The Amazing Adventure of Amanderella Gottsnobbler Chapter 9

 

Chapter 9:

 

The Search Begins.

 

When Ramone had brought her upriver, he had stacked the boat with supplies: sacks of bread, tins of fruit, a wheel of jungle cheese, and a bundle of dried fish wrapped in palm leaves. The explorers had barely noticed, too busy with their own concerns and muttering Latin.

Amanderella, however, had quietly set aside her share. She wrapped a slice of bread and cheese in cloth, tucked a boiled egg into her satchel, and slipped a plain digestive into her tin can.

Colonel Jibberjack scoffed, “Explorers march on glory, not sandwiches!”

Doctor Porridgepump waved his spoon, declaring mud was nourishment enough.

Lord Crankleboot sniffed that porters should carry food, not gentlemen.

But when the jungle grew hot and their stomachs rumbled, Amanderella would be the only one prepared. She packed her knapsack carefully with the things that she thought she might need. A note book and a sharpened pencil went in. “When I find the monkeys and go on my lecture tour I will need sketches to show the audience what I saw, “ she thought.

Next she put in a ball of good strong string and some scraps of cloth, left behind by the Commodore. “I can use these to mend my knapsack or make a trap to catch animals,”

Next went in her tin cup, carefully scrubbed clean. “I can use this to put small creatures in while I draw them,” she thought.

Next to the last she put in her compass and a whistle. “I am not going to wander around in circles. And the whistle might be useful if I need help.”

She adjusted her pointed hat and set off into the jungle with quiet determination. The explorers watch pompously, each convinced she would fail.

She walked around the edge of the camp, trying to decide which way to go. Leading out into the jungle were seven paths. She stood  for a moment trying to decide which path to follow. “Eeny, meeny, miny mo. Which is the path on which to go. Eeny, meeny miny mo. This is the path on which I’ll go.” She remembered that from when she was small.

She was just about to step out when Professor Thimblewhack came up. He handed her a huge umbrella. “You will need this,” he said. “It always rains at 2 o’clock in the jungle.”

Amanderella tucked the umbrella under her arm and set off. The first path was obviously one used by Colonel Jibberjack. Boot prints led into the jungle, stamped so hard they seemed to shout his name. She walked all morning. The jungle was silent — not just quiet, but thick with hush, as if the air itself refused to stir. No birds sang or fluttered about, no animals rustled in the undergrowth. No snakes slithered along the path. Even the branches were bare of feathers or droppings, as though the creatures had fled long ago. The only signs of life were the plants along the edge of the path and the insects that lived amongst them.

She sat in the shade of a huge tree and ate her lunch, puzzled by the silence. She took out her notebook and drew the caterpillars that were walking, one after the other, in a long line along a branch. She numbered them carefully, only to realise they were all identical, trudging endlessly.

As promised, at 2 o’clock the heavens opened. Rain poured down like a waterfall, drumming on leaves, splashing into her tin cup, and turning the path into a rushing stream. Amanderella wrestled the umbrella open. It was so wide she could almost have floated beneath it. A beetle plopped onto the canvas and slid down into the mud, She trudged on, dry above but soaked to the knees, her satchel safe, her notebook spared.

She carried on walking until she came to the end of the path. The Colonel had obviously turned round here. The way was blocked by a stand of massive tree trunks with no way through or around them. Disappointed, she returned to the camp. The explorers glanced at her knapsack but said nothing.

That night round the fire the others discussed their fruitless searches, polishing goblets and muttering Latin, but Amanderella said nothing. It was Colonel Jibberjack’s turn to cook, so the meal was hard tack biscuits soaked in cold tea — cement in puddle water. Amanderella sniffed and made herself a plate of corned beef hash and beans from the supplies left by Ramone. As she sat quietly outside her hut eating, Professor Thimblewhack sidled up and sat down next to her, hiding his plate from the others.

“I don’t suppose you have any of that to spare, do you?” he whispered.

Amanderella spooned him a generous helping.

The second path was marked by a spoon stuck upright in the earth, crusted with dried mud — unmistakably Doctor Porridgepump’s. Amanderella adjusted her pointed hat and set off, notebook and umbrella tucked safely in her knapsack.

She walked all morning. The jungle was silent again, thick with hush. No birds sang, no animals stirred, no snakes slithered. Even the pools of mud seemed lifeless, save for a few gnats hovering lazily. She paused to sketch them, noting how they hovered in a perfect circle, as if mocking the Doctor’s belief that beetles would rise like porridge lumps.

At noon she ate her bread and cheese beneath a leaning palm, puzzled by the emptiness. She tapped the mud with her tin cup, half‑hoping something would stir, but only bubbles rose and popped.

As promised, at two o’clock the heavens opened. Rain poured down like a waterfall, drumming on leaves, splashing into her cup, and turning the path into a sluggish stream of brown water. She wrestled the umbrella open again, wide enough to catch a falling frog that plopped onto the canvas and slid off with a splash. She trudged on, dry above but soaked to the knees, her knapsack safe, her notebook spared.

At last, she reached the end of the path. The Doctor had clearly turned back here: a great wall of mud blocked the way, smooth and high as a fortress. There was no way through or around it. Disappointed, she returned to camp. The explorers glanced at her knapsack but said nothing.

That night round the fire the others discussed their fruitless searches, polishing goblets and muttering Latin. Amanderella said nothing. It was Doctor Porridgepump’s turn to cook, so the meal was a thin gruel of flour and water, stirred solemnly with his spoon. Amanderella sniffed and made herself a plate of dried fish and rice from Ramone’s supplies. As she sat quietly outside her hut eating, Sir Humbuggle drifted over, parchment in hand.

“I don’t suppose you have any of that to spare, do you?” he murmured, hiding his bowl from the others.

Before she could answer, Professor Thimblewhack sidled up too, “I don’t suppose you might spare me a little as well?” he whispered.

Amanderella spooned them both generous helpings. The three of them ate together in silence, the jungle rustling faintly beyond the firelight.

After another fruitless day, along Sir Humbuggle’s path where  vines curled around his parchment, but no birds or beasts stir, it was Reverend Tiddlewink’ s turn. He made a gruel from boiled ribbons and   water.  Colonel Jibberjack for once walked silently  from the fire and sat with the Professor, Sir Humbuggle and Amanderella. She handed them a serving of the fish pie that she had made. They ate in silence.

Lord Crankleboot’s path was next,  stones littered the ground, but none of them floated when the rain turned the path to a stream.

He served scorched biscuits, declaring them “gentlemanly fare.” Later, he crept over with his polished cane tucked under his arm, asking if she might spare “just a morsel.” Amanderella shared corned beef mashed with scraps of bread, fried into patties. She used her tin cup as a mould, producing neat little rounds.

After another day was spent along Reverend Tiddlewink’s path. Ribbons fluttered, but no bird answers. Only a moth brushed past.

His  meal was made from boiled ribbons and water. That evening, he coughed politely outside her hut, claiming he wanted to “bless her provisions,” but really hoping for a taste. She shared again, and the circle grew.

This time Amanderella tried the Commodore’s forgotten path. It was  overgrown, hushed, as if the jungle itself had swallowed sound.

It was Amanderella’s turn to cook. The explorers sat stiffly around the fire, polishing goblets and muttering Latin, each convinced she would serve something as dreary as their own offerings.

Colonel Jibberjack sniffed, “Explorers march on glory, not sandwiches.”

 Doctor Porridgepump waved his spoon and declared, “Mud is nourishment enough.”

 Lord Crankleboot tapped his cane against a stone and added, “Porters should carry food, not gentlemen.”

Amanderella ignored them. She set her tin cup by the fire, scrubbed clean, and began to work. First she mashed corned beef with beans, frying them into golden fritters that hissed and spat cheerfully. Next she sliced bread and jungle cheese, toasting them until the cheese bubbled and dripped in strings. She stirred dried fish and rice into a pot, sweetening it with syrup from the tins of fruit, and laid palm leaves with bright slices of fruit salad beside the fire.

The smell drifted through the camp. The explorers shifted uneasily. Reverend Tiddlewink coughed into his ribbons. Sir Humbuggle muttered a Latin word that sounded suspiciously like “delicious.”

At last, Amanderella set out the feast, fritters stacked high, toasties oozing cheese, stew steaming, rice pudding glistening, fruit salad gleaming. She filled her tin cup again and again, serving herself with quiet satisfaction.

Colonel Jibberjack tried to look away, but his stomach growled so loudly it drowned out the fire.

Doctor Porridgepump waved his spoon half‑heartedly, then dropped it in the mud. Lord Crankleboot tapped his cane, but this time it was only to shuffle closer.

One by one they sidled up to her hut, each whispering the same line:
“I don’t suppose you have any of that to spare?”

Amanderella smiled and spooned generous helpings onto their plates. Soon Humbuggle was eating fritters, Thimblewhack was slurping stew, Tiddlewink was blessing his toastie, and even Crankleboot was licking melted cheese from his cane.

For the first time, the campfire rang not with speeches but with the sound of explorers eating heartily, their dignity drowned in stew.

And Amanderella, sitting quietly with her tin cup, knew she had fed them all. However, she could not help feeling disappointed and worried. She had spent a week exploring the jungle and found no sign of the Whistling Blue Monkeys. Indeed, she had not seen any animals, birds, or snakes worth mentioning in her notebook.

And, as was his unbroken custom, Professor Thimblewhack set down every word spoken round the fire in his huge battered book, the pages swelling with a record of their failures.