Amanderella Gottsnobbler and the Bangolin Tree Chapter 16

Chapter 16.

 

Home Journey.

 

The humming of the fruit vibrated faintly through the bundle. “Do stop that,” she murmured. “People will think I’m carrying a beehive.”

The path narrowed again, vines reaching out with the enthusiasm of over‑familiar acquaintances. One attempted to loop itself around her elbow. Amanderella flicked it away with the authority of a woman who had dealt with far worse in boarding houses.

“Absolutely not,” she said. “I am carrying something important.”

The vine retreated.

The Burko river reappeared beside her, running clear and bright now, as though it had been thoroughly scrubbed in her absence. She followed it downstream until the trees thinned and the distant shape of the Good Intentions came into view, rocking gently at anchor, smelling faintly of cinnamon and oil.

Duff Haddersack was waiting at the rail, apron spotless, ladle tucked into his belt like a ceremonial sword. When he saw Amanderella approaching, leaf skirt rustling, bundle in arms, he straightened with the solemnity of a man about to receive a royal relic. He blinked once at the skirt and wisely said nothing about it.

“Miss Gottsnobbler,” he said, bowing slightly. “Is that what you came for?”

“It is,” Amanderella replied. “And it hums. Do not let it roll.”

The humming was soft, polite, and entirely self‑satisfied.

Duff accepted the bundle with both hands, holding it as though it might explode into confetti at any moment. The humming deepened, as if acknowledging the transfer of responsibility.

“This way,” he whispered, as though the fruit required quiet.

He led her to the pantry, cool, dim, and fragrant with South Seas spices. Cinnamon logs were stacked like polite firewood. Peppercorn sacks bulged ominously. A crate of star anise rattled faintly, as though applauding.

Duff cleared a space on the middle shelf, laid down a folded tea towel, and placed the fruit bundle upon it with reverence.

“There,” he said. “Safe as anything.”

The fruit hummed once, approvingly.

Duff nodded. “I’ll check on it every hour. More often if the cinnamon shifts.”

Amanderella approved. “Excellent. Do not let the cat in.”

Duff shuddered. “Perish the thought.”

When Amanderella emerged from the pantry, Captain Brimblewick was waiting on deck, hat at a jaunty angle that suggested he had recently survived a gust of wind.

Brimblewick tipped his hat. “Welcome back aboard, Lady Gottsnobbler. We have exchanged our cargo of beeswax, salt, kitchen utensils, and woollen tea‑cosies for spices. The holds and every empty space are full, so we can sail home without having to visit any other places.”

“Woollen tea‑cosies?” Amanderella pondered.

“Very useful for keeping drinks cool in a hot climate,” said Brimblewick.

“Successful expedition, Lady Gottsnobbler?” he asked.

“Entirely,” she replied.

Brimblewick nodded, then paused. His eyes travelled, politely, cautiously, to the leaf skirt. He blinked once, twice, as though trying to decide whether it was a new fashion, a botanical accident, or a diplomatic statement.

“I see,” he said at last, with the diplomacy of a man choosing every word as though it were made of glass. “You have adapted to local conditions.”

Amanderella inclined her head. “Temporarily.”

“Quite right,” Brimblewick said. “The jungle can be… persuasive.”

“It was a matter of decency,” Amanderella replied.

“Of course,” Brimblewick said, though his expression suggested he had many questions and intended to ask none of them.

He cleared his throat. “We sail on the tide. Straight home. The holds are full of spices and the crew are afraid to sneeze.”

“Very sensible,” Amanderella said.

Amanderella retired to her cabin and made herself even more respectable by putting on her other ankle‑length dress.

The Good Intentions made excellent time once Burkoland slipped below the horizon. With no harbours to tempt them and the holds packed tight with South Seas spices, Captain Brimblewick kept the sails full and the course unwavering.

The cinnamon logs shifted only twice.
The star anise rattled only when it felt strongly about something. And Duff Haddersack guarded the pantry door with the solemnity of a man protecting a crown jewel.

Amanderella spent the voyage restoring her wardrobe, amending her notes, and ignoring the faint humming that drifted up from the pantry whenever the ship rolled. She checked on the fruit daily, though Duff insisted on performing the actual inspections himself.

“It’s safer if I do it,” he said, ladle tucked under his arm like a ceremonial baton. “You never know what spices might be listening.”

Amanderella did not argue. The fruit remained intact, the humming remained steady, and the leaf skirt was retired with full honours the moment her trunk was retrieved from the captain’s stores.

After a few weeks of steady sailing, the air grew cooler, the sea grew busier, and the familiar outline of the capital’s harbour rose ahead, chimneys, cranes, and the comforting smell of coal smoke drifting across the water.

Brimblewick adjusted his hat to its most respectable angle. “Home, Lady Gottsnobbler,” he said.

Amanderella closed her notebook with a decisive snap. “Excellent. I have an appointment with three spectacle makers and a fruit that hums.”

Duff appeared at her elbow, pantry key in hand, expression grave.

“It’s ready,” he said. “Still humming. Still whole. Still in the middle of the shelf where I left it.”

“Thank you, Mr Haddersack,” Amanderella replied. “Your vigilance has been exemplary.”

Duff blushed the colour of very strong tea.

The Good Intentions glided into its berth with a final creak of satisfaction. Ropes were thrown, crates were shifted, and the scent of cinnamon drifted across the dock like a polite announcement. They shifted as if relieved to have arrived safely.

The ship had barely finished tying up when Duff Haddersack appeared on deck,apron immaculate, ladle tucked into his belt, and the fruit bundle held in both hands like a sacred relic. The dress wrapping was still in place, tied neatly around the humming weight within.

The cat, whatever its name was today, watched them go, tail flicking, clearly convinced it could have carried the fruit far better if anyone had bothered to ask.

Amanderella followed Duff down the gangplank, boots clicking briskly on the wooden boards. Captain Brimblewick came last, straightening his coat and adjusting his hat to its most respectable angle, as though preparing for an inspection.

The harbour master was waiting for them, with a ledger under one arm and the expression of someone who had been guarding something valuable and was ready to be rid of the responsibility.

“Captain Brimblewick,” he said, producing a small velvet pouch with a flourish, “your gold coin, held in trust pending the lady’s safe return.”

Brimblewick accepted it with reverence, loosened the drawstring, and allowed the gleam of the coin to wink up at him.

“Ah,” he breathed. “My retainer.”

Amanderella inclined her head. “For services rendered, Captain. You earned it.”

Brimblewick tucked the pouch into his coat with the solemnity of a man storing away a family heirloom. “Much obliged, Lady Gottsnobbler. Much obliged indeed.”

With that settled, they made their way up the High Street. Duff walked ahead, fruit bundle held high and steady, moving with the careful tread of a man carrying something that hummed and might have opinions about being jostled. Amanderella navigated with brisk certainty, left at the bakery, right at the ironmongers, until they reached the corner shop with the modest sign Bespoke Spectacles over the door.

Inside, Quicklens, Swiftgaze, and Motethrifters looked up from their benches in perfect, startled unison. Three pairs of spectacles flashed. Three polishing cloths froze mid‑swipe. Three mouths opened just slightly, as though preparing to gasp but not quite agreeing on who should go first.

Duff stepped forward, holding the humming bundle with the solemnity of a royal page.

Amanderella nodded once, businesslike.

“Gentlemen,” she said, “your fruit has arrived.”

Amanderella returned to her lodgings. Mrs Gaffletter looked at the mud‑free boots and the neatness of the luggage. She breathed in deeply, not a sigh, but a sigh‑shaped event of pure relief.

“I trust,” the landlady said, “that the jungle has been thoroughly removed from your system, Lady Amanderella. I have aired the room and ensured the doilies are properly placed on the table. Tea is at four.”

“Thank you, Mrs Gaffletter,” Amanderella replied. “It is good to be back. The jungle was… informative. And as damp as you suggested. And it lacked a proper teapot.”

Amanderella took out her pencil one last time, smoothed the page, and wrote with her usual steady hand:

Project: The Bangolin Restoration
Status: Complete
Observations:
• The Tree: Successfully located. (Note: Ensure future explorers check the calendar for Tuesdays.)
• The Fruit: Delivered intact. (Still humming; appears to be enjoying the attention.)
• The Crew: Reliable, despite a tendency toward “enthusiastic” navigation and highly opinionated sausages.
• Personal Note: A leaf‑skirt is surprisingly draughty, but entirely respectable in a professional emergency.

Conclusion: The world remains full of blank patches. I shall require a new notebook by Monday.