by Will Mabbitt
But still they have their heroes. Take Captain Heathcliffe Streep, for example. A particularly handsome pedigree Labrador, with tours of duty in the NOO WORLD and the Dusty Red Mountains that lie west of the Near Far East. Streep is skilled in musketry, horsemanship, saber-wielding, and shouting motivational slogans over the sound of overwhelming enemy cannon fire. Taut muscles strain against his tight red military-issue jacket, and his face radiates good looks and the finest of inbreeding. You can bask in his glory now, for here he is, striding heroically into the room to arrest our three heroes for smuggling.
BUT WAIT! What trickery is this?
Where are Mabel, Omynus, and Jarvis?
They have disappeared!
Captain Heathcliffe Streep, the particularly handsome Labrador, looked along the length of his saber and was relieved to see it was, as always, looking exceedingly sharp and shiny. Then he paced the room, pausing to look from the old stone window across the wet and windy moonlit moor. He shuddered and spun around in his polished boots to raise a suspicious eyebrow at Mother Agnes, Sister Miriam, and the three other nuns that, strangely, we didn’t notice earlier.
Where did those three extra nuns come from?
“You see, it’s really most odd, Mother Agnes. Three sets of footprints lead from the not-so-secret cove straight to your convent, and yet when we arrive to apprehend these smugglers they have disappeared!”
He turned to his sergeant, a similarly attired (but dirtier) sheep.
“Any further developments, Gubbins?”
“No, sir. We’ve circled the convent twice and no tracks lead out. They must still be here, sir!”
He eyed the three nuns suspiciously.
“Sir, do you think it’s possible that the three smugglers have disguised themselves as—”
“Quiet, Gubbins! I’m thinking . . .”
Captain Streep rubbed his muzzle thoughtfully.
“Yes, Mother Agnes. Quite the riddle . . .”
He looked at the three nuns, who stood quietly behind Sister Miriam, heads bowed in quiet contemplation.
“I don’t suppose you three saw anything? Any smugglers? They’d have muddy feet, a bit like those, I suppose.” He pointed at the feet of the tallest nun, who shuffled a muddy rabbit slipper back beneath her habit.
The three nuns shook their heads solemnly.
Mother Agnes smiled politely at the captain.
“I’m afraid these novices have sworn an oath of silence. Now, if you don’t mind, Captain, they must attend to the orphans. Sisters, if you will?”
Gubbins coughed pointedly as the nuns shuffled toward the door.
“Sir, do you think we should at least ask these three nuns to provide some form of identification?”
Streep turned to Gubbins and laughed.
“Paperwork, Gubbins? Really?” He shook his head. “You’ve a lot to learn of the military life, Gubbins. One must always act on instinct! Instinct honed on the field of battle.” His eyes took on a faraway look. “Those were the days. Oh, to be at war again. Better than patrolling these godforsaken moors looking for smugglers! Dash this place! The damp makes my fur completely unmanageable.”
He slashed his saber at an imaginary foe, then paused suddenly to sigh.
“Oh well, they’ve escaped this time. I’m afraid we’ll only be able to hang the goat we found asleep in the cove.”
The first and tallest of the three nuns paused in the doorway and began to turn, as if to say something. Then she stopped, as if the thing she had wanted to say would be better said later, or not at all.
“Here! I’ll get that for you, ma’am,” said Captain Streep, holding the door and bowing politely.
“Thanks,” said the middle-sized nun—sworn to a vow of silence—in a distinctly boyish voice.
“My pleasure,” replied Streep. “What is it now, Gubbins?”
Gubbins was tugging at his sleeve.
“Sir, sir, I really think we should—”
Captain Streep frowned at the sheep.
“Silence, Gubbins!
Any more of your impertinence and I’ll have you before a court martial!”
And, with that, he spun on the heel of his finely polished boot and paced handsomely from the room.
CHAPTER 6
The Creaking Gibbet
Welcome to CRUMBRIDGE, the capital city of ALBEMARLE! But, please, stop dawdling.
There is little time to amble along the gentle RIVER CRUMB, nor to pause to listen to the birdsong that drifts across the calm water, punctuated only by occasional bursts of bad poetry from the courting couples that sit on the river’s grassy banks. There’s less time still to explore the splendid town center: a maze of charming cobbled streets and small squares. And no time at all to behold the historic UNIVERSITY OF CRUMBRIDGE, with its tall and crooked spire that rises high above the rooftops.
Luckily the students of Crumbridge are young and their minds are occupied with complex academic issues. This makes it easier to steal their bicycles.
Pedal fast, reader, while I perch in the basket. We need to get to the main square.
Take a look at this!
I found it glued to a mailbox.
A great injustice is to be committed!
Mabel Jones picked some dried mud from her face and frowned at the large crowd that blocked her way.
The road to CRUMBRIDGE had been long. They had set out as soon as the Redcoats had left the convent, but Pelf and his captors had got a head start, and the pony and cart Mabel and her friends had borrowed from Mother Agnes had been slow—especially since the pony insisted on stopping every half an hour for a manure break.
First he had taken the friends north, along the only road that wound through the moors. Then they turned eastward on the potholed highway that cut a brown scar through the gently rolling countryside. They slept whenever the bumpy road allowed, taking it in turns to steer the grumbling pony.
Now they were in Crumbridge, a beautiful city built on the banks of the gently winding RIVER CRUMB. But Mabel and her friends had no time to admire the cobbled streets or dreaming spires, for their important mission to discover what had happened to the hooman race had been postponed for something even more important . . .
TO RESCUE THEIR FRIEND PELF BEFORE HE WAS
H
A
N
G
E
D
BY THE NECK UNTIL MOST DEFINITELY
DEAD!
Mabel, Jarvis, and Omynus abandoned the pony and pushed through the crowded square. All around, badgers, weasels, moles, and the like were picnicking, chattering, and enjoying the fabulous sunshine that shone down on the grand and beautiful buildings of Crumbridge. The male creatures were all wearing blazers and straw boaters, while parasols and polite blushing were the order of the day for the ladies. A small wolf cub walked through the square, selling tubs of ice cream, mini Albemarle flags, and souvenir execution bookmarks.
“Look!” cried Jarvis.
Rising from the middle of the square, surrounded by a double row of musket-wielding Redcoats, a wooden platform had been erected. On the wooden platform was a timber frame that creaked in the warm breeze. A single rope hung from a beam, and at the end of the rope was tied
. . . A NOOSE!
IT WAS THE CREAKING GIBBET!
And even worse . . .
Standing on a trapdoor on the platform . . .
Head poking through the noose . . .
A smokeless pipe hanging forlornly from his mouth . . .
Stood Pelf.
Mabel’s heart skipped a beat.
Not Pelf.
Please, not my Pelf!
Omynus’s large eyes blinked up at her. A salty tear rolled down his furry face.
“Can we saves him from the deadly dangling, Mabeljones?”
Jarvis put his arm around Omynus’s shoulder.
“Mabel will think of something—won’t you, Mabel?”
Mabel swallowed hard.
But what if I can’t? What if I don’t have a plan this time?
The executioner, a skunk, checked his watch.
A military drummer started a slow drum roll.
The crowd fell into a hushed silence.
And Mabel knew that it was too late.
She tried to push through the soldiers, but it was useless. There were too many. They stood five-deep around the platform.
“PELF!” she cried.
Suddenly Mabel felt a comforting paw on her shoulder and heard a voice in her ear.
“Calm yourself, Mabel Jones. There is another way to save your friend.”
Mabel spun around.
The speaker was an elderly dog dressed in a crumpled corduroy suit, leaning for support upon a battered silver-topped cane.
His eyes sparkled behind a pair of spectacles.
“How do you know my name?” demanded Mabel.
The old hound smiled and his eyes twinkled even more.
“It’s my job to know things, Mabel.” He looked up at the gibbet. “But what I want to know right now is what you would be willing to do to save your friend.”
“Anything!” replied Mabel.
“Anything?”
“Anything! Please!”
The dog smiled and handed Mabel a business card.
Then he turned and limped away into the crowd. As he went, he pulled a faded handkerchief from his corduroy suit and blew his nose.
High above the crowd, a squirrel watching the execution from a bedroom window saw the handkerchief signal and waved a mini ALBEMARLE FLAG.
The wolf cub selling souvenirs saw the flag wave, put his paw to his muzzle, and whistled.
A raccoon in a fedora, sitting at the edge of the platform, heard the whistle, folded his newspaper, and stood up to go the toilet.
The skunk on the platform nodded at the raccoon and stepped away from the trapdoor lever. He walked to the front of the platform, cleared his throat and announced to the waiting crowd: “This particular execution is . . . postponed!”
Pelf was safe.
For now.
CHAPTER 7
Dreadful Boredom Awaits within This Chapter
After another charming bicycle ride through CRUMBRIDGE, we find ourselves on the broad avenue known as PICCALILLI, outside a quaint tea shop. At a table on the street an ancient marmoset lecturer mumbles something to a pretty student over afternoon tea. His fanciful scientific theories are lost on his young companion, who is distracted by the scone crumbs lodged in the professor’s graying whiskers.
Now observe:
Next door to the tea shop is a bookshop. Not an unusual thing in CRUMBRIDGE. It has an unassuming front, the sort one might walk past every day and never really notice. Its sign, in faded and peeling gilt writing, details the shop’s name. A name so mundane the signwriter fell asleep before finishing the job.
Dreary & Snores Antiquarian Books of Minor Interes
An unexpected setting for the next chapter of Mabel Jones’s unlikely adventures, for surely dreadful boredom awaits us inside.
Or maybe . . .
Just maybe . . .
This unassuming shopfront hides a secret.
A very secret
secret indeed.
For if we were to sneak inside, making sure to smother the bell that hangs above the door . . .
If we were to quietly creep past the gray-suited, gray-faced gray goose that sits at his desk, rearranging his gray stationery by the glow of a flickering gaslight . . .
If we were to examine the dusty bookshelf in the darkest corner and observe that, among faded textbooks detailing the finer points of the sandwich industry, one book seems out of place: a worn-out copy of the popular classic
Arbuttle’s I-Spy Mechanized Machines of Warfare . . .
And, if we were to reach for this book and pull it gently from the bookcase we would hear . . .
A click.
A whirring.
And then a
clunk.
And the bookcase would swing open to reveal a secret door to . . .
THE TOP-SECRET HEADQUARTERS OF THE ALBEMARLE TOP-SECRET SERVICE, WHERE A TOP-SECRET MEETING IS ABOUT TO TAKE PLACE!
CHAPTER 8
The Top-Secret Headquarters of the Top-Secret Service
TO: Sir Lockheed Beagle, Head of the Albemarle Top-Secret Service
URGENT. Intercepted communications lead us to believe an enemy spy is operating in Albemarle. See attached file for details.
Regards, Springfeather
Name: Von Klaar
Species: Unknown
Details: All spies are familiar with the legend of the Alsatian master spy known as Von Klaar, but no one has ever managed to reveal his true identity. Von Klaar is a master of disguise, skilled in many languages, and a deadly assassin. He is ruthless in the face of danger and relentless in his mission to further the advancement of the Alsatian Empire, at the expense of our beloved Albemarle (God save the queen!). He should be approached with extreme caution.
Mabel Jones snatched the file from Omynus Hussh’s paw.
“I’m not sure we’re supposed to be reading this,” she whispered, sliding it back into the filing cabinet. “And stop taking things that aren’t yours!”
Omynus Hussh hung his head in shame.
Sir Lockheed Beagle’s secretary, an attractive young chicken by the name of Springfeather, looked up from his typewriter. He peered through thick lenses at the unlikely group before him.
“Sir Lockheed will see you now,” he said.
Sir Lockheed Beagle sat in a black leather chair behind a grand desk in a windowless wood-paneled office. He looked up as Mabel, Jarvis, and Omynus entered.
“So, you are the famous Mabel Jones.”
Mabel Jones scratched her armpit.
“I’m a Mabel Jones. I’m not sure if I’m famous, though.”
Sir Lockheed smiled and his eyes twinkled.
“Well, I’ve heard of you. My sources say you and your . . . erm . . . ASSOCIATES are experienced adventurers, which is just what I need. I’m afraid, though, we can’t release your other friend yet.”
Mabel frowned.
“But it’s not fair! Pelf hasn’t done anything.”
Sir Lockheed sighed. “He was caught with enough tobacco to give a giraffe laryngitis. And he has a record of PIRACY as long as an elephant’s trunk.”
He scratched behind a hairy ear.
“However, I might be able pull a few strings, so to speak . . . But only if you will do something for me first.”
Mabel looked at Jarvis and Omynus. It didn’t seem as if they had any choice.
“OK.”
Sir Lockheed clapped his paws together.
“Excellent! It’s agreed. You help me and I’ll have your friend set free!”
He took a photograph from a drawer and slid it across the desk toward Mabel.
Jarvis gasped.
“It’s the convent!”
Sir Lockheed nodded.
“Indeed! We’ve had it under observation for some time. Who would believe such a humble place once contained something so powerful that the two greatest empires of our time would be in a deadly race to get it. Its name is—”
Outside, there was a flash of lightning, closely followed by a roll of thunder.
“Its name is
THE DOOMSDAY BOOK!”
Sir Lockheed looked Mabel in the eyes as though trying to gauge her reaction.
“I believe you may have heard of it.”
Jarvis nodded.
“We have. We’re—
”
“Just interested in what happened to the hoomans,” interrupted Mabel, looking at Jarvis pointedly. She wasn’t sure she wanted to let Sir Lockheed know that they were looking for the DOOMSDAY BOOK too.
“How can a book be powerful?” she asked Sir Lockheed.
He looked at her over the rim of his teacup.
“Knowledge is power, Mabel Jones. Our scientists inform us that long ago an event happened that wiped the hooman species from this earth. The cause of that event is revealed within the pages of the DOOMSDAY BOOK!”
He shook his head.
“Imagine if that knowledge were to fall into the hands of the Alsatian Empire! And if they used it against our own great nation! What hope is there for the civilized world of ALBEMARLE in the face of such overwhelming power?”
“But the DOOMSDAY BOOK was taken from the convent years ago,” said Mabel.
Sir Lockheed stood up and walked over to a map on the wall. Taking a pencil from the breast pocket of his corduroy suit, he pointed at a city toward the bottom of the map.
“Have you heard of Otom?” he asked.
The three friends shook their heads.
Sir Lockheed’s eyes twinkled. He sat back down at his desk and opened a small folder.
“According to legend, the holy city of Otom was founded nine hundred and ninety-nine years ago from the rubble of a ruined hooman city. It became a center for learning. Indeed most of the great discoveries of our age can be traced back to Otomite scholars working in its Grand Library. Things we now take for granted: geometry, advanced mathematics, how jam gets in the middle of doughnuts. The list is endless.”
He paused briefly to open a pack of cookies.