by Will Mabbitt
She shook her head sadly.
“Dear, dear me. War is such a terrible thing. I wonder how many of these brave sailors will never see their loved ones again.”
She looked at Omynus.
“It’s a terrible thing, missing your family, little loris.” Omynus flinched as she touched him gently on the cheek. “I haven’t seen my brother Jim for years. Not since he—”
She put her hand to her mouth to conceal a sob.
Jarvis shuffled awkwardly and Mabel put a comforting hand on Sister Miriam’s shoulder.
“It’s OK, Sister Miriam. We’re going to Otom. We can take you there!” She looked around carefully to ensure she wouldn’t be overheard. “I have to warn you, though. We are on a top-secret and very dangerous mission! We’re just waiting for the last two members of the team.”
Jarvis looked at the Sunbeam. The little boat gently bobbed against the harbor wall.
“Do you think they’re in there?” he asked.
And, as though to answer his question, a lamp was lit inside the Sunbeam. Then the light blinked. Three times!
“A signal!” cried Mabel.
Jarvis nodded excitedly.
“Yes. And, judging by how important Sir Lockheed thinks this mission is, they are probably the best spies in ALBEMARLE. Probably the best spies in the world!”
Mabel looked at the Sunbeam. The light flickered slightly and suddenly got brighter. Then it started moving around very rapidly.
“I think they’re trying to send us some kind of message.”
“Is it Morse code?” asked Jarvis.
Then a loud voice boomed out from inside:
“Good heavens, Speke! You’ve set fire to my jacket!”
A hatch on top of the boat was flung open and a BURNING BADGER leaped out on to the roof of the cabin and into the sea.
“Awfully sorry, CARRUTHERS, old chap,” said an otter, appearing through the hatch. Then he stopped and stared at the three friends and Sister Miriam on the harbourside.
“I say! It’s Mabel Jones and the gang!” he cried. “What a delight! Carruthers, Carruthers! Look who it is: Mabel Jones!”
If you have read the second of Mabel Jones’s unlikely adventures, you may recognize this pair: Professor Carruthers Badger-Badger, Ph.D., a respected scientist, and his loyal friend, Sir Timothy Speke, artist and poet.
Carruthers clambered slowly back on to the boat.
“Hello, young Mabel,” he said, brushing water from his waistcoat. “It seems Sir Lockheed took our recommendation and recruited you. So the old team is back together, and just in time. We have a top–secret mission to undertake.”
He knowingly tapped his little black nose.
“I’m afraid we cannot divulge the details—”
Speke nodded. “Absolutely not. Not even to say that we’ve been sent to find something before it falls into enemy hands.”
Carruthers glared at his friend.
“Shh. You never know who may be listening. Loose lips sink ships and all that.”
“Why, I didn’t even mention the twist,” protested Speke, adjusting his monocle. “The thing we’re looking for is actually a book! Who would’ve believed it?!”
Carruthers frowned.
“Really, Speke! You are an insufferable nitwit! Von Klaar could be nearby. He is a master of disguise!”
Speke readjusted his monocle and peered about the busy dock.
“Curse that villainous Von Klaar! He too is on the trail of the DOOMSDAY BOOK. It’s a race between the forces of good and evil!” He looked at Mabel. “We’re the goodies, obviously! Ha ha!”
Mabel smiled. Speke and Carruthers had shown themselves to be worthy friends. They might want to find the DOOMSDAY BOOK for different reasons from her, but she was still pleased they were on the same side.
Carruthers beckoned them down on to the deck of the Sunbeam.
“Yes, time is against us. A great war is on the horizon and the future of the world is at stake.” He looked grimly out to sea. “We leave on the morning tide!”
“After a light breakfast of toast and marmalade!” added Speke.
And with those thrilling words the chapter ended.
Except it didn’t.
Not for everyone.
Somewhere on the Sunbeam, skulking shyly in the shadows, slim and silent fingers are riffling through a handbag.
Sister Miriam’s handbag!
What devious thievery is this?
The creature’s whiskers twitch.
Some fur that grows in the wrong direction on top of his head is anxiously straightened with a licked paw.
“Omynus Hussh!”
It was Mabel Jones, and she was looking cross.
“How could you, Omynus?”
Omynus gulped and covered his head with his paw and doorknob.
“I . . . I . . . I just wanted to check somethings. Is you angry with me, snuglet?”
“I’m not angry, Omynus,” said Mabel, taking back Sister Miriam’s handbag. “I’m just disappointed.”
Mabel frowned. She didn’t have time to keep checking Omynus wasn’t stealing stuff. They were about to begin a mission.
A very dangerous mission indeed.
CHAPTER 12
The Alsatian Ironclad
Dearest, sweetest Nanny Mimsy,
How I remember that long and glorious summer afternoon. I stood on tippy-toes and watched through the nursery window as Mother took refreshment on the lawn. What a woman—the kind of mother one could only ever dream of having.
“To your room, Timothy! I am sick of the sight of your pathetic mooning face,” she would scold fondly, giving me a loving cuff around the back of the head.
Ever the sensitive soul, I think I may have been weeping. You sat me on your knee and sang me a song—the tale of a soldier leaving his sweetheart—while I chewed thoughtfully upon a rusk. You gave me something. Do you remember? Daddy’s medal.
Poor Daddy. I wish I’d known him. You said you’d found it on the floor in the shed. I suppose Mother had put it there for safekeeping while she expanded their wardrobe into my bedroom to make space for more of her gowns. (She was so very glamorous, wasn’t she?)
I’ve kept it safe ever since. First throughout the days and nights boarding at St. Crispin’s School for the Exceedingly Rich, then at university, where I met my chum Carruthers. If I had known that one day I, Sir Timothy Speke, would be following in Daddy’s footsteps. How my childish whiskers would have bristled with pride.
For you see, Mimsy, I have been recruited by the Albemarle Top-Secret Service. It seems that talks to calm the waters over Princess Helga’s blow-off have collapsed and left us on the brink of a great war with those Alsatian brutes. I am to be sent on a top-secret mission—the details of which I cannot divulge (not even to tell you we are sailing to Otom). I certainly can’t tell you about our search for the Doomsday Book, lest this letter fall into the paws of the dreaded enemy spy Von Klaar.
For now, though, all is calm. A thick fog has drifted across the sea and our little vessel has come to a halt until the fog clears and we can safely continue on our way south. This may be the last you hear of me, but don’t be sad. Know that I have lived a full and happy life, and that if I am to die on this mission then I die for the honor of our great nation.
God save the queen!
All my love,
Timmy
P.S. I sent the usual parcel of dirty laundry. I’ll pick it up upon my return. The trousers will need pressing.
Sure enough, as is common at this time of year, a thick mist had fallen upon the sea, wrapping the Sunbeam in a cold dampness that chilled the livers of each and every member of the crew. After some discussion, Mabel Jones had decided to drop sail for fear that they might run aground on the treacherously rocky coast of SCRAPE.
The crew huddled around the soft heat of a whale-fat lamp and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Speke adjusted his monocle and smiled at the assembled bunch.
“I could recite a poem,” he suggested. “To cheer the mood? It’s a work in progress . . .”
The crew looked at one another. They had heard Speke’s poetry before. To say that it was the worst poetry ever written in the history of the world would be unkind.
Unkind but true. Listen . . .
We wandered ’mongst the peach trees,
I smothered her with kisses,
And held her in my paws once more,
Caressed her golden whiskers.
He paused to wipe a tear from his eye.
“It’s already moving stuff, no?” he said to Mabel, who nodded politely.
“I’ve got plenty more,” he added. “If you’d like to hear?”
And, on that spectacularly awkward note, let us take our leave from this scene, for surely nothing of interest will happen this night. Nothing of the slightest interest at all . . .
WAIT!
What’s that noise?
Do you hear it?
It’s getting louder!
Yes. A dull groan sounds through the fog. A deadened creaking. The sound of huge steel cables stretched under a great weight. The sound of GREAT IRON PLATES contracting under the pressure of the cold sea. A mournful symphony of machinery and metal.
It grows even louder.
Carruthers frowned into the dense fog.
“I’ve got a very bad feeling about this.”
And, at the very moment he reached the period at the end of that sentence, they saw it. Looming from the gray mist, a giant gray hulk. Dull gray waves lapped against dull gray iron—a ship so large its deck and stern disappeared into the fog.
Carruthers turned to face Mabel. His striped brow creased with panic.
“Dim the lights!” he hissed. “It’s an Alsatian battlecruiser!”
Mabel hid the lamp from sight.
And just in time.
“I’m sure I heard something, KLINKER,” snarled a voice, its owner hidden high above in the thick fog.
“Ah, you’re always hearing things, Smutz . . .”
The voice called Smutz growled.
“I don’t want them to slip through on our watch. We have received information that the ALBEMARLE agents are already on their way to Otom. Curse this fog!”
Far below, on the deck of the Sunbeam, Mabel Jones frowned.
“Albemarle agents?”
Do they mean . . . us?
“Ha! They wouldn’t dare try to break through our lines. Our guns can sink an ALBEMARLE FRIGATE with a single shot!”
The voice called Smutz grunted in grudging agreement.
“But a coded message from Von Klaar has spoken of a boat called the Sunbeam.”
Mabel gasped.
THEY DO MEAN US!
The crew of the Sunbeam looked at each other in horror. The fearsome Alsatian Navy was hunting for them! Their mission had already been compromised!
A powerful searchlight shone through the mist, sweeping across the waves and missing the Sunbeam by inches.
“You’re wasting your time!” growled the voice belonging to Klinker. “No ship could sneak past our navy. Not even in this fog!”
Mabel smiled. For once, the fog had been their friend, its cold and clammy embrace hiding them from their enemy. As long as they kept quiet and—
The crew turned around to see Sister Miriam standing over a dropped cookie tin.
“Oh dearie me, I’m sorry. I was just about to offer some snacks around . . .”
Carruthers glared at the rabbit.
“This is no time for tea and cookies! Why, it’s not even eleven o’clock.”
Behind her, Omynus Hussh narrowed his saucery eyes, but just as he opened his mouth to say something a voice sounded from high above.
“Did you hear that, Klinker?”
“You’re imagining things, I tell you—the sea plays funny tricks with your mind. I warned you not to have that third glass of Wasp Rot . . .”
Slowly the gruff and growling voices faded into the fog as the vast battlecruiser drifted past.
Once the only sound was the slap of waves against their own boat, Carruthers let out a long sigh and marked their position on a map.
“Never before has the Alsatian battle fleet dared to venture so far into ALBEMARLE waters.” He shook his head. “Things look bleaker than ever.”
Mabel nodded. So much depended on their mission. All they had to do was find a book.
It sounded easy.
But these things never are.
CHAPTER 13
Ursula and Wilkinson
The rest of the voyage passed uneventfully. Mabel and Jarvis watched from the rails as the Sunbeam cut an elegant path through the modest waves of the YURRUPIAN CHANNEL and then glided into the warm waters of the Calm Blue Sea. Finally, as the morning sun rose on their eighth day at sea, there was the holy city of Otom.
Mabel shielded her eyes from the light that danced off the lapping waters.
“It’s beautiful!”
And it was.
Towers of marble rose from perfectly whitewashed walls. The huge pointed dome of the GRAND CATHEDRAL OF ST. STATHAM sparkled in the sun and reflected turquoise and gold across the city. And, bestriding the entrance to the quayside, there was a giant statue of a rampant lion, his front paws raised in defiance of any foe that dared attack his city.
Sister Miriam laughed a joyful and tinkling laugh.
“St. Statham the Lion!” She pressed her hands together in joy. “He’s just as I always imagined!”
The harbor was packed with boats large and small. Passenger ferries from YURRUP, merchantmen from the Slightly Farther Near East, but mainly sail upon sail of smaller vessels, all jostling for position. On the shore, crowds of pilgrims bustled about with luggage, and a smartly uniformed tapir was climbing down a ladder into a small rowing boat.
Carruthers looked at Mabel.
“It’s the harbormaster coming to help us dock. He’ll be checking we don’t have any banned cargo aboard too.”
Mabel blinked.
“And do we?”
“Just you and Jarvis,” replied Carruthers. “Which is why we have this for you to hide in.”
He pointed to a large barrel labeled HALIBUT.
Mabel took the lid from the barrel.
“It’s full of rotten fish!”
Carruthers smiled and reached inside the barrel.
“Aha! You reckon without the ingenuity of the ALBEMARLE Top-secret SERVICE! This is a false top with rotten fish stuck on top. It conceals a hidden chamber underneath . . .”
He rummaged his paw around, then pulled the false top from the barrel with a proud smile.
“There is also a secret door in the back that can only be opened from the inside and a small knothole to peer through.”
Mabel looked gingerly into the cramped confines of the barrel.
It was dark.
It smelled of fish.
Jarvis screwed his nose up.
They looked at each other and climbed in.
It’s hard to stay hidden in a smelly barrel.
Mabel and Jarvis kept very still and very quiet until they felt the Sunbeam bump against the dock.
“It stinks in here,” whispered Jarvis.
“Shh!” hissed Mabel. “I’m trying to see.”
She pressed her eye to the hole in the barrel. Out on the dockside, a crowd was gathering. A familiar bulging-eyed nun was among them.
“There’s Sister Miriam!” Mabel hissed. “She must be having a look around.”
Mabel could hear t
he harbormaster explaining to Speke and Carruthers what was happening.
“It is the celebration of ST. STATHAM’S SEAGULL, where an offering is made to the sacred seagull in thanks for the safe guidance of St. Statham to these shores. You are very lucky travelers, for you are about to behold the Grand Zhool himself!”
As the harbormaster spoke, a procession began to wind its way down to the waterfront. Mabel saw the street cleaners first. Armed with buckets and mops, they were furiously scrubbing the already spotless pavements as if their lives depended upon it.
Next came a group of soldiers, resplendent in the blue-and-yellow-striped tunics of the Grand Zhool’s Personal Guard.
Then, finally, an ornate domed carriage—the size of a large beach hut—hoisted upon two thick poles carried on the sweating shoulders of twenty topless pigs, five on each corner. On the top of this carriage a sunken-faced, wet-lipped gopher sat upon a small chair.
As the carriage reached the waterside, the gopher stood and waved his hand.
The sweaty, topless pigs stopped, and slowly and painfully dropped to their knees.
The gopher climbed down a silver ladder and opened a door in the side of the carriage, and the obese form of the Grand Zhool stepped out, a handkerchief pressed to his face. He glared around at the crowd and slowly walked to the water’s edge.
Carefully he took a golden box from his fur coat and opened it, emptying some breadcrumbs into his fat hand.
He looked out toward the Calm Blue Sea and began to speak, his booming voice repeating the same verses that Mabel had read from Sister Miriam’s book:
“Lo, and so it was that St. Statham the Lion, during a vacation, was thrown into the sea by treacherous gravy merchants. Whereupon he felt great sadness in his abandonment until a flying seagull did appear unto him. And St. Statham swam toward the seagull until he reached a shore rich with marble and gold.”
The Grand Zhool paused and flung the breadcrumbs in the air.
“And, with these breadcrumbs, we thank thee, Seagull!”
