The Lightning Catcher (3 page)

Gudgeon took a small glass ball from his pocket, clutching it tightly in his weathered hand. Angus recognized the glittering storm globe instantly. It was the same one he'd seen through the spy hole in his bedroom floor, and he felt his pulse quicken.

“Keep that hood pulled down low,” Gudgeon warned again. “And stick close to me. This isn't going to be pretty.”

Suddenly the ferry's whistle blew, making Angus jump, and all along the pier passengers began to dash toward it. At the exact same moment, Gudgeon raised his hand high above his head . . . and smashed the storm globe hard on the ground, where it shattered into a hundred tiny pieces.

Angus leaped back as a thin curl of gray mist rose instantly from the broken sphere. The mist snaked its way upward, gathering swiftly into a small, fluffy-looking cloud, which hovered twenty feet above Gudgeon's bald head. The cloud grew thicker and darker until it looked as if it was about to burst, and then . . . Angus almost jumped out of his skin as a small rumble of thunder echoed around the quayside. He stared up at the cloud in disbelief—not even his uncle had ever made it thunder before.

“That should keep those two mongrels busy for a bit!” Gudgeon growled, grabbing Angus by the elbow and marching him hastily toward the ferry.

Ten seconds later, the cloud finally burst, releasing a spectacular, monsoonlike deluge. Huge, angry drops of rain bounced off the ground with a deafening noise, like a bag of marbles being dropped from a great height.

People scattered in all directions, running headlong into one another as they slipped and skidded, desperate to escape the vicious storm. And the two shadowy figures disappeared from view, swallowed up in a wet and dizzy blur.

Angus stared over his shoulder, wondering if he was in the middle of an extraordinary dream. Nobody could create their own weather. Nobody could whip up a thunderstorm just because they felt like it. It was totally impossible. . . .

“Stop gawping, boy, and get on that boat!” Gudgeon barked in his ear, forcing him up the gangway between the last of the stragglers.

Angus was jostled along the ferry's deck, his feet sliding hopelessly on the wet wooden boards, and he groped around for something to hold on to. Somebody shoved him from behind, and he lurched sideways.

“Watch it, boy!” Gudgeon yelled, making a wild grab for his arm, but it was already too late.

Angus tripped on the hem of his own coat and fell headfirst, his skull making extremely painful contact with a solid-looking post—

CRACK!

And suddenly everything went dark.

  
3
  

DARK-ANGEL

“A
nd the boy's been unconscious since you left, you say?”

“Haven't heard a peep out of him, Principal. He's been twitching like a rabbit, tossing and turning, mumbling some nonsense about dragons.”

“Dragons?”

Voices drifted toward Angus like a whispered story on a cool evening breeze. He'd been having the most amazing dream: he'd been riding a dragon over monstrous gray waves, swaying groggily as the fiery creature soared and plummeted with a violent pitching motion. He was now lying perfectly still, however, and his head was aching like he'd just been hit with a baseball bat, several times.

“Well, Doctor Fleagal isn't overly concerned.” Somewhere close by, the voices started talking again. They sounded impatient. “He says Angus will wake up in his own time, but this really is most inconvenient, Gudgeon. I had hoped to talk to the boy as soon as he arrived. . . .”

Gudgeon? Angus had a sudden vision of a gruff-looking stranger dressed in a yellow coat and black rubber boots, and the glorious dream faded in a flash.

He opened one eye warily and blinked. He was lying on an old sofa with the long coat thrown over him like a blanket. Gudgeon towered above him with a face like thunder. Standing next to him was a woman with short white hair, pale skin, and a bristly mole on her left cheek. She was dressed in a yellow coat identical to the one Gudgeon was wearing. It was buttoned all the way up to her chin.

“Looks like the boy's waking up now, Principal,” Gudgeon grunted, noticing that Angus had his eyes open. “And about time too.”

The woman turned toward him, smiling faintly. “Ah, Angus, you've had us all quite worried. I'm afraid you've been unconscious for some time.”

Angus sat up slowly, feeling a hard lump on his forehead. It was the size of an egg and throbbed painfully.

“What happened?” he asked as the room swayed dizzily before him. “Where am I?”

“I will answer all of your questions in a moment, but first Doctor Fleagal has prepared a special tonic to help you feel better,” the woman said, handing him a tall glass. “You must drink it all while I have a quick word with Gudgeon.” And with one last look, Gudgeon followed her out of the room, closing the door behind them.

Angus took a sip of the tonic. It tasted like black cherries and cinnamon, and he drank the rest of it down greedily. The last thing he remembered was being frog-marched onto the ferry by Gudgeon, but they could have been at sea for hours, or days even, while he'd been unconscious and dreaming of dragons. So where was he now?

Angus stared around the room, looking for clues, but it didn't give much away. It was sparsely decorated, with a single desk sitting in the center. The stone walls were covered with dozens of weather charts and maps of the world. He stood slowly, testing out his legs, a nervous buzzing in his ears. Staring back at him from the other side of the solitary desk was a long row of pickling jars, and inside each jar—Angus blinked and edged closer for a better look—inside each jar there appeared to be collections of newts, frogs, toads, or tadpoles, all suspended in a briny-looking liquid, with wide eyes bulging.

“Please allow me to introduce myself properly, Angus.” The woman's voice came suddenly from behind him, making him jump. She had returned to the room alone. “I am Principal Lightning Catcher Dark-Angel.” She shook his hand firmly as she reached the desk.

“H-how do you do, Principal.”

“How are you feeling now? A little better, I hope?”

Angus nodded. Thanks to the tonic, the throbbing pain in his forehead was slowly beginning to ease.

“Good. I trust your uncle Maximilian is also well?” she said, sitting down behind her desk and signaling that he should take the chair opposite.

“You . . . you know my uncle?” Angus asked, almost missing his seat in surprise.

“Certainly. Maximilian has produced many magnificent machines for us over the years. In fact, we were expecting him to deliver his latest invention this week, the automatic steam-powered blizzard catcher, I believe it's called. Perhaps you have seen him working on it during your stay at the Windmill?”

“Er . . .” Angus thought of the temperamental machine that had knocked him off his feet and that was now sitting in his uncle's workshop, a twisted blob of melted copper and pipes. He wondered how he could answer without getting Uncle Max into trouble. He was saved from having to explain anything, however, by the principal's next question—which took him completely by surprise.

“Forgive me for asking something so personal, Angus, when we've only just met. I'm sure you have many questions of your own, but there is a small matter that I wish to clear up first, if I may.” She gave him a faint smile, which looked rather forced and unnatural. “Have your parents sent you any letters through the mail lately?”

Angus twitched in his chair, the cogs turning slowly inside his befuddled brain. There had been the letter from his mum . . . and he remembered that he'd stuffed it into the jeans he'd packed before leaving the Windmill. His bag was now lying on the floor, next to the principal's desk. Angus looked away from it swiftly. There had been nothing remotely unusual or interesting about the letter. Plus it had been addressed to him, not Principal Dark-Angel. Who had yet to explain why he'd been dragged from his bed in the middle of the night. Or what his mum and dad had to do with any of it.

“They—they haven't sent me anything in ages,” he lied, swallowing guiltily.

“And you are quite sure of that?” The principal's gaze settled upon him like an extremely bright searchlight, making the hair on the back of his neck tingle. “They haven't sent you any messages or maps of any kind? Perhaps you have accidentally opened an envelope meant for your uncle? Think carefully, Angus. It is most important that you remember.”

Angus concentrated hard on the principal's left earlobe, then shook his head, hoping that his face wouldn't give him away.

“I see.” Principal Dark-Angel deflated like a punctured balloon. “That is a great pity. I've been expecting something important from your parents, but it seems to have gotten lost in the mail. It had occurred to me that they may have sent it to the Windmill by mistake. But please, forget I even mentioned it,” she said, waving the matter aside. “We have far more important things to discuss now that you have arrived here safely.”

Angus got the distinct impression that there was nothing the principal wished to discuss more. He shifted uneasily in his chair.

“Arrived where, exactly?” he asked. “Are my mum and dad here? Can I see them now?”

“We will come to the matter of your parents shortly, Angus. But to answer your other question, you have been brought to the Isle of Imbur.” She opened a large map and spread it across her entire desk.

The map showed an island in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. It was shaped like a kidney bean, with a sandy shoreline and a long range of snow-capped mountains to the west.

Angus frowned. The only thing in the middle of the Atlantic on his uncle's maps back at the Windmill was some dead flies. He'd definitely never heard of any island called Imbur before.

“Imbur is extremely unusual,” the principal continued. “You will not find it marked on any normal map of the world. Indeed, few people have even heard of it, and that is exactly the way we wish to keep it. For almost three hundred and fifty years, we have allowed the rest of the world to believe that our precious little island sank into the ocean after a terrible storm, and was lost forever. But as you can clearly see, that is not so.”

Angus swallowed. An island that was supposed to have sunk into the sea—no wonder he'd never heard of it before!

“The history of our island is long and complicated, but I will try and explain it to you as best I can.” Principal Dark-Angel paused for a moment as if gathering her thoughts. “I am sure that you must have heard of the Great Fire of London?”

“Er.” Angus floundered, wondering what the Great Fire of London had to do with anything.

“It occurred in the year 1666, of course, and swept right across the city, destroying thousands of homes and other grand buildings in its path. You have also been told, no doubt, that this fire was started accidentally in a bakery on Pudding Lane, by a man called Thomas Farynor. But this is not true.”

Angus gulped and stared at the principal.

“The Great Fire of London was in fact started by a group of men, among them Edgar Perilous and Philip Starling. They lived in a time of amazing scientific revolution, Angus, a time when fascinating new ideas about the world were being put forward by remarkable men such as Galileo. Starling and Perilous joined a group of scientists who had begun to experiment with the explosive forces of lightning, to see if it could be controlled and harnessed. They called themselves lightning catchers, and they constructed many lightning towers across the city of London in order to carry out daring experiments. As you can see from the picture behind me, these towers were an impressive sight, and the people of London were fearful of their power.”

She pointed to a picture on the far wall of her office. Up until that moment, Angus hadn't even noticed it; it was painted in dark, earthy colors and showed a London of olden days, with a great muddy river snaking its way through the middle, its skyline dominated by dozens of towers shaped like pyramids. Each tower had a large lightning rod poking straight up into the clouds and a treacherous set of steps and ladders running through the heart of its open, skeletal frame. Angus felt dizzy just looking at it.

“These experiments quickly got out of control,” the principal continued. “Philip Starling himself wrote a diary of his near-fatal dealings with this vicious force of nature. He was in favor of taking down the lightning towers and ending all experimentation. Unfortunately, before he could convince the rest of the lightning catchers, there was a terrible storm. One of the lightning towers was struck and caught fire. The fire quickly swept its way across London, killing many people and destroying a large portion of the city.”