by Anne Cameron
Dougal gulped loudly.
“And it’s not just happening here; it’s right across the globe. Places that should be sweltering in sunshine have rivers freezing over, and there’s no sign of it stopping yet. Principal Dark-Angel’s got a good idea of what’s causing it, of course.”
Angus tried hard not to look at Dougal or Indigo. It seemed quite likely that Jeremius had now showed the secret message from his dad to all the senior lightning catchers and that everyone knew that the icicle storms had nothing to do with rogue weather patterns or climate change. They were coming directly from Scabious Dankhart.
“But can’t the lightning catchers do anything to stop it?” Indigo asked.
“Principal Dark-Angel’s got an emergency invention being delivered from your uncle Max, Angus. It’s already on its way from the Windmill,” Gudgeon said, looking troubled. “There’re lightning catchers coming in to help from exploratoriums in Alaska, Greenland, Norway. They’re used to dealing with this type of weather, so they might have some different ideas. There’s a party from the Outer Hebrides arriving any minute now, in fact,” he added, checking his weather watch. “They won’t be happy if I keep them waiting about in this weather, either.”
And he sped away from the library without another word.
With extra numbers of lightning catchers now clogging up the stone tunnels and passageways, getting around the Exploratorium soon became a time-consuming exercise. Mealtimes, however, had never been so exciting. Tables were full to bursting with interesting new arrivals from Scotland, Switzerland, and Sweden, all arguing over complicated weather charts. A very hairy-looking team also turned up from the Canadian Exploratorium. Jeremius greeted his fellow lightning catchers loudly, before they set about comparing the lengths of their beards.
Progress with the Farew’s qube, on the other hand, was still painfully slow. They were now trying out long, random combinations of snowflakes, thunderclouds, and lightning bolts. But the qube showed no signs of opening yet. Angus had taken to rolling it across the floor whenever he was alone in the Pigsty, hoping that it might miraculously twist itself into the correct password.
“Any luck yet?” Indigo asked one evening as she came down the ladder from her room, her bag slung across her shoulders.
“Nothing.” Angus sighed, setting the qube to one side.
He watched as Indigo settled herself into a chair by the fire, then said, “Listen, Indigo, what exactly do you know about your uncle?”
He’d been tempted to ask her loads of times before, but Indigo was always so embarrassed by the mere mention of her uncle’s name that he tried not to bring up the subject unless strictly necessary. But now . . . Dougal was nowhere to be seen. The Pigsty was utterly free from eavesdroppers. There would be no better time to ask.
“I mean, Dougal’s told me all about the crocodiles in his moat and stuff,” he said quietly, “but hasn’t your mum ever told you anything personal about your uncle Scabious?”
Indigo hesitated for a moment, then nodded, her face instantly burning a brilliant, shining pink.
Angus felt his chest tighten.
“I don’t know much,” Indigo said, her voice a virtual whisper. “Mum hardly ever mentions him in front of me or Germ. But I’ve heard her talking to Dad.” Indigo swallowed. “Uncle Scabious is her older brother. He wasn’t always bad. She says he was a good brother when they were younger and had no interest in the weather then. He wanted to move away from Imbur when he was old enough and travel the world. He was going to take Mum with him.”
Angus thought back to the thuggish villain he’d come face-to-face with in the lightning vaults and found it impossible to imagine a different, kinder Dankhart.
“But then everything changed,” Indigo continued. “My grandparents died in some sort of accident, and Uncle Scabious inherited the castle. Mum doesn’t know what happened, but he was suddenly doing all sorts of dangerous experiments with the weather, just like all the Dankharts before him. He wanted my mum to help, but she wouldn’t—she just couldn’t—and that’s when she ran away.” Indigo swallowed hard. “I think that’s why she didn’t want me to train as a lightning catcher. She was worried that I might suddenly change, just like Uncle Scabious did, and start throwing storms around.”
Angus smiled. The idea was completely ridiculous. He’d never met anyone less likely to tamper with the weather than Indigo.
“I’m sorry, Angus.” Indigo started fiddling nervously with the straps of her bag. “I wish I knew something important, something that would help your mum and dad. Please promise you won’t tell Dougal,” she added hastily.
Angus nodded. “Yeah, okay, I promise.” He understood completely. Although Dougal trusted Indigo, he was still highly dubious about her Dankhart connections and had a hard time hiding his feelings on the subject. “And if you ever hear your mum talking about your uncle again . . .”
Indigo looked away from him guiltily, and Angus got the distinct impression that she already knew more than she’d just told him.
“What are you two talking about?” Dougal entered the Pigsty suddenly and put his bag carefully on the floor.
“The Farew’s qube,” Angus said quickly, before Dougal could notice the deep blush now spreading up both sides of Indigo’s neck. “And we’re still getting nowhere fast.”
“In that case, there’s something interesting I wanted to show you.”
Dougal extracted what looked like a small, glossy magazine from his bag and spread it across the floor in front of them both. Indigo snatched up her own bag before Dougal could move it out of the way, her face turning even pinker.
“What’s that?” Angus asked, glancing at the magazine.
“It’s called the Weekly Weathervane. I discovered it on our first day in the research department. It’s a private weekly news journal for the inhabitants of Perilous. It only reports on stuff that happens inside the Exploratorium.”
“Like what?” Angus asked, interested.
“Anything from the latest breakthroughs in the Lightnarium to what the kitchens prepared for dinner, and it’s absolutely brilliant! The first edition came out when Starling and Perilous came to the island, and it’s been going strong ever since.”
The pages were brightly colored and filled with photographs of icicle storms and a dramatic aerial view of Perilous shimmering with icicles. There were articles on lightning accelerators, the latest storms in Bermuda, and warnings about an acute rubber boot shortage in the supplies department. There was also a day-by-day summary of the week’s most memorable events.
“Anyone can pick up a copy of the Weathervane from the research department, but loads of people don’t bother, because they think it’s boring. I’ve been reading it every week, though,” Dougal admitted, looking faintly embarrassed. “And I found this in the latest edition.”
He turned to page five and thrust an article under Angus’s and Indigo’s noses.
Tucked beneath a large picture of a team of lightning catchers arriving from Iceland was an article written by someone called Catcher J. Willoughby with the headline THEFT OF HISTORIC ARCHAEOLOGICAL ARTIFACTS FROM LONDON MUSEUM.
Angus read the story quickly.
News has just reached us, via the London office, that exciting archaeological remains discovered at the site of one of the original lightning towers have been stolen in a serious robbery at the Museum of Ancient Archaeology. Thieves broke into the museum over the Christmas period, making off with a large number of valuable items, including several rare Victorian toilet seats and a pair of ancient Roman nose hair clippers. Mr. Edwin Larkspur, the archaeologist who first discovered the ruins, was badly shaken by the incident and is suffering from traumatic memory loss. He is presently unable to answer questions.
A full inventory of the stolen items has now been compiled by Mr. Larkspur’s fellow archaeologists. The list includes the ruins of the lightning tower. It is now feared that these important historical artifacts could be lost forever.
Principal Dark-Angel was unavailable for comment.
“Oh! Wasn’t there anything left of the lightning tower?” Indigo asked, disappointed.
Dougal shook his head. “Not according to the Weathervane. The thieves took everything.”
Angus searched through the rest of the magazine, hoping to find another article reporting that the ruins had since been recovered and locked away in a safe vault. After his exciting discussion at Feaver Street with Jeremius and Mr. Dewsnap, he’d been looking forward to seeing the artifacts with his own eyes.
“What’s the London office anyway?” Angus asked, suddenly imagining a huge Exploratorium hidden under Hyde Park.
“Dad’s mentioned something about it once or twice.” Dougal shrugged. “But I think it’s just a minor observation station. They’ve probably got two old lightning catchers sitting in a garden shed somewhere, making notes on elephant-shaped clouds.”
The following Monday morning Angus made his way up to the kitchens for breakfast, only to find Dougal, Indigo, and the rest of the first-year lightning cubs waiting together in a nervous huddle next to the serving tables. His spirits sank.
He’d just spent the worst weekend of his life in the experimental division, under the watchful eye of Catcher Sparks, helping to flush out the storm drains—which had smelled so badly of rotting leaves and mildew that he’d only just gotten his appetite back. It had also left very little time for him to help Dougal and Indigo with the Farew’s qube. He was definitely not in the mood for any more surprises.
“What’s going on?” he asked, grabbing a slice of toast and standing between Dougal and Jonathon Hake at the back of the group.
There was an anxious buzz of conversation in the air. Georgina Fox and Violet Quinn were whispering to each other. Nigel Ridgely was hastily doing up the laces on his snow boots. Dougal had turned the color of porridge. But before he could explain anything to Angus, a familiar figure came striding toward them. Dressed in a sturdy leather jerkin that fell to his knees, with a fur hat and snow boots, Gudgeon looked as if he were dressed for a serious bout of mountain lion wrestling.
“Quiet, you lot!” he barked, glaring around at them all. A deadly hush fell across the kitchens, and Angus noticed that even those lightning catchers who were enjoying a late breakfast had stopped to listen.
“Because of the freezing weather we’ve been having this winter, Principal Dark-Angel has decided that all trainees should be taught the basics of cold-weather survival,” Gudgeon announced. “If you find yourself stranded in Siberia or even stuck out in Stargazer Wood on this island, you will need to know how to cook some hot food, build a shelter, and stop your toes from turning into icicles.”
“Please tell me we’re not camping out in the weather tunnel,” Dougal whispered, looking thoroughly alarmed at the prospect.
“Survival lessons take place in the Rotundra,” Gudgeon continued, staring directly at a terrified Dougal, “which is a permanent cold-weather room that sits separate from the rest of Perilous and is impossible to find on your own. So I’ll be taking you there myself. But we’re not going anywhere until you lot have all signed a new declaration.”
A nervous murmur swept through the gathered lightning cubs as Gudgeon handed out sheets of paper. Angus took his own declaration with trepidation. He’d already promised never to catch lightning bolts or giant hailstones, in a declaration he signed when he first arrived at Perilous. And now . . . His stomach did several unpleasant somersaults. The new declaration was short, terrifying, and to the point. It said:
I, the undersigned, solemnly swear that I will never venture out into an icicle storm, and I understand that doing so may result in my own unfortunate death. I also promise not to stand on any iced-over ponds, lakes, or rivers, even if they look solid; not to stand directly under any large icicles; or to perform any other brainless act that could result in a severe blow to the head, frozen vital organs, or death. Finally, I swear on my weather watch NEVER to indulge in the reckless sport of iceberg hopping without the strict supervision of a fully qualified lightning catcher.
“Iceberg hopping!” Dougal hissed, holding his own declaration at arm’s length, as if it might transport him to a giant chunk of ice without warning. “Have they completely lost their marbles? I’m not signing this.”
Indigo had already handed her declaration back to Gudgeon with a keen, excited look on her face. But she was the only one brave enough to do so.
“Anyone who is too afraid to sign the declaration will be joining Catcher Greasley in the cloud gardens every night for the next week, digging up twilight choking weed,” Gudgeon warned, folding his arms and glaring down at them sternly.
There was a sudden flurry of activity as Millicent Nichols, Jonathon Hake, and Pixie Vellum all thrust their declarations at Gudgeon. Angus signed his quickly, before he could change his mind or lose his nerve. Dougal hesitated for a second longer, then wrote his name with a quivering pen.
“Right, come with me, and stick close together! I don’t want anyone getting lost on the way.” Gudgeon marched them swiftly out of the kitchens and straight into one of the many stone tunnels and passageways that crisscrossed under Perilous like the rippling veins of a large stone heart. He led them around a sharp bend and into an unfamiliar passageway beyond. Dry and warm, with only a few flickering fissures to light the way, the tunnel was completely deserted, and it headed downward at a very steep angle.
“We’ve never been down here before,” Dougal whispered, staring at the rough stone walls nervously. “You don’t reckon this Rotundra place is underground, do you?”
“I dunno.” But Angus was starting to fear the worst. Gudgeon only ever appeared for their most dangerous lessons, the ones where they ended up in the Lightnarium and or got flattened by a fognado. He felt his pulse begin to race. What exactly were they about to find in the mysterious-sounding Rotundra? Why had no one ever mentioned it before? And why could it be reached only by descending into the mysterious rocky depths beneath Perilous?
He glanced quickly to the left, where a gaping black hole marked the entrance to yet another unfamiliar tunnel. He wondered what lay at the other end of it . . . and then instantly wished he hadn’t.
“I don’t like this,” Dougal whimpered beside him. “I mean, I really, really don’t like this.”
Ten minutes later they finally reached a narrow door, beyond which stood a brightly lit room. Gudgeon ushered them inside, and a burst of noisy chatter quickly broke out.
“Right, everyone needs to get into a set of cold-weather survival gear before we go any farther,” Gudgeon barked over the rumpus. He pointed to a long rack of bulky coats along the wall. “Conditions inside the Rotundra resemble those in the polar regions, which means unless any of you are related to snow foxes, you’ll need protection from icy winds and treacherous blizzard conditions.”
Within seconds Angus was sweltering inside his new floor-length coat. His feet were roasting in his thick boots. Even his weather watch, which now had a furry cap to protect it, was wilting under the sweltering heat.
“It’s like being swallowed by a giant hamster,” Dougal complained from beneath the thick layers.
Indigo appeared beside them, only her eyes visible under her hood.
A minute later they followed Gudgeon out of the changing rooms and down a long, low passageway. The temperature grew colder with every step until, at the end, they reached a round, solid-steel safety door glittering with tiny icicles. It was exactly like the one that led into the Lightnarium. Angus swallowed hard.
“Right, stick close to me and don’t go wandering off,” Gudgeon said over his shoulder. “I don’t want any of you accidentally falling off an iceberg.”
With a twist and a tug, he pulled the heavy door open. An icy blast of air hit Angus in the face, instantly making his eyes water. After the gloomy tunnels, the Rotundra was also painfully bright, and it took several seconds for his eyes to adjust to the new light levels.
“Wow!
” Angus gasped. Indigo stood beside him, and they both stared at the incredible sight.
“Isn’t it amazing?” she said, her eyes sparkling with excitement.
The Rotundra reminded Angus of a giant round greenhouse, with thick glass walls and unbelievable views across the island. It clung to a wide, rocky shelf set hundreds of feet below the main Exploratorium, which they could now see towering over them through the peaked glass roof above. And it was utterly spectacular.
Inside, everything was chilled to hypothermia-inducing temperatures. The hilly ground was covered in frozen sheets of hard snow and ice. The wind whistled over a range of rocky outcrops and jagged pinnacles that pushed up through the snow like a range of mini-mountains. In the distance a cluster of bright orange tents had been arranged around a smoldering campfire. It was literally one of the coolest rooms Angus had ever seen at Perilous.
He glanced at his weather watch, which was in an odd state of turmoil, showing great clouds and dense snowfalls one second and icicle storms the next. Before Angus could compare watches with Indigo, however, Gudgeon was on the move again, leading them straight out into the middle of the frozen wasteland, where a tall figure stood waiting for them. It wasn’t until they had gathered around him that Angus realized who it was.
“My name is Jeremius McFangus, and I work at the Canadian Exploratorium for Extremely Chilly Weather,” Jeremius said, briefly catching Angus’s eye and smiling.
Angus smiled back. It was the first time he’d seen his uncle properly since the day they’d returned to Perilous. He’d forgotten just how rugged Jeremius was; he looked completely at home in the harsh, freezing surroundings. It was good to see him again. Angus sighed, suddenly wishing he could confide in Jeremius about the Farew’s qube and the state of his soggy bedroom. But how could he, when Jeremius had failed to confide in him about secret messages from the dungeons of Castle Dankhart?
