by Anne Cameron
Rogwood knocked on the door, and a few seconds later another lightning catcher appeared in tartan pajamas, with a matching bathrobe and slippers.
“My apologies for intruding upon you at such an early hour, Rufus,” Rogwood said. “Please allow me to introduce Angus McFangus. Angus, this is Catcher Coriolis.”
Angus did his best to smile, but his face was already frozen with cold.
“I am showing Angus some of his storm prophet history, and I thought we might take a quick look in the crypt if you have no objections.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to keep it short,” Catcher Coriolis said, glancing at his watch. “Some of the older tombs are riddled with crypt fungus and are beginning to crumble in the damp conditions, and I have someone coming shortly to inspect the damage.”
“Then we will waste no more of your time.”
Without another word Rogwood turned on his heel and led Angus into the very depths of the crypt, only stopping when they reached a long row of impressive tombs. Each one was the size of a small shed and had been decorated with intricate carvings of Perilous, thunderstorms, hailstones, and lightning towers.
“It was decided long ago by the earliest lightning catchers that Perilous should provide a final resting place for those who wished to remain within the walls of this magnificent Exploratorium,” Rogwood explained. “Many had themselves mummified in the early years, of course, as was the fashion of the time.”
“Mummified?” Angus said, startled. He thought back to the bone merchant’s in Little Frog’s Bottom, and the long hook that Creepy Crevice had drawn from his pocket, and shivered.
“This area of the crypt has been reserved for the most senior and important lightning catchers, such as Eliza Tippins or Hortence Heliotrope, the famous lightning catcher who first discovered the existence of double-ended lightning bolts, and, of course, for Philip Starling and Edgar Perilous.”
Rogwood pointed to a matching pair of massive stone confections. Two marble lightning bolts guarded each entrance. Angus edged closer, feeling equally fascinated and revolted by the thought of what lay inside.
“And now we must go in search of the storm prophets,” Rogwood said, turning briskly and disappearing into the gloom again.
“The storm prophets were buried here, in the crypt?” Angus asked.
Rogwood smiled kindly at the shocked look on his face. “Principal Dark-Angel thought you should see the coffins for yourself, Angus. She wants you to understand as much about your own history as possible, and this is an important part.”
He led them straight over to a spectacular collection of coffins. Angus stared, his jaw dropping in wonder. The tombs were nothing like the cold stone monuments that the other lightning catchers were buried in. Made from smooth, ancient-looking wood, they were shaped like fire dragons, with powerful wings extended, talons clawing at the sky, bodies rippling with long streaks of fearsome flame. Each scale had been decorated with iridescent blues, greens, reds, and gleaming gold. Each dragon was different from the next in size, shape, color, and expression. It was the presence of these tombs, he realized, that had drawn him toward the trapdoor.
“According to written accounts from the age of the early lightning catchers, the only time a fire dragon can ever be seen by another living soul is when a storm prophet dies,” Rogwood announced, leaving Angus so startled he almost tripped over a stone griffin. “It has been reported that the fiery creature blazes in the air above the storm prophet at the precise moment of his or her death, shedding its scales as golden droplets of light, which then fall onto the body and harden around it like armor or a toughened shroud.” In the spooky gloom of the crypt, it was easy to imagine the dazzling display.
“As you can see, each of the storm prophet tombs was then carved in the likeness of his or her own unique fire dragon, and the shrouded body placed inside. A fitting final resting place for such magnificence, I think you will agree.”
“But, sir,” Angus said, “when you first told me about the storm prophets, you said the fire dragon was just a warning of dangerous weather.”
Rogwood nodded. “I did indeed.”
“So how can it suddenly be visible to everyone else when a storm prophet dies? I mean, how can a fire dragon’s scales turn into armor if they’re not even real?”
“I’m afraid there are many things about the storm prophets that we are yet to understand,” Rogwood said. “One possible theory, however, is that at the end of a storm prophet’s life, his or her fire dragon somehow transcends its own ethereal boundaries and joins with the body of its storm prophet in the physical world.”
Angus stared at the lightning catcher, feeling utterly overwhelmed. The strange knot in his chest tightened.
“Naturally, such powerful stories about dragon scales have given rise to many myths and legends,” a different voice said.
Angus spun around. Catcher Coriolis had joined them. He was now fully dressed.
“Dragon scale pendants and amulets have made regularly appearances in the markets of Little Frog’s Bottom,” he continued with obvious disdain, “allegedly stolen from the body of a storm prophet before it was entombed, supposedly able to boost brainpower, cure dim-wittedness, scurvy, bunions, and pimples. These are nothing more than common lizard scales, however, dipped in a golden tincture and with no greater power than a painted fingernail.”
Angus blinked at the lightning catcher.
“One tomb you may find particularly interesting, Angus, is that of the great Moray McFangus.” Rogwood pointed to one of the largest dragons of all. “As you already know, Moray McFangus fled from the Great Fire in 1666 and came to Imbur with Starling and Perilous,” he said, watching Angus closely. “It is from him that you appear to have inherited your own storm prophet skills.”
Angus rocked back on his heels. He’d somehow forgotten that the tomb of his own ancestor would be among those of the other storm prophets. It was also the first time anyone had said his full name out loud in Angus’s hearing.
The fire dragon tomb was impressively fierce with shimmering gold and red flames, which glowed like hot embers even in the gloom of the crypt. Angus hesitated for a second, then reached out and traced the line of its wing with his fingers, almost expecting to feel a scorching heat.
“But, sir, this looks exactly like my fire dragon, only bigger,” he said.
Rogwood exchanged surprised glances with Catcher Coriolis.
“There is another theory, Angus, that the features and appearance of a fire dragon can be passed down from one generation to the next, much the way the color of your hair and the shape of your ears have been inherited from your own parents.”
Angus, awestruck, stared at the tomb again. He couldn’t wait to tell Dougal and Indigo about everything he’d seen in the Inner Sanctum, although he wasn’t sure they’d believe a word of it.
“Does my dad know about Moray McFangus?” he asked.
Rogwood nodded. “Although I believe he has never visited the actual tomb.”
“The entrance to the crypt is usually locked at all times,” Catcher Coriolis said, looking determined to keep it that way. “Visits to the tombs are strictly forbidden without express permission from Principal Dark-Angel.” He glanced at his watch pointedly.
“Ah, yes, that is quite enough for one morning,” Rogwood said, checking his own watch. “Angus, we must return to the kitchens before you are missed by your fellow lightning cubs and leave Catcher Coriolis to his duties. Thank you for your time and expert knowledge, Rufus.”
The lightning catcher returned to his own tomb hurriedly and closed the door. Seconds later, Angus could hear sounds of a kettle’s being boiled inside. Rogwood led the way back through the grand mausoleums. Angus tried to read some of the names and inscriptions as they swept past. But the most unusual tomb of all was set well apart from the others. With no marbled lightning bolts, dates, or names it was strikingly simple and mysterious.
It was only when Angus turned his attention bac
k to the stairs they were now climbing that he saw a figure descending toward them. He recognized the man immediately and felt his stomach lurch. It was his least favorite lightning catcher in the whole of Perilous—Valentine Vellum, Pixie and Percival’s dad. Over the course of the previous term, Angus, Dougal, and Indigo had developed a growing suspicion that Vellum was in cahoots with Scabious Dankhart, that he had helped Swarfe execute his plan to revive the dormant lightning heart and kidnap Angus. As they had no proof that Vellum was a devious traitor, however, they hadn’t shared their inklings with anyone else . . . yet.
“Aramanthus, I see you have drawn the short straw,” Vellum said, looking down his nose at Angus as they stopped beside each other on the stairs. “Delphinia informs me that the McFangus boy is to learn more about the storm prophets. Personally, I’m not convinced it’s worth the effort. He has shown remarkably little promise so far. I think you may be in for a very disappointing time.”
“On the contrary, Valentine, I believe Angus has a vast deal of potential as a lightning cub and a storm prophet.”
A muscle twitched in Vellum’s forehead as he shot a scornful glance at Angus. “Then I’m afraid we shall have to agree to differ on the subject.”
“As we have done so many times before, Valentine,” Rogwood said, smiling.
“If you will excuse me,” Vellum said, briskly. “Catcher Coriolis is expecting us.”
He stepped to one side, and Angus froze. Lurking on the stairs behind Vellum was Creepy Crevice, the bone merchant. Crevice nodded briefly at Rogwood as they passed each other. He glared at Angus, a faint sneer curling the corners of his lips. It was clear that he had not forgotten the incident in his shop in Little Frog’s Bottom.
“What’s Mr. Crevice doing down in the Perilous crypt, sir?” Angus asked as soon as he and Rogwood emerged into the empty room at the top of the stairs.
“As you have just seen for yourself, Angus, some of the older tombs containing mummified remains are beginning to crumble and need some attention before they deteriorate any further. Mr. Crevice is an expert in that area. I understand from Catcher Coriolis that there is nobody else on the island qualified to perform such work. Am I correct in assuming that you and Mr. Crevice may have crossed paths before?”
“Er, me and Dougal sort of wandered into his shop by accident,” Angus said, trying to make it sound like an honest mistake.
“Indeed?” A hint of a smile crossed Rogwood’s lips. “Do not trouble yourself about Mr. Crevice. He is here for the tombs only. His presence will not interfere with our work.”
But the sudden appearance of the bone merchant made Angus feel instantly uneasy. Had Creepy Crevice been sworn to secrecy before entering the Inner Sanctum? Would he guess why Angus had been visiting the crypt? Would he soon discover that Angus had a secret he did not want the rest of Perilous to discover? Or would Valentine Vellum simply tell him everything?
8
“COMING SOON!”
That evening in the Pigsty, Angus told Dougal and Indigo everything he could remember about his first memorable trip into the Inner Sanctum. Dougal hid behind a cushion as Angus described the teeth marks in Catcher Donall’s leather jerkin.
“M-maybe they’ve got some sort of extra-vicious fog phantom in there,” he suggested, gulping. “But what’s it doing in the Inner Sanctum? I mean, if the hinges on that door really are rusty and it somehow escaped into the Exploratorium . . .”
Pencils, papers, and library books lay abandoned at Dougal’s feet. He’d been planning to work on his Tri-Hard competition entry that evening but had dropped everything as soon as Angus started talking.
Indigo chewed her lip, looking extremely worried, as he told them what Catcher Roxbee had said about the most recent storm sample from Castle Dankhart and the strange particles it contained.
“And she actually said the deadly seven could be mixing with the other types of weather?” Indigo asked.
“Yeah, Rogwood sounded pretty concerned about it, too. We could end up with something really weird, like scarlet ice-diamond storms.”
“Or icicle lightning,” Indigo said.
“Not to mention frozen thunderbolts,” Dougal said, shuddering at the thought.
When Angus described what he’d found down in the Perilous crypt, however, both his friends listened in stunned silence.
“And then Rogwood showed me the tomb of Moray McFangus,” he said, finally finishing his tale. “Rogwood thinks that’s who I get the storm prophet stuff from.”
“Wow!” Dougal gasped, sounding seriously impressed. “I wish some of my ancestors were that cool. All we’ve got in our family are boring historians and peasants.”
“At least none of them have ever been notorious weather villains,” Indigo pointed out.
“Oh, yeah, sorry, I forgot,” Dougal said sheepishly. “But those dragon tombs sound amazing!”
Angus grinned, grateful that neither Dougal nor Indigo had been put off by the startling news that one day his fire dragon would cover his entire body in golden scales, like a suit of extra-tough armor.
“W-what does your fire dragon look like, Angus?” Indigo asked shyly.
It was the first time either one of them had dared to ask. Angus tried to describe the fiery creature that appeared before him in his moments of most desperate need, feeling his face grow hotter the more he revealed.
“I still can’t believe they’ve got an actual crypt in the Inner Sanctum,” Dougal said, shaking his head in wonder once Angus had told them everything he could.
“Do you think Rogwood will show you what’s behind the rest of the doors?” Indigo asked.
“Yeah, when’s your next lesson?”
Angus shrugged. “Rogwood didn’t say. There’s something else,” he added, suddenly remembering about the bone merchant. “I met Creepy Crevice in the Inner Sanctum. Vellum was taking him down into the crypt as we were leaving.”
“You’re kidding!” Dougal almost choked.
“Rogwood says he’s here to repair some of the older tombs.”
“I don’t care,” Dougal said. “I wouldn’t trust that old goat near anything important. What’s Dark-Angel doing letting him roam around Perilous?”
“Did he recognize you?” Indigo asked.
Angus nodded. “What if he knows everything about me now? Vellum said something about my having storm prophet lessons right in front of him.”
Dougal and Indigo exchanged worried glances, but as none of them had any answers to such a tricky question, they eventually dropped the subject and returned to Angus’s other startling revelations.
Angus spent the next few days wandering around Perilous in the same sort of daze he’d experienced after his visit to the Starling Museum of Storm Science in London. Images of the storm prophet tombs and golden fire dragon scales burned through his dreams. The uncomfortable feeling of indigestion now grew ten times worse, as if he’d tried to swallow a whole cow. Had all storm prophets experienced such strange sensations? Or had he accidentally gulped down some crypt fungus spores that were now making him feel extremely peculiar?
He was very glad when Dougal gave him something else to think about.
“I’ve been looking through the rest of those weather reports and mechanical pigeon messengers from Castle Dankhart,” he told Angus and Indigo the next Saturday morning as they caught up with their homework in the library.
Dougal reached into his bag and dragged out one of the dusty tomes and a scrawny-looking bird.
“There’s some really interesting stuff in here about unusual cloud formations and sudden temperature spikes, but I can’t find anything that explains the explosions, or the weather vortex, or what Dark-Angel isn’t telling us about it all.”
Angus picked up the mechanical pigeon, feeling his spirits sink, and extracted a message from under the wing. It was short and extremely unhelpful. “No change in weather vortex. Catcher Azolla Plymstock.”
“But we’ve got to find out somehow,” he said,
frustration suddenly spilling over. “My mum and dad are trapped inside that castle, and if there’s another explosion, or Dankhart’s planning something even more dangerous . . . Dark-Angel’s never going to give us any real answers. There’s got to be somewhere else we can look!”
Dougal nodded. “There is. I reckon I might find something useful in the research department. Dark-Angel, Rogwood, and Gudgeon are obviously getting their information from somewhere. Plus there could be something old or obscure in there about storm science and weather vortices that everyone else has forgotten about. It might help explain what Dankhart’s really up to.”
“Can’t me and Indigo help you look?” Angus asked, desperate to do something useful.
But Dougal shook his head. “It’s easier if I do the sneaking about on my own. That’s one advantage of being a known bookworm,” he added, suddenly looking embarrassed. “Nobody ever questions why I’m surrounded by books.”
Angus and Dougal went up to the kitchens on Monday morning still discussing the mysteries of the weather vortex. They were met in the entrance hall by a large group of lightning cubs who were gathered excitedly around a notice pinned to the wall.
“What’s going on?” Angus asked Violet Quinn as they joined the others a moment later.
“Catcher Sparks put up a new poster, and now Theodore Twill won’t let anyone look at it unless they pay him two silver starlings!”
Angus bobbed up and down on his toes, trying to see over the head of Edmund Croxley, who was standing directly in front of him.
“I said get out of the way, Twill, or I’ll report you to Principal Dark-Angel for obstructing important lightning catcher information!” Edmund said angrily.
“The price just went up to three silver starlings, Croxley. Come on, hand it over,” Theodore Twill said, holding out his hand.
