The Unlikely Adventures of Mabel Jones

by Will Mabbitt

  “Here she is! Told you it would be easy, Mabel!”

  Mabel shook her head sadly.

  The coffin, with Mabel sitting on it, was winched aboard. At first, the pirates just looked at it nervously. Then Split came out from his cabin and rolled the coffin over with a prod from his bone leg.

  The pirates winced as the damaged lid slid off and the body of a long-dead sheep rolled out, its face fixed in a mocking grin.

  “Aye, it’s him,” growled Split. “I’d recognize that crafty leer anywhere!”

  He kicked the coffin again.

  “Where is it? Where’s the piece of X?”

  “Erm . . .” said Mabel Jones.

  Split fixed her with a boggle-eyed stare.

  “You mucked up again, snuglet?”

  He stalked toward her, drawing his cutlass.

  Mabel backed away until she could back no more.

  “I couldn’t find the X, but I did find something. I think it’s a riddle. A clue to where the last piece is hidden!”

  Split snarled.

  “What use is a riddle? Words! Puny, tricksy words. It’s deeds we need now. Words are for lovesick poets and performing parrots. Words won’t stop that comet disappearing from the sky!

  “Even a crafty little maggot like you can’t wriggle away from this one. This’ll be the last time you cost me a piece of the X!”

  He pressed the point of his cutlass against her cheek. Mabel closed her eyes tightly. This really was the end of her adventure. Time seemed to stand still.

  See?

  Then a voice spoke.

  “Not all is lost, Captain Split!”

  Appearing behind them in an impressive puff of smoke stood the tall skull-headed creature that Mabel had encountered all those days ago in the CADAVEROUS LOBSTER TAVERN.

  Jarvis the Psychopomp!

  The crew

  gasped.

  Captain Split snarled, and the grizzled hair on the back of his neck stood on end.

  “And who are you that has the nerve to come aboard my ship without a word of permission?”

  Mabel took a now rather damp card from the pocket of her pajamas. Brushing off a piece of Old Hoss, she read aloud:

  Split looked at Mabel, then up at the Psychopomp.

  “You know of the Haunted Seventh Sea?”

  The Psychopomp’s skull face swooped down until it was an inch from Split’s muzzle.

  “I do,” it said, its jawbone moving slightly out of time with its words. “And I know why you’re going there. You seek the bell tower.”

  Split’s eye narrowed. “And you know where the bell tower can be found?”

  “I do.”

  The captain paused for thought.

  “Then I’ll trade your life for your help, creature. If you get me to that tower, I won’t kill you.”

  The creature bowed its head solemnly.

  “Agreed.”

  “But what about the missing piece of X?” asked Split, turning back to Mabel Jones.

  The Psychopomp reached a long arm into Old Hoss’s coffin and pulled out a lump of dull metal, then dropped it upon the deck with a satisfying

  CLUNK!

  “You mean this one?”

  The crew cheered. The last piece of X was found, Mabel was saved, and the adventure could continue.

  But something wasn’t quite right. Mabel looked at the Psychopomp very carefully. Something wasn’t right at all. But she couldn’t put her finger on what it was.

  A loud splash pulled Mabel from her wondering.

  Then another cannonball crashed into the sea nearby. The pirates ran to the rail.

  “I say! We’re under attack. How unsporting!” cried Milton.

  Mabel scanned the horizon.

  Five ships.

  No, more than five—ten.

  No. Even more.

  Twenty. Maybe forty!

  At the front, an impressive golden galleon hoisted a flag elaborately embroidered with the handsome face of Count Anselmo Klack.

  “It’s the count’s armada!” Pelf shouted as he grabbed the wheel. “All hands on deck!”

  And the ship burst into action.

  To the untrained eye, the Feroshus Maggot might have seemed a scruffy tub, but she was fast and the crew well drilled. The count’s armada, though, was top-of-the-line. The galleons were exquisitely crafted, their sails sewn from the strongest of silks. Agile and fearless monkeys ran up and down the rigging, their dexterous fingers tying and untying knots. Below deck, cannons were being reloaded and aimed.

  “Ship ahoy!” shouted McMasters from the crow’s nest.

  A cannonball fizzed past his nose.

  “We’re in range of their guns, Cap’n!”

  Split growled.

  “If we can’t outrun them, we’ll outsmart them! Hard to port, helmsman! Let’s run her through the Needles!”

  Mabel looked out over the ship’s port bow. Just off the shore of Scrape, a wall of stone crept out into the sea. Its jagged edges pierced the water like sharp teeth, making the waves that crashed and frothed about them look like the spittle of a rabid hound. A giant arched rock was the only breach in the wall, and it was straight for this doorway that the Feroshus Maggot was headed.

  “We have one chance to fit through the arch,” cried Pelf. “But, if we can, we be safe, for there is no room for their bloated ships to do likewise.”

  He blew a smoke ring and watched it dance on the salty breeze.

  “The captain’s

  a clever one, that’s for sure! The tides are in our favor, for if the count tries to sail around the Needles’ point, he’ll be going against the current and then they’ll never catch us! NOW STRAP YOURSELF DOWN, SNUGLET! FOR HERE COME THE NEEDLES!”

  Mabel ducked just in time to avoid a craggy outcrop on the inside of the arch. There was a horrible scraping of wood on stone, a ripping sound and . . . and . . .

  Mr. Clunes leaned out from the ship and pushed against the rock with all his might.

  Pelf put all his weight on the wheel. First port. Then starboard.

  McMasters ducked into the crow’s nest as the tip of the mast bent, then broke against the rocks above . . .

  And then they

  were through!

  Mabel looked back. The count’s armada was dropping sail and frantically trying to switch direction. One galleon had already come too close to the arch, and the waves had pushed it onto the rocks. The hull had splintered and she was going down.

  Milton looked overboard.

  “I say, we’ve lost our name!”

  Sure enough, the piece of old board bearing the name Feroshus Maggot had been ripped off. It had been that tight!

  “They’ll never catch us now!” crowed Captain Split, as the Feroshus Maggot cut through the waves and into the open ocean. “Set course for the Haunted Seventh Sea!”

  The crew cheered as the Needles slowly disappeared over the horizon. Only Mabel stood pondering. She had found something strange . . .

  Beside her on the deck, right where the Psychopomp had appeared, was a light dusting of white powder. And in that powder was another small footprint, just like the ones she had seen before . . .

  “What is its?” asked a quiet voice from behind her.

  “Hello, Omynus,” replied Mabel. “Is this your footprint?”

  “No,” whispered Omynus Hussh. “It’s got nasty little toes, not long and slender like loris toes.” He flexed his toes proudly.

  Curious, Mabel put her finger in the dust. She smelled it.

  Hmmm . . .

  Then she licked it.

  Mmmm . . .

  Powdered sugar!

  She threw it into the air and it caught in the breeze like a puff of magic sm
oke.

  Like the magic smoke that had heralded the appearance of Jarvis the Psychopomp.

  “Most mysterious,” said Mabel.

  “Most mysterious,” agreed Omynus Hussh.

  CHAPTER 22

  Rough Passage

  Poor Mabel Jones.

  A single day remains before the comet leaves the sky. The X must be placed in its proper spot before then or she will be stuck in a world that is not her own, destined to remain a pirate and never to see her parents again.

  And being a pirate is hard.

  If for some reason you want to become a pirate, there are some painful truths you will need to learn.

  It’s not all golden doubloons and swinging from chandeliers. It’s not all drunken shanties and dancing on a dead man’s chest. It’s not all yo-ho-ho and a barrel of laughs.

  Not by a long plank.

  Sometimes there are sea voyages that seem to last for years. The wind dies, the sea becomes as still as a clubbed seal, and the hours turn into days.

  Then the days turn into weeks.

  Just hope that your hold is well stocked and your captain an honest gentleman whom each and every crewmate trusts to lead them safely home to buttered crumpets.

  For if not, then ye be lost!

  Lost like the crew of the unfortunate Feroshus Maggot, which lists aimlessly on a windless sea, a pale fog cushioning its every creak. The crew thin, hungry, and demoralized. The captain, an already crazed wolf, driven even madder by hunger of a different sort—not for food but for the treasure he seeks.

  The sun is about to rise, but for the moment the moon is still queen of the sky, its eerie light dancing across the battered ship.

  Only Jarvis the Psychopomp is on deck. Sitting at the bow, where he has sat for the length of the voyage, his eyeless sockets scanning the horizon for signs of the Haunted Seventh Sea.

  Indeed the Feroshus Maggot is a ghost of the ship that sailed from the waters off Scrape. The voyage has beaten and battered her, and her crew sleeps below deck, hunger gnawing at their very souls.

  This had been one of those voyages. They’d seen the strangest things.

  They’d seen fish with wings skip across the waters.

  They’d seen a kraken rise from the depths and grab the last barrel of provisions from the deck, leaving only a faint smell of calamari and an increased rumbling of pirate bellies.

  They’d watched as a beautiful mermaid had frolicked in the waves, singing sweet nothings across the foam. Oh, how Pelf’s heart had skipped to hear her grunting her song of forbidden love, to see her comb her golden whiskers. And to all this she kept perfect time with the sporadic clapping of her flippers.

  At least I think it was a mermaid. It may have been a seal. It had been a long voyage.

  They’d seen—

  What’s this?

  A figure rises from below deck. Mabel Jones.

  She tiptoes up to the Psychopomp.

  “Hello, Jarvis. I’ve brought you this apple to share. You need to eat.”

  The Psychopomp doesn’t move. His eyeholes continue their hollow stare to the horizon. A soft snoring comes from his chest.

  Then a moonbeam penetrates the fog. It gleams off a thin length of cotton hanging from the Psychopomp’s skull.

  Mabel reaches out to gently brush it from his face.

  It’s attached to his jaw.

  She tugs it.

  His jaw swings open, as if to speak.

  She lets it go.

  The jaw clamps shut again.

  Then, plucking up courage, Mabel Jones very slowly opens the Psychopomp’s robes. Inside, curled around a long stick attached to the bottom of the skull-face, is a boy.

  A hooman boy!

  A snuglet!

  No bigger than her. Smaller, even!

  Mabel prods him awake.

  His eyes open and he yawns.

  “Mom?” he asks sleepily.

  Then he sees Mabel Jones and he grabs the robes and stick, bringing his giant puppet back to life.

  “WHO DARES DISTURB THE PSYCHOPOMP?”

  Mabel smiles.

  “It’s no good. I know what’s going on, Jarvis.”

  Jarvis sits back down, his fake skull head hanging limply on the pole.

  “I never thanked you for saving me,” says Mabel. “You know, with the missing piece of X.”

  Jarvis sighs. “It’s not the real one. I took one of the other pieces from Split’s cabin. He’ll find out soon enough.”

  “How long have you been on the ship?”

  “I snuck on board just after I met you. I’ve been hiding in the hold.”

  “So they were your footprints I kept finding,” says Mabel thoughtfully.

  “Yes,” says Jarvis. “Thank you for the biscuits, by the way.”

  “What do you want with the X?” asks Mabel.

  “I want to go home. I miss my mom.”

  “I do too.”

  They sat in silence for a bit.

  Then Mabel smiled. Jarvis had really fooled everyone. Not bad . . . not bad at all.

  Especially for a boy.

  “Why are you in disguise, Jarvis?”

  “It just helps, that’s all. It means I don’t get bothered. I’ve been in this world for a while now, and I’ve learned that people are more likely to take you seriously if you have a skull for a face.”

  “How did you get here? Were you taken by pirates too?”

  Jarvis nodded. “Five years ago. I was snatched by the bagger of the Flying Slug.”

  Mabel gasped.

  “Captain Split’s father’s ship!”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you there for the mutiny?”

  “Yes. I also overheard the castaway’s story because I was secretly tending to him in his fever. That’s how I found out that the X can open a porthole to the hooman world.”

  “So that’s why you were in the CADAVEROUS LOBSTER TAVERN!” said Mabel. “You were looking for Bartok’s piece of the X.”

  Jarvis nodded. “But you got it first!”

  “Well, you’ve certainly fooled all the others. Do you really know where the Haunted Seventh Sea is?”

  Jarvis laughed.

  “Yes, I used to live there.”

  “You lived in the Haunted Seventh Sea? How come?”

  “You’ll see when we get there.”

  At that very instant, a cool wind blew across the ship and, for a moment, the mist cleared and the moonlight lit the waves. Jarvis stood up.

  “We’re here. Now you’ll see what I mean. Look over the side.”

  Looking overboard, Mabel could see the sea bottom. But it was far from what she’d expected. Instead of a sandy ocean floor, beneath the ship ran roads—real roads, with double yellow lines and cars encrusted with barnacles. She could see the roofs of houses not unlike her own. And, breaking through the waves, tower blocks, church steeples, skyscrapers!

  It was as though long ago a great city had flooded, and now lay sleeping beneath the shallow waters of the Haunted Seventh Sea.

  A cry rose from the crow’s nest. “We’re here, lads. We’re here!”

  The crew rolled from their hammocks onto the deck and watched open-mouthed and fearful as the Feroshus Maggot drifted through the streets of the long-dead city.

  Pelf puffed nervously on his pipe. “I don’t like it one bit.”

  Milton chewed his trotter nervously. “They say this is the realm of the dead!”

  Even Mr. Clunes looked out of sorts, although, as always, he said nothing.

  Split smiled to himself. It was a particularly wicked smile.

  CHAPTER 23

  Home

  The voyage of the Feroshus Maggot was approaching its end.

  The pirates believed
they had all the parts of the X, but, now she had spoken to Jarvis, Mabel knew differently. She knew Old Hoss’s piece was still missing.

  The words of his riddle went around and around in her head:

  This be true, I be no liar,

  In legend find your heart’s desire.

  Limp North or South or West or East,

  You’ll get no closer to my piece.

  It was the second part that held her attention. She went through it again slowly.

  Limp North or South or West or East,

  You’ll get no closer to my piece.

  It seemed as though those lines were aimed deliberately at Captain Split. As if Old Hoss knew that he would come looking for his part of the X. As if he was taunting Split and his limping walk.

  Limp North or South or West or East,

  You’ll get no closer to my piece.

  So whichever way he limped, the piece of X would get no nearer.

  Mabel was sure she was onto something. Maybe the final piece of X was not as far away as she had thought . . .

  Mabel shuddered. The sunken city filled her with dread, and the fog made her clothes damp and cold. She looked at Jarvis perched at the bow of the Feroshus Maggot.

  Just like he’d told Split, Jarvis did seem to have a particular knowledge of the streets of the city and confidently shouted commands to Pelf.

  “Left at the next crossroads.”

  “Aye, aye.” Pelf pulled hard on the wheel.

  “Careful! There’s a statue just below the water-line there!”

  It was difficult and slow progress, but the crew were skilled. Occasionally the ship would scrape too close to a building, and the pirates would run to that side and push with all their might to fend her clear of danger.

  Mabel watched as streets, junctions, and abandoned cars passed under the ship.

  “How come you know this place so well?” she asked Jarvis.

  Jarvis looked at her grimly. “I said I lived here, remember?”

  “Where—in one of these crumbling old towers?”