The Amazing Adventure of Amanderella Gottsnobbler Chapter 8

Chapter 8:

 

Somewhere to stay.

 

The hut stood squat beneath its thatched roof, still rustling faintly with the night‑flying whoopee birds who had claimed it as their nesting ground.

When Amanderella stepped inside, compass in hand, she found the place less a home than a museum of oddities left behind by Commodore Knickerflap.

There were Half‑finished charts pinned crookedly to the walls, each labelled “Possible Whoopee Bird Sightings” with doodles of feathers and beaks.

On a battered and dusty desk was a cracked magnifying glass lying beside a pile of feathers, as though he had been mid‑inspection when inspiration struck. Next to it was a gramophone needle bent sideways, with a note attached: “Do not play waltzes near whoopee birds.”

 

There were biscuit tins stacked precariously in one corner, most empty but one rattling faintly with crumbs.

Left on a shelf as if it were a scientific specimen was a kettle whistle. At some time, it had been snapped in half, so it no longer made a noise when the water boiled.

There was a mosquito net draped over a chair, riddled with holes, giving the impression of lace rather than protection.

Under the desk was a pair of boots, polished only on the toes, as though he had lost interest halfway through.

Amanderella tilted her pointed hat, surveying the clutter. “Explorers must be resourceful,” she declared. She set her compass on the table, jingled her vest, and claimed the hut as her own.

She hustled and bustled and tidied until she was happy with the new order that she brought to the hut.

The whoopee birds rustled overhead, their soft calls echoing through the rafters.

 Professor Thimblewhack watched her hustling and bustling and  commented, “You inherit not only a hut, my lady, but its tenants.”

Amanderella smiled. “Then I shall keep them. Every explorer needs a chorus.”

The Professor, tall and thin, in clothes that looked too big for him, his measuring tape trailing behind him like a ceremonial sash, cleared his throat, moustache twitching with authority.

“Miss Amanderella,” he intoned, “as leader of the Grewpug Explorers, it falls to me to acquaint you with our life here.. Each man here pursues a quest — beetles, puddings, vines, bells, or other matters of great scientific importance.”

He leaned closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “But you must understand the rule. If you, by chance, stumble upon one of their quests — a beetle, a pudding, a vine, or whatnot — you must say nothing. Not a word. For if you speak, the discovery is no longer theirs. And without ownership, they cannot in all honesty claim the find when they go on their lecture tours.”

Amanderella tilted her pointed hat, vest jingling faintly with coins. “Explorers must be discrete it seems,” she declared. “I shall keep my lips sealed. I would not wish to rob a man of his pudding lecture.”

Professor Thimblewhack straightened, satisfied. “Excellent. Then you are ready to join our ranks. Remember: silence is the true mark of an explorer.”

The whoopee birds rustled overhead, as if echoing the rule with their soft, secret calls.

Professor Thimblewhack looked up at the birds,  adjusted his measuring tape and spoke gravely: “Take the case of the night‑flying whoopee birds. Commodore Knickerflap, went out every morning to search for them. Yet the moment he left his hut, the birds came home to roost in the thatch. When he retired at night, they flew out for their food search. Thus, everyone else in camp saw the birds daily — perched, fluttering, nesting — but not the Commodore  himself, for he was always away at the very hours they were present.”

He tapped his spectacles for emphasis.
“Only once, when he was forced to remain in his hut for some comic reason — a broken bootlace, I believe — did he finally see them. That was his great discovery. And so, he left on a lecture tour, claiming the find as his own.”

Amanderella tilted her pointed hat . “Explorers need to be able to keep secrets.”

“Now,” said the Professor. “I will leave you to settle in. We usually meet at sundown by the fire to dine and to discuss the day’s events. You are most welcome to join us. It is Reverend Tiddlewink’s turn to cook today s expect porridge.”

He turned to go, “The porridge is usually very good though.

At sundown the explorers gathered round the fire, its smoke curling into the jungle canopy like a signal to unseen tribes. The flames lit their faces in odd relief — Colonel Jibberjack’s moustache bristling like bayonets, Doctor Porridgepump’s spectacles fogged with steam, Sir Humbuggle’s beard plaits casting shadows like ladders, Lord Crankleboot’s monocle flashing, and Reverend Tiddlewink’s ribbons fluttering in the glow.

Amanderella joined them, her pointed hat tilted, vest jingling faintly with coins. She sat upon a biscuit crate, resourceful as ever, and waited to see what passed for supper.

Reverend Tiddlewink emerged from the shadows with a saucepan so dented it looked like a relic of battle. He stirred solemnly, ribbons trailing dangerously close to the fire. Friends, tonight’s supper is porridge — the explorers’ favourite fuel.”

Doctor Porridgepump leaned forward eagerly, spoons rattling from his pockets. “A fine consistency, Reverend! Three spoonfuls dense at least!”

The Colonel barked, “Fall in for pudding!” though there was none.

Lord Crankleboot tapped his cane and declared, “By appointment to the Amazon, this porridge shall be consumed with dignity.”

 Sir Humbuggle muttered Latin names for oats, none of which were correct.

Amanderella tilted her hat, smiled, and accepted her bowl. The porridge was lumpy, but once she added sugar, it tasted better than it looked.

Professor Thimblewhack cleared his throat, measuring tape trailing like a sash. “Gentlemen — and Miss Amanderella — it is time for the evening roll‑call of quests.”

The fire crackled. The whoopee birds rustled in the thatch above, as though preparing to judge the proceedings.

“Colonel Jibberjack,” he intoned, “is engaged upon the noble quest of discipline in the jungle. He seeks the legendary Marching Beetle, said to advance in perfect drill formation across the forest floor. Only when he salutes it will his medals be complete.”

The Colonel was a burly man with a stern expression and a moustache that bristled like bayonets. He wore a faded uniform adorned with various medals, and his boots were polished to a shine.

He barked “Fall in!” at the flames, moustache bristling.

“Doctor Porridgepump,” the Professor continued, “pursues the elusive Self‑Stirring Grain. He believes that somewhere in the Amazon grows a cereal that stirs itself, saving explorers the trouble of spoons. Until he finds it, he will stir empty saucepans to keep the jungle calm.”

A round figure dressed in a white lab coat splattered with mysterious stains stepped forward.. His  bespectacled eyes twinkled with enthusiasm and he carried a wooden spoon tucked behind his ear. His hair was unkempt, looking like a bird's nest.

The Doctor slurped loudly, pockets rattling with spoons.

“Sir Humbuggle,” said Thimblewhack, “is devoted to cataloguing the world in Latin. His quest is for the mythical Plantus Innominalis — a vine so rare it has no name. He insists civilisation cannot advance until he christens it properly, beard plaits prepared for the occasion. He will know it is the one he seeks as its name is written on its leaves.”

He was a tall, wiry man with a long, tangled beard adorned with bits of flora. His oversized spectacles slid down his nose, and his clothing was a mishmash of bright colours.

Sir Humbuggle muttered, “Vineus extraordinarius… perhaps…” and scribbled on a scrap of paper.

“Lord Crankleboot,” announced Professor Thimblewhack, adjusting his spectacles, “is engaged upon the most elevated quest of all. He seeks the legendary Floating Rocks of the Amazon — stones said to hover just above the ground, defying gravity and common sense alike.

Only a nobleman, he insists, may rightfully discover them, for lesser folk would mistake them for balloons or puddings. Lord Crankleboot believes that when he finds these rocks, they will rise in salute to his title, and he will deliver a lecture tour entitled ‘Levitation and Nobility: A Natural History.’”

Lord Crankleboot was an impeccably dressed man with a top hat that seemed too grand for the jungle setting . He carried an ornately carved cane and had a monocle screwed into his left eye, giving him an air of nobility despite the muddy surroundings.

He tapped his cane against the earth and declared, “By appointment to the Amazon, I shall make the rocks float in my honour.”

“Reverend Tiddlewink,” Thimblewhack concluded, “is in search of the Sacred Ribbon Bird. A creature rumoured to weave its nest from coloured strands. He believes the hymn will complete his jungle service, though the birds seem unconvinced  and he ties ribbons to every branch in hope of attracting it.”

The reverend was a stout man with a round face, his head crowned with a beret adorned with colourful ribbons. He had a cheerful smile and his pockets overflowed with bits of colourful fabric.

He bowed, ribbons trailing, and a parrot screeched “Amen!” from the shadows.

Professor Thimblewhack adjusted his spectacles, moustache twitching with authority.
“As for myself,” he declared gravely, “I am devoted to the quest for the Longest Worm. Somewhere in this jungle slithers a creature so vast that no ordinary tape can measure it. I shall be the first to record its true length, inch by solemn inch. Until then, I measure everything — boots, biscuits, birds, and even the silence between whistle on the boiling kettle — in preparation for that day.”

He let his measuring tape trail across the ground like a ceremonial sash, as though the worm might appear at any moment to be catalogued.

The explorers nodded gravely, though Doctor Porridgepump muttered something about spoon lengths, and Lord Crankleboot sniffed that floating rocks were far more dignified.

Amanderella tilted her pointed hat, vest jingling faintly with coins. She thought it odd that rocks should float for nobility alone, but kept her opinion to herself.

Professor Thimblewhack straightened, measuring tape trailing like a sash., “These are the quests of the Grewpug Explorers. Beetle, grain, vine, floating rocks, ribbon bird and worm — each man devoted to his pursuit. And now, Miss Amanderella, it falls to you. What is your quest?”

The fire crackled. The whoopee birds rustled in the thatch above. All eyes turned to her.

Amanderella tilted her pointed hat, vest jingling faintly with coins. She spoke clearly, “My quest is to find the Whistling Blue Monkeys. No explorer has ever seen them, though many have tried. Some claim they are only a rumour, others swear they have heard their eerie whistles drifting through the trees. They are said to be bright as sapphires, with voices that mimic flutes and tin whistles, confusing anyone who dares to follow.”

She paused, then lifted a battered tin whistle from her vest and blew a wavering note. The sound hung in the air, thin and haunting. Somewhere in the jungle, a faint whistle replied — or perhaps it was only the wind.

There was a silence. Colonel Jibberjack’s moustache bristled in disbelief. Doctor Porridgepump dropped a spoon into his porridge. Sir Humbuggle muttered, “Simia caerulea sibilans… yes, yes, a new genus indeed!” Lord Crankleboot tapped his cane and sniffed, as though floating rocks were far more dignified. Reverend Tiddlewink tied a ribbon to his hymn book and whispered, “Amen.”

Professor Thimblewhack cleared his throat.
“An interesting quest,” he said gravely. “But perhaps the most fitting. For if you succeed, Miss Amanderella, you will bring to our fellowship a chorus unlike any other.”

The explorers nodded in agreement.

Amanderella smiled. “Explorers must be resourceful,” she declared. “And discreet. The Whistling Blue Monkeys will be mine to find.”

The whoopee birds rustled overhead, their soft calls echoing through the rafters, as if mocking or blessing her vow.

Professor Thimblewhack raised his measuring tape like a banner. “And now, we shall conclude this meeting with the ceremonial cup of tea and biscuits.”

The explorers reached for their cups, each one as odd as its owner, and the biscuits were passed round These were no ordinary biscuits, but ones as different as the men themselves:

Colonel Jibberjack drank from a dented pewter mug, dunking a rigid hardtack biscuit with military precision.

Doctor Porridgepump slurped from a chipped porcelain bowl, his soggy oatcake already dissolving into the tea.

Sir Humbuggle raised a cracked earthenware beaker, nibbling at a fig roll.

Lord Crankleboot lifted a battered, but shiny silver goblet, gnawed pompously on a towering gingerbread obelisk.

Reverend Tiddlewink sipped solemnly from a ribbon‑wrapped wooden vessel, while nibbling a delicate honey biscuit, each bite accompanied by a flutter of moth‑like pages from his hymn book.

Professor Thimblewhack measured the depth of his tea in a graduated beaker, noting the exact dimensions of his cream cracker before biting.

Amanderella tilted her pointed hat. She had thought of everything else — compass, vest, whistle — but not a cup or a biscuit. So, she rinsed out a battered tin can for her tea and accepted a plain digestive, resourceful as ever.

The fire crackled, the biscuits crumbled, and the whoopee birds rustled overhead, their soft chorus blessing the ceremony. Thus ended the explorers’ roll‑call, sealed not with pomp or discovery, but with tea, biscuits, and fellowship beneath the jungle night.

Professor Thimblewhack dutifully scribbled every remark into his enormous battered book — even the kettle whistles and parrot shrieks — for the committee minutes no one would ever read.