Amanderella Gottsnobbler and the Bangolin Tree Chapter 12

Chapter 12.

 

Harbour Hopping.

 

 

A gust of wind ruffled the cat’s whiskers. It did not blink.

Amanderella leaned on the rail, watching the water shift and glitter beneath them. The land was gone. The cat was in charge.

After her encounter with the cat and a brief exchange with Captain Brimblewick, a bell clanged from below.

“That’ll be Cook,” Brimblewick said. “He insists on punctuality. Claims it keeps the food from escaping.”

Amanderella was not entirely sure whether this was a joke.

She followed the smell of something warm and savoury down to the galley, where the ship’s cook, a broad‑shouldered man with a beard that looked as though it had been singed more than once, was ladling stew into bowls with the solemnity of a priest performing a rite.

“Passenger,” he said, with the solemnity of a man announcing a weather change. “I’m Duff Haddersack. I keep the crew fed, the galley upright, and the cat out of the stew. Mostly.”

The ship’s cat, Grog Nose, Tar Bucket, or Splicer, depending on the witness, sat on a crate, watching Duff with the wary respect of someone who had once been denied a second helping.

“Passenger,” he grunted, handing her a bowl. “Mind the steam. It bites.”

Amanderella tasted the stew. It was surprisingly good.

“Thank you,” she said.

Duff nodded once, as though this confirmed a long‑held suspicion about passengers. “If it starts bubbling on its own, let me know. Means it’s thinking again.”

Amanderella made a neat note:

Duff Haddersack: authoritative. Stew: cooperative. Cat: hopeful.

Later, as she settled into her bunk, she could still smell the faint aroma of stew drifting through the ship, comforting, warm, and only slightly alarming. The Good Intentions rocked gently, the cat padded overhead, and the sea glowed faintly through the porthole.

That night, Amanderella lay in her narrow bunk, listening to the creaks and sighs of the Good Intentions. The ship moved with a steady, thoughtful rhythm, as though considering each wave before deciding whether to climb it.

Somewhere above, the cat padded along the deck with the soft authority of a creature inspecting its domain.

A faint glow pulsed through the porthole, not moonlight, not lantern light, but something stranger, as though the sea itself were thinking.

Amanderella opened her notebook.

Night at sea: peaceful. Sea luminous. Investigate in morning.

She closed her eyes. The boat rocked gently. The adventure rocked with it.It was not quite home, but it was enough.

She awoke early in the morning to the sound of Duff’s bell calling the crew to breakfast.

It was not a gentle bell. It was the sort of bell that believed firmly in punctuality and had no patience for anyone who disagreed.

Amanderella sat up at once, for it seemed unwise to keep a man like Duff waiting, especially when he was armed with a ladle.

The ship rocked gently beneath her feet as she dressed. Through the porthole she could see a pale wash of dawn spreading across the sea, turning the waves a soft, uncertain silver. The cat, whichever name it was using that morning, padded past her door with the purposeful stride of someone who intended to be first in line.

Amanderella followed it to the galley.

Duff Haddersack was already at his post, stirring a large pot with the solemn concentration of a man negotiating with breakfast. “Morning,” he said, without looking up. “Porridge today. It’s behaving.”

The cat sat on its crate, tail wrapped neatly around its paws, watching the pot with deep suspicion.

Amanderella accepted a bowl. The porridge was thick, warm, and only slightly lumpy. “It is very good,” she said.

Duff nodded once. “It knows better than to misbehave when I’m watching.”

Amanderella made a note:

Breakfast punctual. Cook authoritative. Cat hopeful.

Captain Nicoteenus Brimblewick was at the wheel, squinting at the water with the wary respect of a man who had once been outvoted by a tide. “Ah,” he said, noticing her. “You’ve come up to see how we’re getting on.”

Amanderella looked around. “How are we getting on?”

Brimblewick considered this. “Well, nothing’s on fire, the bucket hasn’t escaped in the last ten minutes, and the compass is only pointing diagonally. I’d call that promising. If the wind behaves itself, we shall continue making good time toward the blank patch.”

Amanderella made a note in her book:

Sea unusual. Captain optimistic. Situation stable, for now.

She closed the notebook and leaned on the rail, watching the water shift and glitter beneath them.

Near midday, Brimblewick reappeared, patting his pockets with increasing urgency.

“I’ve lost something vital,” he said.

Amanderella closed her notebook. “What is it?”

“My lucky left glove.”

“Do you require it for navigation?”

“No,” he said, “but I feel more in charge when wearing it.”

Amanderella considered this. “Where did you last see it?”

“On my right hand,” Brimblewick said, with the solemnity of a man confessing a personal failing.

Amanderella looked at his right hand. The glove was indeed there.

Brimblewick brightened. “Excellent! Crisis averted.”

She wrote: Captain’s sense of direction questionable. Sense of gloves equally so.

Under whichever name it went, the cat lay on the deck and played with its tail.

By afternoon, the sea had settled into a steady rhythm, until it didn’t.

A single wave rose higher than the others, slapped the side of the boat with a sound like a disapproving aunt, and then subsided.

Brimblewick frowned at the water. “That was uncalled for.”

Amanderella agreed. “The sea appears to have a mind of its own.”

She made her final note of the day:

Sea temperamental. Proceed with caution.

Once again Amanderella was awakened by the sound of the breakfast bell. She made her way down to the dining room, which was really just a single chair and a small table stuck in the corridor outside the galley.

As cheerful as ever, Duff announced that today’s offering was sausages.

“They’re fresh,” he added, in the tone of a man who wished to pre‑empt any questions. “Or at least recently persuaded.”

Amanderella accepted a plate. The sausages were plump, warm, and emitting a faint hiss that suggested either enthusiasm or residual indignation.

“They are very good,” she said.

Duff nodded once, as though this confirmed a long‑held theory about sausages. “If they start rolling on their own, let me know. Means they’re planning something.”

Amanderella made a neat note: Breakfast: animated potential. Cook: confident. Cat: absent.

As if summoned by the observation, the ship’s cat appeared at the end of the corridor, tail held high, and inspected the sausages with the solemnity of a customs officer. After a moment’s consideration, it allowed the meal to continue.

Captain Brimblewick appeared in the doorway. “We are about to make our first call of this voyage, if you are interested.”

Amanderella was indeed interested. She carefully wrapped the remaining sausage in her handkerchief to eat later, and to save the cat from indigestion, and followed Brimblewick onto the deck.

A small harbour was coming into view, tucked neatly into the coastline. The morning air carried a hint of warmth that had not been present the day before.

“Our first stop,” Brimblewick said, with the confidence of a man who hoped the harbour would still be where he remembered it. “A simple place. Nothing alarming.”

Amanderella made a note:

First harbour: approaching. Captain optimistic.

The cat leapt onto the rail beside her, tail flicking with the air of a creature prepared to judge an entire settlement in advance.

The Good Intentions eased into the small harbour with a creak of relief. Amanderella noted at once that the air was warmer and the gulls had developed a slightly different accent.

Brimblewick strode down the gangplank with purpose. “Quick stop,” he said. “In and out. Nothing dramatic.”

This was immediately disproved by the cat, which leapt ashore, stole a smoked fish from a stall, and received polite applause from the locals.

Amanderella made a note:

Fauna: bold. Locals: encouraging.

Brimblewick handed over a sealed envelope to a harbour clerk, who exchanged it for a small wooden crate.

“Delivery done, collection complete,” he said, as though this were a perfectly ordinary transaction and not something he had nearly forgotten.

Amanderella observed the crate. “Is it important?”

“Probably,” Brimblewick said. “I’ll remember why later.”

He then bought a spare bucket he did not need, explaining, “One can never have too many buckets,” despite already owning three.

As they returned to the ship, a fisherman called after them, “Mind yourselves if you’re heading further south. Things get odd down there.”

Brimblewick waved cheerfully. “Already accounted for!”

Amanderella added another note:

Warnings increasing. Captain unfazed.

The cat trotted aboard with its stolen fish, looking entirely satisfied. The Good Intentions pushed off once more, the harbour shrinking behind them as the coastline curved southward.