Chapter 4: The Journey Begins.

Chapter 4:

 

The Journey Begins.

 

Amanderella counted the coins in her purse and quickly realised she was going to need more than she had raised with self‑defence lessons and market trading. Determined, she began to explore the house and gardens in the hope of finding something of value to sell.

The old stables, once full of horses, grooms, and stable boys, were now sadly empty, their cobwebs thick enough to knit into scarves. All the carriages and carts had long since been sold. But at the very back, beneath a sagging tarpaulin, something waited.

She pulled it back. Underneath was an old motorcycle. Rusty, dusty, and forgotten — but still whole.

Even better, on the saddle lay a book with the title Owner’s Manual. Amanderella carried it outside, sat on a bench, and read it from cover to cover. Then she read it again backwards, just to be sure. It contained everything anyone needed to keep the motorbike working.

After a careful search of the stables and sheds, she gathered a collection of spanners and tools. With sleeves rolled up and hat tilted firmly, she took every part of the bike apart, cleaned, polished, and repaired it, then put it all back together again.

When she was finished, the motorbike gleamed as if it had just rolled out of the factory.

Her parents shook their heads and tutted in disapproval when their daughter turned up for meals, day after day covered in oil, grease, and metal polish. They were even more horrified when she started up the engine, fastened a scarf around her pointed hat so it would not blow off, and set off to ride the machine round the house.

The bike coughed, spluttered, then roared into life. She zoomed down the valley, her hat streaming behind her like a flag, the sound of freedom echoing louder than Peregrinaldo’s jingling buttons.

The villagers stopped in their tracks. The butcher dropped his sausages, the baker let his bread collapse, and the milkmaid nearly spilled her pail. “Look!” cried the blacksmith. “It’s a pencil on wheels!” And indeed, with her straight dress and pointed hat, Amanderella did look remarkably like a pencil scribbling across the countryside.

Back at Gottsnobbler Hall, Lord Gottsnobbler was outraged. He sat at his desk, nose quill poised, scribbling furious letters to the council.
“Unauthorised zooming!” he thundered. “Unlicensed roaring! This is a menace to society!” His ink splattered so wildly so spattered on to Aunt Mildred’s portrait.

Lady Gottsnobbler was no calmer. “Mark my words, she’ll catch three years of sneezing from those dreadful fumes! Three years! And no one will marry a girl who sneezes and zooms at the same time!”

But Amanderella only laughed as the wind tugged at her scarf. Each turn of the wheels carried her further from pompous moustaches and patched‑up grandeur, and closer to jungles, rivers, and the Whistling Blue Monkeys.

At dawn, Amanderella laid out her supplies. She had a knapsack and two small holdalls, and into them she packed everything she thought essential for exploring. Besides a change of clothing, she packed some freshly sharpened hat‑pins, each gleaming like a tiny sword. Next went in her trusty compass, polished until it pointed north with pride.

Then came a notebook for sketching maps, with a pencil sharpened to match her pointed hat. She had a tin whistle, in case she needed to mimic the Whistling Blue Monkeys a small spyglass, cracked but still useful.

 She added some biscuits wrapped in paper, though she suspected they would crumble before she reached the Amazon. A bottle of Dr. Rumbletum’s Elixir went in next. It claimed to cure almost everything, and strangely enough it actually worked. There was a groundsheet to make a shelter with and finally a small paraffin stove so that she could at least have a hot cup of tea.

She fastened the knapsack, lifted the holdalls, and stood tall in her pointed hat. She was ready.

Her parents, however, were not.

 Lord Gottsnobbler gasped at the sight of her luggage. “Knapsacks! Holdalls! This is scandalous. Young ladies do not march about with rope and hat‑pins. They march down aisles with bouquets!” He waved his nose like a quill pen, as if signing her bags out of existence.

Lady Gottsnobbler wrung her patched gown and sniffed. “When I went on honeymoon, I took two big cabin trunks, ten suitcases, and a ladies’ maid. That is how a proper young woman travels. Not with hat pins and biscuits stuffed into a knapsack!” She dabbed her patched sleeve dramatically, as if the memory of her luggage was too much to bear.

But Amanderella only smiled. She adjusted her scarf, tightened her grip on the holdalls, and stepped out of Gottsnobbler Hall. The patched curtains fluttered behind her as if the house was waving her  goodbye.

          The port was noisy with sailors shouting, gulls squawking, and barrels rolling across the cobbles. Amanderella wheeled her gleaming motorbike through the crowd, her pointed hat tilted proudly. She needed money for her passage, and the bike was her ticket.

At the edge of the quay stood a second‑hand car dealer, his hands already rubbed shiny from years of bargaining. He eyed the motorbike with greedy delight.

“A rare piece!” he cried. He offered what to her sounded like a large amount of money. Amanderella hesitated. It  seemed far too much. She frowned, wondering if she had misheard.

The dealer misread her silence. “Ah, you drive a hard bargain! Very well — I’ll double it!”

Amanderella hesitated again, this time wondering if he might go higher.

The dealer’s eyes bulged. He doubled it again “My final offer!”

She nodded calmly. “Agreed.”

The dealer rubbed his hands so fast they nearly smoked. He dragged the motorbike to his stall, slapped a sign on it that read Extremely Rare — Only Working Model in the Country, and doubled the price once more. Within the hour, a museum curator marched past, gasped at the sight, and bought it immediately. The dealer pocketed his profit with glee.

Amanderella tucked the bank notes into her purse, bought her passage on the only boat in the harbour. Fortunately, it was bound for Brazil to collect a cargo of Coffee.  It was not due to sail until the following morning. Amanderella decided to use some of her precious money on a decent meal and a bed for the night.

With the dealer’s notes tucked safely in her purse, Amanderella marched straight to the money‑changer’s stall at the port.

“I’d like gold coins, please,” she said firmly, tilting her pointed hat.

The money‑changer blinked. “Gold? That’s rather heavy.”

“Paper will be useless in the Amazon,” Amanderella explained. “Monkeys don’t care for banknotes. But gold, everyone likes gold.”

The money‑changer shrugged and handed over a small velvet pouch. It jingled like Peregrinaldo’s waistcoat, but far more satisfyingly.

That evening, Amanderella sat in her hotel room needle and thread in hand. She carefully sewed each coin into the lining of her vest, one by one, until the garment jingled faintly whenever she moved.

Her parents would have fainted at the sight — their daughter covered in grease one week, and now stitching treasure into her clothes like a pirate queen. But Amanderella only smiled. Every coin was another step toward the Whistling Blue Monkeys.

When she finally lay down to sleep, her vest was heavy, but her heart was light. She was ready for the for the voyage.

The ship was called The Pedal Power, and it was stacked from bow to stern with bicycles. Crates of bicycles, piles of spare wheels, handlebars poking out of barrels — the crew joked that if the ship ever sank, they could simply pedal it back to shore.

Early next morning she stepped aboard the boat. As the ship creaked out of harbour, she stood at the rail, compass in hand, hat‑pin tucked safely away. Ahead lay jungles, rivers, and the Whistling Blue Monkeys. Behind lay pompous moustaches, patched gowns, and a dealer who thought he had won the bargain of the century.

Amanderella was the only passenger. Her cabin smelled faintly of rubber tyres, and every corridor echoed with the squeak of bicycle pumps.

At dinner, the cook balanced trays on handlebars, and the sailors practised juggling bells.

The captain, a broad‑shouldered man with a beard shaped like a bunch of grapes, had welcomed her aboard. “Captain Ahaboodle Flotsamwhirl at your service. You’re our sole passenger, Miss,” he said cheerfully. “You’re bound for Brazil, eh? Well, you aren’t the first explorer we’ve carried. Others have gone before you — all of them chasing mysteries in the jungle.”

Amanderella’s eyes lit up. “Do you know where they went?”

The captain lowered his voice, as though sharing a secret. “They were going to join The Grewpug Explorers. As far as I know they meet deep in the Amazon basin, somewhere along the river routes. Always looking for rare creatures, lost maps, and legends no one else dares to follow.”

“Grewpug?” Amanderella repeated, tilting her pointed hat.

“Aye,” the captain chuckled. “No one knows why they chose the name. Some say it was the sound of a monkey sneezing. Others say it was the noise their first canoe made when it sank. But you’ll need to find the Grewpug Explorers first.”

Amanderella clutched her compass, her vest jingling faintly with hidden coins. She smiled. At last, she had a destination: the mysterious Grewpug Explorers, somewhere in the heart of the Amazon.