The Lightning Catcher (4 page)

“But why doesn't everyone know about Edgar Perilous, Philip Starling, and the lightning catchers?” Angus asked, amazed.

“Because the Great Fire brought London to its knees, Angus, and the truth would have finished it off completely. It was far safer to convince everyone that the fire had been started quite innocently, in a bakery on Pudding Lane. The rest, as they say, is history. All evidence of the lightning towers was destroyed in the fire itself, and their existence has been conveniently forgotten over the years.”

Angus thought of the history books he'd read at school, all of which had gone into lengthy detail about the unfortunate baker on Pudding Lane, and felt his head spin.

“Having convinced everyone that the fire was an accident, London's leaders were keen to remove any remaining lightning catchers from the capital to prevent another catastrophe. Philip Starling, Edgar Perilous, and their followers, therefore, were secretly offered refuge on Imbur, a remote island that few had ever heard of. The story that it had sunk into the ocean after a terrible storm was spread far and wide, enabling us to settle here and continue our important research in peace. For Starling and Perilous were determined that some good should rise from the devastation of the Great Fire. This secrecy is necessary to protect the work we still carry out at Perilous—”

“Perilous?” Angus interrupted, unable to stop himself.

“The Perilous Exploratorium for Violent Weather and Vicious Storms, to give it its full name,” the principal told him proudly. “Indeed, the magnificent Exploratorium you are now sitting in, Angus, was built by the first lightning catchers to settle on Imbur. Our research has moved on a great deal since those early days, of course. During the past few centuries we have investigated the innermost workings of tornadoes, thunderstorms, monsoons, and droughts. We have plunged ourselves into the depths of the chilliest blizzards; we have discovered exactly what makes a hurricane tick. And as a result, we are now responsible for dealing with some of the world's most extreme and unusual weather.

“Indeed, for many years now, teams of highly experienced lightning catchers have been dispatched across the globe, in the utmost secrecy, to snuff out violent electrical storms, or to trap mighty tornadoes and send them packing. We do not always succeed, Angus. On the contrary, a great many storms are beyond our expertise. Nor do we wish to change the weather simply for the sake of changing it. But we shall continue with our quest to protect mankind from the ravages of the weather at its most cruel and extreme. And we are proud of our efforts.”

Angus swallowed hard, feeling thunderstruck—or as he now realized, it would be more accurate to say
lightning
struck.

“We are also responsible for dealing with some of the more . . . unusual meteorological situations that arise,” the principal continued. “For instance, I'm sure you have noticed the odd showers we have been experiencing lately.” She nodded toward the photographs lying flat on her desk. One showed Canterbury Cathedral being rained upon by a shower of warty toads, and in the other, the Eiffel Tower had been engulfed by a blizzard of newts. “Our biggest concern at the moment is to discover where these wretched showers are coming from, and how to make them stop before we all find ourselves knee-deep in sardines.”

“So you're—you're weather forecasters?” Angus asked, uncertain.

“Some may call us that, yes. But perhaps this will help explain things a little more clearly.”

From a drawer in her desk, the principal took out a small, round metal box and placed it in front of him. She flipped open the lid with a touch of her finger, and Angus suddenly found himself staring at an almond-shaped eyeball, resting on a velvet cushion. The eyeball was made of fine translucent glass. Inside the iris, impossibly deep swirls of blue, gray, and fathomless green seemed to melt and merge together, creating the most breathtaking patterns he'd ever seen.

“You are looking, Angus, into the eye of an ancient storm that caused a great deal of damage to our island many, many years ago,” Principal Dark-Angel explained. “It was discovered by those lightning catchers who first came to Imbur and founded our great and noble Exploratorium.”

“But . . .” Angus faltered, gazing at the fascinating object. “I thought that the eye of the storm was a calm spot in the middle of a hurricane?”

“It was previously thought to be the benign center of a storm, yes, but as you can see, it is much more than that. Indeed, we have only just begun to understand its true power and force. But understand it we will. And one day we will have the power to control it.”

The liquid eye gazed languidly at Angus, but before he could lean forward and get a closer look at it, Principal Dark-Angel had snapped the lid shut again and put the metal box back in the drawer of her desk.

“Is that what my mum and dad do?” Angus asked. “Do they capture the eyes of ancient storms and stuff?”

“Alabone and Evangeline McFangus are two of the finest lightning catchers we have here at Perilous. You should be very proud of them both.”

Angus had a sudden vision of his mum grappling with an angry tornado and of his dad catching bucketloads of tadpoles as they fell over the Great Wall of China. “But I don't understand. Why have they been pretending to work for the government all this time?”

“Since the Great Fire of London, all lightning catchers have been bound by a strict oath of secrecy,” the principal explained. “Your parents could not have told you about Perilous, even if they wished to. Besides, do you really think you would have believed the truth if you'd heard it? A top secret organization that controls the weather. It sounds most implausible, wouldn't you agree?”

Angus agreed completely. He was sitting right in front of Principal Dark-Angel with the evidence all around him, he'd actually seen Gudgeon produce spectacular downpours of rain just by smashing a small glass ball on the ground, and he still wasn't sure he believed any of it. He knew the principal was right. If his parents had told him about the Isle of Imbur and the lightning catchers, he would have been utterly convinced they were telling him fairy tales.

“Can I see them now?” he asked again, his head beginning to throb once more.

“Ah, I'm afraid that will not be possible.” Principal Dark-Angel frowned. “Your parents have been sent on an important assignment, Angus. Their work has taken them over the mountains to the other side of the island, where they are currently assisting Scabious Dankhart with a most difficult project, and I understand they are to stay with him until it is finished.”

“So . . . is that why I haven't heard from them in weeks now?”

The principal nodded. “It's highly unlikely that they have any spare time for writing letters. I do not expect to hear from them myself until their assignment is completed. I am sorry if you have been concerned for their welfare.”

“Could I just phone them?”Angus asked hopefully.

“Telephones, computers, and most other electronic and communication devices are all but useless here on Imbur,” the principal informed him matter-of-factly. “Due to the nature of our experimentation and the strong interference it creates, we have been forced to adopt other methods of contacting one another.”

“But . . . will they be coming back soon?” Angus asked.

“I understand it may be several weeks or even months before they return.” The principal shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “Fortunately, in the meantime, we have many things here at Perilous that will greatly interest someone who has helped his uncle build hailstone hurlers and blizzard catchers.”

Before she could say any more, there was a knock at the door and Angus turned around to see a boy only a few years older than him enter the room nervously. He was dressed in a yellow coat and looked wet through.

“Yes, what is it, Croxley?”

“Excuse me, Principal Dark-Angel, but Rogwood would like to see you straightaway, in the courtyard.”

“Can't it wait?”

“I'm afraid not, Principal. There's been another . . . episode,” the boy said, hovering anxiously.

“Oh, very well.” Principal Dark-Angel sighed, dragging herself to her feet. “Tell Rogwood that I will join him outside directly. Angus, if you will please excuse me for a few moments . . .” And she followed the boy swiftly out of her office, grabbing a yellow rain hat from the back of the door as she went.

Angus stared at the jars of frogs and toads, his brain suddenly overloaded with the most amazing information he'd ever heard. Principal Dark-Angel, Gudgeon, and both his parents were all part of a secret organization that could do incredible things to the weather. Even his uncle Max was in it up to his eyebrows, if the blizzard catcher was anything to go by. And now he himself was on an island that supposedly didn't exist. He tapped one of the jars with his finger and grinned. It had definitely been worth getting dragged out of bed in the middle of the night for this!

He passed the next few minutes staring at the floating amphibians. As he did so, something even more interesting caught his eye. Sitting on the far side of the principal's desk was a book. It was bound in soft brown leather with elaborate gold lettering on the front cover, which read:

 

The Perilous Exploratorium for Violent Weather and Vicious Storms

A HOLOGRAPHIC HISTORY

BY

OSWALD BLOTT

STORYTELLER

 

Angus glanced guiltily over his shoulder. Then he picked up the holographic history for a closer inspection.

The pages were spotted with mold and crinkled invitingly as he turned to the beginning of chapter one, but there was nothing on the page except a large, glossy-looking square. Angus tilted the page toward the light and discovered a strange man skulking in the corner of this odd square. He was dressed in bottle-green tights, a brightly colored tunic, and some extremely fancy pantaloons, which stopped just short of his skinny knees. He also had a long, pointy beard and a single gold earring and was scratching his nose, scowling. Angus realized that he must be looking at Oswald Blott, the holographic storyteller named on the front of the book.

“Many years ago,” the man boomed in a deep, theatrical voice, making Angus jump, “the Isle of Imbur was a quiet backwater full of dull, smelly peasants who spent their entire time growing turnips and quaffing beer in the local taverns.”

Angus snapped the book shut, breathing heavily. He waited several seconds to see if this noisy racket had attracted the attention of anyone outside Principal Dark-Angel's office. Then he cautiously opened the book again at the same page, curious to hear what else it had to say for itself.

“It was very fortunate for everyone, therefore,” Oswald Blott continued, “when a small group of men, led by Philip Starling and Edgar Perilous, arrived on the island one dark and stormy night, and decided to stay.”

He paused here to hold up a portrait of the two great men, both of whom had red faces full of whiskers and very superior expressions.

“Indeed, it was the great Edgar Perilous himself who created the wondrous legend of an isle that had sunk into the treacherous seas, thus preventing any more turnip lovers from turning up on its shores. . . .”

Angus flicked eagerly through the pages. He thumbed quickly past several interesting-sounding chapters, including one entitled “Birth of the Lightning Catchers,” and another that had something to do with a blizzard of jet-black snowflakes. He stopped abruptly at chapter five, however, and stared at the title, “The Rise of the Dankhart Family.” Dankhart was the name of the person his parents were working with on the other side of the island.

Angus settled the book on the desk in front of him, and the holographic storyteller began to speak again.

“Like a plague of scurvy dogs, the Dankharts drifted to the shores of Imbur Island many years ago and, sadly, decided to stay. Worthless mongrels and cheats, the Dankharts were driven by their greedy desire for riches and power, and set about collecting both in disgusting amounts—not caring who they trampled on to get what they wanted!”

Oswald Blott paused here to mop his sweaty brow with a spotted handkerchief. Angus waited impatiently for him to continue, hoping that the storyteller was talking about different Dankharts than the ones his mum and dad were currently staying with.

But before he could find out any more, the door opened behind him. Angus snapped the book shut and shoved it hastily back over to the far side of Principal Dark-Angel's desk, hoping she wouldn't notice it had been moved.

“I'm afraid I will have to cut our little chat short, Angus,” the principal said as she crossed the room toward him.

Angus was surprised to see that she was carrying a bucket. She heaved it up onto her desk, sloshing quite a bit of water and several tadpoles over the side.

“A serious matter has just arisen that requires my full attention. But before you go, I understand from Gudgeon that he was forced to release a storm globe upon your departure from the ferry port this morning. I'm sure you must be wondering why.”

Angus stared at Principal Dark-Angel. The truth was, he'd hardly given any thought to the sinister figures who had been following them.

“There are those on this island, Angus, who would go to any lengths to steal our most precious and powerful weather secrets,” she explained. “But you need not worry about such despicable thieves at Perilous. You will be perfectly safe here.”

She made a move back toward the door and then paused, waiting for Angus to follow.

“Edmund Croxley is waiting outside my office. He will make sure you learn your way around. Rooms have also been arranged for your stay with us. I trust you will find them comfortable. But if there is anything else you need, you have only to ask.”

“Thanks very much, Principal,” Angus said, suddenly remembering his manners.