Amanderella Gottsnobbler and the Bangolin Tree Chapter 10

Chapter 10

 

Good Intentions.

 

Amanderella did not start with “Where is Burkoland?” That would have been far too obvious, and far too dependent on other people’s incompetence.

Instead, she began with: “Where is Burkoland not?”

She pulled down atlases, travelogues, botanical surveys, shipping records, and a rather battered volume titled Places of No Particular Importance.

One by one, she eliminated possibilities:

Not Britain — too few vines, too many umbrellas.
Not South America — she had been there; the monkeys would have mentioned it.
Not Europe — too many railways, not enough humidity.
Not Africa — the vines there were the wrong sort; Burkoland vines were said to be “opinionated.”
Not Asia — too well mapped; Burkoland would have been labelled, even if incorrectly.
Not Australia — the vines there tended to bite back.

She made neat, decisive notes:

Burkoland: tropical or subtropical. Humid. Remote. Avoids cartographers.

Only then did she turn to an atlas of the South Sea islands.

She traced the archipelagos with her pencil, cross‑referencing the clues again.

Every island she examined was either:

• entirely coastline
• entirely mountain
• entirely swamp
• or, in one regrettable case, all three at once

She wrote:

South Sea islands: eliminated.

Amanderella sat back, tapping her pencil.

“If it is not in South America, not in Africa, not in Asia, not in Australia, and not in the South Seas,” she murmured, “then it must be somewhere else.”

She reached for a volume on tropical river systems.

A map unfolded across the table like a well‑behaved relative of the spectacle makers’ creation.

There, winding inland from the eastern coast, was a river labelled Burko.

Amanderella tapped it.

“Not coastal. Not mountainous. Not swamp.
Tropical. Humid. Inconvenient. Perfect.”

`        She drew a neat circle far upriver, deep in the interior. Burkoland: here.

Satisfied, she closed the atlas with a decisive snap.

Then she found something interesting.

In a dusty ledger of maritime routes, she noticed a pattern:

Several small cargo vessels, the sort that delivered crates of unimportant but essential goods, made occasional stops at a place listed only as:

‘Upriver — weather permitting’.

No coordinates.
No description.
No notes.

Amanderella tapped her pencil against the page.

She closed the ledger, straightened her hat, and stood.

Burkoland was not a place one found by following a map.

She was sure she had read somewhere that when one had eliminated the impossible, whatever remained, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.

Harbour Master Trumpuffer’s job was to keep order, fill in forms, and prevent captains from sinking each other out of spite. He took all three duties seriously, though the last required the most shouting.

He looked up as Amanderella entered his office, his expression settling into the wary neutrality of a man who suspected he was about to be asked something unreasonable.

“You’re the young lady who arrived on that SS Pedal Power contraption,” he said. “Dockhands still talk about it. Mostly when complaining.”

Amanderella inclined her head. “Good afternoon, Harbour Master. I’m looking for a vessel that travels upriver. Somewhere beyond the usual charts.”

Trumpuffer’s eyebrows rose a fraction,the Harbour Master’s equivalent of falling off his chair.

“Upriver,” he repeated, as though tasting the word and finding it full of mud, mosquitoes, and administrative inconvenience. “Most folk avoid that direction. On account of the river doing things rivers aren’t supposed to do.”

“That is why I require one,” Amanderella said, opening her notebook to the circled blank patch. “This place may or may not exist. Either way, it needs investigating.”

Trumpuffer leaned forward, squinting at the map. “Ah. One of those blank spots. The sort that moves when you’re not looking at it.”

Amanderella did not dignify that with a comment.

Trumpuffer sighed, the long, weather‑beaten sigh of a man who had spent decades dealing with captains, tides, and now determined young women with notebooks.

“Well,” he said at last, “there’s only one vessel that goes anywhere near that sort of nonsense. Small cargo boat. Name of the Good Intentions. Captain’s a stubborn fellow. Thinks charts are ‘suggestions’ and that the sea respects confidence.”

Amanderella approved of this. “Where is it berthed?”

“Fourth quay along,” Trumpuffer said. “If the captain’s aboard, he’ll be repairing something that wasn’t broken until he touched it.”

Amanderella closed her notebook. “Thank you, Harbour Master. You’ve been most helpful.”

Trumpuffer grunted, which in his dialect meant I have a bad feeling about this but I can’t stop you.

As she turned to go, he added, “If you do find that place, try not to bring back anything that whistles, wriggles, or climbs the ropes and masts of the ships. The harbour’s had enough excitement for one season.”

Amanderella gave him a reassuring nod and stepped out into the sunlight, leaving Trumpuffer thinking about blank patches on maps as though they might demand mooring fees at any moment.

The Good Intentions was exactly where Harbour Master Trumpuffer had said it would be: fourth quay along, tied to the bollards with the sort of knots that suggested the captain trusted neither rope, tide, nor the general behaviour of boats.

It was a compact, sturdy vessel, not quite shabby, not quite respectable, with an air of having survived several journeys it had not agreed to undertake.

Amanderella approved.

A man in a tar‑stained jumper was on deck, repairing something that had almost certainly been working perfectly well before he touched it. He glanced up as she approached. “You looking for passage?” he asked, as though bracing for disappointment.

“Yes,” Amanderella said. “To an upriver destination.”

The man blinked once. “Right. I’ll fetch the captain.”

He vanished below deck with the look of someone who had given up on having a quiet day.

Amanderella made a neat note in her book:

Boat located. Captain forthcoming. Vessel appears seaworthy, if slightly offended.

A hatch clattered open and a voice drifted up before the man himself appeared. “Who’s asking for me now? If it’s about the anchor, I told you it was only on fire for a moment.”

A head emerged, then shoulders, and finally the rest of Captain Nicoteenus Brimblewick, a man who looked as though he had been assembled from spare nautical parts and then lightly smoked for flavour. His hair stood up in windswept defiance, and his coat bore scorch marks that suggested a long and complicated relationship with lanterns.

He blinked at Amanderella, taking her in with the wary curiosity of someone who had learned to expect trouble in polite packaging.

“You’ll be the passage‑seeker, then,” he said. “To an upriver destination, I’m told.”

“Yes,” Amanderella replied.

Brimblewick nodded slowly, as though confirming a suspicion he’d had since breakfast. “Upriver places are rarely grateful to be visited. Still, the Good Intentions has been to worse places. Not always on purpose.”

Amanderella made another neat note:

Captain located. Appears competent, if slightly scorched.

Brimblewick peered at her notebook. “You take notes. Good. Someone should.”

He straightened, dusted a mysterious fleck of soot from his sleeve, and said, “Fetch your luggage, Miss. We sail on the tide, assuming it behaves itself.”

Amanderella closed her notebook. “Before I do, I should settle the fare.”

Brimblewick blinked, as though she had offered him a philosophical puzzle. “The fare,” he repeated. “Most passengers argue about it first.”

“I do not argue,” Amanderella said. “I pay.”

She turned slightly away, a subtle shift, polite but deliberate, and reached somewhere within her clothing.

The movement was neat, economical, and gave away absolutely nothing about pockets, pouches, or the internal architecture of her attire.

A faint metallic clink sounded, the sort that suggested gold but refused to confirm it.

Amanderella produced a coin between two fingers with the calm precision of a magician revealing a dove, except without the feathers, fuss, or unnecessary theatrics. “Will this suffice?”

Brimblewick took the coin, bit it automatically, then winced. “Solid,” he muttered. “And dental work is expensive.”

He turned the coin over in his fingers, watching it catch the light. “This’ll cover your passage, repairs I haven’t discovered yet, and possibly the next three arguments with the Harbour Master.”

Amanderella inclined her head. “Excellent.”

Brimblewick tucked the coin into a pocket with the reverence of a man who had just been handed a small, well‑behaved miracle. “Right then. Fetch your luggage.”

Amanderella closed her book. “I shall return shortly.”

Brimblewick gave a solemn nod, the kind usually reserved for funerals or weather forecasts. “I’ll make preparations. Or repairs. Possibly both.”

Satisfied, she turned back toward the town. She paused halfway along the quay. Passage was paid. The captain was soothed. The vessel was, broadly, afloat.

But one final precaution remained. She turned and walked back to the Harbour Master’s office.

Trumpuffer looked up as she entered. “I knew this wasn’t finished,” he said.

“I wish to lodge a coin with you,” Amanderella said. “To be given to Captain Brimblewick only upon my safe return.”

Trumpuffer blinked. “A return‑payment.”

“Precisely.”

She turned slightly away and, with her usual discreet efficiency, produced a gold coin. The faint metallic sound suggested wealth but revealed nothing of its hiding place. She placed the coin on his desk.

“If I do not return,” she added, “you may keep it. But I intend to reclaim it.”

Trumpuffer cleared his throat, the Harbour Master’s equivalent of being moved. He slid the coin into a drawer with great ceremony.

“It’ll be waiting,” he said. “Safe as anything in this harbour ever is.”

Amanderella inclined her head. “Thank you.”

Mrs Gaffletter was waiting in the hallway when Amanderella returned, hands clasped, expression hovering somewhere between maternal concern and administrative dread. “You’re back early,” she said, which in Mrs Gaffletter’s dialect meant I fear you are about to do something adventurous.

“I need my luggage,” Amanderella replied, heading for the stairs. “I have secured a boat.”

Mrs Gaffletter made a small, strangled sound. “A boat,” she repeated, as though this were only marginally preferable to a dragon.

“Ships have boats,” Amanderella said, “but boats do not have ships. This one is definitely a boat.”

Mrs Gaffletter did not find this reassuring.

Amanderella packed with her usual efficiency: two shirts, one sturdy skirt, a notebook, three pencils, a tin cup, and the umbrella that had already proved its worth in several climates. She was fastening the case when Mrs Gaffletter appeared in the doorway, holding an envelope.

“This arrived for you,” she said, in the tone of someone handing over a document that might explode.

Amanderella took it. Her mother’s handwriting marched across the front with its usual firm, elegant certainty. “Thank you,” she said.

Mrs Gaffletter hesitated. “You will be careful, won’t you?”

Amanderella closed her case. “I always am.” Which was true, though her definition of careful was not always the same as other people’s. She slipped the letter into her pocket, picked up her luggage, and headed for the harbour.

She locked her motorbike in Mrs Gaffletter’s shed, where it would be safe from weather, thieves, or anyone else who might fancy riding it.

Burkoland or whatever lay in that blank patch, was waiting, but first there was the letter.

Amanderella slipped the letter from her pocket as she walked. She paused beneath a streetlamp, set her luggage down, and opened it.

My poor, sneeze‑defying Amanderella,

Word has reached me, through entirely reliable channels, I assure you, that you are once again preparing to fling yourself into some foreign wilderness. I am told it is either the Amazon, the Andes, or a place beginning with B that no one can pronounce. All three are equally alarming.

I must warn you, my child, that the world beyond our front gate is full of dangers. City soot alone is enough to cause a lifetime of sneezes, and that is before one even considers Amazonian agues, tropical vapours, or the Burkolandian bog‑miasmas I have been hearing about.

Please take care not to breathe anything suspicious. Or touch anything suspicious. Or look at anything suspicious. In fact, if possible, avoid suspiciousness altogether.

Your loving (and frequently concerned)
Mother

P.S. If you insist on going, do wear the woollen under‑things I knitted. They are guaranteed to repel chills, drafts, and most forms of foreign influence.

P.P.S. I heard that Algersome Eartrembler is to become engaged to Grunhilda Macklewick of Macklewick and Jones, Lily Growers. You missed your chance there.

Amanderella folded the letter carefully and slipped it back into her pocket. The street smelled faintly of salt and chimney smoke, and somewhere in the distance a gull made a noise that sounded suspiciously like disapproval. She picked up her case, straightened her hat, and set off toward the harbour with her usual steady purpose.

Whatever lay in that blank patch on the map,  Burkoland or something stranger, it would not wait forever.

Captain Brimblewick was attempting to look authoritative while two deckhands argued about knots. He brightened when Amanderella approached, then dimmed again when he remembered he was in charge.

“Ready when you are,” he said.

“One thing first.” She rested her case beside her. “I have left a coin with the Harbour Master. It becomes yours only upon my safe return.”

Brimblewick stared. “Only if you—? But what if—?”

“Then you are compensated for the inconvenience,” she said. “Though I do not intend to inconvenience you.”

“Oh. Right. Good.” He tugged at his collar. “I shall… do my best not to be compensated.”

“That would be ideal.” She picked up her case and stepped aboard with her usual calm precision.