The Storm Tower Thief

by Anne Cameron

  “I’m perfectly fine, my dear nephew. I may have a few pine needles wedged in some awkward places, but it’s nothing that a pair of tweezers and a strong cup of tea won’t fix in a jiffy.” He climbed down carefully from his perch, showering Angus in ornaments.

  “But . . . the pods! What happened?”

  “Ah, indeed! I was trying to coax them into some buckets of sand, and they launched a most devious attack.” Uncle Max smiled proudly, as if they could have done nothing that would have pleased him more. “Unfortunately, my foot caught in a hole in the bedroom floor as I made a hasty retreat, and the rest, as they say, is history.”

  Angus stared up at the shattered ceiling, wondering how much longer the Windmill could stand up to such a battering.

  “But surely this is Jeremius!” Uncle Max picked his way carefully through a trail of smashed ornaments and plaster, and the two men shook hands warmly.

  Jeremius smiled. “It has been a long time, Maximilian. Forgive me for not giving you some warning of my arrival.”

  “Nonsense! You’re most welcome indeed. In fact, you’re just in time for some hot breakfast, and then I think perhaps we owe Angus an explanation.”

  An hour later, after Angus had devoured several rounds of toast smothered in his uncle’s special curried sprout marmalade, he was already getting used to the idea that he now had an extra uncle. Still, he couldn’t help wondering if he might come down to breakfast one morning to find several previously unknown aunts, cousins, or even grandparents helping themselves to tea and toast.

  He had also decided that Jeremius was possibly the coolest uncle in existence. Angus had always loved staying at the Windmill with Uncle Max. But Jeremius had singlehandedly trekked to the North Pole and back again, four times, to collect deep-snow samples. When he was younger, he’d also completed his own training at Perilous, where he’d accidentally set a storm vacuum loose on Principal Dark-Angel, becoming an instant legend.

  Angus made a mental note to fill in Dougal and Indigo on all the hilarious details—if he ever saw them again.

  “But why hasn’t anyone ever talked about you before?” he asked.

  There were no photos of Jeremius anywhere in the Windmill. There had never been any letters or Christmas cards. Angus was certain he hadn’t heard anyone mention the name Jeremius McFangus until an hour ago, and he was keen to learn everything he could about his dad’s mysterious brother.

  “It was easier to pretend I didn’t exist.” Jeremius shrugged. “Sooner or later you would have asked why I never came to visit, and that would have put Alabone and Evangeline in an impossible position. Bound by their lightning catchers’ oath of secrecy, they could not have told you where I worked, where I lived, or why I never came round for Christmas dinner.”

  “But why didn’t anyone tell me after I became a lightning cub?” Angus asked. “I mean, I’ve known all about Perilous and lightning catchers for months now.”

  Jeremius exchanged a swift glance with Uncle Max. “I’m afraid I’ve been busy on a solo expedition for the last few months, miles from anywhere. And I wanted to introduce myself in person. I’m sorry, Angus,” he added with a sad smile. “This is no way to meet a new uncle for the first time. Your mum and dad should be here, making proper introductions.”

  They had already covered the painful subject of his parents at length. Jeremius had spent some time discussing their dreadful kidnapping with Uncle Max, who had assured Angus that they had not been forgotten, that they would be found and rescued. But Castle Dankhart sat on the far side of the Isle of Imbur, across a tall range of mountains, and was protected by a moat full of live crocodiles, and nobody had the faintest idea how to mount a rescue yet. Whatever Jeremius said, Angus knew that for the time being at least, his mum and dad would be forced to remain there as prisoners. He swallowed a lump in his throat, trying hard not to dwell on the details, and he allowed another question to pop into his head.

  “But if you’re a fully qualified lightning catcher, how come I’ve never seen you at Perilous?”

  “After I finished my training, I decided to leave Imbur and work at the Canadian Exploratorium for Extremely Chilly Weather.”

  “Er . . . to work at the what, sorry?” Angus asked, wondering why he’d never heard of that either.

  “It’s nowhere near as impressive as Perilous, of course,” Jeremius explained, easing off his fur-lined boots and wriggling his toes in front of the kitchen fire that Uncle Max had lit to keep them all warm. “But snow has always been one of my major interests, and they’ve got a lot more of it over there. We’ve done things with blizzards that would make your uncle’s eyes water.”

  Uncle Max chuckled deeply, pouring hot tea into three large cups.

  “We’ve got the biggest underground snow chambers in existence, as well as our own frozen lake, for training on wintry terrain. But don’t just take my word for it.” Jeremius rummaged through a tatty leather satchel sitting on the floor beside him and pulled out a plain wooden box, with two round lenses on the front like a double camera. “I’ve got some projectograms here that will show you exactly what we get up to in the frozen north.”

  “Ah, splendid, splendid!” Uncle Max looked thoroughly excited. “I haven’t seen a good projectogram show in years.” And he leaped up and closed the kitchen curtains, plunging the room into darkness.

  “Um, what exactly is a projecto . . . thingy?” Angus asked as Jeremius opened the box, took out several flat wooden plates, and slotted them into a narrow, sliding bar at the back. He then placed the box on the kitchen table, twiddled with a dial, and—

  “Wow!” Angus gasped as a life-size image of Jeremius standing next to an igloo suddenly appeared before them in the kitchen. It floated, shimmering in the air like a slightly see-through three-dimensional mirage. “Can I have a closer look at it?”

  “You may explore every last inch of it, if you wish.” Jeremius smiled kindly. “Projectograms are completely harmless.”

  Angus jumped off his chair and walked slowly all the way around the back of the image, which looked so real he was convinced that if he reached out and touched it, he’d suddenly find himself knee-deep in a freezing blizzard. Every individual snowflake glimmered; every last strand of his uncle’s frozen nostril hair sparkled with brilliant illumination. He prodded the projectogram curiously with his index finger. The whole picture quivered, causing the legs of the projected Jeremius to wobble gently.

  “Normal photographs have no real depth,” Jeremius explained as Angus continued to marvel at a row of very real-looking icicles that were dangling from the igloo’s entrance. “You can’t see round the back of an ordinary picture or work out how deep, thick, or threatening things are. And that’s why lightning catchers have also been using stereophotography since the late 1800s—to capture significant images in all three dimensions. Monumental storms, harebrained inventions, and important lightning catchers have all been cataloged in this way and stored at Perilous for future generations to study and admire,” Jeremius added. “Projectograms, like this one here, take things one step further by projecting the image.”

  For the next thirty minutes, Angus sat transfixed as picture after thrilling picture filled the kitchen. There were several projectograms of an icicle-laden Canadian Exploratorium with sloping roofs and impressive towers; of Jeremius in a blizzard, Jeremius with a polar bear, which looked so terrifyingly real Angus was certain he could see the beast’s rib cage heaving.

  He gazed at Jeremius with renewed awe. Broad and rugged looking, his new uncle seemed distinctly out of place indoors, and Angus could imagine him sitting far more happily under a tent on an iceberg, with some seals for company.

  “As you can see from this picture, the weather has been causing us quite a few problems just lately. It’s much colder than normal for this time of year; the storms are far more severe than we’d expect.”

  Jeremius was talking again; he’d already moved on to the next image. A large, angry snowstorm now occupied t
he entire kitchen, with flakes so thick and plentiful that the outline of the Canadian Exploratorium was nothing but a blur in the distance.

  Angus suddenly remembered that he’d seen something similar on the news a couple of nights before. Christchurch, in New Zealand, which was supposed to be enjoying the beginnings of balmy summer, had been plunged instead into a deep freeze. The weather forecasters had explained it with complicated graphs showing streams of cold air racing up from the Antarctic and had advised everyone to invest in extra knitted socks. Angus had been working his way through a scrumptious box of chocolate creams at the time and hadn’t paid much attention.

  “Severe icicle storms are the biggest problem at the moment,” Jeremius continued, frowning. “London, Washington, Sydney—they’ve all been hit in the last few days, and goodness knows where the next ones will strike. We haven’t seen anything like it in over a century, and it’s steadily getting worse.”

  “Is that why you’re here?” Angus asked, finally putting two and two together. “Because of the weather?”

  “That’s certainly one of the main reasons, yes,” Jeremius said. “Principal Dark-Angel has been calling in assistance from across the globe. The icicle storms are starting to cause real problems. And we’re getting ready to intervene if the situation deteriorates any further. It’s one thing for the Thames to freeze over, but if this carries on and the Egyptian pyramids end up covered in thick sheets of ice . . .”

  Uncle Max nodded in agreement. “Quite so. And you leave for Perilous soon?” he inquired, pouring more hot tea. “I have some interesting experiments planned for the pods, if you’d rather rest at the Windmill for a night or two first.”

  “Thanks for the offer.” Jeremius smiled. “But tempting as that sounds, I’m afraid Principal Dark-Angel is expecting me. I’ve already arranged to catch a lift with a friend back to Imbur. She’s picking me up here, as a matter of fact, at ten o’clock sharp.”

  Angus peered around the edge of the projectogram at the clock above the stove. It was already twenty minutes to ten. Jeremius had barely arrived, and he was now talking about leaving. Worse still, he was leaving for urgent and exciting lightning catcher business at Perilous.

  “What’s the other reason you’re here?” he asked gloomily, remembering that Jeremius had more than one.

  “A very good question. I wouldn’t normally travel to Perilous via Budleigh Otterstone, but on this occasion Principal Dark-Angel has asked me to kill two birds with one stone.”

  Angus suddenly felt the muscles in his jaw clench. Jeremius was now looking directly at him.

  “It seems your antics in the lightning vaults caused quite a stir, Angus. I have rarely heard the principal in such a temper. I believe she spent some time considering whether to send you to the Imbur marshes, to complete your training in a swamp.”

  Angus gulped, imagining the boggy ordeal.

  “After she mulled the situation over for several weeks, however, it seems that all has been forgiven,” Jeremius said, his face creased into a craggy smile. “I’ve been sent to personally escort you back to Perilous.”

  It took several seconds for the miraculous words to sink in. Then—

  “You’re kidding!” Angus leaped out of his chair, knocking over several cups in his excitement.

  Jeremius chuckled. “I’ve never been more serious in my life. The principal thinks you’ve been punished enough, and that it would be best for everyone if you continued your training back at the Exploratorium, where she can keep an eye on you. And for once, I happen to agree with her. Perilous is the only place we can hope to keep you out of mischief. In the meantime,” Jeremius continued, smiling at the shocked look on Angus’s face, “I suggest you start packing. We leave for Imbur in precisely twenty minutes.”

  “Twenty minutes? Brilliant!” Angus grinned. “Thanks! I mean . . . brilliant!” And he sprinted past Jeremius before his newly discovered uncle could change his mind.

  He shot up the stairs, punching the air with a loud whoop. He felt deliriously light and happy all of a sudden, as if the dark clouds that had been lingering over his head had just been destroyed by the cloud-busting rocket launcher. Finally he was going back to Perilous! He couldn’t wait to see Dougal and Indigo, to catch up on all the latest news, and to be closer to his kidnapped parents once again. Even the thought of bumping into Pixie and Percival Vellum (two of the most moronic trainees in the history of Perilous) couldn’t wipe the huge grin off his face.

  He burst into his room and quickly dragged a bag out from under his bed. It was already crammed with a good supply of socks and underwear, which he’d been keeping packed, just in case, along with a bright yellow poncho-like coat and some rubber boots. Angus grabbed a pile of sweaters, along with some extra gloves and scarves, from a drawer and shoved them into the bag. Then he stared around his room, heart still pounding with excitement, wondering what else to pack.

  Perched on his bedside table was an extremely unusual and brilliant book about the Isle of Imbur called Imburology: An A–Z of Fascinating Facts and Frippery, which Uncle Max had given him for Christmas. It contained a genuine lump of petrified earwax from one of the earliest lightning catchers, Eliza Tippins, as well as a yellowing toenail from Crowned Prince Rufus himself, a member of the Imbur royal family. The book was highly informative, if a bit disgusting at times. Angus was keen to show it to Dougal, a great appreciator of unusual books. He wrapped it carefully in a T-shirt and placed it in his bag.

  Angus had also received another rather strange present. It had appeared in his bedroom on Christmas morning, with no hint of who might have sent it or how it had found its way into his room. It definitely wasn’t from Uncle Max, who always left a gift tag with every present. And Angus didn’t have the faintest idea what it was.

  The mysterious object was a small, wooden six-sided cube. It was entirely covered with delicate, evenly spaced squares. Each square contained a single letter of the alphabet, a number, or a minuscule symbol that reminded Angus of ancient hieroglyphics. There were highly decorative snowflakes, half-moons, and double-ended lightning bolts, which looked like tooth-extraction tools when he turned them upside down. None of it made any sense.

  Annoyingly, the cube didn’t appear to do anything, either; it wouldn’t move, open, or come apart, even when Angus tried to force it. Nothing happened when he shook it, rolled it across the floor, or shouted at it. And for reasons he couldn’t even explain to himself, Angus hadn’t told anyone about the appearance of the anonymous present. He had the strangest feeling he wasn’t supposed to.

  He took it from under his pillow now, stuffed it into his overflowing bag, and, with one last glance around his room, dragged the whole thing down the spiral stairs. Still feeling giddy with excitement, he was just wondering if he had enough time to retrieve his carol-singing slippers from the living room when a large shadow fell across the entire Windmill.

  Angus froze. Beneath his feet, the floor began to vibrate gently. An odd noise, which sounded like a vacuum cleaner sucking up pineapples, was getting closer and closer. He’d been so busy packing he hadn’t even noticed it. But now it was clear that something big, with powerful, thrumming engines, was approaching the Windmill.

  Uncle Max strode into the hallway, where Angus stood frozen.

  “Ah, I believe your lift has just arrived, my dear nephew. Bring your bag. Jeremius is anxious to leave as quickly as possible. He’s waiting for us out on the balcony.”

  “The balcony?” Angus said, puzzled. “But, Uncle Max . . . what’s making that noise?” He grabbed his bag and dragged it back up the stairs after his rapidly disappearing uncle, feeling exceedingly confused.

  A wide wooden balcony ran all the way around the top floor of the Windmill and could be reached only by clambering out through one of the bedroom windows. It was often used by Uncle Max for conducting gravitational experiments with giant raindrops or snowflake chains. They had also made use of it, in the hot summer months, for midnight stargazing. B
ut Angus had never caught a lift from it before. Nor did any of this help explain the peculiar noise, which had now reached such an earsplitting volume that it was making his teeth rattle inside his head.

  “You’re just in time to see it arrive!” Jeremius shouted above the racket as Angus heaved his bag through a bedroom window a minute later, then scrambled out onto the balcony beside him.

  “See what arrive?”

  Jeremius pointed upward. Angus squinted toward the horizon, fingers stuffed in his ears for protection. For a moment he couldn’t see anything except a few clouds scudding across the dull, wintry sky above. One cloud in particular was much lower than all the rest and appeared to be slowing down as it approached the Windmill from the north. It was also traveling against the wind, Angus suddenly realized, as the rogue cloud came to an abrupt halt above their heads with a grinding of gears.

  “We’re going back to Perilous inside a storm cloud?” he yelled at the top of his voice, watching it hover.

  “Not exactly.” Jeremius grinned. “We’re hitching a lift with the dirigible weather station. Principal Dark-Angel wants all lightning catchers to return to Perilous as quickly as possible. And this is by far the easiest way.”

  Angus was just about to ask what a dirigible weather station was when the dense cloud parted and he caught a fleeting glimpse of a vast ship-shaped vessel cleverly concealed inside it, complete with billowing sails, tall masts, and an anchor. Several lightning catchers, strapped into hurricane suits, were trailing behind on thick lengths of knotted cord, bobbing about in the breeze like great party balloons.

  Angus gulped, feeling a sudden swoop of nerves. He’d never actually flown anywhere before, not even on a normal airplane, and now he was about to travel by cloud? Would he too be dragged along behind the weather station in a hurricane suit? There was no time to worry about any of it, however. He shouted a hurried “Good-bye!” to Uncle Max, and three minutes later he, Jeremius, and their luggage had already been hoisted up into the large vessel inside a wicker landing basket. And the weather station was on the move again.