I know exactly what he is.” Dougal rushed over for a closer inspection. “He's a holographic projectogram.
They're just like the holographic histories,” he explained when Angus and Indigo stared at him blankly, “only instead of having a storyteller inside a book, these ones are life-size projections. They only ever got to the experimental stage, though,” he added. “I think they had a few glitches.”

“Like what?” Angus asked, watching as the storyteller scraped at his mossy-looking teeth with his grubby fingernails.

“You couldn't shut them up, for a start. They started following people around like walking encyclopedias, spouting all sorts of useless facts about thunderclouds, Imbur Island, and stuff.”

“Imbur Island,” the holographic projectogram said as if to prove Dougal right. “An uncharted island lost in a mythical storm, home to the lightning catchers, the ancient Stargazer wood, and the rare crestfallen newt.”

“If he's a walking encyclopedia, maybe we should ask him about the weather vortex,” Indigo suggested, looking uncertain.

Dougal shrugged. “It's worth a try. According to the tag on his robes, his name's Hartley Windspear.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Windspear, sir,” Indigo said, her face suddenly glowing with embarrassment, “but can you tell us anything about the weather vortex that's swirling around Castle Dankhart?”

The storyteller stared back at her, his robes still billowing in a holographic breeze, but he remained silent.

“What about weather explosions, then?” Dougal suggested. “Like the one that happened at Perilous in 1777?”

“Perilous,” the projectogram said suddenly, making all three of them jump. “A word meaning ‘dangerous'; an Exploratorium of Violent Weather and Vicious Storms on the Isle of Imbur; and the only suitable word to describe a famous chicken and chuckleberry pie baked by the Frog's Bottom Bakery.”

“Er, I think Hartley Windspear might have been in the Inner Sanctum by himself for a bit too long,” Angus said as the storyteller stopped abruptly and began swatting at imaginary flies above his head. “Plus, this is getting us nowhere.” He checked his weather watch. It had now been fifteen minutes since he'd stolen Catcher Coriolis's keys. If the keeper of the crypt chose to have a dessert, they might have an extra fifteen minutes. But if he'd already
discovered his keys were missing, if he was already on his way back up to the Inner Sanctum with extra lightning catchers . . .

“Come on,” he said, leading the way quickly past the projectogram. “We've got to search this place quickly!”

They zigzagged their way past some giant sheets of rippled glass that appeared to contain nothing but a few squashed letters. There were singing weather forecasts, moldy archives full of secret documents that had been written entirely in ancient weather symbols, and a pile of backward-ticking clocks.

Finally, at the far end of the room Angus caught sight of the buckets. He ran the last few steps . . . and felt his spirits plunge. They'd found nothing but the flotsam and jetsam. He'd been desperately hoping there would be
something
else, some crucial information about the storm vortex perhaps.

“We might just as well look through this stuff while we're here,” Dougal said, rolling up his sleeves.

“Look for anything odd or out of place or anything that doesn't make sense,” Indigo said.

“None of this makes any sense,” Dougal said, lifting a
pencil sharpener from the top of a debris pile.

Angus dived straight into the first bucket, pulling out lengths of frayed rope, fragments of seashells, hairnets, and rusty bolts. Indigo took the next bucket, tipped the contents out onto the floor, and sorted through it, grouping everything in piles. There were long splinters of blue glass, a whole heap of silver starlings, and some useless scraps of newspaper.

“This stuff is disgusting,” Dougal said, trying to untangle a strip of stinking seaweed from a pair of holey socks.

Angus rummaged through the bizarre collection of storm-battered objects, frantically hoping that a knotted length of elastic or a clump of wiry quills would somehow give them the vital clue they needed, that everything would suddenly fall into place and they would miraculously understand exactly what was going on under the cloud at Castle Dankhart. But as he finally reached the bottom of the bucket, his optimism began to fade once again.

“Have either of you found anything yet?” he asked Dougal and Indigo, already knowing what the answer would be.

“Not unless you think an old toilet seat can solve this mystery,” Dougal said, holding up the ancient-looking object. “I don't even want to know how it ended up in a storm vortex.”

“Vortex,” a voice suddenly whispered behind them. “A swirling eddy or whirlwind with a cavity at the center.”

Angus jerked around on his knees. Hartley Windspear had followed them silently to the far end of the room and was now watching them with interest.

“Oi! Clear off!” Dougal said, chucking an old shoe at him. “You're starting to give me the creeps!”

The projectogram glared at Dougal for several seconds, then turned and drifted off with an indignant sniff.

There was a sudden scraping noise from behind them.

“What was that?” Indigo shot to her feet.

“I dunno, but I think we'd better get out of here before Catcher Coriolis comes looking for his keys,” Angus said, feeling the whole adventure had been a total waste of time.

They scooped up the rest of the storm debris and chucked it back into the buckets. Then they hurried through the room toward the door. Angus checked his weather watch anxiously and felt his insides squirm. It had now been
thirty-five minutes since they'd picked up the keys.

“We've got to get out of here quickly!” he said, breaking into a sprint.

They had almost made it back through the strange melting words when the worst happened. The door up ahead opened, and several familiar figures entered the room. Angus and Dougal scuttled behind the nearest tottering pile of books. Indigo dived behind another, crouching low as voices drifted toward them.

“. . . positive I had the keys when I left the crypt,” Catcher Coriolis said, shaking his head. “I came in here to return a book I've been reading about crypt fungus, and then I went straight down to the kitchens.”

“Catcher Sparks is already conducting a thorough search of the kitchens.” Rogwood stepped through the door, joining the conversation.

“Very well.” Principal Dark-Angel appeared beside him. “For the time being at least, it seems we have no idea if the keys have been lost or stolen. We must search the entire Inner Sanctum for intruders and double-check that the crypt hasn't been broken into again.”

“Might I suggest that we also find Mr. Crevice?”
Rogwood said. “If the keys have been stolen, he would seem to be the most likely suspect.”

“That weasel's caused more trouble than he's worth.” Gudgeon emerged behind them. “He's had his eye on those dragon scales right from the start. If I ever catch him trying to sell a pricey new bunion cure in that scruffy shop of his . . .”

Dark-Angel sighed. “It appears Valentine has failed to keep the bone merchant out of mischief. I will have to expel Mr. Crevice from Perilous immediately.”

Angus turned to stare at Indigo, hoping the lightning catchers were about to leave, and almost passed out cold. The holographic projectogram, attracted by the sound of new voices, had come to see what all the fuss was about. He was now hovering directly behind them with a curious look on his face. Angus nudged Dougal silently in the ribs and jerked his head in Hartley Windspear's direction.

Dougal's face blanched. “That's it! We're dead!” he whispered. “Dark-Angel will have us thrown off the island when she finds us skulking about in here with those keys!”

“Psst!”
Angus said as quietly as he could, trying to attract the projectogram's attention. “Please! Mr. Windspear, you're going to get us into serious trouble!”

“Oi! Move it! Clear off! Get lost!” Dougal added, trying to shoo him away without knocking over the stack of books they were hiding behind. But the projectogram stood his ground, folding his arms across his chest.

“Listen, we promise to come back and ask you loads of questions if you just go and stand somewhere else,” Angus said, hoping the projectogram couldn't detect a lie when he heard one. He had no intention of ever breaking into the Inner Sanctum again.

The projectogram hesitated for a second, then started to walk away from Angus and Dougal, but it was already too late.

“Ah, perhaps Hartley Windspear can give us some answers.” Dark-Angel had spotted the holographic projectogram and was walking over to meet him. “Good evening, Hartley. Tell me, has anyone apart from Catcher Coriolis entered this room this evening?”

The projectogram stared at her benignly, his robes still wafting in the nonexistent breeze.

“Has anyone asked you any questions about the crypt, the storm prophet tombs, or fire dragon scales?”

“Fire dragon scales.” The projectogram latched onto the phrase, suddenly coming to life. “Rumored to boost brainpower, cure dim-wittedness, scurvy—”

“Yes, yes, we know all about those particular rumors, thank you,” Dark-Angel said, interrupting him. “We are far more interested in any other visitors you may have had this evening.”

Angus held his breath, the agonizing seconds ticked by, but the projectogram kept his silence.

“We're wasting our time, Delphinia.” The keeper of the crypt appeared at her elbow, wiping his runny nose on a handkerchief. “If Mr. Crevice has stolen my keys, he'd hardly waste his time in this part of the Inner Sanctum. We must inspect the storm prophet tombs immediately for any signs of damage.”

“Rufus is right,” Rogwood said, already turning toward the door. “We can question Hartley later if necessary. I would also suggest a thorough search of the—”

The door closed suddenly, cutting off their conversation. Angus waited for several seconds to make sure that none
of the lightning catchers were coming back; then he scrambled onto his feet.

“Thanks for not giving us away!” he called over his shoulder, giving the projectogram a friendly wave as they sprinted past.

“Fire dragon scales,” the projectogram repeated, clearly trying to hold their attention for a few seconds longer, “rumored to boost brainpower, cure dim-wittedness, scurvy, bunions, and pimples.”

“Yeah, thanks, we already know about that!” Dougal said.

“Also the subject of a series of top secret experiments conducted in 1777.”

Crash!

Angus skidded to a halt, knocking over a small pile of books, as Dougal and Indigo smashed into him from behind.

“What did you just say?” he asked, swiveling around to face the projectogram.

Hartley Windspear pulled himself up to his full height. “Fire dragon scales, the subject of a series of top secret experiments conducted in 1777. Rigorous tests were
performed on a number of volunteer lightning catchers to determine if a preparation of powdered fire dragon scales could bestow the skills of a storm prophet on them. Because of some unfortunate side effects, however, including spontaneous drooling, memory loss, and severe bouts of hiccuping, all tests were eventually stopped. No storm prophet skills were noted among the volunteers.”

“This is unbelievable!” Dougal said, looking shocked.

“What happened after that?” Angus asked urgently, hoping there was more.

The projectogram paused, and then: “Further experiments were conducted by adding powdered fire dragon scales to lightning storm particles. All experiments were halted, however, following several severe reactions and a large explosion that resulted in the appearance of a spectacular weather vortex. The vortex was declared out of control and raged above the Exploratorium for weeks before it was finally extinguished.”

Dougal stared at Hartley Windspear, speechless.

“In conclusion,” the projectogram continued importantly, “the lightning catchers noted that fire dragon scales, when combined with lightning storm particles,
could produce weather of cataclysmic power. They each signed a declaration, therefore, swearing never to mention the experiments in the kitchens, bathrooms, or communal areas of the Exploratorium.”

“That sounds exactly like the declaration we had to sign before entering the storm hollow,” Indigo pointed out, stunned.

“They also promised that these lethal experiments would never be repeated, and the fire dragon scales have remained undisturbed in the Perilous crypt ever since.”

“Yeah,” Angus said, staring at Dougal and Indigo, “until now.”

  
15
  
THE WEATHER EYE

A
ngus, Indigo, and Dougal made a mad dash back through the Inner Sanctum before Dark-Angel could return and catch them red-handed. Angus dropped the stolen keys on the floor as soon as they reached the familiar marbled Octagon, hoping that Catcher Coriolis would simply discover them lying there, hoping that Dark-Angel wouldn't have them dusted for fingerprints. They hurried back to the Pigsty, and a night of urgent discussions followed.

“This is so typical,” Dougal said, collapsing into one of the armchairs by the fire. “We break into the Inner Sanctum to find out something about the weather vortex
and end up discovering loads of secret stuff about fire dragon scales as well.”

“I can't believe the early lightning catchers did such dangerous experiments,” Indigo said, sitting cross-legged on the floor beside his chair.

“Yeah, what did they
think
was going to happen if they added dragon scales to lightning storm particles?”

“But this doesn't explain anything. We still don't know what's really going on under that weather vortex,” Angus said, suddenly realizing it was true. He'd been so convinced that discovering the truth about 1777 would answer all their questions. But if anything, Hartley Windspear's revelations had only confused the issue more. According to the projectogram, the weather vortex had appeared over Perilous only after some highly dangerous experiments involving dragon scales and lightning storm particles. But as no fire dragon scales had yet been stolen from the Perilous crypt—

“It might explain one thing,” Dougal said, thinking it through slowly. “What if Dankhart knows about those experiments?”

Indigo pulled her sweater sleeve quickly down over her
bleckles at the mention of her uncle's name.

“What if he found out somehow and now he's getting Crevice and Vellum to steal some dragon scales for him? I mean, if anyone's interested in brewing up his own catastrophic weather, it's Dankhart and his stinking monsoon mongrels.”

Angus quickly considered the terrifying possibility that Dougal might be right. If Dankhart carried out his own lethal experiments, if he re-created the calamitous events of 1777 . . .

“Do you think we should we tell someone?” Indigo said, staring at them both anxiously.

“Tell them what?” Dougal asked. “That we stole a bunch of keys from Catcher Coriolis and broke into the Inner Sanctum? Do you want to spend every weekend for the next five years chipping icicles off the snow dome in the Rotundra? Besides, Dark-Angel already knows Crevice is a weasel.”

“Yes, but she also thinks Crevice is trying to steal a bunion cure. We could be the only ones who know the truth about 1777. And if Vellum really is helping Crevice, if he's hiding under that coat and breaking into the crypt
to steal some dragon scales for my uncle Scabious—”

“But we still haven't got any proof,” Angus pointed out. “And we can't just go around accusing Vellum of being in cahoots with Creepy Crevice and Dankhart.”

They each stared into the glowing embers of the fire, thinking over the shocking revelations of the evening.

“None of this makes any sense,” Dougal said, massaging his temples with his fingers. “Why has Dankhart got a great big cloud of swirling weather hanging over his castle if he hasn't even got his hands on any dragon scales yet? And even if Crevice and Vellum are in it together, how could they get any scales inside Castle Dankhart with that deadly vortex whirling around it?”

Discussion about weather explosions and dragon scales continued long into the night. By the time they went to bed Angus's head ached more than it had on the memorable occasion when he'd been hit by a bombardment of slushy snowballs.

He woke early the following morning feeling even more exhausted. Indigo and Dougal were already sitting at their usual table when he yawned his way up to breakfast a short time later. He grabbed some toast and marmalade,
half expecting Dark-Angel to intercept him at any second, demanding to know why he'd stolen keys to the Inner Sanctum and gone riffling through things that didn't concern him. Miraculously, however, none of the lightning catchers eating an early breakfast paid him the slightest attention.

“We've already seen Dark-Angel and Catcher Coriolis,” Indigo told him as soon as he sat down. “And neither of them even glanced in our direction.”

Angus stared around the room, amazed that nobody else seemed to be aware of their adventures.

“So what do we do now?” Indigo asked. A slice of uneaten toast lay shredded on the plate in front of her. “Do we tell someone about the dragon scale experiments?”

They'd been over and over the same prickly issue dozens of times the night before in the Pigsty without coming up with any realistic answers. They had also discussed Valentine Vellum at length, since they were now convinced he was once again helping Dankhart and the monsoon mongrels with their plans to spread chaos and danger.

“If we could just talk to Gudgeon or Rogwood,” Angus
suggested, “maybe we could persuade them to listen to the projectogram.”

“Well, we couldn't have picked a worse day to try it,” Dougal said.

Angus frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Today is the final winners' demonstration,” Dougal said as a stream of lightning cubs entered the kitchens, laughing and joking loudly. “The whole of Perilous is about to descend upon Little Frog's Bottom. We'll be lucky if we can even find Rogwood or Gudgeon. Whatever we're planning to do, it will have to wait until the demonstration is over.”

Because it was also a Saturday morning, breakfast took far longer than usual. Jonathon Hake, Violet Quinn, and Georgina Fox joined them at their table, and a lively discussion about the final demonstration followed.

“We've already had shimmer sharks and fearsome fog, so it could be experimental rainstorms next,” Jonathon said between large spoonfuls of porridge.

Georgina leaned in across the table, keeping her voice low. “Geronimo Midnight swears he overheard the winners talking about risky lightning cub experiments.”

Indigo blushed furiously. Angus turned around in his chair. Germ was laughing and joking with his friends beside the serving tables. He'd been responsible for some of the most outrageous rumors about the winners so far, and Angus hoped there could be no truth in this one either.

After breakfast Angus, Indigo, and Dougal searched the library, the Octagon, and the chilly cloud gardens for any signs of Rogwood or Gudgeon, without success. They peered out across the island, hoping to catch a glimpse of preparations for the last demonstration in Little Frog's Bottom, but a low cloud had descended over the town, and they could see nothing but a few tall chimneys and church spires. They retreated to the warm library instead and spent the rest of the morning trying to avoid Miss Vulpine. Angus made another attempt at cracking his scare-me-not puzzle to pass the time, while Indigo and Dougal flicked aimlessly through the latest copy of the
Weathervane
.

Finally, after a noisy lunch in the kitchens, where excitement levels had once again reached fever pitch, they dressed in coats, woolly hats, and scarves and piled out into the courtyard, onto a packed gravity railway carriage.

“All right, Angus!” Nicholas Grubb waved from the far side of the carriage as it plummeted toward the ground. Angus smiled weakly, clutching his stomach. At the bottom of the tall rock, Catcher Howler shuffled everyone into steam-powered coaches that were already waiting to transport them to Little Frog's Bottom. Half an hour later they arrived in the central square. Angus smiled at Dougal and Indigo. Despite their shocking discoveries in the Inner Sanctum, it was good to be back. The low cloud had now cleared. Cradget's, Brabazon Botanicals, and the Yodeling Yeti café offered tantalizing displays of Imbur buns, colorful flowers, and Grow-Your-Own-Wart kits. The statue of Philip Starling and Edgar Perilous was already casting long shadows across the square as the wintry sun began to dip toward the horizon.

“You will proceed straight to the demonstration tent and stay there until it is time to leave. No wandering off!” Catcher Sparks glared at Clifford Fugg, who was attempting to veer off toward Cradget's. “This is not a shopping expedition. Do I make myself clear, Fugg?”

Angus, Indigo, and Dougal followed a stream of chattering lightning cubs and catchers heading for a large white
tent that had been erected at one end of the square. Inside, seats had been arranged in rows around a raised wooden stage in the middle.

“It's like being inside a circus tent,” Dougal said, staring up at the peaked canvas roof above.

Indigo smiled. “Maybe Lettice and Leonard Galipot have formed a flying trapeze act.”

“Yeah, or they're planning to juggle with storm globes,” Angus said.

The tent was now filling up rapidly. Pixie and Percival Vellum barged past, deliberately elbowing Angus in the ribs. Dougal glared at the twins.

“There's no sign of Valentine Vellum,” Indigo said quietly, peering over the heads of the surrounding lightning cubs. “I can't see Rogwood or Gudgeon either.”

Angus stared around the rest of the tent. He was just about to give up searching when—

“I don't believe it!” He tugged on Dougal's sleeve excitedly. “Look!” He pointed toward the familiar figure now making his way toward them.

“Uncle Jeremius!” Angus waved. Jeremius greeted him with a bone-crushing hug. He smiled broadly at Dougal
and Indigo. “What are you doing here?” Angus asked, feeling immensely relieved that his uncle had returned from whatever mysterious dangers he'd been facing and that he was still in one piece

“I told you I'd return in a few months. It seems I've chosen an interesting day to do it,” he said, gazing around the tent. Several lightning catchers waved in their direction.

Jeremius definitely looked thinner, Angus decided, as his uncle turned briefly to speak to Catcher Mint. His chin was covered in a thick growth of straggly beard; his clothes had several new rips and tears.

“But where have you been?” Angus asked as soon as Catcher Mint had moved on. “What have you been doing all this time? Have you heard anything from my mum and dad?”

Jeremius placed a hand on his shoulder. “I'm sorry, Angus. There has been no word in or out of Castle Dankhart for several months now.”

Angus nodded. He'd already guessed as much, but it didn't stop his spirits from sinking a notch.

“I'm afraid I can't tell you what I've been doing either,” Jeremius continued. “But I hear you three have managed
to stay out of trouble for once. No chasing after monsoon mongrels or iceberg hopping in the Rotundra.”

Dougal and Indigo exchanged guilty glances.

“Rogwood tells me your lessons have been going well in the Inner Sanctum, too.”

“Er,” Angus felt his face redden, wondering if Rogwood had also mentioned the fact that he'd sent some rancid rain chasing after Percival Vellum.