The Lightning Catcher: The Secrets of the Storm Vortex (12 page)

The Vellum twins glared at Angus, shuffling their feet.

“The rest of you had better head straight up to the supplies department and get your coats washed down and thoroughly decontaminated.” Gudgeon continued. “And not a word to anyone about what you've just seen, understand? You've signed a declaration. You know the consequences.”

One by one the remaining lightning cubs began to trudge their way back up the spiral stairs, leaving a trail of melting snow behind them. Angus followed, feeling he'd had quite enough of the storm hollow for one day. His feet were squelching inside his socks. The bare skin on his hands and face now felt prickly and peculiar. He turned to see if Indigo and Dougal
were experiencing the same unsettling symptoms and stopped mid-stride.

Dougal had come to a halt several steps behind him. He was now lying slumped against the wall, snoring soundly, with flakes of scarlet snow melting in his hair.

  
7
  
SECRETS OF THE INNER SANCTUM

B
oth Dougal and Jonathon Hake were hurried up to the sanatorium for urgent treatment after their brush with the deadly scarlet snow. Angus and Indigo waited anxiously in the kitchens for news. By the time Dougal finally reappeared, looking extremely grumpy and groggy, it was already dark.

“I'm going to kill Percival Vellum for knocking that storm jar over!” Dougal declared, slouching into a chair at the table. “Doctor Fleagal's just forced me and Jonathon to drink this disgusting tonic,” he added with a shudder. “It tasted like swamp water. And we've got to go up to the sanatorium twice a day for the next week so he can check for side effects.”

“What kind of side effects?” Angus asked, concerned.

“Fleagal says it takes time for the snow to work its way through your system. He says we might start falling asleep mid—”

Dougal suddenly slumped across the table and started snoring loudly. Indigo quickly managed to revive him, however, by pinching his arm. After eating a large plateful of cheese on toast, Dougal retreated to his room in a thoroughly bad mood to work on his puzzle competition and to let Norman, his pet lightning moth, stretch its wings. Indigo disappeared shortly after, still looking traumatized by the dramatic events in the storm hollow.

Angus therefore spent the rest of the evening alone in the Pigsty, huddled close to the fire. He grabbed his scare-me-not puzzle and his bag of magnetic marbles from a drawer in his bedside cabinet, trying not to let his thoughts stray back to the deadly seven . . . or his parents . . . or the massive cloud that was sitting over Castle Dankhart . . . or the fact that the Vellums, the two people he hated most in the entire Exploratorium, were busy hatching another plan to get him expelled or get him put on sock-washing duty for the rest of the term at the very least.

When he could no longer keep his eyes open, he fell into
his bed, his dreams instantly filled with violent weather explosions and hair-raising escapades through the depths of a dark castle. It felt so terrifyingly real that he woke up with his heart pounding inside his chest, his palms clammy with sweat.

It was only when he stumbled out of bed, a few hours later, deciding on an early breakfast, that he discovered a note had been slipped under his door.

He stared at the neat writing on the envelope and opened it warily. The note inside said:

Angus felt his stomach churn with nerves. Events in the storm hollow had driven all thoughts of the Inner Sanctum
and storm prophet lessons temporarily out of his head. But it was clear that today he would finally discover what lay behind the mysterious door. Would there be more projectograms of Castle Dankhart? Or strange storms that nobody had ever heard of?

He got dressed hastily, accidentally pulling his pants on the wrong way round, and slipped out of his room. He hovered outside Dougal's door for several seconds, toying with the idea of waking his friend up but finally decided against it.

The kitchens were practically deserted, apart from a few weary-looking lightning catchers who had clearly been on night duty. Angus was already halfway through a hot bacon roll when Rogwood found him at his usual table.

“Ah, Angus.” Rogwood sat down and smiled at him. “I hope you have recovered from your first visit to the storm hollow. Gudgeon has just been filling me in on the thrilling details. I hear Mr. Dewsnap got rather more sleep than he bargained for?” he added, tawny eyes twinkling.

“Yes, sir.” Angus swallowed a large mouthful of bacon.

“Luckily, the snow has no lasting side effects. He will be as right as rain after a hearty breakfast and some short
afternoon naps.” Rogwood stood up, tucking his braided beard inside his leather jerkin to keep it out of the way. “If you are ready then, Angus, we will make a start before questions can be asked.”

Suddenly losing his appetite, Angus left the rest of his breakfast on his plate and followed Rogwood out of the kitchens. When they reached the Octagon a few minutes later, he realized he'd never seen it so utterly deserted before. Something that sounded like a rusty gate-hinge was squeaking loudly inside the experimental division. A small puff of smoke drifted from under the door to the sanatorium, but it quickly dissipated, and a deep silence fell.

“Before we enter the Inner Sanctum, Angus, Principal Dark-Angel has asked me to remind you of your promise to reveal none of its secrets to any of your fellow lightning cubs,” Rogwood said, taking a large bunch of keys from a pocket in his leather jerkin. “I, however, would encourage you to share every possible detail with Mr. Dewsnap and Miss Midnight. I believe it is extremely important for your most trusted friends to understand what it means to be a storm prophet.”

“Er, yes, sir,” Angus said, taken aback. “I've already told Dougal and Indigo everything.”

“Excellent.” Rogwood smiled kindly at him. “There is one more thing before we begin. If anyone other than your friends should see you entering or leaving the Inner Sanctum, I believe it might be necessary to tell them you have been volunteered by Principal Dark-Angel to clear up an infestation of pustular mold, and that should deter anyone who is overly curious.”

“Yes, sir.” Angus agreed, hoping there was no real mold.

“Good. I must also ask you not to touch anything unless I give my permission.”

Rogwood fitted a different key into each of the eight locks on the door and then disappeared through it. Angus took a deep breath and followed him down a long, narrow stone tunnel. At the end of the tunnel they stopped before a round steel safety door. Rogwood opened it with a twist and a tug before Angus could worry about what might lie behind it and clambered through into another eight-sided hall. Angus gulped. It was almost an exact replica of the Octagon they'd just left behind, only this one had no marbled pillars or domed ceilings, and the eight doors were set deep into bare rock. Two large buckets had been deposited outside one of the doors. They were filled with piles of tangled rubbish.

“Ah, I believe that is some of the flotsam and jetsam collected from the courtyard after the latest weather explosion,” Rogwood told him before he could ask. “It is being thoroughly inspected for any clues it might offer about the weather vortex over Castle Dankhart. Principal Dark-Angel has asked that—”

“ARGHHH! OOOOO!”

Angus flinched as sounds of a scuffle reached them from behind one of the eight doors.

“What's happening, sir?” he asked urgently, but his words were drowned by another strangled yelp.

“ARGHHH!”

A door burst open suddenly, and a short lightning catcher whom Angus had never seen before came tumbling through it. He slammed the door behind him and slumped against it, breathing heavily.

“Ah, Catcher Donall, good morning,” Rogwood said calmly ignoring the sound of weighty footsteps now thundering toward them from the depths of the room beyond. Angus shrank back, wondering if he should make a run for it. Something monstrous was about to come bursting into the Octagon.

“Aramanthus,” the man said, finally catching his breath, “we haven't seen you in the Inner Sanctum for some time.”

“I'm afraid my duties have been keeping me rather busy of late.”

Bang!

“Grrrrrrrrr!”

Angus took another hurried step backward, pressing his whole body into the wall as what sounded like a gigantic creature threw itself against the door, causing the rusty hinges to groan and bulge. Was Rogwood taking him to see some real fire dragons?

“It seems you have your hands rather full this morning,” Rogwood said, his eyebrows raised. “Perhaps I could locate Catcher Roxbee for you and send her along with some assistance.”

The man nodded gratefully, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. “If you could also ask her to bring a strong rope and some pink marshmallows . . .”

The man's leather jerkin had been savagely ripped and torn. Angus noticed, as Rogwood steered him away, that there were also several sets of enormous teeth marks clearly imprinted upon the hemline.

“But, sir, what was that thing behind the door?” Angus asked, desperately trying to look back over his shoulder as Rogwood took him through another of the eight doors.

“We need not concern ourselves with that particular section of the Inner Sanctum on this occasion,” Rogwood said mysteriously, without answering his question.

They had now entered a long, high-ceilinged room. The contrast with the bare rock of the Octagon was startling. Soft light fissures gave the wood paneling all around them a warm, comforting glow. Tall glass display cases towered over them from both sides of the room, stuffed with interesting-looking objects and ancient dust. It was like stepping into the depths of a grand old museum.

“This is one of our artifact rooms,” Rogwood explained, leading him quickly past a display of archaic measuring instruments. “Everything contained in this room has great historical significance to the lightning catchers. These spectacles, for example, belonged to Philip Starling.” Rogwood stopped suddenly and removed a spindly-looking pair of glasses from the cabinet beside them. Smudged fingerprints covered both lenses. Angus couldn't help wondering if they, too, had belonged to Philip Starling. “This is
the first photograph ever taken of a storm,” Rogwood continued, returning the glasses to their case and pointing to a very blurry black-and-white picture that looked as if it had been taken through a dark fog.

“But why not put everything on display inside Perilous, sir?” Angus asked. He was positive Dougal and Indigo would love to see such amazing artifacts.

“Unfortunately, many valuable items have been lost in the past, our most potent ideas stolen and used against us by the monsoon mongrels. In the Inner Sanctum we can protect our precious weather secrets and preserve that vital knowledge for future generations of lightning catchers. This weather suit, for instance, was worn by Veronica Stickleback when she discovered the existence of glizzards, or glacial blizzards,” Rogwood said, standing beside a display case containing a battered-looking leather jerkin and saggy woolen pants. “It is an essential part of our heritage.”

They meandered past a striking assortment of early waterproof pantaloons and some impressive fossilized snowflakes. There was also a vast collection of fulgurites (formed when a bolt of lightning struck sand, leaving a
perfect cast of the lightning bolt behind) that had been found in various locations around the world.

“I believe this is where we will find Catcher Roxbee,” Rogwood said as they reached the end of the artifact room and ducked through a low wooden door. The other side of it resembled a junkyard. Large collections of dangerous-looking inventions, similar to the ones Angus had seen in the experimental division, littered the floor. Some had shiny metal wheels and cogs; others were vibrating. Angus was certain that Uncle Max would trade his top-secret recipe for mashed potato and gravy muffins just to spend one glorious hour investigating such hidden treasures.