by Will Mabbitt
Tears streamed down his face. “My beaks, my beautiful beaks!”
Mabel stood up and brushed the dust from her pajamas. She was safe. But something was wrong . . .
“The bird!” she cried.
Mr. Habib’s caged blue
buzzard was still inside!
Without thinking, Mabel ran back into the burning building.
Through the thick smoke . . .
Through the dancing flames . . .
The cage was on the ground, trapped by a fallen timber and twisted out of shape. The buzzard lay motionless inside. Mabel reached in and carefully lifted him through the warped bars of the cage, ignoring the flames that licked around her feet and the smoke that choked her face holes.
Then, ducking another burning timber, she stooped through the door and ran back out into the street.
A crowd of creatures had spilled out from a nearby tavern and gathered to watch the fire. They clapped and cheered as Mabel reappeared, all singed and sooty.
She knelt and laid the unconscious bird on the street, unsure of what to do next. The crowd’s cheering stopped as they saw the curled-up body.
The gap-toothed beaver she had spoken to earlier stepped forward. His simple, honest face was creased with worry. “Is he dead?”
Mabel nodded, her eyes filling with tears. “I think so.”
It seemed so unfair.
“If only I hadn’t knocked over the table!”
A tear rolled down her cheek and fell onto the buzzard’s face.
There was a soft squawk. Then the bird coughed and opened his eyes.
A rush of relief passed through Mabel. “Are you OK?”
The buzzard looked at her, his beady black eyes betraying no emotion.
“Squawk,” he said.
Mabel sighed. “I wish we could understand each other.”
The buzzard frowned.
“Well, maybe if you bothered to learn the language before you came to a foreign country, you wouldn’t have these problems,” it said haughtily. “I’d assumed you could speak Buzzard.”
Then, without looking back, the magnificent bird wobble-ran down the street and took off with a loud flapping. Mabel watched as he circled once overhead then soared into the distance.
Slowly the crowd began to disperse, many of them following a strange meaty smell that led to the door of a bar on the opposite side of the street.
A kidney-shaped sign bore the title:
Mabel grimaced. She wasn’t sure what offal was, but it certainly didn’t smell good.
Then she saw it.
There in the front window—looking very out of place—was an immaculate handwritten sign.
The Jungle Interior!
Mr. Habib had spoken of a jungle mist. Maybe this expedition could be a way to find Maggie.
Popping a gummy candy into her mouth, Mabel Jones crossed the road and pushed open the rickety door of Bogdan’s Offal Stop.
PROF. CARRUTHERS BADGER-BADGER, PHD
The Hotel Paradiso, City of Dreams, The Noo World
Dear Veronica,
I hope this letter finds you well.
We have arrived in the City of Dreams, Speke and I. The crossing was abominable and the city itself is hot, dry, and riddled with the thieves, beggars, and chancers that one would expect from abroad.
Tonight we set up table in Bogdan’s Offal Stop, a grimy riverside bar, hoping to recruit porters and a boat with which to travel up the Great Murky River. This majestic waterway—the widest I have ever seen—winds its way into the jungle interior and, if my maps are to be believed, passes the Forbidden City: our expedition’s goal. Although no one from the Old World has ever traveled that far and lived to tell the tale!
Forgive me if I have frightened you, for such awfulness has no place in the delicate and simple mind of a lady. Enough expedition news, for my thoughts return to more serious matters.
Matters of the heart.
You see, Veronica, it has come to my attention that Speke is fond of you. Actually, he has told me as much: he read me one of his awful poems.
He appears to be of the mistaken opinion that his feelings are, if not completely, then at least partially, returned by yourself. The thought of which fills me with dread, Veronica. Because, although we have not known each other long, I feel a mutual admiration has built between us. By your own admittance, you find me both “boring” and “predictable”—attributes upon which I pride myself, and also essential qualities for a husband.
In summary, you are a fine, healthy-looking creature, and I feel sure that, should this expedition be a success, I will be in a position to offer you a lifetime of financial stability.
Veronica, I am not prone to bouts of emotional behavior but I cannot hold myself back any longer.
I like you.
Forgive my impudence.
Carruthers Badger-Badger, PhD
Chapter 6
Bogdan’s Offal Stop
Mabel returned the menu to the bar llama.
“Can I have a glass of tap water, please?”
The bar llama spat into a glass and wiped it clean with a filthy rag. “Would you like some offal in that?”
Mabel shook her head, wondering what she would be doing if she were at home now. She’d probably be having dinner. Everyone would be fussing over Maggie, who would be mashing some over-boiled broccoli into the tablecloth.
Mr. Habib’s words echoed around her skull.
Your sister is in great danger . . .
What could that danger be?
I see a faceless figure, shrouded in a jungle mist . . . I see an ancient tower that grows from the black and burned earth of a forbidden city.
Even though she was annoying sometimes, Maggie probably didn’t deserve to be lost forever in the jungle. If nothing else, how would Mabel ever explain it to her mom and dad? They seemed very fond of Maggie.
Mabel sighed. There was no alternative. She would have to find the ancient tower and get her sister back, even if that did mean still sharing her bedroom.
A familiar voice from across the bar caught Mabel’s attention. It was Speke, the otter from the HOTEL PARADISO. Next to him sat the badger, Carruthers. He was addressing a mysterious stranger shrouded in a thick smog of pipe smoke.
“I say, are you sure you’re not a pirate?”
“Nay, I be an honest riverboatman looking for honest work. It sounds like my little paddle steamer, the BROWN TROUT, would be just right for yer expedition, she being perfectly suited for cruising the Great Murky River. Certainly there’ll be no others willing to travel to”—the mysterious stranger lowered his voice to a whisper—“THE FORBIDDEN CITY.”
THE FORBIDDEN CITY!
Mabel looked up from her glass of water as the steamboat captain continued.
“They say it is an evil place, ruled by an all-powerful sorceress!”
Carruthers raised an eyebrow. “Piffle! Mere superstition.”
“They say,” continued the captain, “that the sound of her hideous howl can flatten palm trees, and that every living soul within a hundred miles of the FORBIDDEN CITY has been enslaved by her dark magic.”
“Unscientific codswallop!” scoffed the badger.
A pipe appeared from the cloud of smoke and jabbed toward Carruthers. “Ye may say that, but I’ve been to ancient places before, and I says they be places where things happen, the like of which ye scientist types would never believe! So I’ll take the job but I’ll be wanting some loot up front . . .”
Speke looked at Carruthers, who grudgingly slid a small leather bag across the table to the smoke-shrouded captain.
Mabel couldn’t wait a moment longer. She pushed her way over to the table.
“I’d like to join the expedition too, please.”
Speke look
ed up. “Why, Carruthers, it’s the girl from the hotel!”
The badger glared at Mabel. “There’s no place on this expedition for a girl, especially not a thieving one.”
Mabel ignored the grumpy badger and addressed the otter. “Please. My sister has been taken to the FORBIDDEN CITY. I need to rescue her!”
Speke looked at Carruthers imploringly through his monocle. “It does sound jolly important.”
The badger frowned. “Speke, she is nothing more than a common thief . . .”
“Well, our help could be what she needs—to save her from her life of crime.”
Carruthers looked at his friend sympathetically. “Really, Speke, you are a kind-hearted simpleton. But I’m afraid a leopard cannot change its spots.”
A leopard sitting at a nearby table looked over crossly.
Carruthers nodded his head politely. “No offense, madam.”
Then the captain spoke. “As it happens, we are a crew member short. And those spindly fingers look perfect for the twiddling of fiddly valves. This puny snuglet may be a bald-faced bag of bones, but ye can’t judge a shipmate by his beard—or lack thereof. I’ll warrant this greenweed has seen many an unlikely adventure in her time.”
Mabel looked up at the captain. The fog from his pipe had cleared to reveal a plaited beard, a pair of dangerous-looking horns, and a familiar grin.
It’s funny how sometimes, when you’re farthest away from home, you meet someone you know.
Mabel knew this goat.
A huge grin stretched across her face.
“PELF!”
And you may know him too, if you have read the first of Mabel’s unlikely adventures—available to steal from all good bookstores (though I’d advise you to stay away from such places, as nothing dulls the mind like reading, and they tend to be staffed by the dreariest word-peddlers you could ever imagine).
For those of you who have not had the misfortune to read of Mabel’s first adventure, I’d best describe Pelf. Time has passed since Mabel’s last encounter with the veteran pirate—enough time for Pelf to have been added to the latest edition of the Who’s Who of Pirates sticker album.
I have his sticker. Swapped for a duplicate of Captain Matilda Smuts, the ladymouse pirate of the Cheese Coast, scourge of the Edam trade and wanted in six countries for an incident involving the dumping at sea of an overripe Camembert during a royal swimming gala.
Here is Pelf’s sticker:
Mabel wrapped her arms round his grubby fleece and gave him a great big hug. “What are you doing here, Pelf?”
Pelf smiled at her. His tobacco-stained teeth glinted yellow in the lamplight.
“Well, it’s like this, snuglet.” He nodded to a pair of large muscular dogs in sailor hats sitting at the bar and dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “The Alsatian Navy has been cracking down on us pirates recently, so I came to the NOO WORLD to lie low for a while. I’ve bought myself a riverboat and—”
He stopped suddenly and looked nervously at Carruthers.
“Did you say ‘us pirates’?” asked the badger suspiciously.
Pelf blew out a smoke ring that sank guiltily to the floor.
“Pirates? No! I can’t stand those types, with their fighting and swearing. Not to mention habits as revolting as a communal plate of peanuts on a plague ship.” He sucked on his foul-smelling pipe and spat on the table.
“Pirates? Disgusting!”
Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of mocking laughter.
Mabel turned to see an immaculately dressed fox sitting at the bar. In his left paw he held a silver-topped cane, and in his right, a delicately balanced cocktail glass.
“Really, Speke! You’re a long way from St. Crispin’s! And what a curious company of oafs you’re assembling!”
Speke stood up proudly. “Scapegrace! I say, Scapegrace. Join us for a cup of tea?”
Scapegrace laughed again, revealing large sharp teeth. He twiddled his whiskers into a point. “I’m afraid I’m rather busy planning an expedition, Timmy, old chap. Best you get on with your silly little tea party on your own!” He laughed again.
There was an embarrassed silence.
Speke sat down. “He’s awfully funny, isn’t he?” he muttered. “Same old Scapegrace. Always larking around.”
Mabel leaned over the table. “So who’s this Scapegrace?”
Carruthers laughed bitterly. “Sir Gideon Scapegrace is a fraud and a fool.”
Speke looked up. “I say, Carruthers. That’s awfully strong.” He smiled sadly at Mabel. “We schooled together, Scapegrace and I. At St. Crispin’s School for the Exceedingly Rich.”
He glanced shyly across the room at Scapegrace, who was now deep in conversation with a bull terrier.
“Very popular chap: head boy and all that. School captain. He took me under his wing, so to speak. Let me clean his cricket boots, run errands for him, tidy his rooms . . .”
Carruthers huffed. “He treated you like a servant, Timothy. Still does. It makes my blood boil the way he talks to you. He’s nothing more than a bully.”
Speke frowned. “I think Carruthers might be a little envious, Mabel. Scapegrace is the world’s most celebrated explorer and author. His real-life accounts of adventure and outrageous daring are—”
“Fanciful to say the least,” interrupted the badger again. “I doubt the rotter has even been to Alsatia, let alone tightroped across the Schildkrote Falls.”
“I say, Carruthers. That is a serious accusation. You call the chap a liar? How dare you! Why, it was only last month that he told me that story in person. And very convincing it was too!” Speke sighed. “His romancing of the archduke’s daughter; his escape from the mountain gulag; his defeat, in hand-to-hand combat, of a twenty-strong Alsatian border patrol . . .”
Carruthers looked at his friend in alarm. “You met him last month?”
Speke nodded. “Yes. At my club. What of it?”
“Did you tell him about our expedition?”
“Of course not. You swore me to secrecy, remember? And an otter’s word is as good as . . .” Speke paused. “Well, naturally I mentioned the giant stash of .”
“YOU DID WHAT?!”
Speke tapped his shiny black nose conspiratorially. “It’s OK. I didn’t say anything else. I was quite cryptic.” He chuckled to himself. “I just mentioned that you and I were planning an exotic holiday together. To the FORBIDDEN CITY!”
Carruthers’s face turned an angry red. “Really, Speke! You are quite intolerably stupid!”
Pelf blew a cloud of toxic smog from his pipe and looked down at Mabel.
“It seems we’re now in a race to the FORBIDDEN CITY, snuglet . . . against the great Scapegrace!”
“Erm, Pelf,” said Mabel, pointing at the two muscular Alsatians studying a WANTED poster hanging on the wall. “Why do they keep looking around at you?”
Pelf coughed nervously. “I think it’s time we be leaving,” he said, pocketing the bag of coins and turning to Carruthers. “Meet us at the jetty in one hour and we’ll be getting under way.”
Together they stood up and began to walk to the exit, only to find the bull terrier blocking their way. On his head sat a smart bowler hat, and in his hand he held a short and dangerous-looking club.
From the bar came the sound of Scapegrace’s laugh. He saluted them with his cocktail. “Oh, Speke, I’d like you to meet my manservant, WELLBECK.”
The bull terrier snarled menacingly.
“If I were you lot, I’d get on the first boat home.” He looked at his club, then meaningfully at Carruthers. “We wouldn’t want any of you to meet with an unfortunate accident somewhere deep in the jungle, would we?”
He tipped his hat, bowed slightly, and stepped out of their way.
Mabel and her new friends left the bar with the bra
ying laughter of Scapegrace ringing in their ears.
Wait!
We’re not ready for the next chapter yet!
Those impatient skuttlebugs who have already moved on to the next scene will have to miss out. Sometimes in stories such as this it pays to linger a little longer. For it is in these bits—the leftovers of chapters—that we find the most interesting of scraps: the fatty rinds of story-bacon. So hold steady and listen.
Can you hear it?
No?
Exactly!
There it isn’t again. A strange silence that cuts through the hubbub of the crowded bar. A silence that creeps from the corner unnoticed. The sort of silence that only comes from one creature . . .
And what is this creature? A loris, of course—a silent loris. A silent loris with one paw replaced by a doorknob. His whiskers twitch. Some head fur that grows in the wrong direction is anxiously straightened with a licked paw. This is Omynus Hussh.
He blinks his saucery eyes.
Was it her? Was it really Mabel Jones?
Omynus Hussh frowns and thinks back to the last time he saw her. The day he was shot.
Of course I remember it well. And you may too, if you have read the first of Mabel’s unlikely adventures.
We were friends, her and I . . .
Yes, indeed, Omynus. Mabel and you were the bestest of best friends forever. For she saved you and you saved—
She shot me!
What?!
She shot me and lefts me for dead!
NO!
I hates her.
A cold finger of pain shoots through Omynus’s body. His good paw reaches through his jerkin to stroke the scar where the bullet entered his body and—here’s the science bit—spilled the internal juices that have clouded his memories.
We know that it was the villainous Count Anselmo Klack who fired the almost-fatal bullet that almost-fatal day. But for Omynus Hussh the last thing he remembers is the pain of the wound and the face of Mabel Jones.
