The Lightning Catcher (11 page)

“I'll, um, see what I can do,” Angus said, not sure that he could do anything at all. The storm vacuum had been dismantled and was now lying in dozens of different pieces all over the experimental division.

“What's going on, anyway?” he asked, before Edmund could disappear into the crowd again. “Where's everyone going?”

“Oh, that,” Edmund said in a superior tone. “Frogs in the courtyard, Angus, nothing to get too excited about, I can assure you. In fact, all of you first years really ought to be getting on with your homework instead of gadding about the Exploratorium at all hours of the—”

Before he could say any more, however, he was caught in the tide of bodies once again and was swept along the corridor and out of sight.

“What's so interesting about frogs in the courtyard?” asked Angus.

Dougal shrugged, hitching his backpack up onto his shoulder. “Only one way to find out.”

There were ten different courtyards at Perilous. Some were small and stuffed with scientific weather instruments for analyzing snowflake patterns and measuring wind speeds. Others were magnificent marble creations, overflowing with stone statues and Greek-looking urns. The courtyard that everyone appeared to be heading toward now was at the very center of Perilous. On any normal summer's evening, it would have been an extremely pleasant place to sit and digest dinner, perhaps while lounging beside the large granite fish pond, surrounded by pots full of wild strawberries. But it was obvious, as soon as Angus and Dougal had squeezed their way in, that there was nothing normal about this particular evening. This was due to the large cloud that had settled itself directly above the Exploratorium. Falling from it like rain were hundreds of small green frogs.

“What in the name of Perilous . . . ?” Dougal gasped.

Angus stared at the falling amphibians with his mouth hanging open.

The sky above had turned bilious green. The air around them was thick with a thousand startled croaks, along with a rhythmic
squelch-thud-hop
as the frogs landed in the courtyard and made a desperate dash for safety. Some fell into the pond, while others somehow managed to cling to rain gutters and drainpipes, webbed feet paddling furiously in the air. A few unfortunate creatures hit the courtyard with a very unpleasant
SPLAT!

“Urgh!” Dougal wrinkled his nose in disgust. “There's frog brains everywhere.”

Most of the slimy creatures, however, had survived their fall and were now hopping madly around the courtyard. At least a dozen lightning catchers were chasing after the slippery creatures, attempting to scoop them up into buckets.

Angus stumbled back as Catcher Mint came diving toward them, flinging his bucket at a small, terrified huddle of frogs, which scattered at the last second and headed for the cover of a honeysuckle bush.

“Bother! Missed again!” Catcher Mint grumbled, before picking himself up and sprinting off.

“Stand back, Doomsbury, Dewsnap!” Catcher Sparks warned, hurrying past them with her own bucket, a stray frog clinging to the rim of her weatherproof hat.

“What's going on, miss?” Angus called after her.

“Nothing to be alarmed about, Doomsbury, perfectly normal weather for this time of year,” she said.

“There's nothing normal about it,” Dougal mumbled.

“Yeah, I know, there was something in the news about showers of newts and frogs before I came to Perilous,” Angus said. “I forgot all about it until now, but they've even been seen over Buckingham Palace. And that's definitely not normal.”

“Maybe the experimental division is working on something top secret that they don't want the rest of us to know about?” suggested Dougal. “Maybe they've been training frogs to search for the great invisible fog itself, so we won't have to?”

Angus grinned. “Not exactly foggy at the moment, though, is it? Anyway, when I first met Principal Dark-Angel, she said something about finding out where the frogs were coming from and making them stop.”

“Are you sure that's what she said?” Dougal asked, frowning.

Angus nodded. “Yeah, why?”

“Well, if they definitely didn't come from Perilous . . . there's only one other place on the island they could have come from—and that's Castle Dankhart.”

Angus recognized the name immediately. According to Principal Dark-Angel, Dankhart was the person whom both his parents were helping with an important assignment. And according to Oswald Blott, the holographic storyteller, the Dankharts were worthless mongrels and cheats.

“Er, does the name Scabious Dankhart mean anything to you?” he asked Dougal.

“Of course it does!” Dougal raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Every person on Imbur knows who Dankhart is . . . due to the fact that he's a mad raving lunatic.”

Angus felt his stomach churn. He had a horrible feeling he was about to discover the real reason he hadn't heard from his mum and dad in such a long time.

“What's wrong?” Dougal asked. “You've gone whiter than a wispy fog.”

“Just tell me everything you know about Scabious Dankhart.”

“There's no need.” Dougal rummaged through his backpack and pulled out a thick volume. “Everything you need to know about the whole stinking family is in this book.”

Angus read the title aloud.
“Famous Imburcillians—The Good, the Bad, and the Desperately Ugly.”

Dougal smiled. “I borrowed it from my dad. I don't know why you want to hear about that old loony Dankhart, though. It's enough to give anyone nightmares for a week.”

Angus skimmed quickly through the book, which was arranged in alphabetical order, until he reached the chapter called “The Dankhart Family: Vile, Violent, and Very, Very Nasty.” He started reading.

 

Secretive and powerful, little is truly known about the despicable Dankhart family other than the fact that they built Castle Dankhart more than five hundred years ago and have resided there ever since. Probably descended from a long line of pirates, they are rumored to possess a vast personal fortune, which includes gold coins, jeweled cups, and giant ingots.

 

“Descended from pirates?”Angus looked up, surprised.

“Well, yeah, if you believe the rumors.” Dougal shrugged. “They're definitely devious enough, rotten to the core, my dad says. But that's not the scariest part.” He pointed to the next paragraph.

Angus swallowed and continued to read.

 

As the Dankharts had gone to great, and often violent, lengths to establish themselves as the most feared family on the island, they took instant exception to the arrival of the lightning catchers in 1666. A terrible feud sprang up between them, the exact origins of which are uncertain, although it continues to this day. It is commonly believed that the Dankharts have also been responsible for some of the worst freak weather conditions ever experienced on this island and in various other places around the globe—including blizzards of black snowflakes, black ice storms, and hailstone monsoons. It is also believed that they are mean enough to try anything once.

 

“Dankhart knows almost as much about the weather as Principal Dark-Angel,” Dougal explained. “He can whip up a thunderstorm quicker than you can say lightning bolt, only he's not interested in researching tornado patterns or drying up rainstorms like we are here at Perilous. He likes to use the weather as a weapon instead. There's a whole section of the library devoted to the Dankharts and the horrible things they've done with the weather over the centuries.”

Angus felt his heart racing. Principal Dark-Angel hadn't mentioned any of this in her office.

“The lightning catchers try and stop him, of course, but every now and again he stuffs clouds full of frogs or something stupid,” Dougal continued as a fresh shower of confused amphibians fell at their feet.

“What else do you know about him?” Angus snapped the book shut and handed it back.

“There's not much more to tell,” Dougal said, “except he's only got one normal eye. He lost the other one in a hailstone accident, and it was replaced with a black diamond.”

“A black diamond?” Angus said, surprised.

“Yeah, it probably came from one of his own personal diamond mines on the other side of the island. Gives me the collywobbles just thinking about it,” Dougal said with a shiver. “Anyway, are you going to tell me why you want to know all this stuff about Dankhart all of a sudden?”

Angus swiftly decided that there would never be a better moment to tell Dougal everything. “Let's find somewhere more private first,” he said, leading his friend back through the frog watchers toward the quiet of the deserted building. “Then I'll tell you exactly why I want to know.”

  
7
  

THE LIGHTNARIUM

N
obody noticed when Angus and Dougal slipped back inside. As soon as the door to the Pigsty was closed behind them, Angus told Dougal everything that had happened since Gudgeon had escorted him from the Windmill in the middle of the night. The words came tumbling out of his mouth. It was a relief to finally tell Dougal the truth.

“So let me get this straight,” Dougal said after Angus had finished. “Your real name is Angus McFangus, your parents are Alabone and Evangeline McFangus, and they're both senior lightning catchers—”

“Yeah, exactly! Only I didn't know that until a week ago. They always told me they worked for some boring government department in London. But it turns out they've been here at Perilous the whole time. I mean, they've written a fog guide and everything.”

“And now they're at Castle Dankhart?”

“Right, Principal Dark-Angel said something about them staying with Dankhart while they helped him with an important assignment.”

“Hah!” Dougal snorted, eyes wide behind his glasses. “Dankhart doesn't need anyone's help—unless he's finally decided to get his lunatic brain fixed.”

“Look, I would have told you all of this ages ago,” Angus added, “but Principal Dark-Angel warned me not to tell anyone my real name. She made it sound like I was here on holiday until my mum and dad came back, and that everyone would want to bring their relatives over if they found out. Nobody even told me I was a lightning cub until the night before the weather tunnel.”

“You're joking!” said Dougal, sounding deeply impressed. “The least they could have done was warn you about the fog yeti! Although they could have warned the rest of us about that one, too.”

They sat silently for several minutes, with Dougal picking at a stray thread on the arm of his chair, a glazed expression on his face, and Angus rubbing his aching head, which felt like it had been squeezed through the inner tube of a bicycle wheel. It was clear to him now that Oswald Blott's description of the Dankharts had been by far the more accurate. It was even clearer that Principal Dark-Angel had lied to him and that his parents were in some sort of trouble.

“The thing I don't understand is what my mum and dad are doing at Dankhart's castle in the first place,” he eventually said. “It doesn't sound like he needs any help with the weather.”

“If the rumors about him are true, he can stir up a blizzard before you can reach for your snow boots,” said Dougal. “Did Principal Dark-Angel say anything else about your mum and dad?”

Angus shrugged. “She just asked if they'd sent me any letters or messages through the mail lately. It sounded like she's been expecting something important to arrive, something that hasn't turned up yet.”

“Well, did they send you any letters?” asked Dougal hopefully.

“Yeah, they did, as a matter of fact.” And Angus pushed himself out of his armchair and went to fetch the last letter that his mum had sent.

He took it from a drawer in his bedside cabinet, where he'd stowed it on his first day at Perilous, and stared at it. He wondered, suddenly, if he'd missed some important word or sentence that would make perfect sense now he knew all about Scabious Dankhart, Perilous, and the lightning catchers. He scanned the letter, looking for any hidden hints or clues about secret assignments, but the letter, written on thick ivory paper, looked just the same as the first time he'd read it at the Windmill. He walked back into the Pigsty, disappointed.

“This is the only letter I've had from them in ages,” he said, waving the envelope at Dougal, who was now perched on the edge of his chair.

“Well, what does it say?”

“I wouldn't get too excited if I were you. It's mostly just a load of boring family stuff,” Angus said. “It says, ‘Dear Angus, I hope you're well and not bothering your uncle Max too much while he is working on his inventions. It might be nice if you offered to wash up for him every now and again, and remember to thank him for taking care of you. The weather here in London is fine—' Well, that was obviously a lie, for a start, wasn't it?” Angus said, interrupting himself. “I bet they've been nowhere near London all summer.”

“Who cares?” said Dougal impatiently. “What does the rest of the letter say?”

“Oh, yeah, sorry. It says, ‘Your dad and I are both fine. Sorry we've both been so busy lately, but you've been the Koolest about it, as I was telling Taunt Pamela the other day on the phone.' I think she means Aunt Pamela,” Angus said, shaking his head at his mum's spelling mistakes, of which there seemed to be rather a lot.

“‘. . . which reminds me, Angus,'” he continued reading, “‘I forgot to mention that she will be visiting us again during the next school holidays, I will have to try Very hard to remember this time that she's allergic to your uncle's snail-and-seaweed pie, Ands that Uncl Lars won't drink anything but that revolting Trim Skim milk. That's all for now. Make sure you eat your carrots and brussels sprouts, and look after yourself. Love, Mum.'”

“And that's it?” Dougal asked, disappointed. “That's all there is? There're no mysterious-looking symbols scribbled on the bottom of the page? No secret flaps hidden inside the envelope?”

“Nope, there's nothing, not even an accidental inkblot,” said Angus, inspecting the letter closely in the dying light of the fire. “I warned you it wasn't exactly riveting.”

He tucked the letter back inside its envelope, then spent the rest of the evening talking anxiously with Dougal about his parents and the mysterious assignment they had been sent to complete by Principal Dark-Angel.

 

The chaos caused by the frogs was far more widespread than any one at first realized, and for the rest of the night, small green amphibians could be heard hopping through stone tunnels and passageways. They were also caught hiding in cookie jars and cake tins by a startled Mrs. Stobbs, who had wandered down to the kitchens for a snack to settle her nerves.

By the following morning, some sort of order had been restored to most parts of the building. But as Angus and Dougal made their way up to the experimental division after breakfast, they were brought to an unexpected halt outside the records office by a different sort of obstacle altogether. Piles of ragged paper had been stacked waist high in the corridor, almost blocking their path.

“Just step over it,” a frazzled-sounding voice called from inside the office. “Only be careful not to tread on any of my dark blue folders. It's taken me hours to get them organized.”

Angus poked his head around the door and found Mr. Fristle, the head of the records office, scrambling about the floor on his hands and knees. The office looked like it had been hit by a tornado, with papers, folders, books, and files all ripped to shreds and scattered about the room like piles of confetti at a party.

“Er . . . isn't there anyone who can help?” asked Angus, feeling sorry for Mr. Fristle.

“Help? Nobody can help me!” wailed Mr. Fristle. “I'm the only one who knows where everything goes. It'll take me weeks to get this sorted out. I only popped outside yesterday for five minutes to have a look at the frogs, and when I came back, I found the place in this mess. Wet amphibians and their grubby little feet everywhere! They must have come in through one of the windows. I'll be picking them out of my trainee records from now until Christmas!”

 

Luckily, the weather took a turn for the better over the next few weeks, becoming pleasantly warm and sunny, with absolutely no sign of any more amphibious showers on the horizon. In the experimental division, however, Catcher Sparks continued to find an endless string of disgusting objects for Angus, Dougal, and Indigo to clean. She even threatened them with a pile of waterproof, snot-repelling handkerchiefs, which needed to be strung up and scraped off by hand. Angus could only imagine what horrors awaited them within the revolting hankies, and as he went up to breakfast that morning, he found he wasn't looking forward to the day very much at all. He was not surprised, therefore, to see Dougal, already halfway through his toast, waving at him anxiously from the far side of the kitchens.

“You'll never guess what happened!” he said before Angus had even sat down with his scrambled eggs.

“Catcher Sparks was only joking about the snot-repelling hankies?” he asked hopefully.

Dougal shook his head. “'Fraid not, but Miss DeWinkle came in ten minutes ago and put up a load of these posters. Here,” he said, shoving Angus's breakfast to one side and unrolling a long sheet of parchment on the table. “Take a look at that!”

At the top of the parchment there was a drawing of a perplexed-looking lightning cub, about to be engulfed by a bank of sinister white fog. Beneath it, printed in bright red ink, were the words:

 

As the new FOG SEASON will shortly be upon us,

I have great pleasure in announcing

that this year, all trainees will be

participating in a series of exciting

FOG FIELD TRIPS,

details of which will follow shortly.

In the meantime, if you have any questions,

please see

Miss O. DeWinkle.

And happy fog watching to you all!

 

Angus frowned. “I wonder what fog field trips are, exactly.” He had a sudden image of himself standing utterly alone in a vast field surrounded by acres of menacing fog.

Still hungry, he pulled his plate back toward him and glanced around the kitchen, which now seemed to be buzzing with news of the field trips. Violet Quinn and Georgina Fox were discussing the subject nervously. A large group of fifth years were laughing loudly, studying the posters with great excitement. Edmund Croxley was in his element, talking with an air of superiority to a small crowd of second and third years. “Since I am the only trainee with fog aficionado status, Miss DeWinkle has already asked for my assistance, naturally. . . .”

“How come I've never heard anyone mention fog field trips before?” Angus asked, turning back to Dougal. It was Nicholas Grubb, however, a friendly fourth year with sandy-colored hair, who answered him.

“Because there hasn't been enough fog in the past few years to hold any,” he explained, appearing at their table with a broad grin. Nicholas Grubb had already given them some valuable tips on how to stay on the good side of Catcher Sparks, who was also his master lightning catcher. “The forecasting department is predicting a bumper fog season this year, though, with prolonged periods of mist and murkiness. Principal Dark-Angel wants you first years to get a good grounding in the subject, plus it means you can get in some real practice with your weather watches. It can be dangerous—”

“Dangerous?” Dougal gulped. “W-what do you mean?”

“Sorry, can't tell you. DeWinkle would go bonkers if she found out.” He grinned. “But stay well clear of anything with teeth, and you should be fine.”

Angus forced himself to laugh, hoping it was a joke.