Mabel Jones and the Forbidden City

by Will Mabbitt

  Water rims his saucery eyes, and an angry tear drips down his furry face. His hand tightly grips a suspiciously child-sized sack.

  We’ll gets her. And when we gets her . . .

  We’ll kills her!

  Chapter 7

  Old Friends

  So, then, to the jetty on the banks of the Great Murky River where the moonlight would dance upon the dainty waves if the water wasn’t scummed with the filth from the . A ragtag collection of creatures hurriedly loads a rusting boat with supplies. Speke, the otter, sits apart, though, his skilled paws sketching the scene for posterity.

  Let us peek over his shoulder. His work is entitled THE DEPARTURE OF THE Brown Trout FOR THE UNKNOWN INTERIOR OF THE NOO WORLD, BY SIR TIMOTHY SPEKE.

  And though “drawing” has always struck me as a trade for those too weak to hump a barrel down a gangplank and too scaredy to cut an albatross from the ship’s rigging in the middle of a winter storm, Speke’s drawing is a splendid thing.

  Let me describe it for you.

  That figure there is Pelf, the captain of the BROWN TROUT. A wanted pirate turned steamboat master. His pipe produces more smoke than the engine that turns the small paddle wheel that powers the boat—a decrepit two-decked sternwheeler. Lifting that crate is Carruthers, the scientist. He’s helped by Mabel Jones (we recognize her of course, although Speke has taken a certain artistic license with her hair, making it slightly blonder and curlier than it should be). And with that the crew is complete.

  But no! Who is this?

  A fifth crewman! A smut- and grease-covered engine-boy, a hooman snuglet!

  His head peeks from a hatch over the small space where the old engine sits under the deck. He holds a wrench triumphantly above his head, for the fault he was working on has been fixed, but what the artist has captured even more exquisitely is the look of surprise on his face as he notices the presence of . . .

  “MABEL JONES?!”

  And so we leave the picture to witness a soppy scene. The two snuglets are now hugging in an engine-greasy embrace.

  Let me explain. The boy is Jarvis, an old friend of Mabel’s from her previous adventure.

  Mabel stepped back and looked Jarvis up and down. “What are you doing here?”

  Jarvis rolled his eyes. “Oh, apparently I did THE DEED again.”

  Ahh, that explains it. THE DEED, like the foul creepers, is a way of opening a porthole between this future world and the one that Mabel and Jarvis know as their home.

  But, before Jarvis could explain any further, a shot rang out across the night, and a bullet whizzed between their heads and smashed a lantern on the bow of the BROWN TROUT.

  Mabel whirled around. A group of about ten assorted animals was approaching along the jetty. In among the tapirs, boars, and monkeys, Mabel could see the unmistakable bowler-hatted form of Scapegrace’s manservant, Wellbeck, urging the band of brigands into action. Speke, the only expedition member not on board, was scooping up his pencils in fright.

  “Full steam ahead!” cried Pelf, pushing hard on a lever. Thick black smoke poured from the chimney and the paddle wheel on the back of the boat spun into life.

  But the BROWN TROUT did not move.

  The boat was still moored to the jetty, its paddle wheel futilely frothing the grubby waters of the Great Murky River.

  “THE ROPE!” cried Mabel. “Untie the rope!”

  Speke put down his easel and started to undo the rope. “It’s an awfully complicated knot!”

  The ruffians were getting closer. A tapir dropped to its knee to fire another shot.

  Still the knot refused to budge!

  “I say! It’s stuck!”

  Pelf drew his cutlass, leaned over the side of the boat, and sliced through the rope with one swing. The boat shot into motion, lurching away from the jetty.

  “Jump!” cried Mabel to Speke, who stood gaping on the bank.

  “JUMP!” cried the rest of the crew.

  A bullet splintered into the jetty by his feet and woke Speke from his bogglement. Rocking back on his feet, he took a standing jump and . . .

  . . . landed short of the boat by centimeters.

  Just in time, Carruthers threw out his hand and hooked his friend by the collar. Mabel rushed to help, and together they dragged him from the river and deposited him in a damp heap on the deck.

  Mabel glanced back as the BROWN TROUT plowed up the river. Scapegrace’s ruffians had been left behind, their rifles out of range.

  Carruthers glared at Speke. “I say, Timothy, you really must stay awake. This is an expedition into the unknown, not a Sunday school picnic cricket match!”

  Speke just looked glumly over the side of the boat as the jetty disappeared into the distance.

  “I left my beautiful picture!” He dabbed a tear from his eye with a hanky. “I hope whoever finds it appreciates it.”

  Pelf struck a match and held it to the bowl of his pipe. “Narrow escapes from certain death. Just like the old days, eh, Mabel?”

  Mabel nodded happily. The wind blew in her face as she stood on the bow, and the spray from the paddle wheel misted over the deck. It had been a while since she had been on a pirate ship—and admittedly the BROWN TROUT was more of a boat rather than a ship, but still . . .

  Pelf patted her on the shoulder kindly. “We’ll find yer sister, snuglet. I promise ye that.”

  He coughed and spat a massive phlegmy lump into the Great Murky River.

  Mabel reached for the gummy candies in her pajama pocket. “Would you like one?”

  Pelf raised a wild and woolly eyebrow. “Sweets, snuglet? Ye’d do well to give those up. They’ll rot the teeth from yer mouth.”

  He grimaced, showing his smoke-blackened gums and nicotine-stained teeth.

  “But that reminds me. There’s a treat I been a-keepin’ for ye, snuglet.”

  Pelf reached down to a small locker and pulled out a cloth bundle.

  Mabel unwrapped it eagerly.

  “My cutlass!”

  She grinned and made a practice cut through the air.

  “AVAST!” she cried, and laughed her most piratey laugh.

  Chapter 8

  The Brown Trout

  The gentle splashing of the paddle wheel beat a steady rhythm upon the waters of the Great Murky River as the BROWN TROUT chugged slowly upstream. From her position on deck, Mabel could make out the jungle quite clearly on either side. And what a jungle it was: a dark and impenetrable mass of vines, creepers, and trees. Who knew what dangers lurked within?

  One thing was for sure: somewhere, deep in its dark heart, was her sister, Maggie Jones. Slightly inconvenient and a little bit annoying, but her sister all the same.

  How will I ever find her?

  It seemed so hopeless.

  And Mabel was right to worry. The jungle sprawled for hundreds of miles, unmapped and wild. Few had ventured into its dark interior and, of those who had, fewer still had ever returned.

  What hope of finding Maggie Jones?

  None, frankly. No hope at all.

  Just thinking of Maggie, all alone in the jungle, made Mabel’s heart beat in her chest like it was about to burst. She forced herself to swallow.

  I must find her!

  She felt a paw on her shoulder. It was Carruthers.

  He looked at her kindly. “That’s it, my girl. Keep a stiff upper lip. We’ll rescue your sister.” He nodded at Speke, who was sketching the scene. “Speke and I are experienced adventurers. It is surely no accident that our paths have crossed. For we alone know the secret location of the FORBIDDEN CITY.”

  Pelf secured the BROWN TROUT’s helm and joined them on the deck.

  “And now it’s time to share the details, badger. For there can be no secrets among crewmates.”

  Speke nodded. “Spill the beans, old chap.”


  Carruthers placed his monogrammed briefcase on the deck and popped the fasteners open.

  As he removed a bundle of papers, the crew eagerly gathered round.

  “Behold the documents that will guide us to the FORBIDDEN CITY, where all our dreams will come true!”

  Pelf rubbed his hooves together in glee. “Ah, treasure! I can smell it from here!”

  Carruthers motioned for silence and handed Mabel a scrap of paper: a single page of an ancient and faded magazine.

  Mabel read it aloud:

  She held the page up to show the others.

  Below the writing was a photograph of a golden ring bearing a as big as a gorilla’s fist.

  Pelf sucked on his pipe thoughtfully. “That sparkler must be worth a king’s ransom! Think what a bloodthirsty pirate—I mean, think what an honest-to-goodness riverboatman could achieve with such a fine fortune!”

  Speke clapped his hands in excitement. “I say! That’s not all. Read the bottom bit, Mabel. The small print.”

  Mabel squinted. Sure enough, partially faded but clear enough to read, at the bottom of the page was more . . .

  “ONE OF THE THOUSANDS OF FINE PIECES AVAILABLE AT TIFFANY AND CO.® OF NEW YORK.”

  She scratched her head. “Who’s Tiffany?”

  Jarvis looked at her curiously. “Tiffany’s. It’s a shop. It’s only the biggest, most famous jewelry store in the world, silly.”

  He smiled, wiping a greasy wrench on his overalls. “In our world, I mean.”

  Pelf chuckled. “One of the thousands of pieces, eh? So tell me, badger. Where does I go to get me hooves on such fine lootery? Where is this Noo York?”

  Carruthers pulled a map from the briefcase. “This is the NOO WORLD!” He jabbed a finger on the coastline. “Here is the . To the east: the Sparkling Emerald Sea. To the west, north, and south: the unknown!”

  He paused . . .

  for dramatic effect.

  “Natives of this dark and sinister land speak of the FORBIDDEN CITY. A mysterious place that lies deep in the jungle.” He marked an X on the map. “Here is its rumored location. And this is the Great Murky River . . .”

  His finger traced a snaking line that ran across the map from the . It continued its path even when the line on the map stopped.

  “According to local legend, the river runs south toward the FORBIDDEN CITY, then bends northward, taking us within a day’s trek of its location. It is the only way to the FORBIDDEN CITY. Although no creature has ever made it there and back.”

  Pelf blew a wisp of smoke that curled nervously behind his head. “Maybe something to do with the evil Witch Queen who lives there?”

  “Witch Queen, indeed. Poppycock!” Carruthers cleared his throat, then continued. “I believe this city to be built on the ancient remains of the hooman settlement once known as Noo York.”

  “But why do you think that?” asked Jarvis, looking at Mabel. “In our time, New York is a port city—on the coast. On this map, it’s right in the middle of the jungle. How is that possible?”

  Carruthers smiled. “Ah! Now that’s where five years’ hard work at MUNGO’S SCHOOL FOR TALENTED BADGERS, a scholarship to ST. HILDA’S to study ancient history, and a decade spent rifling through the dusty documents of the CRUMBRIDGE LIBRARY comes in handy.”

  “Carruthers is awfully clever, isn’t he?” whispered Speke to Mabel. “Such humble beginnings too.”

  Carruthers glared at his friend. “If you’ll let me finish, Speke.”

  The badger pulled another map from his briefcase. “This is a chart I’ve copied from the CRUMBRIDGE LIBRARY OF ANTIQUARIAN MAPS. They wouldn’t let me borrow the original because . . . erm . . .”

  Speke adjusted his monocle and sighed. “Not the overdue fine, Carruthers! I could’ve lent you the money. You shouldn’t be so proud!”

  The white stripe on Carruthers’s face bristled, and beneath his fur Mabel could see him flush angrily.

  “The reason why isn’t important. It is enough that this drawn map is identical to the ancient map in the library.”

  Mabel looked at it. “It’s a map of the USA!”

  Jarvis nodded and pointed to a red dot.

  “And there’s New York!”

  Carruthers smiled proudly. Carefully he placed the map of America over the map of the NOO WORLD and slowly began to move it around, muttering to himself.

  “Now when we line up the mountain ridges here . . . and these rivers there . . . Spin this round to account for the rising and rotating of this continental plate here . . . and the lowering and crumbling of this plate there . . .”

  Speke looked at Mabel. “It’s all just science to me! I don’t understand any of it!”

  “There!” Carruthers stood up beaming. “It matches.”

  He held up the overlaid maps to the light so they could see both as one.

  The

  crew

  gasped.

  The position of New York was directly over the X Carruthers had marked to indicate the location of the FORBIDDEN CITY.

  Pelf laughed and blew a triumphant smoke ring. “And so we heads to the FORBIDDEN CITY to pick up the biggest, sparkliest haul of loot that ever there was! And rescue the sister of Mabel Jones too,” he added guiltily. “Full steam ahead!”

  And with Pelf’s command there was a loud bang, a terrible grinding sound, and a worrying clank. The BROWN TROUT’s paddle wheel ground to a halt, jammed by a bicycle that had just at that second fallen from the sky.

  “Awfully sorry, Timothy, old chap,” came a voice from above. “Seem to have dropped my bicycle on your rusty little boat! I hope no one was hurt! Haw haw!”

  The crew of the BROWN TROUT looked up.

  Just visible through the thick mist that shrouded the jungle, a leering face could be seen looking over the edge of a wicker basket suspended beneath a hot-air balloon.

  “Scapegrace!” cried Mabel.

  The balloon was now rising steadily, and soon it, and the sound of Scapegrace’s braying laugh, disappeared into the fog.

  Jarvis looked at the jammed paddle wheel. “It’s not too bad. I expect we’ll be able to start again in a couple of hours or so.”

  Carruthers shook his fist at the sky. “And in that time Scapegrace gets ever closer to the prize . . . Our prize! The bounderous brigand! His behavior is most unappealing!”

  Speke adjusted his monocle. “I’m sure it was an accident, Carruthers. Scapegrace wouldn’t deliberately try to leave us stranded in the jungle. That would be poor form from a fox of such high reputation . . .”

  Carruthers glared at Speke, his bushy eyebrows bristling. “I must tell you that I hold you personally responsible for this situation, Timothy.”

  “I say, Carruthers! How perfectly horrid of you!”

  And with that the two friends stormed to either end of the boat, leaving Pelf, Jarvis, and Mabel to sort out the mess.

  Chapter 9

  A Poisonous Silence

  Two days had passed since the argument between Carruthers and Speke, and not a single friendly word had been exchanged between them.

  The BROWN TROUT paddled steadily along the river, never pausing. During the day, Carruthers kept his nose in the air, scouring the sky for signs of his rival, Scapegrace. At night, Mabel, Jarvis, and Pelf took turns steering the boat carefully along the winding and twisting river. It was narrower now, and care had to be taken to avoid perils that lay in their path: sandbanks, drifting logs, and, once, the remains of another similar craft, its rusting skeleton the only remnant of a previous, failed expedition.

  As the sun set on the jungle, it triggered a change of shift for the animals that lurked within its leafy realm. Gone was the birdsong and the constant chirrup of insects. The distant chatter of unseen creatures in the treetops faded away too. These sounds were replaced by the rustlin
g of small mammals in the undergrowth, the low GROWLS of nocturnal predators, and the whispered chittering of large bats that swooped overhead.

  But tonight was different.

  Tonight was silent.

  A strange kind of silence.

  A suspicious silence.

  Mabel Jones leaned over the rail and watched as the jungle passed by. Pelf was at the helm, and Mabel planned to wander over later, in the hope he might share some stories of his time at sea. But for now she was content to breathe the cool night air and appreciate the rare silence that emanated from the mysterious jungle . . .

  . . . totally unaware that the source of the silence was, at that very moment, sliding out of its nearby canoe and hollow-reed-snorkeling through some tropical weeds toward the boat on which she stood . . .

  . . . planting its nimble toes on the hull of the BROWN TROUT . . .

  . . . heaving its damp and hairy body silently on board, smothering the drips from its fur before they could drop upon the deck . . .

  . . . and sliding up behind young, innocent, back-turned Mabel Jones, clutching a suspiciously child-sized sack in its one good hand.

  We know now, of course, who this creature is. For wherever there is a suspicious silence, there is usually the lurking of a silent loris intent on the foul deed of CHILD SNATCHING!

  Omynus Hussh steps closer. His eyes narrow.

  She was my friend!

  His whiskers twitch.

  She betrayed me!

  He blinks nervously, angry tears forming in his large and saucery eyes.

  I HATES her!

  The sack is ready, the moment ripe, and . . .

  . . . at that instant the clouds part and a lucky slice of moonlight falls upon his hand.

  His missing hand.

  His useless, stupid doorknob hand.

  Omynus Hussh pauses. Last time he bagged Mabel Jones, he lost a front paw to her venomous bite, and now he has just the one left.