The Lightning Catcher (2 page)

  
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THE FERRY WITH NO NAME

T
he stranger was the same height as Uncle Max, his straggly beard a stony, marbled gray; he was also completely bald and appeared to be wearing a single silver earring—shaped like a snowflake.

“Come in, Felix, come in!” Uncle Max boomed, in a manner that made Angus think the two men had known each other for years. “If I'd known you were going to be in this neck of the woods, I would have made one of my famous fish-and-raspberry-jelly stews for supper.”

“I'm still recovering from that disgusting muck you made me eat the last time I was here,” the stranger growled in a deep, gravelly voice. “What was it again—snail-and-seaweed pie?”

“I'll have you know my snail-and-seaweed pie has won first prize at the Budleigh Otterstone village fair for the last two years,” Uncle Max said, his eyes twinkling with pride.

The stranger snorted loudly. “First prize for what, though?”

He then positioned himself by the fireplace, forcing Angus to shift all his weight onto his left shoulder and wriggle himself around on the floor until he could see both men properly again.

“So, to what do we owe this unexpected pleasure, old friend?” Uncle Max asked jovially.

“I'm not here to enjoy myself,” the man barked. “I've come to deliver an important message from Principal Dark-Angel, in person.”

He took a crumpled piece of blue paper from one of the pockets in his yellow coat and handed it to Uncle Max.

“Ah.” Uncle Max frowned. “If this concerns the delivery of the automatic steam-powered blizzard catcher, I think I ought to warn you that there have been one or two unexpected complications—”

“It's got nothing to do with any of your crackpot inventions,” the stranger interrupted rudely. “This concerns the boy, Angus.”

Angus felt his left foot twitch suddenly at the mention of his own name.

“Angus?” Uncle Max sounded equally surprised. “Why, my dear Felix, I don't quite understand—”

“Then you'd best hurry up and read that letter. I haven't got time to sit around this drafty windmill, explaining myself to you. The boy's in danger, and I've come to take him away.”

Angus gulped. What could he possibly be in any danger from—other than one of his uncle's inventions? And he cast a nervous glance over his shoulder, just in case the blizzard catcher was on the prowl again. But there was nothing sinister lurking in the shadows of his room, and he pressed his eye back to the spy hole.

Uncle Max unfolded the letter. Instead of reading this mysterious message, however, he thrust it straight into the glowing coals of the fire, promptly setting it alight. Angus quickly stifled a gasp. But Uncle Max waited patiently until the flames had burned themselves out before calmly rescuing the only scrap of paper to have survived the inferno. He read it carefully. It was several moments before he spoke again.

“It would seem, Felix, that the situation is far more serious than I realized,” he said, sounding slightly shell-shocked. “I've seen the news reports, naturally, but . . . you agree with Principal Dark-Angel that Angus must go tonight?”

The stranger nodded solemnly. “The principal feels the boy's no longer safe at the Windmill. I've got a taxi outside waiting to take us both to the ferry port. And I've brought a couple of these with me, just in case we run into any trouble on the way.” He took a small glass ball from his pocket and held it up to the light, where it glittered and sparkled impressively.

“Storm globes?” Uncle Max said, surprised, still clutching the charred letter tightly in his hand. “But surely such measures won't be necessary. . . .”

“Necessary or not, I feel happier knowing they're in my pocket. And the boy's to be told nothing, mind, until Principal Dark-Angel's had a chance to speak to him herself.”

“But you cannot simply bundle Angus onto a ferry without a single word of explanation,” Uncle Max protested, running a hand through his bushy orange hair. “He knows nothing about storm globes, or the real reason we're being bombarded with these ridiculous showers of frogs. Alabone and Evangeline have been most careful to keep the truth from him.”

“You mean the boy still thinks his parents work for some boring government department?” the man asked, sounding mildly surprised.

Uncle Max nodded. “And I'm not convinced he'd believe the truth, even if we explained it to him.”

“I wouldn't be so sure of that.” The stranger grunted. “The boy's bound to start asking questions sooner or later. He won't have heard from his parents in weeks now, and he'll be wanting to know why—unless he's got snail-and-seaweed pie for brains. He's old enough to know the truth, I say.”

Angus swallowed hard, his pulse beginning to race. The truth about what? Why had his parents been lying to him? And how did the stranger even know that there'd been no word from his mum and dad in weeks?

“You'd best go and wake him up.” The man glanced impatiently at his watch. “The two of us have a ferry to catch. It's the only sailing this week, so it'll be packed to the portholes. But Principal Dark-Angel wants the boy brought to her tonight, and that's final.”

“Oh, very well.” Uncle Max sighed. “But I absolutely insist that you join me in a cup of tea first, and I won't take no for an answer. I want to hear everything you can tell me about this alarming situation. . . .”

They were still talking as they disappeared into the hall a moment later, closing the door behind them.

Angus sat back on his heels, his mind racing. He sprang to his feet a second later, struck by a sudden thought. Uncle Max and the stranger were planning to wake him up as soon as they'd finished their tea, which meant he now had only a few minutes to grab anything he wanted to take with him on this mysterious journey.

He found a large canvas bag lurking at the bottom of his wardrobe, which he quickly began to stuff with as many socks, underpants, T-shirts, and sweaters as he could find. As an afterthought, he also grabbed the last letter from his mum. He tucked it safely inside a spare pair of jeans and shoved the whole hastily packed bag under his bed. He glanced anxiously at the hole in the floor, hoping that he'd covered it up again properly, then jumped back under his covers and waited. And just a few seconds later . . .

“And the boy's in here, you say,” a deep voice growled in the hallway outside his room.

The door burst open suddenly. A dark shape came striding in and flicked on the overhead light. Angus sat bolt upright in bed . . . and gulped. Close up, the stranger looked even more unfriendly than he'd appeared through the hole in the ceiling. His black eyes gleamed darkly, staring down at Angus with an extremely disappointed look on his face, as if he'd been expecting to find someone taller or far more intelligent looking.

“You've got five minutes to get yourself packed and dressed, boy, or you'll be leaving this windmill in your pajamas,” he growled.

Before Angus could respond to this extraordinary statement, however, Uncle Max also entered the room, looking thoroughly out of sorts.

“My dear Felix, Angus will not be going anywhere until you've introduced yourself properly. I absolutely insist—”

“We've already wasted enough time drinking tea.” The man folded his arms stubbornly. “I haven't got time for introductions.”

“Then I must make them for you.” Uncle Max sighed wearily. There were dark circles under his eyes, which somehow made his hair look even more orange. “Angus, I would like you to meet a very old friend of mine, Felix Gudgeon.”

“Er, h-how do you do, Mr. Gudgeon?” Angus said, smiling as politely as he could.

Gudgeon did not smile back.

“Felix has just arrived with some rather unexpected news,” Uncle Max continued, hovering awkwardly at the foot of Angus's bed. “It seems your parents are quite unable to visit, so you must go to them instead. Gudgeon will see to it that you come to no harm along the way,” he explained, not quite meeting his nephew's eye. “It's far too dangerous for you to stay here any longer—”

“Dangerous?” Angus gulped. What was so dangerous about the Windmill all of a sudden? Nobody had ever worried about him being here before, not even when the arctic ice smasher broke his arm. “But . . . Uncle Max, what's going on?”

“You'll find out what's going on when I decide to tell you, boy,” Gudgeon snapped, his snowflake earring flashing dangerously. “But until then, I won't be answering any questions, so don't waste your breath asking any. Understand?”

Angus didn't understand anything; he nodded quickly, however, swallowing down at least a dozen questions that had just gotten stuck in his throat like fish bones.

 

By the time they reached the ferry port, twenty minutes later, Gudgeon had already made it crystal clear that he'd rather hold a conversation with a bucket of slugs than chat with Angus about any subject, including the weather. And as Gudgeon paid the driver, Angus clambered out of the taxi and stood shivering on the chilly pier, trying to work out what was going on.

He stared around the bustling port, searching for any clues that might give him the slightest hint about their destination. The large ferry looming up in the darkness ahead didn't even have a name.

To make matters more confusing, Gudgeon had insisted that Angus put on a long gray coat before they left the Windmill. It was made of thick, soft wool, with a deep velvet-lined hood that fell so far over his face Angus could barely see where he was going. He wondered if they were heading somewhere cold, perhaps, like Iceland or Norway?

“Right, boy, follow me.” Gudgeon appeared by his side, clutching two ferry tickets. “And keep that hood pulled down low. That face of yours could get us into serious trouble if anyone gets a good look at it.”

Angus frowned. What was wrong with his face? It had never gotten him into trouble before, at least not that he could remember.

He trotted nervously along behind Gudgeon, the strong smell of engine oil and gutted fish making his eyes water. They'd barely gone more than a dozen steps, however, when Gudgeon came to a halt.

“Hold your horses, boy,” he growled. “There's trouble coming our way.”

Angus turned, half expecting to find an escaped rhinoceros charging through the early morning toward them, and peered anxiously into the gloom. Halfway along the pier, an angry fish seller had just kicked over an entire bucket of wriggling eels. Then he saw them. Beyond the eels, two figures emerged, heavy coats with upturned collars making them look like sinister shadows.

“I've been expecting those two mongrels to show up somewhere,” Gudgeon informed him, a note of satisfaction in his gruff voice.

“But . . . who are they?” Angus asked, watching as the two shadowy figures cut swiftly across the street toward them.

“Nobody you need to worry about, boy. And by the time I've finished with the great useless pair, they'll be wishing they'd picked another ferry port to go prowling about in!”