Mabel Jones and the Forbidden City

by Will Mabbitt

  I’s quite fond of my lonely handy!

  The sack is rolled up and a new, more sinister plan is hatched. The good hand creeps up beside the leg of Mabel Jones, slender fingers questing for a pajama pocket. Long nimble digits slither inside, where a paper bag of gummy candies is located. The bag is removed without a single rustle. A gummy is plucked from its papery crib and its powdered sugar sucked silently off.

  WHAT TREACHERY IS THIS?!

  Omynus Hussh pulls a small packet from his pocket.

  A packet marked POISON!

  It contains a fine white powder in which the sucked sweet is dropped and rolled until it is covered with a gentle dusting of death.

  Then, finally, the sweet is replaced in the paper bag and the paper bag is replaced in Mabel’s pocket and the loris returns silently to the shadows.

  Hiding.

  Watching.

  Waiting.

  Chapter 10

  The Journal of Sir Timothy Speke

  Chapter 11

  Captured

  Days passed. The river grew narrower and progress was slow. Supplies were running out. And now the engine had spluttered to a halt.

  Again!

  Mabel sighed impatiently. Her sister was lost, somewhere in that dark and tangled jungle. She could still hear Mr. Habib’s voice:

  “Your sister is in great danger . . .”

  She swallowed. Poor Maggie. She was only a baby. It wasn’t her fault she couldn’t rescue herself.

  What was that?

  A movement in the bushes! A shadow in the undergrowth!

  The rest of the crew had picked up on Mabel’s sudden alertness. Now they all stared at the bank.

  Nothing.

  It was probably nothing.

  It was almost certainly nothing.

  Definitely nothing.

  Thank goodness!

  Funny how the jungle plays tricks on your mind!

  Jarvis’s head appeared from the engine room. He wiped sweat from his brow, leaving behind a greasy black streak. “It’s all fixed.”

  The crew sighed in relief. The expedition could continue.

  “I for one will be glad to get off this accursed sandbar,” said Pelf, opening the window of his cabin and spitting into the water.

  A second arrow hit the cabin wall where Pelf’s head would have been if the first arrow hadn’t struck him in the chest, knocking him from his feet.

  More arrows thudded into the boat!

  The crew dived for cover.

  All was quiet, except for a soft moaning.

  Mabel peeked out from behind a crate. “Pelf? Pelf?”

  The old goat let out another agonized groan.

  “Pelf? Are you OK?”

  “This is the end. I can hardly bear it . . .”

  Jarvis looked up from behind a crate. “Hang on, Pelf!” he cried. “I’m coming to get you.”

  Another batch of arrows thudded into the boat, forcing him to duck down again.

  Carruthers pulled one from the deck and looked at it closely. “The jungle egret! See the elaborate feathering on this projectile? It’s a classic example!”

  There were more moans from the cabin:

  “A a a a r g h.

  I fear the worst . . .

  All is lost!”

  Carruthers looked at Mabel, his striped brow furrowed with concern. “The jungle egrets are skilled bowmen. And these arrows are capable of delivering a fatal wound . . .” His voice tailed off.

  Mabel pressed herself low to the deck and began to commando-crawl toward the cabin.

  Pelf was lying on his back, the shaft of an arrow sticking from his fleece. Mabel raised herself to her knees and leaned over her dear friend. “Pelf?”

  The old goat blinked at her and forced a grin. “I fear it be a worst-case scenario, sweet snuglet.”

  “Please,” she wept. “Please don’t die. Not you, Pelf!”

  Pelf blinked. “Die, snuglet?” he said. “Why would I be a-dying?”

  “The arrow!” Mabel pointed to the arrow sticking out of his chest.

  “Oh, that!” He winced. “It’s true. The arrow has struck my most vital spot. Fatal damage has occurred . . .”

  Pelf groaned and sat up. The arrow hung loosely, its point buried deep within his grubby fleece. Grabbing the shaft, he pulled it out, reveal-ing the ripped bag of tobacco that had taken the full force of the blow.

  “Ruined! That’s the finest Walrus Shag Tobacco.”

  Mabel sighed with relief. “It saved your life, Pelf!”

  “And they say smoking is bad for yer health!” Pelf chuckled. Then he stopped chuckling. “It looks as though we may be in some strife.”

  He nodded toward the entrance of the cabin.

  Two largish pear-shaped birds stood in the doorway, their tiny wings holding small bows, ready to unleash the poisoned arrows pointing directly at Mabel and Pelf.

  Outside, Mabel could hear the voices of Carruthers and Speke protesting as more of the birds wrapped them in coarse jungle rope.

  The BROWN TROUT had fallen—and her brave crew of adventurers was in grave trouble!

  Chapter 12

  Skoo Cossin

  Pull these ferns across your body.

  Weave that jungle grass into your hair.

  Now smear this mud across your face, for it will disguise your curious soapy scent.

  Good work.

  (I think it was mud, anyway.)

  Watch now from our hiding place among the undergrowth as we observe that curious creature of the forest floor, the jungle egret: a flightless and bottom-heavy bird. A plate from the unfinished work ARBUTTLE’S BESTIARY is included below for your reference. See figures 1a, a full-sized portrait, and 1b and 1c, diagrams of their means of stealthy attack. Ignore the splattered blood on the page, for that is where they found poor Arbuttle halfway through his sketching. The unlucky fellow is buried around here somewhere.

  Stay silent and watch the egrets pass in single file. The captive crew are tightly bound and trussed to poles, which the egrets hoist upon their shoulders. An uncomfortable journey that can only get worse upon arrival, for who dares guess the motives of these mysterious jungle creatures!

  After a long and winding trek through the undergrowth, the crew of the BROWN TROUT was unceremoniously bundled to the ground in the middle of a village of neatly woven grass huts. Egret villagers gathered round, occasionally jabbing at them with sharp sticks and quacking excitedly.

  A bird with an elaborate ornamental feathered headpiece stepped forward. He quacked at the crowd and they fell into a hushed silence.

  “I say, who is this chap, Carruthers?” asked Speke.

  Carruthers rolled over. “For goodness’ sake, Speke, it’s the chief of the village. Keep quiet. We don’t want to do anything to make this grave situation worse. Look at that!”

  In the corner of the clearing, atop a pile of logs, was a battered bowler hat. And sticking through the bowler hat was an arrow!

  “Wellbeck’s hat!” gasped Speke. “Do you think he’s . . .” He turned his head away from the sight. “How horrid!”

  Carruthers nodded grimly. “It looks as if Scapegrace and Wellbeck were here before us—and in similar trouble. That is why we must be very cautious indeed.”

  “Yes, of course, Carruthers. I’ll handle this. Needs some of my trademark charm, what?”

  Speke cleared his throat and addressed the chief. “Hello, old chap! Awfully sorry to bother you. Would you mind terribly pointing us in the direction of the FORBIDDEN CITY?”

  Immediately the tribe broke into angry quacking. Bows were drawn, sticks pointed, and feet stamped on the forest floor.

  The chief lifted a wing above his head, and once again the tribe fell silent as some of the birds that had attacked t
he boat came forward and untied Mabel and Jarvis, separating them from the others.

  The stripe on Carruthers’s nose bristled with anger. “What are you doing with them? As expedition leader, I demand you unhand my—

  OUCH!”

  A nearby bird had jabbed his right buttock with a sharp stick.

  “You swine! You’ve drawn blood!”

  Speke, enraged at the treatment of his friend, struggled against the ropes that bound him. “Foul! Unsportsmanlike behavior! Shame!”

  The chief signaled again and Speke, Carruthers, and Pelf were lifted up and carried away into a hut.

  Jarvis looked at Mabel with wide eyes. “I’m definitely not frightened, but what do you think they want with us?” he whispered, in a voice that sounded a little bit frightened.

  “I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding,” whispered Mabel in a voice that sounded anything but sure.

  She felt his hand slip into hers. Sometimes it was easy to forget that Jarvis, as well as being a skilled engineer, was just a little boy.

  But then the strangest thing happened. As their hands touched, the villagers gasped and threw themselves on the ground. Even the chief stared at them with wide eyes, then bent down on one knee.

  He cleared his throat with a short quack and, with obvious effort, began to speak.

  “Skoo Cossin?” he said.

  Mabel blinked. She wasn’t sure quite how to reply.

  “Skoo Corsing?” tried the chief again.

  Mabel and Jarvis looked at each other in confusion.

  The chief frowned. “Skoolk Rossing.”

  Finally, with a frustrated flap of his wings, he turned and quacked at the crowd. An elderly bird stepped forward, carrying a heavy bundle. He placed it on the ground and gently removed its ceremonial blanket of woven leaves.

  Mabel and Jarvis stared at it. It was an ancient metal sign, rusted and discolored, and clearly of great value to this strange tribe of birds. But, despite its obvious age, despite the ravages of centuries gone by, Mabel and Jarvis recognized it immediately. There were similar signs in their own time. In fact, they saw one every weekday. Two children, shown as black silhouettes: one girl and one boy, holding hands above the words . . .

  “SCHOOL CROSSING!” they exclaimed together.

  The crowd broke into a celebratory chorus of quacks. Once again the chief signaled for quiet.

  “You. Skool Crossing.” He pointed at Mabel and Jarvis, then at the sign.

  Ah!

  Mabel looked at the sign. It was clear what was going on now. Mabel and Jarvis looked like the children on the sign! Especially since they were holding hands.

  Holding hands!

  They were still holding hands.

  Mabel quickly let go of Jarvis’s hand. Who knew where it had been? Mabel wiped her palm on her pajama leg.

  The chief pointed at them. “You. Go. Skool.”

  Mabel and Jarvis nodded. It seemed they were getting somewhere at last. They did indeed go to school.

  The chief smiled. “You. Go. Skool. You. Save. Tribe. Kill. Scuttling. Death.”

  Mabel looked at Jarvis. Scuttling Death?

  Mabel didn’t know who or what Scuttling Death was, but it certainly didn’t sound very pleasant. They certainly didn’t study Scuttling Death Killing at her school. Maybe they followed a different syllabus here?

  She smiled politely. “Erm, well, if you don’t mind I think we’d better—”

  The chief interrupted with a quack. “You. Kill. Scuttling. Death . . .” His face darkened to an angry scowl.

  “Or.

  We.

  Kill.

  Your.

  Friends!”

  Chapter 13

  Maryvale High

  Have you ever wound your way on foot through the hot and steaming jungle? Its heat sucks the air from your lungs and its moisture weighs you down. Each step you take feels like ten. Is that vine a venomous snake? Is that nonvenomous snake a poisoned vine? Yes, every shady glade can conceal a parade of potential predators poised to pounce. And that useful stick you are using to fend off thorny vines—why, that is no stick! That is the dreaded bone mantis: a well-camouflaged stick insect that has probably already laid its eggs beneath your fingernails. Make sure you scrub them well this evening or the eggs will hatch and microscopic larvae will burrow into your finger bones to feed on the richly nutritious marrow.

  Mabel Jones and Jarvis picked their way carefully through the undergrowth. Their guide, a fierce-looking egret with nimble feet, looked nervously at the sky. In the jungle, with twilight comes a welcome drop in temperature and an unwelcome rise in crepuscular carnivores.*

  He speared a large spider from the path with his sharpened stick.

  “Dinner,” he quacked.

  Then he broke off one of its legs, took a bite, and offered the rest to Jarvis.

  “I’m all right, actually,” said Jarvis politely.

  The egret shrugged, then carefully wrapped the spider in a large leaf and tucked it safely into his bag.

  “Dessert,” he explained.

  The path wound its way up to the crest of a hill. At the top, the jungle dropped away into a vast valley that swept downward to disappear into the evening mist. A distant hooting echoed through the gloom.

  Mabel paused for breath and adjusted her backpack. They had been equipped with all the essentials of a jungle expedition by the egrets: an oil lamp plundered from the BROWN TROUT, some strange medicinal herbs, and, of course, a pair of ceremonial preserved kidneys taken from one of the egrets’ previous captives.

  She looked at Jarvis. “Somewhere out there is the FORBIDDEN CITY,” she said.

  Their jungle guide looked at her with frightened eyes. “Shhhh! FORBIDDEN CITY so forbidden it forbidden to say ‘FORBIDDEN CITY.’ Many egret lost to dark magic . . .” He looked around the jungle nervously. “Enslaved by Witch Queen!”

  Mabel gulped. “I hope Maggie’s OK.”

  It was dark now. The egret stopped and held up a wing. They had come to a junction in the path.

  “Which way do you think?” asked Mabel, idly scuffing her foot across a small pile of bones on the jungle floor.

  A PILE OF BONES?!

  She stepped backward and knocked over another pile of bones.

  ANOTHER

  PILE

  OF

  BONES?!

  She bent down and picked up a small skull with a long thin beak. It was the remains of a jungle egret!

  Jarvis shuddered. “A victim of the Scuttling Death?”

  Mabel nodded. “The school must be here somewhere. At least we have our loyal guide to help us find it.”

  She turned around to find that their loyal guide had vanished.

  “Where did he go?” asked Jarvis.

  Suddenly there was a strange creak . . .

  Followed by an unusual groan . . .

  And then, without any further warning . . .

  Chapter 14

  A Lovely Picnic in the Park

  Mabel Jones was having a lovely picnic in the park near her house.

  The whole family was there.

  Mom, Dad, even Maggie.

  “Mabel?”

  Mom handed her an egg sandwich. “There you go, love.”

  “Thanks, Mom!”

  She bit into the sandwich and chewed it thoughtfully.

  It was nice to be home.

  “Mabel?”

  Someone was calling her. A voice from far away.

  Go away! Let me have my picnic in peace.

  She took another bite of her sandwich. But now it was different. There was something crunchy in the egg mayonnaise. A bit of shell, maybe? She tried to spit it out but brittle fragments of the stuff seemed to have filled her
mouth . . .

  What’s this I’m eating?

  “Mabel, are you down there?”

  She carefully peeled back the top layer of bread and saw that the filling of her sandwich wasn’t egg mayonnaise but actually the crushed beak of the poor jungle egret upon whose remains she had toppled.

  She shuddered and looked up at her mom.

  But her mom wasn’t her mom anymore.

  Instead, beady eyes shone beneath the whispery eyebrows of Mr. Habib!

  He was reaching across the picnic blanket to touch her nose . . .

  “Your sister is in great danger . . .”

  A fragment of beak choked her. And still Mr. Habib’s paw came closer.

  “The ultimate sacrifice must be made . . .”

  She clawed at her throat, desperate for air.

  “Mabel,

  pleeease

  Answer

  me!”

  And then she woke.

  All around her was dark.

  She groaned. Her whole body ached. She put her hand to her head.

  Blood!

  It’s just a scratch! she told herself sternly. Pull yourself together, Mabel Jones.

  She looked around slowly.

  She was lying on the remains of the table that had broken her fall. An old-looking piece of paper lay across her chest. Mabel peered at it.

  MARYVALE HIGH SCHOOL, said the heading. ADVANCED CALCULUS.

  “An exam paper,” she said thoughtfully.

  Some feet directly above her, the dim moonlight shone through a hole in the ceiling. Jarvis’s head was peering through, his eyes squinting into the darkness.

  “Mabel, are you OK?”

  “I’m fine,” she called. “I think I’ve found the school!”

  Getting on her hands and knees she scrabbled around. Eventually her hand found the familiar-feeling straps of her backpack.

  Carefully she opened the bag and pulled out the oil lamp. It was a bit fiddly, but she managed to light it. Mabel sighed with relief. Somehow everything felt better now that she could see.