Georgia Byng: Molly Moon & the Morphing Mystery

After a three-hour walk, Bas stopped.

“We’re here.”

Ahead of them, camouflaged because it was painted green, Molly saw a metal structure.

“Hope you like heights,” Bas joked. And he led Molly to the crane’s steps. They were set like a ladder into it.

Ten minutes later, Molly and Bas were up at the crane’s top, standing in a boxlike viewing platform. Cappuccino had nipped up ahead and was already chewing a flower he had found.

“Wow!” Molly said, cupping her eyes with her hand and looking out. “The view is incredible from up here!” She could see for miles and miles over a sea of treetops. She saw far-off mountains that seemed to touch the highest clouds in the sky.

“That’s a volcano,” Bas commented, pointing to a beautiful white mountaintop in the distance. He had pulled out his binoculars and was studying the forest. His gaze moved over the distant jungle, swinging back and forth as he thoroughly checked to see whether he could see any signs of life. “There’s the plane,” he said.

Molly looked through the binoculars. Far away, she could see a gash in the trees and what looked like a charcoal gray whale parked there.

“We were lucky to get out,” Molly commented. She scrutinized the forest for evidence of parachutes and the others. “I wonder where they landed?” She sighed and sadly put down the binoculars. “Petula can sense where I am. Wish I could feel them. I’m so worried about them, Bas.”

“Cheer up,” said Bas. “Listen, you never know, maybe Petula can feel Micky, too. After all, you are twins. Maybe that’s where she went this morning. Maybe she’s already found him.”

Bas flapped open a silk flag. “Let’s hang this red warning flag, and if they’re up a tree they’ll see it. Look at those monkeys,” he said, trying to change the subject. “And those insects.” Then he pointed to the northwest. “And there, Miss Molly, though you can’t see them, are the stones you are interested in.”

“Really?” Molly gulped.

“Yes. See those far-off crags shaped like owls’ heads?”

“Yes.”

“Well, the stones are under them. It’s going to take us the rest of the day to get there. Are you ready?”

Molly gulped again. “I am,” she said.

And so they started walking again, their paths passing over pretty tree-covered humps of land that undulated up and down the sides of the mountain. The cover of foliage and leaves above was often so dense that only spots of the cloudy sky could be seen, and their path was patched with mottled light. It was like walking through a strange forest palace. Sounds were muffled, though every now and then bird cry pierced the air. At other times the forest and mists cleared, and wonderful views of the cloud forest stretched out green and leafy below and beyond. Walking uphill was strenuous, but walking downhill was hard, too. Molly’s knees felt like they were going to buckle and bend back on themselves. On and on they walked, with Cappuccino hopping casually behind them. Molly remembered what Forest, her hippie friend, had once said to her.

“There’s an old Chinese saying. Wise man who climb mountain, climb one step at a time. He no look at top of mountain and see how far off it is. He enjoy each step.” Molly decided to try and do this. Soon she found herself in a walking zone, as though her body was hypnotized to just keep taking steps.

“I will keep walking. I will keep walking,” Molly hummed to herself. “One step at a time.” The forest paths became thinner and overgrown. On and on they walked. Hours passed. The light started to fade. And then Bas tapped Molly on the shoulder.

“This is it, Molly,” he whispered. “There’s the owl mountain. See? Now you sit down and eat this.” He passed Molly a snack with some sort of soy curd in it. “Cappuccino’s here. Everything is just fine.”

Molly obeyed in an exhausted daze. She ate her food and watched as Bas set about making a shelter.

She knew that tomorrow she was going to need all the energy she could muster. So as soon as the shelter was ready, Molly rolled out her sleeping bag and crept inside. A moment later, before the forest’s daytime animals had returned to their nests, dens, lairs, and burrows, Molly was fast asleep.

Less than a mile away, Miss Hunroe and her accomplices were finishing their dinner.

“Edible, at least,” Miss Hunroe said to Miss Speal, flipping her gold coin through her elegant fingers. Miss Oakkton surreptitiously wiped her finger across the sauce on her plate and then licked it, eyeing Miss Speal like a dog eyes an unwelcome guest.

Miss Teriyaki bobbed up to fetch her cake, and Miss Speal hurriedly collected the plates, her head bowed. Miss Hunroe tossed her coin and inspected it when it landed in her palm.

“Goodness knows we had worked up an appetite,” Miss Hunroe went on, glaring at Miss Speal. “You really are a Little Miss Butterfingers, aren’t you, squealy Spealy?” Everyone stared at Miss Speal, who continued clearing the table with her head low.

Miss Oakkton clicked her tongue in agreement. “Tttut, tttut.”

Then Miss Hunroe snapped. “I cannot believe you were so stupid ! You make me sick. Can’t you feeeeeel where it is, Miss Speal?” she taunted. She sat still for a moment to compose herself. “Think again. Where did you drop the blue stone, Miss Speal?”

“Erm,” Miss Speal spluttered. “I’m—I’m not entirely sure. As I said, I think—I think it was up there.” She pointed to the ledge above the encampment.

“We know ,” Miss Hunroe hissed. “Miss Oakkton and Miss Teriyaki have been crawling around up there all afternoon . Miss Speal, are you sure you are telling the truth ?” Miss Hunroe pulled out a set of panpipes for the third time that evening and put them to her red lips. She blew gently, and a gorgeous sound like a playful mountain wind blowing through the trees filled the air. The gaggle of women gazed adoringly at Miss Hunroe, and a dreamy look filled their eyes. Miss Speal stared at the panpipes, transfixed.

“Tell me again, Miss Speal,” Miss Hunroe cajoled. “Did you really lose it, or have you hidden it because you love it so much ?” Above them was a roll of thunder.

Miss Speal sighed. “I have not hidden it, I lost it.” She began to weep. “And I can sense that girl is near.”

Miss Hunroe blew suddenly into her instrument, making it shriek. “The girl may be near, Miss Speal. But she is dead. No one could have survived that plane crash.” She looked distainfully at the skinny, pale woman. “Imbecile.”

Miss Teriyaki stood holding out her chocolate cake. “At least some things are dependable, Miss Hunroe,” she said, worming. Miss Hunroe smiled, watching as Miss Teriyaki cut her a large slice. “You will never guess what we found today,” Miss Teriyaki went on, trying to change the subject. “We found a—”

“Does this cake have coffee in it?” Miss Hunroe asked suddenly. “You know I can’t have caffeine at this time of night or I won’t sleep.”

“Of course not,” Miss Teriyaki replied, passing her her dessert plate. Miss Hunroe prodded her fork into her cake. Miss Teriyaki continued, “It is a strange variety, but shows what an influence the Chinese had on Ecuador—”

“What are you talking about, Miss Teriyaki? Come on, spit it out.” Miss Hunroe raised her fork to her lips.

“Well, we found this—”

Miss Hunroe interrupted once more. “Does it have alcohol in it, Miss Teriyaki? You know I can’t abide alcohol in food.”

“Oh, no! Just pure chocolate.”

Miss Hunroe put a forkful of chocolate cake into her mouth.

“We found this—”

“Aaaaaaah!” Miss Hunroe spat and coughed, and chocolate cake went splattering all over the table. She rose from her seat furiously. “WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO DO, MISS TERIYAKI? POISON ME?” Miss Hunroe picked up her plate and Frisbeed it away from the table so that it flew through the air and clattered into a tree. “I’ve had enough of this foul cooking.” She glared at her assembled team. “If there is any more of it, the chef responsible will go and never, never…” Miss Hunroe’s voice dropped a few decibels as her anger raged. “NEVER COME BACK! Do I make myself clear?”