by Will Mabbitt
“You looking at my leg, snuglet? Carved by Old Hoss it was, and sent to me by post after my first peg got woodworm. I guess he felt guilty for mutineering on my father’s ship. Or else he was worried I’d come looking for him if I ever found out what he’d done. He’s a crafty old sheep. But I’ll pay him back soon enough. We’ll find him on the island of Scrape tomorrow, and then the final piece of the X will be mine.”
“What are those marks?” asked Mabel, pointing to the notches that stretched in a long row almost all the way up one side of the leg.
“These?” The captain traced his claw over them. “These are my tallies. One for each of my kills.”
He fixed Mabel with a horrible stare. “I’m running out of space, snuglet. But I’m saving a gap for someone very special.”
And with that he stood up and clomped back to his cabin.
CHAPTER 18
A Sheep Trick
On the island of Scrape, Mabel trudged up a winding path to the ancient church at the top of the hill.
Before she entered, she looked back across the sea. The Feroshus Maggot could be seen in the distance. None of the other pirates had come with her on her mission this time. As the rowing boat had been lowered from the ship, Pelf had explained why.
“The folks of Scrape don’t welcome us pirates. Those woolly smugglers are a tightly knit bunch. Best you go alone. With your strange furless face and scrawny arms, they’ll never think you’re a pirate.”
KREEEEEAAAK!
Mabel Jones pushed open the heavy oak door of St. Agnus’s Church.
It had taken a while for her to locate the place where she had been told Old Hoss could be found.
A smiling young lamb, crabbing from the cliff tops, had said:
“You ain’t from around these parts, are you? Old Hoss? His house is in the village of Scrape, just up the chalky path from where I be sat now!”
A laughing sheep delivering the mail had climbed down from his bicycle and said:
“You ain’t from around these parts, are you? His favorite tavern was always the Smuggler’s Rest—why not ask in there?”
A gap-toothed old ewe, sweeping beetles from behind the bar, had cackled when Mabel asked if Old Hoss had been in that morning.
“You ain’t from around these parts, are you? Not a drop of ale has passed his lips for many a month now! You’ll find him up at St. Agnus’s Church. Tee-hee-hee.”
With the ewe’s laughter still ringing in her ears, Mabel Jones trudged up the winding path to the ancient church at the top of the hill. She did have some experience with churches, although this time her mission was to recover the last bit of X from a legendary smuggler, rather than to appear as Third Lamb from the Left in her Sunday school nativity play.
And now Mabel stood inside the church. A humble place, lined with empty pews that hadn’t felt the warming glow of a devout bottom for many a Sunday. In the corner sat a silent organ, its pipes blocked with spiderwebs and the broken plaster from the collapsing ceiling.
An ancient stained-glass image of St. Agnus the Sheep, patron saint of smugglers, looked down kindly from a large window above the altar. The dulled panes cast beams of sunlight that illuminated the floating dust.
And it was cold too.
Mabel coughed.
There was a scuffling noise and the face of a gray and grizzled sheep-dog appeared over the edge of the pulpit, where he had obviously been sleeping. From his collar, Mabel could see the old dog was a priest.
“Hello?” said the dog. “Have you come for the service?” He looked at a broken pocket watch. “No one’s been for such a while now that I’m rather afraid I’ve not prepared a sermon. I do have some old ones here somewhere . . .”
He started shuffling some handwritten notes. “How about ‘The Dangers of Sinful Drinking’?”
He shifted a half-empty bottle of holy wine from the pulpit to make more space, cleared his throat, and prepared to speak.
Mabel held a hand up politely to halt the priest.
“Actually, I’m looking for Old Hoss, the smuggler.”
The priest peered at her over the top of his cracked glasses.
“Old Hoss, you say?”
Mabel nodded. “The villagers said I could find him here. I need to ask him for something.”
The sheepdog pointed at Mabel’s feet. “I’m afraid you’ve been the butt of a rather cruel joke.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You’re standing on him!”
Mabel stepped backward and looked at the flagstone beneath her feet. On it was written the legend:
Mabel stared in shock. Old Hoss was dead, and with him had died the chance of finding the last piece of X!
It had all been for nothing!
Unless . . .
Mabel spoke the words engraved on the tombstone out loud:
“Took his secrets to the crypt.”
Maybe there was hope after all!
CHAPTER 19
Going Underground
Have you ever crept through a graveyard in the dead of night with the intention of breaking into an old church?
No?
Have you ever picked the lock of the oak door of the aforementioned church and crept into that damp and dusty house of God, ready to perform the foulest of foul deeds?
No?
Have you ever stepped over the slumbering body of a decrepit canine priest, ready to force open the entrance of the crypt beneath the church?
No?
Well, if that really is the case, then I suppose I need to describe the feeling that Mabel Jones felt that fateful night.
It felt like the icy-cold finger of guilt was being drawn slowly down her spine.
It felt like freezing dread had filled her heart and was being pumped around her body until she had no blood—just pure chilled fear flowing through her veins.
But she had to do it. The pirates needed that bit of X.
She needed that bit of X!
It took her a minute of sweaty hard work to pry the flagstone up with a spade she’d found in the graveyard. It made an almighty scraping noise as she pushed it aside to reveal stairs leading down into the darkness.
The priest rolled over, muttered some words from a long-forgotten prayer, then returned to snoring loudly.
Steeling herself, Mabel Jones lit the whale-fat lamp she had brought with her from the Feroshus Maggot and began her descent into the depths of the crypt.
Still she descended into the gloom.
Eventually the soft glow of her lantern revealed an arched brick chamber. Stacked up against a crack in the wall were four COFFINS. The rest of the crypt was filled with barrels and crates.
Each of the coffins carried the name of the poor unfortunate sheep whose body lay within.
Finally, Mabel gingerly brushed the dust from the last coffin.
Mabel’s trembling hands reached for the lid. Surely some clue must be contained within.
He took his secrets to the crypt . . .
CRUNCH
She paused.
It was no good. She just couldn’t do it. Grave-robbing was just too awful a deed. She might be a pirate, but she had to draw the line somewhere.
Suddenly there was a noise above her head. The sound of sheep’s hooves on the stone aisle of the church.
Then a voice!
“Old Shepperton’s gone and left the crypt open again.”
Followed by another voice!
“Wake up, you drunken old fool! There’s work to be done.”
Then the priest, mumbling apologies . . .
Then—to Mabel’s absolute and complete horror—the sound of hooves beginning to descend the stairs.
She was about to be caught red-handed, grave-robbing! She looked around desperately for a hiding place.
There was only one: the thin space behind the stack of coffins. Blowing out her lantern, she slipped into the gap.
“Did thee ’ear that noise?” said a voice.
“Nope,” said another.
“Probably nothing. Thank the Lord, ’cause I don’t fancy the slitting of throats tonight. It’s too cold. This place gives me the willies, it do.”
Now the priest’s voice:
“It’s a fascinating place, full of secrets! Been used for centuries by us smuggling types.”
The second voice cut in angrily.
“You two fools need to blather less and work more. We got to get all these barrels down to the cove by midnight.”
From behind the coffins, Mabel heard the shifting of barrels as they were carried up into the church. Back and forth the smugglers came and went until . . .
“This’ll be the last one, boss.”
“And not before time. The sun’ll be up soon. Let’s get a move on!”
Finally, the sound of hooves going up the stairs.
If I just wait until they leave, thought Mabel Jones, perhaps I can sneak out after them.
Then a familiar scraping noise and a that made Mabel’s heart miss a beat and then speed up very rapidly.
The flagstone! Her only exit! She would never be able to move it from below.
“STOP!”
she cried, leaping out from behind the coffins.
“WAIT!”
she begged, running up the stairs.
“PLEASE!”
she sobbed, banging her fists against the sealed entrance of the crypt.
But it was too late. Her small-girl voice was deadened by the thick flagstone that trapped her in this gruesome tomb, and no one heard her.
Putting her back against the large slab, Mabel pushed . . . and pushed . . . and pushed!
She just couldn’t shift it. Not a centimeter!
Mabel Jones was trapped! Who knew when the smugglers might come back? It could be hours . . .
Days . . .
Even weeks . . .
MONTHS!
And by then she would be dead!
Well, at least she wouldn’t have to pay for a burial.
CHAPTER 20
Secrets of the Crypt
After approximately five minutes of frantic panicking, Mabel Jones sat at the bottom of the steps and began to weep.
I’ll never get out of here, never mind get home.
Then she dried her eyes.
Then she relit her lantern with a ship’s match.
Then she began to explore.
It was obvious to her now that the coffins had all been moved to make room for the smugglers’ stash of stolen goods. She felt a bit less awful about the idea of opening the coffin of Old Hoss, knowing that he had already been unceremoniously shunted around by a bunch of criminals.
As she continued to look about, Mabel noticed a brick that poked out farther from the wall than the others. The priest’s words rang in her ears:
“Full of secrets. Been used for centuries by us smuggling types . . .”
Could it be some kind of mechanism to open a secret smuggling passage?
Mabel got on her hands and knees and pushed the brick.
It didn’t move. It was just a brick.
Grabbing hold of a nearby lever set in the wall, she pulled herself up.
A lever!
It moved!
Sure enough, the sound of ancient machinery could be heard.
There was a distant rumbling . . .
Then a nearby grating . . .
Then the sound of running water—like a bath—and a gust of air blew the lantern out.
It was pitch black.
The sound of water was getting nearer. Much nearer. And the running bath now sounded more like a gushing torrent.
My name is Mabel Jones and I am not—
Mabel jumped as she felt cold water on her feet. She fumbled with the matches, relighting the lantern on the second attempt. The flickering flame revealed her worst expectations:
In a matter of moments, it was up to her thighs, and she had to leap to one side as the coffins, buoyed by the rising flood, fell from their stack, splashing into the water where seconds ago she had stood.
The water level continued to rise. Rank and cold, it was creeping slowly up Mabel’s body. She tried to wade to the stairs, but it was all she could do to keep her balance as the water rose and rose.
Now it was just under her chin . . .
And still the water rose. All around her, the coffins bobbed like dinghies, threatening to capsize and spill their grim cargo.
It was up to her nose now, and she grabbed at the floating coffin of Old Hoss to keep herself above the water, trying desperately to hold the flickering lantern above her head.
I am going to drown, thought Mabel Jones.
AGAIN!
Panicking, she shone the lantern around. She gasped as she saw a grotesque and mocking face on the wall before her, but it was only a distorted reflection of her own face in a shiny brass plaque of remembrance.
Mabel growled with anger.
“I’d like to see him get out of this one!” she snarled, banging the plaque in rage.
IT MOVED!
There was a further creaking of ancient cogs, and a large hole appeared in the far wall. Where before the crypt had been filling with water, now it was filling and draining at the same time, becoming a raging torrent.
Before she knew what was happening, Mabel Jones was caught in the swirling mass of water and coffins rushing from the crypt into the hole and down into a twisting tunnel. She clung on to Old Hoss’s coffin, the torrent constantly tugging at her pajamas, trying to pull her under.
Eventually, though, the flow of the river became slower and the coffin’s progress more steady. As her eyes grew accustomed to the dark, Mabel could make out brick walls to either side of her.
“It must be an ancient smugglers’ tunnel,” she said to herself. “A way to get their stolen goods to and from the sea without being noticed!”
At that moment, Mabel heard the distant cawing of gulls. Then she saw a glimmer in the distance.
SUNSHINE!
Light at the end of the tunnel!
But with it came a strange rumbling sound.
Too late, Mabel realized what that meant—a waterfall!
Frantically, she tried to paddle the coffin back up the tunnel, but it was no good—the torrent was too strong! She scrabbled over the coffin. Maybe she could swim against the current! Then, as she tried to get her footing on the lid, there was a terrible sound of splintering rotten wood and . . .
THE LID GAVE WAY
RIGHT THROUGH!
She had fallen into the coffin!
She could feel dry wool rustling against her skin!
An old leathery tongue drily licking the side of her face.
She was lying on top of the famous smuggling sheep, Old Hoss!
YUCK!
Horrified, she pushed the body away from her in disgust. She had never seen the remains of a dead sheep before, and she was not sure she ever wanted to again.
But what was that?
Old Hoss had a small leather bag around his neck! She snapped it from the length of rotting twine that held it in place.
What was inside? Could it be the missing piece of X?
No! Just a piece of paper!
Forgetting the waterfall, Mabel read the words on the paper.
But what did it mean? Could it be a clue to the location of the missing bit of X?
It must be!
Then, before anything else could be done, said, or even thought, Mabel Jones and the coffins were hurled from the darkness of the tunnel—straight out from a hole a ver
y long way up a very high cliff!
Sometimes in an adventure you have little control of what happens next. To my knowledge, there is no way to stop falling down a waterfall once you have begun. There is no cunning pirate trick to save you, no time to remove your pants and fashion a rudimentary parachute, and certainly not enough time to describe the feeling of absolute and complete—
SPLASH!
Before Mabel had even had time to realize she was falling, she was several feet underwater.
When Mabel’s swimming instructor had asked her to retrieve a brick from the bottom of the pool while wearing pajamas in order to achieve her bronze swimming badge, she had thought he was crazy.
Why would I ever need to be able to swim underwater in my pajamas?
She didn’t think he was crazy now.
As she swam out of the pounding reach of the waterfall, Mabel Jones pledged that, if she ever did manage to get back to her own world, she would buy her swimming instructor a bag of potato chips after her next lesson to say thank you. Or at the very least, let him share some of her pizza-flavored ones.
Old Hoss’s coffin floated past and she grabbed it, grateful for a rest.
She had never been so pleased to see a wooden box containing the rotten remains of a dead sheep.
CHAPTER 21
Fishing
The Feroshus Maggot was anchored just off the town of Scrape.
The crew were enjoying a day off, confident of Mabel’s return from her nighttime tomb-robbing expedition.
Pelf filled his pipe with rancid tobacco and fiddled with his matches.
“She always turns up with the goods, lads.”
Milton nodded and cast a fishing line from the side of the ship.
“She’s a fine pirate, that gal!”
Pelf puffed out a smoke ring. He watched it float overboard and slowly sink to the sea, where it settled on the exhausted head of Mabel Jones, who was at that moment floating past, draped over a battered coffin.
