Amanderella and the Ppockingstull Treasure Chapter 9

Chapter 9.

 

Examining the Map.

 

Maudline led Amanderella along a series of dusty passages that twisted and turned like a maze designed by someone who had never quite made up their mind. Cobwebs drifted from the beams.

But then, they stepped into a kitchen so unexpectedly clean that Amanderella stopped in her tracks.

Sunlight poured through a high window, turning the flagstones gold. The long wooden table was scrubbed to a soft shine. Copper pans hung in neat rows, polished to the point of smugness. Even the air smelled wholesome, warm bread, a hint of herbs, and something faintly lemony.

Maudline beamed. “I keep this room tidy. It’s the only place in the house where things don’t fall on your head.”

Bread, butter, ham and pickled onions were soon unearthed, as was another tin of the fruit cake. Maudline thumped it onto the table with the pride of someone presenting a national treasure.

“This one’s from last winter,” she said. “A good year for fruit cake. Very dense. Could stop a door.”

Amanderella sliced the bread with neat precision. “We’ll need food if we’re going back out.”

“Oh yes,” Maudline agreed. “Clue‑hunting is hungry work. And the orchard area is always windy. And full of rooks who try to steal your sandwiches.”

“Sandwich  stealing birds?” Amanderella sounded surprised

“Only if you’re careless,” Maudline said, buttering a slice with vigorous strokes. “Or if you’re holding them near the old hedgerow.

The faux fur  fox, perched on a chair, watched the proceedings with glass‑eyed solemnity, as though supervising lunch.

Amanderella wrapped the sandwiches neatly. “Right. Once we’ve eaten, we’ll check the landmarks

Maudline nodded, mouth full of ham. “Excellent. Outdoor reconnaissance. I’ll fetch my boots.”

She strode off, leaving the faux fox perched on the table like a startled owl.

Amanderella tucked the map into her satchel and followed her out into the hallway. The umbrella stand wobbled threateningly but did not attack.

Outside, the air was crisp and bright. The oak tree growing through the gatekeeper’s hut rustled as if offering encouragement.

Maudline emerged wearing boots that looked as though they had survived several expeditions and possibly a minor explosion. “Right! The boar statue should be somewhere north of the old orchard. Or south. Or possibly sideways.”

Amanderella consulted the map. “North. Definitely north.”

They set off across the grounds.

The modern landscape was a patchwork of overgrown hedges, lopsided fences, and mysterious lumps that might have been flowerbeds or abandoned laundry baskets. Birds flitted overhead. A squirrel watched them with deep suspicion.

Amanderella stopped beside a tangle of brambles. “According to the map, the orchard was here.”

Maudline peered at the brambles. “It’s… changed.”

“It’s vanished,” Amanderella said. “Completely.”

Maudline brightened. “Then the boar statue must be next!”

They continued on, following the faint rise of the land. Amanderella checked the map every few steps, her boots squeaking thoughtfully.

Then she stopped.

“There,” she said quietly.

Half‑buried in nettles, leaning at a heroic angle, was a stone shape. It was so worn by time and weather that it looked like a lumpy boulder with aspirations.

Maudline gasped. “The boar! Or… what’s left of it.”

Amanderella brushed away a handful of leaves. “You can still see the snout. Sort of.”

The stone boar faced north, just as the clue had said.

Amanderella crouched, studying the angle of the snout with the seriousness of someone examining a priceless artefact rather than a mossy lump pretending to be a pig.

“Right,” she murmured. “If the boar faces north, then at the end of the day the sun will be in the west. So, its shadow will fall… this way.”

She pointed eastwards, across a patch of uneven grass.

Maudline bounced on her toes. “So, we follow the shadow!”

Amanderella nodded. “Exactly. The clue says ‘Where shadows fall at end of day’. That means the digging spot is where the boar’s sunset shadow reaches.”

Maudline shaded her eyes dramatically, even though it wasn’t remotely sunset. “Can we work it out now?”

Amanderella stood, brushing moss from her hands. “If the boar points the way, then whatever we’re looking for must be somewhere in front of it.”

Maudline nodded eagerly. “So, we walk where its nose is pointing.”

They stepped past the nettles and began to move slowly across the grass, following the invisible line of the boar’s snout. The faux fox bobbed under Maudline’s arm like a furry compass.

Amanderella paused every few steps, testing the ground with the toe of her boot. “The clue says the earth will be thin. So, we’re looking for softer soil… or a dip… or something that doesn’t match the rest.”

Maudline crouched and poked at a tuft of grass. “This bit feels suspicious. In a friendly way.”

A few paces further on, Amanderella stopped. “Here.” Half hidden under moss and a scatter of last year’s leaves lay a small, square paving stone. It was no bigger than a dinner plate, but its edges were too straight, too deliberate, to be natural.

Amanderella knelt beside it. “This is it. They covered the digging spot.”

Maudline brushed away the moss with the sleeve of her coat. “Clever old Barnabull Ppockingstull.”

Amanderella slid her fingers under one edge. “Help me lift it.”

Together they eased the slab up. It came away with a soft sucking sound, revealing a neat patch of darker soil beneath, soil that had clearly been disturbed long ago.

Maudline’s eyes shone. “Thin earth!”

Amanderella nodded, excitement fizzing through her. “Then this is where we dig.”

Maudline was already rummaging in her satchel. “I brought a trowel. And a spoon. And a fork, in case the ground is feeling delicate.”

Amanderella smiled. “Let’s start carefully.”

Maudline did not wait for instructions.

She plunged her trowel into the earth with the enthusiasm of someone attacking a particularly stubborn pudding. Soil flew in all directions. A clod hit the faux fox, which toppled backwards with a muffled whump and acquired a dusty moustache.

“Careful!” Amanderella said, kneeling beside her. “We don’t know how deep it is.”

Maudline paused mid‑scoop. “Deep enough to hide treasure, I hope.”

Amanderella took out a small spoon, the sort used for jam, not archaeology, but she wielded it with great seriousness. She scraped gently at the soil, revealing layers of darker earth beneath the loose top.

“See?” she murmured. “This part is different. Someone dug here before.”

Maudline leaned in so close her nose almost touched the ground. “I hope it wasn’t someone after the treasure”

“We may never know,” Amanderella said, brushing aside another thin layer.

Then Amanderella’s spoon clicked against something. She froze. “There’s something here.”

Maudline let out a squeak that startled a nearby rook

Together they cleared the soil away, revealing a small, square tin, rusted at the edges but still intact. Amanderella lifted it gently, brushing off the last of the earth.

The lid came away with a soft crack.

Inside, cushioned in a scrap of waxed cloth, lay a copper token. It was greenish with age, its surface mottled, but the engraving was still clear enough to see:

A crooked lane, winding like a lazy snake.

And beneath it, in tiny, determined letters:

“Seek the oak that kneels to the storm” Maudline clapped her hands. “A clue! A proper clue! Oh, this is marvellous.”

Amanderella held the token up to the light, her eyes bright. “Then our next landmark is the fallen oak.”