by Anne Cameron
“Because he has always descended upon us at an unearthly hour of the night, long after you have gone up to your bed.”
“It’s true, I’m afraid. I have made more than a few midnight trips to Feaver Street,” Jeremius said, shaking a shocked-looking Dougal by the hand.
Angus stared at his uncle in surprise, wondering if there had also been mysterious midnight visits to the Windmill. And if so, why hadn’t anyone told him before now?
“Jeremius also has a remarkable talent for trouble,” Mr. Dewsnap continued. “A talent that I am beginning to believe runs through the entire McFangus family.” He stared over his glasses at Angus. “Dougal hasn’t stopped talking about your daring adventures in the weather tunnel since he came home for Christmas.”
“Dad!” Dougal turned pink with embarrassment. “I’ve only mentioned it once or twice.”
“To me, perhaps, but I distinctly recall you telling the mailman and Mrs. Stobbs. Oh, you didn’t speak of the actual lightning vaults, of course,” Mr. Dewsnap said quickly, before Dougal could interrupt again. “But the poor fellow who came to deliver the Christmas turkey received a lengthy blow-by-blow account.”
“Yeah, well . . .” Dougal threw himself into a kitchen chair, scowling. “It serves him right for asking, then, doesn’t it?”
“Ah, but it doesn’t stop there.” Angus got the feeling that Mr. Dewsnap was now teasing Dougal for the fun of it. “Principal Dark-Angel has already written to me twice since the beginning of the holidays, complaining about your ‘talent for troublemaking.’”
“But . . . we didn’t go looking for trouble on purpose, Mr. Dewsnap,” Angus said, coming to Dougal’s defense. “It just sort of found us, and then we couldn’t really ignore it.”
“Indeed?” Mr. Dewsnap smiled. “Spoken like a true friend, and a true McFangus. But then I would expect nothing less.”
“Dewsnaps and McFanguses have been firm friends and allies for centuries now,” Jeremius explained from the corner of the kitchen, where he had already kicked off his boots and was toasting his socks in front of a glowing fire. “It appears to be something of a tradition.”
“Hang on a minute,” Dougal said, sounding amazed. “So you’re saying that me and Angus were always destined to become friends or something?”
“Let’s just say that there was a distinct possibility of its happening, yes. Ever since the great Deciduous Dewsnap and Marmaduke McFangus joined forces on a highly dangerous expedition to the celebrated fog tunnels of Finland, we have discovered that we enjoy each other’s company immensely.”
“One of our ancestors was called Deciduous?” Dougal smirked.
“Indeed. A fine and noble lightning catcher and one of the most illustrious Dewsnaps in the history of this island.”
“With a name like that, he’d have to be.” Dougal caught Angus’s eye, and they both looked away from each other swiftly.
But Angus was glad that his family and Dougal’s family had had the tremendously good sense to become friends centuries ago. He was positive that only good things could come from such a happy connection.
“Now, by a stroke of exceedingly good fortune, you have arrived just in time for dinner,” Mr. Dewsnap said.
Thanks to the rapid nature of their departure from the Windmill and their hair-raising ride in the weather station, it had been many hours since Angus had even thought about food. But he now realized that his stomach was spectacularly empty. Mr. Dewsnap quickly laid two extra places at the table, and ten minutes later Angus was tucking into hot chicken pie and roast potatoes. And while Jeremius chatted with Dougal’s dad at one end of the table about the Canadian Exploratorium, Angus filled Dougal in on everything that had happened.
For the next fifteen minutes he thoroughly enjoyed describing every detail of his uncle’s dramatic arrival, the projectograms in the kitchen, and their adventures in the dirigible weather station.
“Wow!” Dougal gasped as Angus tried to put into words what cloud sickness felt like. “And I can’t believe your dad’s got a brother! Hey, just think of all the birthday presents he owes you!”
Angus glanced down the table, wondering if Jeremius was really the kind of uncle who sent presents. And whether he might wake up on his twelfth birthday with a delivery of caribou from Canada?
“So what’s been happening here while I’ve been away, anyway?” Angus asked. He helped himself to another slice of chicken pie, just as eager to hear Dougal’s news.
Dougal shrugged. “You haven’t missed much. It’s been a quiet Christmas. . . . Mind you, there was a bit of an explosion in the experimental division just after you left,” he said matter-of-factly. Explosions were a common occurrence in the hazardous department. “Somebody fired up the cloud-busting rocket launcher by mistake, and it smashed into a pile of emergency weather rockets. And then there was the fog field trip,” he added, cringing. “A whole week stuck in a bog with Pixie Vellum—it was the worst seven days of my life.”
Angus could picture every last detail of the trip as Dougal described swarms of irritating swamp flies, expeditions through thick no-way-out fogs, and the brilliant moment when Indigo accidentally filled Percival Vellum’s rubber boots with worms.
He couldn’t wait to see Indigo and Perilous again.
“Er, there’s something else you should probably know,” Dougal said, suddenly looking uncomfortable. “Just after you left, a rumor started going around that you’d come down with a nasty bout of crumble fungus and that Dark-Angel had sent you straight home to stop it from spreading.”
“What?” Angus exclaimed, trying not to choke on his dinner. “That’s just brilliant. Now the whole Exploratorium thinks I’m infected. Why didn’t Dark-Angel say something?”
“Because I reckon she was the one who started the rumor in the first place,” Dougal said. “She couldn’t tell everyone about the lightning vaults and the real reason she’d sent you home, could she? And she didn’t want everyone asking awkward questions. She also told Catcher Sparks that your real name is Angus McFangus.”
Angus stared at Dougal, feeling doubly stunned. For the entire previous term, Principal Dark-Angel had forced him to use the false name of Angus Doomsbury, to prevent Dankhart from discovering his true identity. That also meant that nobody else at Perilous, except for a few lightning catchers, knew he was the son of Alabone and Evangeline McFangus. But now . . .
“Clifford Fugg was standing outside Dark-Angel’s office,” Dougal said, explaining. “He’d just chucked a cold rice pudding at Theodore Twill’s head, and he overheard the whole conversation. Then he told everyone else, naturally.”
“So the whole Exploratorium knows who I really am?”
Dougal nodded solemnly.
“And does—does everyone know what’s happened to my mum and dad?”
“Definitely not. Dark-Angel’s keeping that one close to her chest. She’s been telling anyone who asks that they’re on a top secret assignment in Nova Scotia, and that’s why she made you use a different name. She didn’t want everyone bothering you about it, you know, asking for details and stuff.”
“The Vellum twins don’t know I’m a storm prophet, do they?” Angus asked, the horrible thought suddenly occurring to him.
But Dougal shook his head. “They haven’t got a clue. They definitely would have said something by now if they’d caught a whiff of that.”
An hour later, after three large helpings of chocolate cake, Angus was finally starting to feel warm and dry once again. A comforting fire glowed in the grate as the snow and ice storm raged outside. It was also very enjoyable indeed just listening to Jeremius and Mr. Dewsnap catch up on all the news from Perilous.
“You may be interested to hear that Amelia Sparks and her team in the experimental division have begun testing a controversial thunder-muffling device, which I’m sure will cause endless trouble,” Mr. Dewsnap said, handing around cups of tea. “A new librarian, Miss Organza Vulpine, has now been appointed, personally vouched for by Mi
ss DeWinkle. And you’ve been following the story of Edwin Larkspur, of course.” He chucked a folded newspaper across the table at Jeremius, who took a large gulp of tea before studying an article on the front page.
“Who’s Edwin Larkspur?” Angus asked, trying to read it upside down.
“He’s an archaeologist who has unwittingly stumbled upon the remains of one of the original lightning towers, in London,” Jeremius explained. “It happened a couple of weeks ago now.”
“You mean he’s found one of the actual towers, from 1666?” Angus said. And he thought of the picture he’d seen in Principal Dark-Angel’s office the day he’d first arrived at Perilous. It had shown a London of olden times, with huge, imposing, pyramid-shaped lightning towers scattered across the city. They’d been built by the earliest lightning catchers, who had then inadvertently caused the Great Fire of London when one of the towers had been repeatedly struck by lightning. As far as the rest of the world was concerned, the fire had been started by an unfortunate baker in Pudding Lane, and before the truth could emerge, the remaining lightning catchers had sought refuge on the Isle of Imbur, where they’d built the Exploratorium.
“Why didn’t you show me all this stuff about archaeological remains?” Dougal folded his arms, looking annoyed.
“Because you have been far too busy basking in the glory of your own adventures.” Mr. Dewsnap took the newspaper from Jeremius and spread it across the kitchen table so Angus and Dougal could see a large photo of Edwin Larkspur. He was holding up a twisted lump of metal that looked like a melted bicycle frame.
“But haven’t any of the lightning catchers ever gone looking for the ruins themselves?” Angus asked, fascinated.
“Oh, yes, on many, many occasions,” Mr. Dewsnap said, adjusting his glasses. “But nothing has ever been found until now. Although I do recall reading about a particularly eventful dig, in 1873, that accidentally uncovered an ancient collection of chamber pots at the bottom of an old sewer. It caused a terrible stink at the time.”
Angus grinned at Dougal.
“For many years now it has been widely believed that the fire destroyed every last scrap of evidence that the towers ever existed,” Mr. Dewsnap said, “which is what makes this discovery even more extraordinary, of course. It could give us some valuable information about the very first lightning catchers.”
“Principal Dark-Angel is arranging to have the relics brought back to Imbur?” Jeremius sipped his tea thoughtfully.
“Naturally.” Mr. Dewsnap nodded. “She cannot take any chances. If Larkspur should realize the true significance of his discovery, if word should ever get out that the twisted lumps of metal were once lightning towers . . .”
Angus understood instantly. It wouldn’t take anyone very long to trace the whole story back to Imbur, and then the lightning catchers would be discovered. It would be the story of the century. And it would ruin everything that Perilous had secretly achieved over the last three hundred and fifty years.
It was eleven by the time Mr. Dewsnap finally sent Dougal and Angus up the stairs to bed.
“This is my room.” Dougal hovered anxiously as Angus stepped into a small, cozy room at the top of the house. “I was sitting up here reading when I heard you crash-land on the roof. I thought there’d been an avalanche or something.”
A fire crackled merrily in the grate, and several pictures of Stonehenge were scattered about the walls. Dougal was desperate to visit the ancient site one day. A small Christmas tree sat in the corner, twinkling with baubles.
Angus spent several minutes admiring Dougal’s favorite books.
“Hey, speaking of books, I’ve got something interesting to show you.” He rummaged through his bag and pulled out the tome on Imburology that Uncle Max had given him for Christmas.
“Whoa! This is amazing.” Dougal traced the fancy scrollwork on the front cover with his fingers.
“It’s got loads of brilliant stuff about famous Imburcillians inside,” Angus said, “and some really horrible yeti hair samples.”
“Honestly?” Dougal gazed longingly at the book. “Can I borrow it for a bit? I promise I’ll look after it.”
Angus shrugged. “Yeah, okay. Just don’t stick your nose anywhere near the swamp-water sniff strips on page fifteen,” he warned. “It’ll put you off food for days.”
Dougal showed him into the spare room next door a few minutes later. It was warm and friendly, with a stack of extra blankets piled at the foot of the bed. Angus climbed under his covers wearily, still thinking about Edwin Larkspur and his amazing lightning tower discovery, and fell asleep before his head hit the pillow.
He was awakened early the following morning by the sound of Jeremius in the bathroom down the hallway, singing a loud, cheerful song about a lonesome polar bear. Angus jumped out of bed and got dressed, eager to see Little Frog’s Bottom in the daylight before their return to Perilous.
Breakfast was a chaotic affair, with Dougal dashing up and down the stairs every five minutes to pack something he’d forgotten. Jeremius then spread the entire contents of his leather satchel across the kitchen table, in order to show Mr. Dewsnap some rare samples of fossilized hailstones that he’d picked up in Siberia. And he accidentally smashed a teapot in the process.
It was only an hour later, after a prolonged hunt for Dougal’s spare glasses, which eventually turned up in the pocket of the coat he was wearing, that Dougal and Angus said their good-byes to Mr. Dewsnap. And then they waited for Jeremius outside the snowy front door.
It was obvious in the daylight that Dougal’s house sat on the crest of a hill. The road sloped away from it sharply, offering a spectacular view across the crooked rooftops of Little Frog’s Bottom. It was the first time Angus had ever seen the town from this vantage point.
“Little Frog’s Bottom is shaped like a spiral,” Dougal explained, pointing out the deep swirl of frosted streets beneath them, “so it takes ages to get into the center of town. There’re loads of shortcuts and alleyways, if you know where to find them. But Dad doesn’t bother going into town much; he says he can get everything he needs right here.” Dougal indicated the row of shops directly across the road.
There was a secondhand bookshop, which, according to a painted sign in the window, had the largest collection of miniature books in the world. A few doors down, a bakery had an enticing display of giant sugared Imbur buns. An inn called the Frog and Fly Catcher was offering special winter broth and toasted bread rolls for three silver starlings. And a sign swinging above the door of the dusty-looking shop next to it simply said FINE BONE MERCHANTS. Wooden shutters had been drawn across the windows from the inside, giving it a mysterious and slightly creepy air.
“Nobody’s ever opened a bone merchant’s in Budleigh Otterstone.” Angus grinned, thinking of the normal street where Uncle Max lived. He quickly decided that he preferred the shops in Little Frog’s Bottom.
“The same people own an even creepier bone merchant’s in town,” Dougal said, shivering. “Dad won’t let me in there, though. He says it’s not suitable for lightning cubs, whatever that means. Hey, come and stay for a bit when it gets warmer. We’ll sneak out of the house before Dad’s awake and I’ll give you a proper tour of the town,” he promised.
“Brilliant! Thanks, yeah, I will.” Angus grinned again, already looking forward to it.
It was several minutes later when he suddenly realized he’d left his gloves on the kitchen table and let himself back in through the front door to collect them.
“And find out what’s taking Jeremius so long, will you?” Dougal called after him. “It’s freezing out here.”
After the bright snowiness of the street outside, the hallway seemed extra dark. Jeremius and Mr. Dewsnap were still talking in the kitchen. Their voices sounded strangely hushed, Angus thought as he walked toward them. Almost as if they didn’t want to be heard.
“. . . Dark-Angel’s convinced the icicle storms are no accident. They’re far too random to follow any no
rmal weather pattern, turning up in Africa one day and Greenland the next.”
Angus stopped dead in the middle of the hall. Jeremius hadn’t mentioned anything about deliberate storms back at the Windmill. He hovered, wondering if he should creep back outside and pretend he hadn’t heard a thing, or give in to his curiosity and eavesdrop guiltily on their conversation.
“Icicles usually take time to form,” Jeremius explained. “Meltwater drips and then refreezes slowly, drop by drop, into a solid stalactite of ice. They are not supposed to fall from the sky like rain. We’ve had reports from the Sahara and Tuvalu, places where ice and snow have rarely, if ever, been seen before. They now have foot-long daggers of ice pelting the ground, causing all sorts of injuries. We’re lucky no one has been killed yet, but if this continues, it’s only a matter of time. Dark-Angel is calling in every available lightning catcher to deal with any rogue storms. But so far there’s been very little we can do to stop them from occurring.”
“And Delphinia is certain they’re being set off deliberately?” Mr. Dewsnap asked, keeping his voice low.
“What other explanation could there be? We’ve been monitoring the situation closely at the Canadian Exploratorium, of course, but then, several days ago, I received an urgent message that confirmed our worst fears. It was sent straight from the dungeons of Castle Dankhart.”
There was a sharp intake of breath from Mr. Dewsnap. “But, my dear fellow, you cannot possibly mean . . . it could not have come from . . .”
“The message came from my brother, Alabone,” Jeremius said.
Angus felt a sharp stab inside his chest. A message from his dad! It was the first time anything had been heard from either one of his parents since their kidnapping. Desperate for any information, he crept closer to the door, wondering why Jeremius hadn’t mentioned this startling news to him or Uncle Max.
“The note was smuggled out in a hurry, it is brief, it says nothing about the state of their health or well-being, but Alabone’s handwriting looks firm and strong.”
