Amanderella Gottsnobbler and the Bangolin Tree Chapter 14

Chapter 14.

 

Up the River Burko.

 

Brimblewick brought the Good Intentions alongside a small jetty where the river narrowed into green shadow.

“This is as far as we can safely linger,” he said. “The Burko doesn’t like boats staying still. Starts nudging them about.”

Amanderella tightened the straps of her case. “I will go on foot from here. I don’t know how long it will take me to find the tree, so please do not worry about me.”

Duff handed her the familiar paper‑wrapped parcel. “Sandwiches,” he said. “They keep well and won’t complain.”

Brimblewick gave a brisk nod, though his hat wobbled with concern. “We’ll take the Good Intentions upriver to a safer bend. The Burko doesn’t like boats loitering. We’ll come back for you tomorrow, or the day after, depending on what the river thinks.”

The cat inspected her boots, approved, and returned to its coil of rope.

Amanderella stepped onto the jetty. The planks were warm underfoot, and the riverbank rose ahead in a tangle of green shadow. Behind her, the Good Intentions drifted away under the Burko’s gentle but unmistakable insistence.

She made a note:

Set ashore. Provisions: sandwiches. Ship continuing. Search begins.

Amanderella had not gone far along the river path when a voice said, “Maloa veni.”

She turned sharply. A man stepped out from behind a curtain of reeds, brushing a leaf from his sleeve with mild irritation. He was tall, slightly dishevelled, and carried a notebook that appeared to have survived several climates and at least one argument.

“Maloa veni,” Amanderella said. “Are you—”

“Please don’t say it,” he interrupted. “Everyone says it. ‘Dr Wickslate, I presume.’ Tiresome. That’s why I left the message ‘I shall find the Sauce of the—’ and then a blot. To stop people finding me and doing exactly that.”

Amanderella closed her mouth on the phrase she had indeed been about to utter.

He nodded approvingly. “Good. You’re already more sensible than most.”

“I’m Lady Amanderella Gottsnobbler,” she said. “I’m searching for the tree.”

“And which tree might that be? There are lots of different trees here,” he said, waving his hand in the general direction of the jungle. The gesture managed to encompass several square miles of vegetation and convey mild annoyance with all of it.

He waved his battered notebook under her nose. The pages were swollen from humidity and covered in handwriting that looked as though it had been chased onto the paper by insects.

“These,” he said, tapping the notebook, “are all perfectly respectable trees. So, you will need to be more specific.”

“I’m looking for the Bangolin tree,” Amanderella said.

Wickslate froze. Not dramatically — more like a man who has just remembered he left something on the stove fifty years ago.

“The Bangolin tree,” he repeated. “Good heavens. I haven’t heard that name in decades.”

“You found it once,” Amanderella said. “And sent the fruit to the spectacle makers.”

He gave a small, affronted sniff. “Yes, yes, I did. They needed the juice to make a special type of lens. The Bangolin fruit was ideal. Very stable. Very rare. Very temperamental.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Why do you want it?”

Amanderella met his gaze calmly. “There is only a teensy‑weensy itty‑bitty amount of the juice left, and the spectacle makers desperately need more of it.”

Wickslate opened his mouth to reply, then stopped. His nose twitched. His eyes dropped to the neat paper parcel in her hand.

“Is that,” he said slowly, “a Haddersack sandwich?”

Amanderella blinked. “Yes. Duff Haddersack made it.”

“Duff?” Wickslate repeated. “Never heard of him. But that sandwich — I would know anywhere. I had one fifty years ago. His grandmother made it. Or possibly his great‑uncle. The Haddersacks have been producing structurally perfect sandwiches for generations.”

He leaned closer, inspecting the parcel with academic reverence. “Extraordinary family. They treat sandwich‑making as a science.”

“I would know that smell anywhere,” Wickslate said, with the solemnity of a man recalling a formative experience. “The one I had fifty years ago was the best field lunch I ever ate. Sustained me for three days while I was tracking the Bangolin tree. Extraordinary structural integrity. Never squashed. Never leaked. A marvel of applied sandwich engineering. Is it the cheese‑and‑pickle variety?”

“Yes,” Amanderella said.

He straightened, satisfied. “Good. That means you’re properly provisioned. People who bring inferior sandwiches never find the Bangolin tree. It can smell incompetence.”

Amanderella made a note:

Duff Haddersack sandwiches: unexpectedly significant.

“As I said, the spectacle makers are about to run out of Bangolin juice,” she said.

Wickslate stared at her as though she had just announced that the moon was running low on craters.

“Already?” he said. “I told them to use it sparingly. One drop at a time. Two at the most. Honestly, give craftsmen a miraculous substance and they slather it about like jam.”

He folded his arms. “What are they making this time?”

“More spectacle lenses, as they did before. And it was fifty years ago or so that you found it for them.”

Wickslate muttered something about “optical irresponsibility” and “people never learning”, then sighed.

“You’ve chosen your moment well. The Bangolin tree is about to fruit again. It’s not punctual, but it’s close enough.”

Amanderella felt a quiet surge of hope. “So, it can be found.”

“Oh, it can be found,” Wickslate said. “The difficulty is persuading it to stay put long enough for you to reach it.”

He snapped his notebook shut. “If you’re determined, I’ll tell you where to start. But you must promise, absolutely promise, not to reveal my whereabouts. I left civilisation to avoid spectacle makers, botanists, and people who think they’re being clever.”

“I give you my word,” Amanderella said.

“Good,” he said. “Then listen carefully.”

Wickslate went on, “As I said, the Bangolin tree is preparing to fruit. That’s why it’s wandering. It gets restless. Shifts about. Never stays in the same place twice. Very inconvenient.”

He rubbed his forehead. “And before you ask, yes, it’s still carnivorous on Tuesdays. Only Tuesdays. No one knows why. I tried to study it once, but it ate my assistant’s boot and the matter became academic.”

Amanderella made a note:

Tree: mobile. Fruiting imminent. Note: predatory on Tuesdays (reference: assistant’s boot). Today is [Day of Week]. Safe to proceed.

Wickslate pointed upriver. “If you want to catch it before the fruit drops, follow the Burko until the water turns clear. Then take the left‑hand path. If you hear a humming noise, you’re close. If you hear a growling noise, it’s Tuesday.”

He stepped back into the reeds. “And remember, you promised not to reveal my whereabouts. I value my peace. And my boots.”

Amanderella nodded. “You have my word.”

“Good,” he said, already half vanished. “Now off you go. The tree won’t wait.”

He fully vanished for half a minute, then reappeared. “I forgot. Whatever you do, don’t let the fruit fall to the ground. It tends to wander off on its own.”

“How will I know if it is ripe enough to pick?”

“It hums when it’s ripe, a sort of self‑satisfied hum, as though congratulating itself,” he said, and disappeared into the reeds again.