The Lightning Catcher: The Secrets of the Storm Vortex (18 page)

“Has there been any more news about the weather vortex, sir?” Angus asked, seizing the opportunity.

“I'm afraid not. We still don't know what's going on underneath the cloud. There has been no word about your parents either.”

“But my uncle Jeremius . . .” Angus said hopefully.

“I cannot discuss what Jeremius is doing. I'm sure you understand, Angus, that it wouldn't be wise.”

Rogwood ushered him straight into the dark room they'd already visited, with the trapdoor that led down to the crypt. Angus wondered if they were about to pay another visit to the storm prophet coffins. This time, however, Rogwood led him to the far side of the room and through another door, concealed in the shadows.

The room behind it was small, round, and exceedingly cozy. Bookshelves ran from floor to ceiling, with rickety-looking ladders reaching up to the highest tomes. Several comfy armchairs with footstools had
been arranged around a crackling fire. Pens, pencils, and paper had been laid out neatly on a table.

Rogwood lowered himself into one of the armchairs. “Please take a seat, Angus.”

Angus sat, feeling his tense muscles relaxing slightly. It was not the kind of room where old machines suddenly went berserk.

“Now that you have seen the Great Fire of London through the retrospectacles and have visited the Perilous crypt, it is time to learn more about each of the storm prophets and their extraordinary lives,” Rogwood said, folding his hands together. “I will try to answer all your questions honestly and tell you the facts as they are known. All the information we have, however, is historical, and some of the accounts tend to glorify events, as was the fashion at the time, and must be taken with a pinch of salt,” he warned. “There is no one left to ask directly, of course, for which I am truly sorry, Angus. It is a great shame that you have no one to share your thoughts and experiences with at this important time in your life.”

Angus swallowed, finding it easier to stare at the braids in Rogwood's beard than to meet the searching gaze of the
lightning catcher directly.

“To make things a little easier to understand, I will use a series of projectograms.” Rogwood bent forward and reached under his chair. He took out a small box with two lenses on the front. “These are mere re-creations of the people and events that I am about to describe and nothing more.”

He placed the projectogram box on the footstool in front of him and slid a small plate into the back.

“As you already know, Angus, it is believed that the talents of the storm prophets date back to the days when lightning towers pierced the skies of London, when the operators of those mighty towers were infused with the very forces they were trying to capture and control. Their abilities were only truly explored once Edgar Perilous and Philip Starling came to Imbur and founded this great Exploratorium.”

Rogwood twiddled with the lenses on the box.
Click.

Angus gasped as a three-dimensional projectogram suddenly filled the entire room. The books and ladders faded into the background, and he found himself sitting instead before a long line of fidgeting figures, leaning awkwardly
against a rough stone wall.

“There were ten original storm prophets. Their names were Benedict Swarfe, whom you already know something about.” Rogwood pointed to a tall, lanky figure on the far left who was dressed in an old-fashioned leather jerkin with woolen leggings. Swarfe scratched his nose and blinked, staring directly at Angus. “He was killed by the Great Fire in London before his talents could be explored, of course, his blood fusing with the lightning tower to form the very powerful lightning heart. I think it is fair to assume, therefore, that he would have gone on to perform a number of interesting deeds had his short life continued. What you are seeing here is a mere image of the boy as he might have been, if he'd had the good fortune to join the other storm prophets at Perilous. Please feel free to wander among your fellow storm prophets, Angus, should the urge arise.”

Angus hesitated for a second, then stood up awkwardly. The projectogram was incredibly lifelike. Each of the storm prophets looked as real and solid as any living lightning catcher at the Exploratorium. Some turned to watch him with interest as he made his way down the line.
Benedict Swarfe had the same intelligent features as the only other Swarfe he'd ever met. Angus poked the projected image, just to make sure it wasn't real. It wobbled gently, like the ripples on a pond.

“Next we have Gideon Stumps and Jasper Flinch,” Rogwood said as Angus continued down the line to where two young-looking storm prophets stood with their arms folded. “Both went on to become experts in cold-climate dangers and made many important discoveries about blizzards and ice storms. Ah, now we come to the Bodfish brothers, Zebedee, Zachary, and Zephyrus.”

The Bodfish brothers were three inches taller than anyone else around them, with striking features and long black hair; they were shoving one another playfully and generally larking about. Angus couldn't help smiling as he stood among the charismatic brothers. He had a strong feeling he would have liked all three of them a great deal.

“The Bodfish brothers used their unique connection as siblings to great effect and developed a storm prophet sixth sense that allowed them to work as a formidable team. They used it once to rescue a party of new lightning cubs who got separated and lost on the Imbur marshes in a thick fog.

“Then we have Moray McFangus, whom you have inherited your own storm prophet skills from.”

Angus felt his heart leap. The family resemblance was striking. Moray was unmistakably a McFangus, with the same gray eyes and small bear-shaped ears that he, his dad, and Uncle Jeremius all shared. Moray McFangus also had a strong, proud face, masses of brown hair, and a twinkle in his eye. Close up, he smelled like candle wax. He watched Angus intently, scratching the stubble on his chin, as they stood face-to-face.

“Is—is that what he really looked like, sir?” Angus asked.

Rogwood nodded. “As far as we can tell, according to eyewitness accounts, letters, diaries, and portraits painted at the time.”

Angus walked all the way around his ancestor, trying to take in every detail.

“Who are the others at the end, sir?” he asked when he finally managed to tear his gaze away from Moray McFangus. The last three storm prophets stood with their backs turned to the rest of the group, talking quietly among themselves.

“Their names are Nathaniel Fitch, Tobias Twinge, and Nicholas Blacktin.” Angus kept his distance, feeling no desire to approach them for a closer look. Tobias Twinge was breathing loudly through his mouth, as if he had a head cold. “I would prefer to deal with those particular storm prophets at another time, Angus. I do not wish to confuse you with too many names at once,” Rogwood said, looking slightly uncomfortable.

Before he could ask any more, Rogwood had removed the projectogram and slipped another one in the back of the box.

Click.

Angus was now surrounded by a group of six children, roughly the same age as he was, with two standing separately from the rest.

“Eventually the ten original storm prophets each married and had children of their own, and a second generation was born. Only six of those children showed any storm-spotting skills, but of a much watered-down variety. There were no storm prophets in the generation that followed theirs. And nobody knows why exactly, although I would guess that it has something to do with the fact
that after the Great Fire nobody at Perilous was allowed to capture lightning bolts from live thunderstorms. It is possible that these talents resurfaced in you, Angus, when you were presented with a potentially life-threatening situation in the Lightnarium.”

“So there were only sixteen storm prophets in total, sir,” Angus said, doing a quick mental calculation.

“Seventeen, including you, but only the ten originals had true storm prophet capabilities, until now.”

Rogwood bent forward and slid another plate into the back of the box.

Click.

Angus had now been transported to a wild and windy moorland devoid of all trees and shrubs, with just a few rocky outcrops to shelter behind. Violent lightning storms were closing in from every direction, filling the air with the crackle of electricity. Angus felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise in warning, his instincts suddenly taking over. His heart leaped again as Moray McFangus and several people he didn't recognize appeared beside him.

“Moray McFangus came to Imbur after the Great Fire.” Rogwood continued speaking from his armchair, which
looked bizarre sitting among the barren tufts of moorland. “He was very young at the time, just seventeen years old, and it took some time for his skills to develop fully. He was particularly adept at predicting lightning strikes and was one of the most talented storm prophets. He headed several important expeditions to regions of the world famed for their extreme electrical storms, making many vital and dramatic discoveries about this dangerous force of nature that were essential after the disastrous events in London.”

Angus flinched as several very real-looking bolts of lightning flashed around him. The weather was growing more frightening by the second. The knot in his chest tightened.

“It was during one such expedition, re-created here, that he saved many of his fellow lightning catchers from a very close encounter with a storm cluster filled with lightning tarantulatis.”

CRASH!

Angus spun around. Another storm was approaching from behind, trapping him and the lightning catchers in a pincers movement that left very little hope of escape.

“Quickly! Everyone, take shelter!” The firm, clear voice of Moray McFangus sent the rest of the lightning catchers scurrying for cover under an overhanging crag. Angus felt himself being pushed and shunted toward it. He tripped and fell, staggering to his feet again only just in time as the storm finally broke overhead.

CRASH!

The lightning tarantulatis spun a dazzling web of light above their heads; it jumped aggressively from storm to storm, gathering power, striking the ground with deadly force.

BANG!

There was a sudden flash of flame. Angus toppled over backward as a fire dragon burst onto the scene with a magnificent roar. It soared above Moray McFangus, who stood alone before the gathering storm. Molten fire dripped from the creature's outstretched wings, cutting a fiery swath through every cloud.

For one exhilarating moment, Angus could almost feel the full force of the storm surge through every molecule of his own body. The flames of the fire dragon intensified; it twisted high above Moray McFangus, tangling itself
through wisps and curls of tempest, forcing each of the storms to collide, to fight for space in the skies above; then—

BOOOOM!

Angus dived for cover as a huge explosion extinguished every lightning bolt, blasting every storm to smithereens. The fire dragon had destroyed every storm, leaving nothing behind but a few harmless puffs of gray cloud.

Thrilled by the exciting new development, Angus stared at the powerful creature. If Moray McFangus could use his fire dragon to
control
the weather then maybe he, Angus, wasn't quite such a freak after all? Maybe the events in the storm hollow weren't nearly as dreadful as he'd first feared? And one day, when he'd learned to perfect his own skills, he might even turn out to be a storm prophet hero, just like Moray McFangus? The projectogram faded suddenly. He was standing once again in the peaceful room among the bookshelves and comfy chairs. All signs of the moorland had gone, but fresh, tantalizing images now formed in his mind.

He could suddenly see himself older, taller, surrounded by vicious storms and fog yetis out on the barren Imbur
marshes, defeating the weather, guiding Indigo, Dougal, Jeremius, and Gudgeon to safety. He could almost hear the grand tales that would be told of his glorious and heroic achievements for hundreds of years to come. He imagined another nervous lightning cub sitting in the same chair that he had occupied being told of the time that a famous storm prophet, called Angus McFangus, saved Indigo Midnight from some lethal lightning in the Lightnarium.

“But, sir, why didn't you tell me fire dragons could help predict the weather
and
control it?” he asked, finally lowering himself into his chair, his heart still beating far too quickly. “I mean, Moray McFangus and his fire dragon totally destroyed those lightning storms!”

“I was a little concerned that the idea would seem too strange and unsettling when you were still struggling to accept your incredible gift,” Rogwood said, watching him closely. “It is a skill that must be treated with great seriousness if it is to be controlled properly. The early storm prophets formed a unique bond, Angus.” Rogwood continued. “They became great friends over time and worked together for the good of the Exploratorium and all of humankind. Not only by predicting when catastrophic
weather was about to strike but, as you have just seen, by guiding and controlling the very elemental forces of nature. You belong to a very rare breed of lightning catcher, Angus. You should be extremely proud of your heritage. It is a great gift, and there are many who would kill to have it.”

Angus swallowed hard. It was a chilling thought. Adrik Swarfe had already threatened to drain his blood in order to restore the lightning heart and his own storm prophet powers. He was also positive that Dankhart wouldn't hesitate to kill him if Angus ever stood in the way of his ambitions.

Before Rogwood could say anymore, however, they were interrupted by a knock at the door.

“Aramanthus.” A lightning catcher stuck her head inside the room. “I have a message from Felix Gudgeon.”

“Ah. Perhaps that is enough for one day,” Rogwood said, rising from his chair with a smile. “I will meet you in the Octagon in a few moments, Angus. Please feel free to watch any of the projectograms again.” Rogwood followed the other lightning catcher through the door and closed it behind him.