by Will Mabbitt
“This toxic slime has grown into an evil canker within these city walls. A growth that, if left unchecked, will spread like the wicked warts of sin across our beautiful city. Yes, there are those among us who wish evil upon Otom, those of us who wish evil upon the Grand Zhool himself and thus upon the sacred memory of St. Statham.”
Jarvis looked up from the organ.
“What was the last thing the Cryptogog said again?” he asked Mabel.
“Shh! I’m listening.”
Jarvis tugged her pajama sleeve.
“Mabel?”
“He said ‘cabbage.’ Maybe he was hungry . . .”
Mabel trailed off. Something had caught her eye.
Far below, the unmistakable conical hat of Govvel was moving slowly down the aisle. A troop of soldiers followed at his heels.
And behind them?
The bound and blindfolded forms of Sir Timothy Speke and Carruthers Badger-Badger!
THEY HAD BEEN CAPTURED!
The sinister procession stopped beneath the large dome of the cathedral as the Grand Zhool continued to speak, his jowls flapping with rage.
“Yes, an evil that must be rooted out like a rotten tooth. For last night an attempt was made on the life of the Grand Zhool by agents of a foreign power!”
The crowd gasped.
The Grand Zhool pointed a pudgy finger at Speke and Carruthers.
“The Fur Coat of Righteousness will decide their fate!”
Mabel gasped. She’d seen what the Fur Coat of Righteousness could do. Speke and Carruthers had no chance.
THERE WAS NOT A MOMENT TO LOSE!
“My name is Mabel Jones, and I’m not scared of anything!”
And, with that cry, brave, foolish Mabel Jones leaped from the balcony on to a hanging tapestry that, unlike in almost every movie she had ever seen and every book she had ever read, immediately tore free of its supporting hooks, sending her falling to the ground below, her skull striking hard against the cold stone floor of the cathedral.
Well, that’s what would have happened, had not a bear on a pilgrimage from the Baltic Mountains cushioned her fall with his soft and ample pre-hibernation coat.
Apologizing, Mabel Jones stood up.
Then she looked around.
The whole congregation was staring at her.
The wet-lipped gopher was staring.
The Grand Zhool was staring.
In fact, the only person not looking at her was Jarvis, who hadn’t even noticed her jump to the rescue of their friends. His mind was elsewhere and, if we were near enough to hear (which we are not, but if we were), then we would have heard him mutter to himself:
“‘Cabbage?’”
There was something strange about that word. Something about the letters . . .
And, if we were near enough to see (which we are not, but if we were), we would see him scratch his chin and look at the organ keyboard thoughtfully.
But we are not there. We are here. Concealed at the back of the congregation. Watching as the Grand Zhool stares upon the nightmare that has appeared before him.
His face wore a look of pure revulsion. “A hooman!”
His lips curled back, revealing his huge bone-white tombstone teeth.
“SEIZE THE ABOMINATION!”
All around the cathedral, the Grand Zhool’s Personal Guard drew their swords and advanced on Mabel Jones.
Surrounded on all sides, she pulled the cutlass from her belt and cut the bonds that held her friends.
“I say, we’re free!” cried Speke.
He removed his blindfold and surveyed the scene.
“Oh!”
“Don’t despair,” shouted Carruthers gruffly. “These halfwits haven’t reckoned with the genius gadgetry of the ALBEMARLE TOP-SECRET SERVICE!”
Carruthers straightened his arm and pressed a cufflink with his paw.
Somewhere within his jacket, microscopic clockwork machinery released a spring, and from his shirt sleeve emerged a . . .
crumpet fork?
He glared at the toasting implement in fury.
“Where’s the concealed blunderbuss?” He turned to look at Speke. “Timothy, you didn’t?”
Speke twiddled his thumbs nervously.
“Well, I asked the engineers back in Crumbridge to make some small improvements,” he explained, pulling a crumpet from a secret compartment in his shoe heel. “In case we found ourselves in need of an Emergency Tea.”
The Grand Zhool stepped forward through the ring of soldiers.
“ENOUGH!” he roared. “Their time has come!”
His coat started to move.
Bright eyes blinked from within the soft shampooed fur.
Claws were extended.
The weasels were waking!
The cathedral fell into a hushed and horrified silence, and if someone had happened to have had a pin and accidentally dropped it then you probably would’ve heard it. Unless they dropped it onto a carpet or something like that.
Then a tuneless wailing filled the air. A long honking groan that built until it echoed all around the vast cathedral.
It was the drone of the ancient pipe organ. The same organ once played by the former organist of the Grand Cathedral of Otom, the Cryptogog!
And those of you blessed with the pitch-perfect ears of a particularly pitch-perfect pipistrelle will be able to identify the note played.
The same letter being silently mouthed, high above the action, by the concentrating Jarvis.
“Middle C,” he says to himself, his eyes fixed on the keyboard.
Then Jarvis plays an A and the drone changes.
Then a B, then another B.
Then the A again.
Then G.
And finally an E.
The word “CABBAGE” spelled out in musical notes!
As the last note died away, it was replaced with a scraping and a scratching sound. A flagstone slowly slid open in the floor of the cathedral.
And emerging from the dark and dusty hole . . .
Rising slowly from the blackness . . .
A stone coffin carved into the shape of a sleeping lion, his front paws lying crossed upon his chest, his stone mane cascading around his shoulders.
The pilgrim bear gasped aloud.
“BEHOLD! IT IS THE SARCOPHAGUS OF ST. STATHAM!”
And then the front of the sarcophagus slowly swung open, revealing the dried and crumbling remains of St. Statham himself.
And look!
Can you see it?
There!
Clutched in the shriveled arms of the saintly lion!
A book!
A dusty old notebook! Its title, hastily scribbled in ballpoint pen, was a single, spidery word:
Doomsday
CHAPTER 27
The Revolution
Some claim that cleanliness is to be admired.
I’d warrant this is, in part, true. I myself take an annual bath. Naturally I stay clear of soap, for the scent masks my natural musk, which is a source of great conversation wherever I go.
Still, one must also be aware of the virtue of dirt. For without dirt there can be no cleanliness. Without a dirty hankie, there can be no unblocked nose. Without dirty knees, there can be no match-winning SLIDING TACKLE. And without the stinking sewer there can be no CLEAN CITY.
And it was from this sewer he came. From a broken grate beside the font, leaning on an ancient cotton swab plucked from the congealed slopes of the underground FATBERG. Findus the rat!
“Down with the Grand Zhool!” he cried. “Up with the revolution!”
The congregation turned to look at the Grand Zhool. Who dared challenge his rule?
The Grand Zhool moved to face his new challenger and laughed wickedly, his lar
ge tombstone teeth clacking together with each booming ha!
“More filthy vermin!” The smile died from his snout. “Kill him.”
And, at those dreadful words, the Fur Coat of Righteousness sprang into life. Bounding down the aisle toward Findus went a slavering, bloodthirsty troop of weasels!
Findus raised the dirty cotton swab above his head and squeaked loudly.
And suddenly the cathedral swarmed with rats.
A column of furry soldiers raced up from the broken grate.
His comrades.
His colony.
His family.
The weasels met the wave of rats head on in a mass of fur and claws. But still the rats surged forward, like a never-ending wave. The weasels were overwhelmed!
Govvel’s eyes darted toward the exit. He licked his lips.
“Your Grace,” he said, “perhaps it might be prudent to, er, retreat to the palace?”
The Grand Zhool snarled. He turned back to face Mabel, Carruthers, and Speke just in time to see Mabel reaching into the coffin and plucking the DOOMSDAY BOOK from the grasp of St. Statham.
“You,” he growled. “It’s you who has caused all this. A filthy, stinking hooman.”
And he drew a silver dagger from his pocket and stalked toward Mabel Jones!
Mabel raised her cutlass and they circled each other warily.
Then the Grand Zhool attacked.
He was fast, his colossal rippling bulk moving in the blink of an eye. Mabel’s cutlass bounced harmlessly off his leathery hide. He grabbed her with one hand and hurled her against the stone coffin, setting the great sarcophagus rocking. The impact knocked the wind from Mabel’s lungs and some, if not all, of the hope from her heart.
She gazed up at the Grand Zhool and weakly raised her cutlass.
Taking a handkerchief from his white robes, he hurriedly wiped his hands.
“Filthy creature,” he muttered.
Then he raised the silver dagger high above his head and prepared to stab it deep into the body of Mabel Jones.
“May St. Statham have no mercy on your rotten, festering, criminal soul!”
A PAW CAUGHT HIS WRIST!
Speke!
“I say, this is intolerable!” he cried. “Dash it all! I’m really quite upset.”
For a moment, Speke’s trembling muscles strained against the strength of the Grand Zhool. But no otter is strong enough to grapple with a hippo.
With a sudden jerk, the Grand Zhool stabbed the dagger with as much force as he could muster into Speke’s heart.
Speke staggered backward.
“C-c-cripes!” he stammered.
Then he fell to the floor.
Carruthers knelt by his side, cradling his friend in his arms.
“Timothy. Oh, my Timothy!”
Speke’s eyelids fluttered.
“Who is it?” he whispered weakly.
“It is I, Carruthers.”
“Nanny Mimsy?”
Carruthers frowned.
“No, it’s CARRUTHERS!”
“Kiss me goodnight, Mimsy, so I shall have sweet dreams . . .”
Carruthers leaned forward and kissed his best friend on the forehead.
“Goodnight, sweet Timmy.”
But there was no reply.
Gently he laid his friend’s head on the cold stone floor.
The Grand Zhool smiled wickedly.
“Much as I enjoyed that heartwarming death scene, I believe we have unfinished business.”
But, just as he finished making this cruel jibe, the Grand Zhool looked up in horror!
The giant sarcophagus, set rocking by the impact of Mabel Jones, was teetering toward him. The crumbling remains of St. Statham leaned precariously from their final resting place, fixing the Grand Zhool with a hollow-eyed empty-socket stare.
And then the coffin fell forward.
Two tons of solid marble.
The Zhool’s huge jaw gaped open. He flung his huge flabby arms in front of his face to protect himself, but it was futile.
No beast, not even one of his
tremendous size,
could survive the crushing weight.
The vast stone sarcophagus lay facedown on the floor of the cathedral.
St. Statham had shown his displeasure.
THE GRAND ZHOOL WAS DEAD.
Mabel shrank away from the grisly sight. Jarvis and Omynus ran down the aisle toward her.
Jarvis ducked as a gunshot ricocheted off a marble pillar behind him and shattered a stained-glass window.
“We need to get out of here!”
Beneath the dome, a battle was raging between the Grand Zhool’s soldiers and the angry rats of the FATBERG.
Carruthers hauled the fallen form of Speke over his shoulder. Tears were streaming down his furry cheeks.
“Oh, Timmy! You were always my hero!”
And, together, the gang of bruised and battered friends raced from the cathedral.
CHAPTER 28
The Last Words of Sir Timothy Speke
Mabel watched from the stern of the Sunbeam as the city of Otom disappeared into the distance.
Their mission was complete. The DOOMSDAY BOOK had been recovered. For now, ALBEMARLE was safe. And Pelf too. Maybe even the hooman race could be saved. But at what cost? Speke. Poor, dear Speke . . .
Dearest Nanny Mimsy,
If you are reading this, then I have been killed. Please apologize to Mother on my behalf. And please, Nanny Mimsy, dear sweet Nanny Mimsy, dry your sweet and wrinkly eyes. Think not of the talented young otter kit you raised in the nurseries of Speke Towers Country Estate and the exclusive-addressed townhouse we occupied when Mother was on her shopping trips in Crumbridge. Instead, think of Sir Timothy Speke, secret agent, who fought for the noblest of causes. Think of an otter who died defending his country from insidious foreign powers. Think of an otter who would have made his father proud.
I love you, Nanny Mimsy.
God save the queen!
Timmy x
In the cabin Professor Carruthers Badger-Badger took a deep breath and pressed Speke’s letter to his heart.
He looked at Mabel.
“They say that sadness is just a chemical reaction that occurs within the body. It seems irrational that, knowing this, I can’t suppress this feeling of hopeless, hopeless gloom . . .” He wiped a tear from his eye. “This dashed wind!”
Mabel put her hand on his shoulder. She wished she had something to say. Some words that would make everything all right. But she didn’t. How could she? There were no words that could.
Carruthers swallowed hard.
“Mabel, Speke’s passing leaves me with the blackest of holes in that part of my heart that science can’t define. The part that stores my deepest feelings.” He let out a stifled sob. “Oh, Mabel, he was a true friend. The best friend one could ever wish for.”
He turned his tear-streaked muzzle toward her. And his eyes widened in horror!
“Mabel, WATCH OUT!”
A slim wet-lipped gopher had stepped from the shadows.
Govvel.
He was holding the Zhool’s dagger, but in his tiny paws it was like a sword. And its sharp end was pressed against the back of Mabel Jones.
“You’ve ruined everything, hooman. Ten years I spent groveling to that fat hippopotamus! And finally, just when all those sponge baths had paid off, when I was a somebody, the second most powerful creature in the holy city of Otom—you come along!”
Mabel winced as she felt the cold metal against her skin.
“You’ve ruined everything!”
There was a cough from the floor.
Sir Timothy Speke sat up and shook his head.
“Good morning, Mother,” he said. “
I think I must’ve fainted!”
He winced, reached into his waistcoat pocket and removed his father’s medal. Bent, but not broken, from the thrust of the Grand Zhool’s silver dagger.
“My goodness!” He looked around the room at the boggling faces before him. “Father’s medal. It saved my life!”
And, taking advantage of the distraction, Mabel Jones slipped from Govvel’s grip and leaped around to face him, cutlass in hand.
But this time she wasn’t fast enough.
With a hateful grimace, Govvel thrust the blade toward her chest . . .
CHAPTER 29
The Deadly Schphzzz!
CHAPTER 30
The Aftermath of the Deadly Schphzzz!
On my travels I’ve had many encounters with venomous creatures. I’ve trodden on the annoyingly well-hidden slipper toad, sat on the wrong end of a cushion cobra, and sucked the venom from a bum punctured by the poisoned spur of a particularly aggressive platypus. However, there is nothing more deadly than the thick and sticky liquid hand-wrung from the warty-skinned venomous amphibian Herbert’s newt.
Once in your blood it acts fast. As it travels around your body, it causes spasms, constrictions, contortions, and seven of the twelve main types of grimace. By the time it gets to your heart, all is lost.
In the cabin of the Sunbeam time stands still.
Still enough for us to investigate this frozen slice of a nanosecond. Let us dissect this dreadful segment of impending death.
Mabel Jones is facing the sunken-faced gopher Govvel.
Govvel stands before her, the Grand Zhool’s dagger gripped between both paws and thrusting toward the chest of Mabel Jones.
Sir Timothy Speke sits confused, his father’s medal still clutched in his paw.
Carruthers and Jarvis are lunging for Govvel, desperation in their eyes.
Look harder still.
There is the elusive Omynus Hussh, shifty character that he is, paused in the act of riffling through the trouser pockets of the stricken Speke. For what purpose, we don’t know—but I’m sure there’ll be a perfectly rational explanation later.