Georgia Byng: Molly Moon & the Morphing Mystery

“She never would have understood what you were saying,” Canis replied. “Besides, these people are dangerous. Before you involve your mistress, you must see whether they have anything to do with the crazy women you told me about.”

“How many of them did you say there were?” Petula asked, scratching her neck where an insect had bitten her just under her collar.

“Two, but I smelled more in the distance,” Canis replied. “And there was definitely a hint of flowers about them. I smelled the scent of rose thorn and orange blossom. And blood. That’s how I found them in the first place. I found a rabbit that they’d trapped,” he said, getting even more serious. “It hung by its noosed legs, from the branch of a tree.” Petula shivered.

“Let’s hope we don’t step in one of those traps ourselves,” she said.

After a brief rest, they set off again, up the mountain path.

Petula decided she would find out for sure whether this lead of Canis’s was a good one. Then she would report back to Molly before nightfall.

“Smell the barbecue?” Canis asked, sniffing the air with his wet nose. “They must be having a meal.” Petula could detect the whiff of cooked meat—curried cooked meat—on the air. It made her mouth water. Trying to ignore this, she sniffed the wind more, searching for a hint of orange blossom and thorn and rose. She found it.

“It’s them,” she gasped.

“Good work, eh?” Canis gave a short arf . Petula nodded.

The dogs now trod stealthily through the undergrowth, following their noses and reading the air. The smoke from a fire became stronger and stronger, mixed with the smell of baking and the stench of dead animals. And then, just like a car stopping unexpectedly at a dead end, Petula and Canis arrived at a rocky outcropping. It was obviously a place humans liked to be, for there was a wooden stool there and, what was more, the smell of mothballs from someone who had been there only shortly before hung in the air. The person had been scared, too, for the odd smell of electric lemon lingered. Down below was a clearing with eight huts. The two dogs surveyed the scene. From four of the huts wafted floral smells of perfume. Nearby was a hut with a water tank over it that Petula supposed must be the bathroom hut. And closer to the ledge that they were on were two more scruffy-looking huts. Outside these were outdoor cooking stoves and ovens and tables with large chopping boards and bowls on them. Tin basins for washing pans and plates lay on the ground. Nearby was a small water tank on wooden legs.

Much farther to the left, segregated from the other huts by bushes, was a hut that was obviously used by hunters. Outside this one were colorful forest birds, green-and red-feathered parrots and cockatoos, hanging upside down in bunches. A rabbit skin was nailed to a board, drying in the sun.

Canis growled.

“I wonder where they are?” Petula pondered.

Just then Miss Speal came out of the kitchen hut with oven gloves on. She opened the oven door and pulled out a hot cake pan. Then she poked at the barbecue fire.

“She must be the cook,” said Canis. “I wonder where the hunters are. Can you smell them?”

Petula sniffed. A mixed odor of sweat and whisky, with an edge of blood, was very dense in the air. Then she smelled the mothball smell very close to her on the ground. She put her nose down and sniffed. The smell led her to a beautiful blue stone. Unable to resist it, Petula picked it up in her mouth and gave it a suck. It felt smooth and cool.

“Gives me the creeps,” Canis was saying. “They don’t smell of anything good.” As he spoke, a cloud began to thicken in the sky above.

Petula nodded. “And is it my imagination,” she said, “or is their scent getting stronger?” Her heart began to pound, and her fur bristled.

“You’re right,” Canis agreed, looking alarmed. “They’re behind us. Getting closer. Quick! Run!” He put his head down and dashed into the bushes.

Petula followed Canis. It was a bad move.

Moments later, a cord caught around Petula’s back foot. This released a trap catch. The cord tightened, and with a yank that practically pulled off her limb, she was tugged up from her paws and swung into the air.

Petula nearly swallowed her new stone from the shock. Her world turned upside down. And then a horrible pain in her leg cut through her. The ground was now ten feet below her, her body hung heavy and helpless from the hunter’s noose. Canis barked up at her.

Minutes later, Miss Oakkton and Miss Teriyaki arrived.

“I don’t believe it!” said Miss Teriyaki. “A wild pug! The Chinese were in South America long ago, so obviously the breed stayed here. How extraordinary!”’

“I hate pugs,” Miss Oakkton replied, her huge face screwing up as she strained to look at Petula. “Ugly things. Can’t tell the back from the front.” At that moment, Canis attacked. He bit Miss Oakkton’s ankle as though it was a bone left over from a Sunday roast. With a scream of anger, she plunged her hunter’s knife down. It struck Canis on the back. Wimpering, he backed off.

Desperate, he barked up to Petula.

“I’ll come back with my master and your Molly.” And then he dived back into the undergrowth and was gone.

Miss Oakkton rubbed her leg and pointed after Canis, bellowing curses. Miss Teriyaki prodded Petula with her bamboo shooting stick.

“Aah,” she said admiringly. “You know, Miss Oakkton, people eat dog in the East. It is a delicacy. I wonder whether pug tastes good.”

“Hah! Well, I’ll let zat be your delicacy, Miss Teriyaki!” said Miss Oakkton, spitting on the ground. “I don’t want to eat anysing zat barks! Disgusting .”

Petula looked at the upside-down visions of the ghastly women. Miss Oakkton’s body smelled of rotten eggs. She came closer and closer. Then, lifting up her knife mercilessly, she cut the trap rope. Petula dropped to the ground with a thud.

For a moment she lay still, winded and unable to breathe, and frightened that she wouldn’t ever be able to breathe again. Then she felt a stabbing pain in her ribs.

Miss Oakkton bundled her into a bag already full of dead rabbits and birds. And, half suffocated by fur and feather, Petula was carried down to the camp.

As though she were something as disposable as firewood, she was unloaded into a small, dark hut. Petula curled up into a ball and, spitting out her blue stone, for the second time that week, she fell unconscious.

Molly was very, very hot. The heat of the Ecuadorean sun had soaked through the clouds above, turning the forest into a steamy sauna. Bas walked at a fast pace along the tree-lined, branch-covered pathways, and it was exhausting keeping up with him. Cappuccino swung through the branches of trees behind them, stopping occasionally to pick fruit from the trees. The air was thin, with less oxygen to breathe, and so Molly began to feel light-headed.

“Are you okay?” Bas asked. “It is difficult to walk in the high altitude because your body isn’t used to it.”

Molly nodded. “I’m fine.” She didn’t want to hold up the trip, and so she walked on without complaining. Her body grew damp with sweat, and she was glad she was wearing cool clothes. She thought back to when she used to go to school and how she’d grumble about cross-country runs. This walk was ten times as hard, yet she was doing it without complaining, doing it because she needed to. The back of her calves and the muscles in her thighs ached, but Molly gritted her teeth and kept going. The sun was starting to burn her skin. But she didn’t care. She had to get to Bas’s viewing tower.

Every so often Bas would stop, and they’d have a drink. He had brought with him a bag of energy-boosting dried fruit, and while they rested, they sat in silence, nibbling the fruit sticks. Cappuccino would sit in the trees a little way off with all his attention trained on Molly.