Mabel Jones and the Doomsday Book

by Will Mabbitt

  “We believe this Grand Library is—”

  Outside, there was a flash of lightning, closely followed by a roll of thunder.

  “The final resting place of

  THE

  DOOMSDAY

  BOOK!”

  Jarvis scratched his head.

  “So you want us to go and get it from the library?”

  That didn’t sound too difficult.

  Sir Lockheed dipped a cookie in his tea.

  “Sadly, times have changed. Some years ago, the city fell under the rule of a creature named the Grand Zhool.”

  He bit the soggy part off the cookie.

  “An unsavory character, by all accounts. He has an obsessive fear of dirt. The stuff drives him mad with fury—and he’s been known to order the deaths of species he considers unclean: rats, cockroaches—”

  Sir Lockheed removed a scruffy hankie from his pocket and wiped his whiskers.

  “And hoomans.”

  Mabel took a deep breath.

  “Then why send us on this mission?”

  Sir Lockheed smiled.

  “Because it’s the last thing the spies of the Alsatian Empire will expect! We believe their top agent is in CRUMBRIDGE at this very moment, seeking the very same book. His name is VON KLAAR.”

  He fished a cookie crumb from his tea with a corner of his hankie.

  “Besides, this year is the one thousandth anniversary of the founding of Otom. Pilgrims from around the world will be visiting the city for the FESTIVAL OF ST. STATHAM. There will be so many people coming and going you should be able to go unnoticed, if you’re in disguise. It’s perfect timing, don’t you think?”

  Sir Lockheed closed the file.

  “This contains all the information you will need. You’ll also be accompanied by our two finest spies. You can find them in the port of SHRIMPWICH—look for a fishing boat called the Sunbeam and await the signal.”

  Mabel nodded. It seemed like quite a dangerous mission. She didn’t know much about wars or international espionage, and it was strange to be taking sides in a conflict she knew nothing about. Still, if finding the book could help to free Pelf and save the hooman race, then why not?

  Sir Lockheed grinned and pushed the folder across the desk toward Mabel.

  “It’s not much to ask in return for saving your friend from the creaking gibbet, is it?”

  CHAPTER 9

  The Sunbeam

  SHRIMPWICH, the principal port of ALBEMARLE, is the busiest harbor in the world. Along its many wharves lie passenger liners bound for the NOO WORLD, mackerel steamers arriving from the Frozen North, and the mighty frigates of the ALBEMARLE NAVY, all unloading or loading their cargo. Large mechanical cranes lift huge and heavy crates from the ships on to the docks. Usually a rowdy crowd of sailors fills the streets, spilling from the dockside taverns to fall prey to the shady trades of the local pickpockets and street hustlers.

  Today, however, was different.

  Today, war was on the horizon, and the streets were full of soldiers awaiting transport to foreign shores.

  Moving through the crowds, Mabel Jones spotted a little boat moored between two gigantic warships. A small hand-painted sign on its hull read: Sunbeam

  The Sunbeam appeared to be a fishing boat. It had a cabin at the bow end and a winch at the stern. Attached to the winch was an old net, which was currently lying on the deck. The smell of rotten fish wafted up to Mabel and her friends.

  It didn’t look like the kind of vessel owned by the ALBEMARLE TOP-SECRET SERVICE.

  But, then, I suppose that’s the point.

  “Do we really have to sail this all the way to Otom on our own?” asked Jarvis.

  Mabel scratched her head.

  “We’ve got their two best spies to help, remember.”

  A small voice spoke from nearby.

  “’Scuse me, guv.”

  Mabel looked down. A scruffy hedgehog in a stained, floppy sailor’s cap looked up at her.

  “Which one of you is Mabel Jones?” he asked.

  Mabel eyed him suspiciously. She was on a top-secret mission, after all.

  “Who wants to know?”

  The hedgehog shrugged.

  “No skin off my snout, mate. I just got a message for ’im.”

  “And?” said Mabel.

  The hedgehog looked around nervously.

  “Sir Lockheed said you will receive furver instructions if you go an’ stand over there, by those crates.”

  He motioned with his head toward a pile of heavy crates on the dockside.

  Mabel frowned.

  “Why didn’t he just get you to give me the instructions?”

  The hedgehog smiled and winked.

  “It’s on a need-to-know basis, ain’t it?”

  Mabel shrugged and walked over to the crates.

  “About here?” she shouted.

  “Left a bit!” shouted the hedgehog.

  “Here?”

  “Bit more.”

  “Here?”

  “That’ll do.”

  Mabel picked her nose thoughtfully.

  Am I just supposed to wait here?

  While she waited, Mabel’s mind wandered a little. The hedgehog seemed strangely familiar.

  She was fairly sure there hadn’t been a hedgehog in any of her previous unlikely adventures, but still . . . there was something about his eyes . . .

  Suddenly the world seemed to darken, as if the sun had gone behind a cloud. Mabel shivered. Maybe bad weather was blowing in.

  She looked up.

  If that huge falling crate wasn’t blocking the sky, she thought, maybe I would be able to see if there’s a storm—

  AND THEN IT HIT HER!

  No, not the falling crate, but the realization that a falling crate was hurtling straight toward her at a speed that could only mean one thing:

  CHAPTER 10

  The Fur Coat of Righteousness

  The sound of smart, confident footsteps echo down the marble corridors of the Grand Palace of Otom. They belong to a black cat. A fancy-booted feline in a peacock-feathered cap and flamboyant trousers. He pauses before an ornate mirror, twirls, then bows politely to his own reflection.

  “Looking radiant as always, Eduardo,” he says to himself, doffing his cap, before continuing on his way.

  I recognize him, but you may not mingle with the A-list world of international celebrity, so I brought a glossy magazine for you to peruse. There is bound to be some article or other about him.

  Aha! Here’s one:

  The clip-clopping shoes of Eduardo skip nearer and nearer the gilded and ornately carved double doors that lead to the chambers of the Grand Zhool.

  Beneath his arm is a rolled canvas. A portrait of the Grand Zhool himself. After three months of hard work, today is its unveiling. This will be Eduardo’s final visit to the Zhool’s chambers.

  But not for the reason he thinks.

  An armed hyena, dressed in the plumed helmet and striped tunic of the Grand Zhool’s Personal Guard, silently opens the doors to the chambers. A pale, wet-lipped gopher stands before him in a conical hat of purple velvet.

  The gopher’s eyes dart around the artist’s face, as though looking for a flaw. But there is none. For Eduardo’s handsomeness is second to none, as is his charming smile, which he now flashes at the gopher.

  “Why, hello, Govvel.”

  The gopher returns the smile with one of his own. But it is the opposite of charming. It is a false smile, accompanied with disdainful, disregarding, disrespectful eyes. He rubs his little hands together slowly. A small tongue pokes from his mouth to moisten his already wet lips.

  “Have you got it?” he whispers.

  Eduardo bows politely.

  “Naturally, Govvel. My masterpie
ce is at last complete.”

  Govvel stands aside.

  “Then the Grand Zhool will grant you an audience.”

  But who is this Grand Zhool? I hear you ask.

  Who is this creature that lives deep within the bowels of the Grand Palace of Otom?

  I’m afraid you shall very soon see.

  Hush!

  A voice—deep, soft, and wicked—speaks from behind a pair of lacy curtains.

  “Who dares wake the Grand Zhool from his divine slumber?”

  Eduardo gulps, his confidence suddenly drained by the voice of the Grand Zhool. Eduardo may be the world’s leading artist, he may be feted in all the civilized cities in the world, he may own the world’s third most expensive pair of pantaloons, but . . .

  Even after all this, he is just an artist. A mere doodler. A pencil-toting, canvas-bothering smudge-maker. And it is well known that those with a leaning toward the arts are also cursed with the natural pale-kidneyed cowardliness that makes them unfit to appear in such stories as this.

  Unfit to meet such

  villainous evil

  as we are about to witness.

  Govvel bows so low his nose almost scrapes the floor.

  “Your Grace, the portrait is finished.”

  The lacy curtains slowly open and a massive gray hand appears, adorned with countless ruby rings. Govvel skips forward and, standing on his tippy-toes, takes the hand in both of his. He stretches up his furry face and gently kisses the fat fingers.

  “Good morning, Your Grace,” he simpers.

  Another massive gray hand appears, this one holding a silken flannel. The second hand wipes the first hand clean and then disappears. Finally the curtains open and, gently guided by the gopher, an extremely fat hippopotamus steps out.

  Huge rolls of FAT hang from his body, which is barely covered by the softest-looking of fur coats. On his head perches a spotless white skullcap.

  IT IS THE GRAND ZHOOL!

  He yawns. “Has it captured my magnificence?”

  Nervously Eduardo begins to unroll the painting. A bead of sweat drips from the end of his nose, and it is as though that tiny droplet contains his last milliliter of confidence.

  He clears his throat nervously and begins to speak.

  “Your Grace, it is a great honor to have finally finished your portrait, painted in the style of the ancient artists that lived in the time of the . . .”

  Oh no! He’s going to say it.

  The Word.

  THE DREADED WORD!

  Oh, poor, beautiful Eduardo. If he’d only listened to the warning words of wisdom from his friends, who’d cautioned against such a trip to Otom.

  He would have known that the word was forbidden, and that the mere thought of mentioning it in the presence of the Grand Zhool would lead him to an untimely demise.

  But he didn’t listen. He was probably quaffing champagne at a posh party instead. Artists are like that.

  And the word . . .

  Alas, I cannot say it.

  Not here.

  Not now.

  You wish to hear the word?

  But we are also in the presence of His Grace, the Grand Zhool . . .

  You insist?

  Very well. Then sneak to the side and I will whisper it.

  Eduardo spoke the word . . .

  “HOOMANS!”

  The Grand Zhool grimaces.

  He presses a silken handkerchief to his mouth as though about to vomit. And then he fixes Eduardo with his heavy-lidded eyes.

  “Hoomans? You dare mention hoomans, to me? Even the mere mention of the word disgusts me.”

  He motions to the artist.

  “Come, Eduardo. Gaze from this window, over the city of Otom!”

  The cat nervously approaches the window.

  A beautiful city of whitewashed houses, domed towers, all trimmed neatly with gold and blue, lies spread before them. In the distance, the placid waters of the Calm Blue Sea sparkle in the morning sunlight.

  The Grand Zhool smiles down at him.

  “In a week’s time, it will be the FESTIVAL OF ST. STATHAM. One thousand years since St. Statham himself washed up on these shores and raised the city as you see it now: an exquisite place built upon a bedrock of hooman filth and decay.”

  The Zhool’s nostrils flare, as if he can smell the filth from nine hundred and ninety-nine years away. He presses his hands together as if in prayer.

  “That such an elegant city could be built upon such festering foundations is tribute to the divine leadership of St. Statham.”

  Eduardo nods. If there is anything the artist understands, it is beauty. And the city of Otom is beautiful indeed.

  The Grand Zhool turns to him.

  “And now, on the eve of this great anniversary, you seek to sully his memory by bringing a portrait of me, the Grand Zhool, guardian of Otom, heir of St. Statham, painted in the style of a hooman?! I had thought you a good cat, Eduardo, but perhaps I was mistaken.”

  Eduardo falls to his knees. He is ignorant of many of the ways of the city of Otom, but he has heard of one thing.

  One terrible thing.

  “Not that, Your Gracefulwonderfulnesship. Please, anything but that!”

  The Grand Zhool nestles his face into his collar and breathes in deeply.

  Eduardo’s eyes widen in horror as the Grand Zhool’s coat twitches, flowing around his enormous belly almost as if it was alive . . .

  It IS alive!

  “It is not for me to pass sentence upon thee, Eduardo. Let the Fur Coat of Righteousness judge you . . .”

  And, with these words, the Grand Zhool claps his hands together and something dreadful happens.

  SOMETHING VERY DREADFUL INDEED!

  CHAPTER 11

  Death by Splattering

  If CRUMBRIDGE is the brain of ALBEMARLE, then SHRIMPWICH is its beating heart. From here, culture, civilization, and scones are dispatched to the empire’s far-flung colonies. And in return come tea, spices, and exceedingly heavy crates of pickled gherkins, one of which has broken free of its suspiciously frayed ropes as it is craned from the deck of the SHEHERRING, high over the head of Mabel Jones.

  And with that skillfully written sound the crate crashed to the ground—exactly where Mabel Jones would have been had she not just leaped clear of its path. Splinters of wood and glass exploded across the docks, while a stray gherkin smacked Mabel Jones sharply on the side of head, whereupon everything went black.

  “Mabel?” said a voice.

  “Child, are you all right?”

  Mabel Jones forced open her eyes.

  The docks seemed to spin around her.

  She sat up and rubbed her head.

  A penguin was kneeling by her side.

  No, not a penguin—a nun! And not just any nun. It was the bulgy-eyed rabbit from ST. HILDA’S CONVENT, Sister Miriam!

  Jarvis came running up.

  “That hedgehog tried to kill you!”

  “Hedgehog?” said Sister Miriam. “What hedgehog?”

  They looked around, but the hedgehog was gone.

  “I’m sure it was an accident,” twittered Sister Miriam. “The rope must have snapped. You’ve had a very lucky escape!”

  Jarvis scratched his head. “I dunno. It definitely seemed like the hedgehog wanted you to stand just there.”

  Sister Miriam looked at him sharply. “It is not our place to judge others, young man. The important thing is that Mabel is safe now.”

  “What are you doing here, Sister Miriam?” Mabel asked.

  Sister Miriam smiled.

  “I am on a pilgrimage.”

  “What’s a pilgrimage?” asked Omynus Hussh.

  Sister Miriam patted the loris on the head.

  “It
’s a special and important journey. One week from today is the anniversary of the founding of the city of Otom by St. Statham the Lion.”

  “St. Statham the Lion?” asked Jarvis. “Who’s he?”

  Sister Miriam pulled out a small black book and carefully opened it.

  In a SOLEMN VOICE she began to read:

  45. Lo, and so it was that St. Statham the Lion, during a vacation, was thrown into the sea by treacherous gravy merchants.

  46. Whereupon he felt great sadness in his abandonment until a flying seagull did appear unto him.

  47. And St. Statham swam toward the seagull until he reached a shore rich with marble and gold.

  48. Whereupon he cast his dressing gown to the sand and spake thus:

  49. Here shall a mighty city grow, and the city shall be nameth’d Otom, after my sister’s cousin. I have always liked that name.

  50. Here shall my body be buried, and on that spot thou shalt build a grand cathedral and then in one thousand years a great celebration of me shall be held.

  51. By the way, if for any reason I should be unhappy with how things are going in my city, I shall rise from the dead and my displeasure shall become clear.

  Sister Miriam looked up from her book.

  “It is the wish of every nun to be lucky enough to visit the city during this very holy time.” She dabbed her eyes with a worn handkerchief. “I was looking for passage but, alas, no one is sailing to Otom at the moment. They say war is nearly upon us.”

  Mabel blinked in surprise.

  “Otom! Really? We’re going to—OUCH!”

  Someone had pinched her.

  She looked up at Omynus Hussh.

  “What?”

  “Secret!” he whispered into her ear. “No one’s supposed to know where we’re goings.”

  Mabel laughed. “It’s only Sister Miriam.”

  Sister Miriam was gazing at the large frigate moored next to the Sunbeam. A huge cannon was being heaved up the gangplank.