The Lightning Catcher (6 page)

“Bother!” Edmund shouted as something silver shot past Angus at high speed and disappeared into the vacuum. “There goes my fog aficionado badge!”

It wasn't the only thing to disappear, either. Every loose nut and bolt in the room was now flying toward the greedy vacuum like a shower of metallic rain. Angus ducked, trying to shield his head, as several wrenches went sailing past, along with a vicious-looking collection of jagged saws. He was almost knocked senseless by a heavy metal sundial, managing to swerve out of its path just in the nick of time.

The sundial proved to be too much for the vacuum, however. There was a horrible crunching sound as it disappeared into the spiderlike body, and then, all of a sudden, the vacuum ground to a halt. Angus fell to the floor in a heap—

“Ooof!”

And the room was quiet once again.

“Well, I think perhaps we'd better try a different department to begin with, after all.” Edmund picked himself up off the floor and hastily straightened his sweater. “I'm sure you get the gist of things in here, and that's the important thing.” And he bundled Angus swiftly back into the Octagon before the storm vacuum could start sucking again.

Hard on their heels was a man who had clearly been much closer to the vicious machine when it had gone wrong. Tall and beefy, with a stiff mane of blond hair that had been sucked back into a point, he was busy repositioning a greasy-looking monocle over his right eye. His left eye looked oddly round, as if his eyelid had been dragged back into the socket by the sheer force of the vacuum.

“What are you two looking at?” the man snapped, glaring at them both. “And what are you doing sneaking about the experimental division at this time of night?”

Edmund Croxley bristled. “I'll have you know that we are here by special permission of Principal Dark-Angel herself, and my name is Edmund Croxley, if you'd care to check that with her.”

“And what about you, boy?” the man said, turning his attention swiftly to Angus. “What's your name?”

“Er . . . D-Doomsbury, sir,” Angus said, remembering only just in time that he was not allowed to reveal his real name to anyone.

“Doomsbury, eh?” The man eyed him suspiciously. “Any relation to those money-grabbing Doomsburys who own the secondhand rubber boot store in town?”

“I—I don't think so, sir,” Angus said truthfully.

The man glared at him for a few seconds longer before apparently losing all interest in them both. He then disappeared down the stairs without a backward glance.

“Who was that?” Angus asked, untangling himself from his coat.

“I'm afraid that was our new librarian, Mr. Knurling,” Edmund explained. “He started today, as a matter of fact. Unfriendly sort of fellow, though. Doesn't seem to like lightning cubs terribly much, or books either, for that matter.”

“What happened to the old librarian?” Angus asked, curious.

“He sold a rare book on ancient Egyptian wind socks to a rich collector and retired to a beach house on the other side of the island. Now, if you'll follow me, Angus,” he added, marching purposefully toward another of the doors in the Octagon, “I think we'll try the research department next.”

 

The research department resembled an overstuffed archive and consisted of shelf after dusty shelf of old weather records and parchments, some of which dated all the way back to the days of Edgar Perilous and Philip Starling. Angus followed Edmund through the maze of crumbling records, resisting the urge to sneeze, and was eventually allowed to drag one of the weighty tomes off the shelves and study it for himself. He discovered that on November 3, 1887, the weather on Imbur had been behaving in a most peculiar manner, with a light scattering of pea-green hailstones falling just before lunchtime.

The next stop on their guided tour was the forecasting department. Angus almost fell headlong into a large vat of cold rice pudding as soon as they entered the room.

“Ah, yes, I should have warned you about the vats,” Edmund apologized, “but it can't be helped, I'm afraid. Rice pudding is a highly reliable substance for measuring humidity.”

There were also mechanical pinecones of every shape and size, long strings of seaweed hanging from the ceiling, and a collection of small hedgehogs, bedded down in boxes of comfy-looking straw, all of which, Edmund explained, could tell when it was about to rain. There were submarine-type periscopes for observing unusual weather fronts and a weather cannon, situated on the roof directly above, which delivered an instant forecast to the islanders, every hour, on the hour, with an explosion of different-colored sparks.

At ten o'clock precisely, Angus felt the whole department shake as the rooftop weather cannon dispensed its latest forecast. He also caught a brief glimpse of some impressive purple and lilac sparks through a skylight above their heads—which, according to Edmund, meant they were in for a night of thick fog and chilly sea breezes.

The next door led them directly from the Octagon to a narrow set of steel steps, at the top of which was a round trapdoor leading up to the roof. But at Perilous there were none of the usual chimneys, bird's nests, or ancient television antennas that cling to the top of most people's houses. The entire area had been transformed instead into a large, flat, open-air weather station and was positively littered with wind socks, thermometers, and giant copper funnels for collecting rainwater or anything else that fell from the skies. Angus spotted a whole row of glass jars filled to the brim with frogs and tadpoles.

“If we left the weather to its own devices, it would soon be misbehaving itself all over the place,” Edmund explained pompously, “which is why the roof is manned twenty-four hours a day, three hundred and sixty-five days of the year, including Christmas. In the summer months, it doesn't get dark on Imbur until well past eleven o'clock, of course, due to its northerly position, which can be exceedingly useful when you're on the lookout for any tricky twilight toads.”

Angus stared, his mouth hanging open as they walked past a four-person weather balloon that was tethered to a post by a thick rope. The basket underneath the balloon was obviously being restocked with generous quantities of food and a baffling array of weather instruments. He also caught a tantalizing glimpse of a comfortable-looking bed inside, a small cast iron stove, and a claw-footed bathtub.

The roof was also the best place from which to see the rest of the island, Angus realized as they reached the safety railings at the edge, and he was met by the most incredible sight he'd ever seen in his life. Up until that moment, he'd been picturing Perilous as some sort of old-fashioned college. But now, as he peered over the railings, he could clearly see that the Exploratorium was an enormous stone building that looked like a cross between an ancient monastery and a grand palace. It sat on top of its own tall tooth of rock, which stuck up oddly from the fields and meadows surrounding it like a solitary skyscraper.

Angus gazed out across the mysterious island, his head swimming with the wonder of it all. To the west, he could see deep forests and snow-capped mountains gleaming in the late twilight. Directly below them—a very, very long way down—was a small town, which, according to Edmund Croxley, was called Little Frog's Bottom.

To the east, a large bank of fog was drifting across the sea, threatening to engulf Perilous.

“You'll be learning how to correctly identify all seventeen different types of fog, of course,” Edmund said as they made their way back toward the trapdoor a few minutes later.

“There're seventeen different types of fog?” Angus asked, amazed.

“That's all we've identified so far. There could be others lurking about in the Imbur marshes, I suppose, but there's no need to panic, Angus. You'll be starting off with some simple ones first, such as freezing fogs, spooky fogs, and knee-high fogs,” Edmund said, counting them off on his fingers. “Once you've gotten to grips with the basics of droplet densities, you'll be moving straight on to wispy fogs, wet-dog fogs, and amusing fogs—”

“Amusing fogs?” Angus interrupted.

“An amusing fog reaches right to the back of your throat and tickles your tonsils, making you cough and laugh at the same time. But it's nothing compared to the magnificent splendors of the great invisible fog itself.”

“But if it's invisible, how do you even know you've seen it?” Angus asked, surprised.

“Well, I don't wish to boast, but when it comes to fog, I am something of an expert,” Edmund declared, puffing his chest out proudly, and Angus couldn't help noticing a tear in his sweater where his fog aficionado badge had been pinned—before the storm vacuum swallowed it. “Someone with my experience can spot an invisible fog with his eyes shut. If you young lightning cubs run into difficulties, however, you can always turn to the
McFangus Fog Guide
for some useful tips and hints.”

Angus almost tripped over the weather cannon in surprise. “The what guide, sorry?”

“The
McFangus Fog Guide
teaches you how to identify the different types of fog and their individual characteristics. For instance, according to the McFangus guide, the fog that is approaching Perilous at this moment is a wispy fog. It has a slight smell of peppermint about it and has a tendency to make your eyebrows curl into extremely tight ringlets.”

Angus glanced sideways at Edmund, whose eyebrows were indeed beginning to show the first signs of curling, and he grinned. He couldn't believe that fog could do such amazing things. Or that his mum and dad had written a whole fog guide without even telling him.

“Well, I think that's quite enough for one day,” Edmund declared, glancing at his watch five minutes later as they stood once again in the Octagon. “I've still got an assignment to finish on the weather patterns of the Himalayan mountains. I just have to collect a map or two from the research department while we're here, then I'll show you to your room.”

“But what about the other four departments?” Angus asked, glancing at the doors they had yet to venture through and feeling slightly disappointed.

“Oh, I wouldn't waste your time worrying about any of those,” Edmund said dismissively. “There's nothing but the sanatorium through here—” He opened the first of the doors, and Angus caught a quick peek of a stark white interior and a whiff of disinfectant before Edmund closed the door again.

“Then there's the supplies department. They look after rubber boots, weatherproof gear, that sort of thing.”

He flung open the second door, and Angus could just see a long hallway lined with crates, boxes, and some very orderly looking shelves.

“There's the Inner Sanctum of Perplexing Mysteries and Secrets, of course, but nothing very interesting ever happens in there.”

The door to the Inner Sanctum had three extra locks on it, Angus noticed with interest. Edmund did not attempt to open it.

“And then there's the Lightnarium, strictly out of bounds to everyone except the lightning catchers themselves, and I would strongly advise you to stay well clear of it, Angus, unless you want to find yourself on the next ferry back to the mainland. Principal Dark-Angel sent two trainees packing just for sticking their heads around that door. Yes, you might get the odd burn or mangled leg from working in the experimental division,” Edmund added importantly, “but what lies behind the door to the Lightnarium is deadly. Even I'm not allowed in there without a fully qualified lightning catcher by my side.”

“But . . . what do the lightning catchers do in there?”

“Well, among other things, Angus, they produce enough power from their experiments to light the entire Exploratorium.” Edmund pointed to a number of narrow fissures running through the walls and ceiling, which up until that moment Angus had been far too preoccupied to notice. Shaped like jagged bolts of lightning, the fissures sparked and flickered with lights that infused the entire Octagon with a warm yellow glow. “I think you'll find that light fissures are far more effective than normal lamps and candles,” said Edmund.

And with that, he disappeared into the research department to collect his maps, and the Octagon went quiet. Angus marveled at the glowing bolts and rippled veins of light for a long moment. Then he took a step closer to the Lightnarium and frowned. Unlike all the other doors in the marbled hall, this particular one had been decorated with a figure in fine gold leaf. The figure had obviously faded over the years until it was now barely visible, but as Angus inspected it closely, he realized, with a start, that it looked strangely familiar.

The figure was shaped like a fire dragon, and every curl of flame, every fiery scale on its body, was exactly like the dragon he'd dreamed about.

He took a step closer to the door, curious, wondering how something that had appeared inside his head could have anything to do with Perilous or the lightning catchers—which, up until two hours ago, he'd never even heard of.

He stared at the golden dragon, touching the faded image carefully with his fingers, almost expecting it to feel hot. Then he moved closer and pressed his ear to the door. From somewhere deep within the Lightnarium, he could hear a strange sort of rumbling noise, like a herd of elephants stampeding down a hill, or a runaway steamroller squashing a row of bicycles. He could also hear the sounds of running footsteps and of people shouting urgently to one another. Something dangerous was about to happen, he suddenly felt sure of it, he could feel the force of it getting ready to burst through the door and squash him flat—

Angus gasped and backed away from the door, putting as much distance between himself and the Lightnarium as possible. He decided to wait for Edmund on the farthest side of the marbled hall.

Five minutes later, to his immense relief, Angus found himself being led away from the Octagon, down a steep spiral staircase and then along a curved hallway.