by Will Mabbitt
“I’m coming to get you, Omynus!”
Rock by rock she climbed down. A crevice here, a narrow ledge there, a crumbling patch of loose earth—
SHE’S LOST HER FOOTING!
SHE’S FOUND IT AGAIN!
I cannot watch.
Deeper down she climbed. Deeper into the bowels of the earth.
She could see him properly now, hanging from a jagged crag of rock, silhouetted by the burning lava that flowed beneath.
“Grab my hand. I’ll pull you up.”
“Would do if I had a spare one! You bits it off, remember?”
He waved his doorknob at her angrily.
Mabel grabbed it in one hand and, with all her might, hauled the whining loris from his precarious outcrop to her slightly less precarious outcrop. And there they sat, panting with the exertion of the rescue.
Then, with a snarl, Omynus Hussh scurried up the side of the hole as fast as if it were the ship’s rigging he had been raised on all those years ago aboard the Feroshus Maggot.
A minute later, Mabel reappeared at the top of the hole. There was no sign of Omynus.
“Where is he?” she asked. “And how can he be here? He was dead. I listened to his chest—there was no heartbeat.”
Pelf puffed on his pipe. “Aye, snuglet. But who knows how quietly beats the heart of a silent loris? He must have survived after all.”
“But why did he say he hates me?” pondered Mabel Jones. “We have to find out.”
“There isn’t time, Mabel,” replied Jarvis. “You’ll never find him if he doesn’t want to be found. And Maggie still needs to be rescued.”
Mabel frowned. Jarvis was right. This was one mystery that would have to wait.
She looked around.
“Good-bye, Omynus,” she called. “I miss you.”
Somewhere in the shadows, a silent figure squatted, watching as Mabel Jones and her friends headed deeper into the jungle.
Omynus Hussh scratched his head.
She saved me. Why?
And a familiar warm feeling crept up inside his gut, surprising his heart and triggering the true memories lurking deep within his brain.
The shiny gleam of a pistol . . . a finger on the trigger . . . a finger belonging to a fully grown hooman, not a tiny snuglet . . .
The count!
Omynus Hussh started.
It was the count that shots us, not Mabeljones! Mabeljones was my friend.
He blinked a happy tear from a saucery eye.
“She’s still my friend!”
Chapter 31
The Gathering
The storm has reached its height and darkness has enveloped the FORBIDDEN CITY. The streets are illuminated with the lit torches of thousands of jungle egret slaves, all trooping in silence to pay homage at the great tower—finally finished and ready to perform the task for which it was rebuilt: to harness the power of the storm in a ceremony of evil purpose.
But we should be safe up here, high above the canopy in this ruined building that stands opposite the great tower.
Careful of that bird’s nest!
The FORBIDDEN CITY, hidden so deep in the impenetrable jungle, is home to many rare species. It would be a shame to lose that lonesome fluffy chick over the edge—it is the last surviving offspring of some rare hummingbird, I’ll warrant. Pass it over here. I shall store it safely.
Between these two slices of bread!
Delicious!
Before us stands the mighty tower. You may recognize it from your own time, or you may not. Around its base, the Witch Queen’s enchanted slaves take their places for the final act.
All waiting for the Witch Queen to make her appearance.
Now scan the crowd. Mabel Jones should be there somewhere. Where can she be?
Mist starts to gather and a murmuring spreads through the gathered crowd.
“The Witch Queen is coming . . .”
“The Witch Queen is coming . . .”
“The Witch Queen is . . . HERE!”
It was a blob, a shapeless lump, that crawled from the grand doorway of the great tower. A huddled figure swathed in a silken gown. The crowd watched in silence as it began its slow journey down the many steps toward the clearing.
It was the Witch Queen.
And as she hobbled from the last step and crawled across the ground, her fingernails digging into the dirt, dragging her hindquarters behind her, she laughed a dry laugh like the crumbling of a bonemeal biscuit.
She stopped in the middle of the clearing and raised herself on her hind legs with the aid of her gnarled and crooked staff.
What kind of animal was she? For animal she certainly was, that was clear. Despite the blood-red lipstick, despite the painted nails, despite the freshly shaved fur, despite all her desperate efforts, she was no true hooman.
Her skin was wrinkled and pale, mottled with rusty spots and patches of fur in the places a razor could not reach. Her eyes were milky pools of pure evil. And her mouth? A lipstick-lined and puckered hole decorated with rotten fangs.
It is whispered that the Witch Queen had been alive before the city fell. Before the glass cracked and the bricks crumbled and the steel warped. But this cannot be true, for that would make her thousands of years old. Surely nothing can live that long?
Can it?
But, then, I know little of jungle magic or the old ways.
The dark ways.
The Witch Queen looked around the crowd, her blind eyes seeing all. Every single creature winced and cowered before her gaze.
She paused, took a long sniff, and spoke in the soft croaking tones of a dying toad. “She is here. The one called Mabel Jones is among us!”
She looked into the crowd once more.
“WHERE ARE YOU, MABEL JONES?”
And then she howled, a hideous shrieking
that echoed through the city and over the jungle, and all who heard it—whether hooman or beast—shivered with fear.
The Witch Queen scratched her mottled skin, and flakes of it caught the breeze and drifted through the city like gray ash fluttering from a bonfire. She took a small and wriggling bundle from inside her gown and laid it gently upon the ground.
A hooman snuglet! A double-wrapped and swaddled little sleeping grublet! We are too far away to tell for certain it is Maggie Jones—for all hooman babies look alike—but surely it must be she!
Look!
A movement in the crowd: a nervous twitch.
Did you see it? There, at the back!
IT’S MABEL JONES!
Held back by her loyal friend Pelf.
“It’s a trap, snuglet!” he whispers.
Mabel knows he is right. She pauses.
“Ye will not save her like this!”
He’s right, Mabel. Hold steady, my dear. Hold steady.
But the Witch Queen’s wickedness knows no bounds. She is not constrained by such things as rules, or manners, or lists of Top Ten Dos and Don’ts. No holy commandments control this foul creature. Just one law: the law of the jungle. And that law is, of course, there is no law!
She reaches down.
Her long bony fingers first stroke the chubby leg of Maggie Jones, then move into a pinching position and . . .
Pinch!
Not the kind of pinch-on-the-cheek pinch you might get from an overexcited grandma, nor the sharp, spiteful pinch you might receive from an embittered older sibling. This was a fingernailed, skin-bruising pinch . . . a pinch cruel enough to wake you from an enchanted sleep.
And, with that pinch, Maggie Jones started to howl.
It echoed around the clearing . . .
It bounced between the buildings . . .
It made Mabel’s eyes shrink and her teeth rattle . . .
It made her heart feel lik
e it was being stretched like gum . . .
Pulled from her body . . .
It made her feel like she was going to be
sick . . . so sick!
IT WAS A HOWL
THAT COULD NOT
BE REFUSED!
Mabel Jones could stand it no more.
“Maggie!”
She pushed her way to the front of the crowd. Her face was red with rage, her eyes filled with tears of injustice. She ran to the center of the clearing and scooped Maggie up into her arms. “How could you? She’s just a baby!”
The Witch Queen’s gap-toothed yellow grin spread from ear to withered ear. “I’ve been expecting you, Mabel Jones!”
She signaled to the egret slaves, and the drumming began.
A slow and steady beat.
The Witch Queen giggled. An unusual sound—like the dry crust of a sun-baked cowpat shattering under the heel of a hobnailed boot.
Mabel Jones backed away from the Witch Queen, who began to speak.
“Foul creepers of the
jungle undergrowth . . .”
Mabel blinked.
“Rise from the soil . . .”
Mabel gulped.
“Fetch me the one called
Mabel Jones!”
Mabel looked down.
A treacherous vine grew at her feet. It twisted between her ankles and squeezed. Mabel fell backward, cushioning the fall for Maggie, who was still held tightly in her arms.
Another creeper gripped the chubby-thighed grublet, pulling her away from Mabel Jones.
“No! Please! Don’t take my sister!”
Mabel struggled, but more vines pinned her to the ground until she was tangled fast.
“Please!”
The Witch Queen smiled. “Your sister has served her purpose . . . The maggot-child has hooked its sister.”
And she struck her staff upon the ground.
“Foul magic of
the jungle soil . . .”
The city began to shake. This time with even more force.
She lifted her staff to the dark clouds that swirled around the tower.
“Vile demons of
the forest storm . . .
SEND FORTH
YOUR FURY!”
And at that moment a lightning bolt skittered across the sky, illuminating the city and striking the tower.
Blue light danced down the metal skeleton of the structure. Wood burned and stone scorched, but still the lightning jumped and skipped down the tower. Fizzing and crackling, it made one final leap—to the Witch Queen, who was flung into the air, collapsing in a frazzling heap, just feet from Mabel Jones.
The crowd fell silent.
Was she dead?
The heap stood up. Blue light danced around her eyes and mouth. Her voice crackled and spat.
“I AM MORE POWERFUL THAN I HAVE EVER BEEN!”
The Witch Queen pulled an evil-looking knife from her bloomers. She drew the blade across her palm and a thin line of red appeared.
Blood!
Mabel struggled against the creepers. She rolled and kicked but all she achieved was the attention of another binding vine and the loss of her last fluff-covered gummy candy, which rolled into the dust unnoticed.
“Spirits of the dark jungle . . .
LET THE
TRANSMOGRIFICATION
BEGIN!”
The Witch Queen held her cut hand above Mabel Jones. The other clamped on to Mabel’s face, pinching her cheeks together, forcing her mouth open.
A drop of blood gathered on the Witch Queen’s hand.
Larger and larger it grew . . .
Until it was ready to
Chapter 32
Candy
“Ooh, what’s that?”
The Witch Queen stared at the ground next to Mabel Jones.
She moved to look closer and her blood dripped wide of Mabel’s mouth, soaking harmlessly into the blackened earth.
A strange look crossed the Witch Queen’s withered face as she remembered . . .
The memory was thousands of years old, but it still tasted as if it was yesterday. Hooman children throwing candy over the side of her enclosure. How lucky those hoomans were to have candy in so plentiful a supply it could be given away with such abandon.
How long had it been since she had tasted a piece of candy . . . ?
The Witch Queen quivered with delight. The first thing she would do, once she was in Mabel Jones’s body, in Mabel Jones’s world, would be to eat as much candy as she could.
But why wait till then . . . ?
And she stooped, picked up Mabel’s last gummy in her wizened fingers, and popped it into her mouth.
She savored the flavor of the juicy candy, slowly chewing and letting its syrup drip over her tongue and down her throat . . .
A delicious sticky, fruity, sickly, burning—
BURNING?
BURNING!?
The Witch Queen gripped at her throat.
“Poison!”
She looked at Mabel with frightened eyes. “You have poisoned me?!”
Mabel struggled free of her bonds, the creepers losing their strength as the Witch Queen sank to her knees.
“No. I didn’t poison you. I . . .”
Suddenly a small figure pushed its way to the front of the crowd in a burst of silence.
“It was me. I puts the poison on it.”
Mabel stared at Omynus Hussh. “You tried to kill me?”
Omynus shuffled guiltily. “Only a little bits. I had muddled us best friends as enemies. I thoughts it was you who shots me, not that stinky count . . .”
Mabel knelt over the dying body of the Witch Queen.
“My life is at an end,” the witch sniveled. “All I wanted . . . was to be like a hooman snuglet. To have a mother . . . a father. To be loved like a snuglet is loved!”
A tear ran down her cheek. Then she looked at Mabel and snarled. “And now none of us can live in that world . . . For when I die, so does my magic, and only my magic can summon a porthole to your world.”
The Witch Queen cackled. Her laughter echoed around the buildings of the FORBIDDEN CITY, mocking Mabel Jones from all directions.
Mabel drew her cutlass.
“You must help us!”
The Witch Queen shrugged. “Death holds no fear for me, for I have been dying for many centuries now, and this is surely my last day, whether I die from the blade of a cutlass or pass into a poisoned sleep . . .”
“Then we’re trapped? Trapped here forever?” asked Mabel desperately.
The Witch Queen grinned wickedly. “Perhaps not. I have but seconds left on this earth, but you . . . You are young . . . Your body is fresh. Give it to me, and I swear to send your sister home and remain here.”
Mabel gulped. She knew it was the only option. At least that way Maggie could return home, even if she couldn’t.
“My name is Mabel Jones, and
I’m NOT SCARED of ANYTHING.”
Her friends all turned to look at her.
Speke nervously adjusted his monocle. “I say, Mabel, you’re not seriously considering it?”
Jarvis grabbed her by the arm. “You can’t, Mabel. You can’t!”
“It’s the only way,” said Mabel, trying to sound brave but not quite managing it.
She kissed Maggie on the nose and passed her to Jarvis. “You go through the porthole too. Make sure she gets home.”
Jarvis nodded. “I promise.”
Mabel stood up and addressed the Witch Queen.
“LET THE
TRANSMOGRIFICATION
BEGIN!”
Chapter 33
The End
Have you ever been pulled from your own body by dark and sinister
magic?
You know that part of you that feels hungry when you don’t eat? The part that feels sad when you are alone? The part on the inside that peers from your eye sockets into the outside world? It feels like that part is shrinking—shrinking away to nothing.
As a single drop of the Witch Queen’s blood dropped into the willing mouth of Mabel Jones, she felt that shrinking feeling. As the daylight grew more and more distant, she saw faces in the gloom.
Her mom . . .
Her dad . . .
Maggie . . .
And then they too disappeared and she was all alone in the darkness.
It was a most unlikely feeling.
Chapter 34
After the End
Oh, it is a sad day.
A sad, sad day.
A million kitchen towels could not absorb the tears that run down my cheeks, nor a thousand hankies dam the river of snot that flows from my nose.
For those of you who had dreamed of owning a whole shelf of Mabel Jones books, fear not. Copies of my HISTORY OF THE PICKLING ONION, an encyclopedic series of forty-five books covering pickled onions and their role throughout time, are unbelievably still available and will fill the gaps in your collection.
Oh, but I would burn them all, every last copy, page by page, to be able to write just one more sentence for Mabel Jones.
Poor sweet, heroic Mabel Jones.
Mabel Jones who made the ultimate sacrifice.
Mabel Jones who, pure of heart, gave herself to save her sister.
What’s that you say?
Pure of heart?
Wait!
PURE OF HEART!!!
And now I remember the words of Mr. Habib:
“The ultimate sacrifice must be made! Only the pure of heart can defeat dark magic!”
Maybe . . .
Just maybe . . .
Chapter 35
The Ultimate Sacrifice
Look now, and look hard.
The spirit of the Witch Queen now resides in the body of Mabel Jones. The spirit of Mabel Jones is no longer of this world and floats in an unlikely darkness, for a soul without a body to inhabit is a mere fart in the wind.
