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  Praise for the first two books in the series:

  Dead Hairy

  ‘We love Dead Hairy!’ Woman’s Way – recommended as part of their ‘Bring Back Books’ campaign

  ‘… extremely well written – immediate, clever, smartalecky … immensely enjoyable.’ The Irish Catholic

  ‘… romps … with exuberance and sparkling dialogue …’ Mary Arrigan, Irish Examiner

  ‘… great fun, loaded with laughs … this one is a pure delight.’ Fallen Star Stories

  ‘I can’t recommend it highly enough. I think it’s a brilliant book. I was roaring laughing at the first couple of pages.’ Brendan Nolan, radio presenter and author of Telling Tales

  Jungle Tangle

  ‘Hysterical … fantastic characters … utterly delightful, laugh-out-loud funny and leaves the reader wanting more.’ Inis magazine

  ‘Bonkers humour, a plethora of quirky characters and snappy dialogue. Terrific fun.’ Recommended Reads, Children’s Book Festival 2013

  ‘Weird and wonderful …’ Evening Echo

  MERCIER PRESS

  3B Oak House, Bessboro Rd

  Blackrock, Cork, Ireland.

  www.mercierpress.ie

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  © Text: Debbie Thomas, 2014

  © Illustrations: Stella Macdonald, 2014

  ISBN: 978 1 78117 170 7

  Epub ISBN: 978 1 78117 252 0

  Mobi ISBN: 978 1 78117 253 7

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  For Stevie and Jobe,

  my walking generosities

  ‘For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.’

  Jesus (yes, that one)

  Prologue

  Is there anywhere left to hide these days? You can dive the oceans on YouTube. You can Google-Earth Guyana. You can Skype your mum in Mumbai, text your Trini-dad and email Aunt Arctica.

  The hidey-holes are vanishing. The world is baring its knickers.

  But one place remains tucked away. A place where creepers trail and phone lines fail. Where jaguars prowl and Simon doesn’t Cowell. The Amazon jungle, deep and dark, still hides a secret or two.

  Both of those secrets were sitting in the ruins of an ancient palace. The first, on a throne of crumbling stone, was poking a snake that lay coiled in his lap. It whipped up and bit his arm. He rubbed in the deadly venom.

  The second, at the foot of the throne, shook his head. ‘It won’t work, O Mighty Radiance.’ (A rough translation of the ancient Quechua language he spoke.)

  The Mighty Radiance sighed. Flakes of dandruff fell from his head like exhausted moths. ‘Gotta keep trying, Bacpac.’ (Another rough translation.)

  ‘But you know the deal, O Orb of Awesomeness. Remember the potion you drank on your father’s death, and the prophecy spoken by Wiseman Wonco, all those years ago?’

  The Orb of Awesomeness frowned. ‘Run it by me again. My reading’s not what it used to be.’

  Bacpac nodded sympathetically. ‘Hardly surprising, O Ruler of the Known World and Pencil Case of the Unknown. You’re an old man.’ He didn’t point out that his master had never been able to read the quipu, the knotted ropes used by the Inca people more than four centuries ago to record events. That, in truth, Chunca Inca wasn’t the smartest emperor on the block.

  Bacpac stood up and crossed the ancient flagstones of the throne room. A curtain hung in the doorway, made of dangling knotted vines. His fingers ran down each vine, pausing at the knots.

  He took a deep breath. Titles were a big deal in Inca poetry. ‘The Prophecy of Wonco the Wise at the Deathbed of Tupac Inca, Son of the Sun God, Lord of the Heavens, Master of the Mountains, King of the Rainforest and All-Round Super-Inca, on His Defeat by Spanish Conquistadores.’ His fingers felt more knots.

  ‘O Mighty Tupac, you’ve been thrashed,

  Your people killed, your Empire smashed.

  But don’t despair: those rotten Spanish

  Cannot make your kingdom vanish.

  Get your son to drink this brew

  And he’ll outlive the whole damn crew.

  Hidden under jungle sky

  Chunca here need never die.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’ Chunca waved a hand dismissively. ‘It’s the last bit I’m interested in.’

  Sighing, Bacpac continued:

  ‘Only if the stoutest crook

  Who ever trod this jungle nook

  Takes his hand and holds it fast

  Will your Chunca breathe his last.’

  Bacpac stopped. That wasn’t actually the end of the prophecy. Out of love and loyalty he’d never read out the last few knots, which weren’t the most flattering.

  P.S. Just a tip for you:

  Get a slave to drink it too.

  Chunca’s not exactly clever –

  He’ll need help to live forever.

  Chunca sank back. ‘I don’t get it.’ He stroked the snake who’d nodded off in his lap. ‘I thought these guys were supposed to be the biggest crooks in the jungle – all that hissing and slithering. So why doesn’t their poison work on me?’

  ‘Due respect, your Superbness, but the prophecy says “stoutest”. Snakes tend to be pretty skinny. Plus, they might take your hand in their mouth, but only for a nip. That’s hardly holding it fast.’

  ‘Alright, smarty-sandals. Who is the stoutest crook, then?’ Chunca stamped his royal foot. ‘I’m bored of this life. I want to go up to the Great Golden Palace in the sky.’ He pointed through a hole in the roof, where a hazy sun was struggling through the trees. ‘In a nutshell, Baccers, it’s time to die. At my age, is that too much to ask?’ He pulled off his headdress – a red turban with feathers stuck in the folds – and hurled it across the room. ‘I’ve had enough, Bac me old Pac!’ He smacked the arm of his throne. ‘Let’s go and find that stoutest crook so I can breathe my last.’

  ‘But your Fantasticness–’

  ‘No buts. That’s an order.’

  Bacpac bit his lip. He’d served his emperor for four hundred and fifty years in this once-magnificent city where the Incas had made their last stand against the Spanish. While temples and houses crumbled around them, Bacpac and Chunca had lived on in the ruined palace. Every day, while vines intruded and roots protruded, the servant had collected food, cooked Chunca’s meals, polished his earrings and read him bedtime knots. And now the Emperor wanted out. What to do?

  It was Bacpac’s duty as a slave to grant his master’s wish. But it was his duty as an Inca to preserve the royal line.

  A tear trickled down his cheek. The Emp’s happiness was the most important thing. He bowed in the doorway. ‘Your wish is my command, O Sapa Inca, Unique One.’

  Chunca leapt from the throne. Apart from his dandruff and a little stiffness in the joints, he was astonishingly well preserved. Thanks to the elixir and the humidity of the jungle he looked a sprightly seventy-five, a sixth of his age. And Bacpac’s attentions had left him plump and soft-skinned, a stranger to hard work. ‘Cheers, Baccy. Knew you’d understand.’

  Considering how long they’d lived in the palace, it didn’t take long to pack. Twenty minutes later they were stepping through the doorway for the very last time. Bacpac led the way. He wore sandals and a loincloth. Apart from a slight stoop, his sm
all, wiry body was also in splendid shape. On his back he carried – you guessed it – a backpack. Inside were two brightly woven cloaks and Chunca’s jewellery box containing a spare pair of golden earrings, a few golden brooches and a bracelet or two. In his hand he carried an axe.

  Behind him came Chunca, looking more like a parrot than a pensioner with his orange tunic, bright red cloak and feathered headdress, not to mention the huge golden discs in his earlobes. On his back he carried – you guessed it – nothing. In his hand he carried a fan.

  ‘Farewell, city of our forefathers,’ said Bacpac as he stepped over the last crumbling wall of the city.

  ‘Good riddance, you old ruin,’ yelled Chunca.

  For three hours they hacked their way through jungle along the edge of a narrow river. Well, Bacpac hacked while the Emperor stuck out his hand towards every stout creature he saw. ‘Bite me,’ he ordered a hairy pig. It waddled off in alarm. ‘Dinner time,’ he tried to convince a jaguar that yawned from a branch.

  On they struggled until the servant stopped abruptly. ‘Look.’

  Chunca crashed into Bacpac’s backpack. ‘What?’

  ‘Smoke. There’s a village. Perhaps they can help us. But let me do the talking, O Son of the Son of the Sun.’

  They entered a clearing where ten earthen huts with thatched roofs stood in a circle. Two naked children squealed and ran into a hut. A young man came out. He wore a shirt, frayed trousers and Nike trainers. His eyebrows rose at the sight of the odd couple.

  ‘How dare you look me in the eye?’ boomed Chunca. ‘My granddad’s the Sun, you know.’

  Bacpac winced.

  The young man looked unimpressed. ‘What can I do for you?’ he said in modern Quechua, which had changed so little over four and a half centuries that even the Emp understood him.

  ‘Kneel, for starters. I am Chunca Inca, last living ruler of the Inca Empire. This is Bacpac Snacpac, last living subject. We are both in our mid-four hundreds and wish to die. Arrange it.’

  Bacpac sighed. ‘I asked you to keep quiet, O Grandson of the Sun.’ He smiled apologetically at the young man. ‘My master doesn’t get out much. He means no harm. Now he’s spilled the beans, perhaps I should explain.’

  The young man nodded. ‘I’ve just put the pot on. Come and meet my uncle while I make some yuca tea.’

  Half an hour later Chunca and Bacpac were sitting on a log in the clearing. The uncle sat cross-legged in front of them, his eyes closed. The whole village – men, women and children – crowded behind him, silent and wide-eyed.

  At last the uncle opened an eye. ‘Their story is true,’ he said. ‘I feel it in my kidneys. My father told me the legend of the lost Inca emperor. His father told him, whose father told him, whose father … you get the picture. The forest is full of magic. It is no harder to believe in this eternal elixir than it is in, say, anteaters. I mean those noses – have you ever seen anything so weird?’ An anteater snuffling in the undergrowth burst into tears and ran off to look up plastic surgeons in the jungle Yellow Pages.

  ‘Wow,’ said the crowd, and got down on its eighty-six knees before the Emperor.

  Chunca beamed. ‘That’s more like it. Now, here’s the gig. We have to find the stoutest crook. Any suggestions?’

  ‘Him,’ squealed a little boy pointing at his brother.

  The Emperor hooted. ‘No seriously, guys.’

  The young man looked at his uncle. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘we know the very man.’

  The Emperor leaned forward. ‘I’m all ears. Well mostly earrings with bits of ear round them.’

  The young man cleared his throat. ‘My name is Quempo. A few months ago I worked in a hotel near here. For a foreigner. The stoutest and crookedest ever.’

  Quempo’s uncle spat on the ground. ‘He stole from the jungle. He nearly destroyed our village. He …’ the old man jabbed an outraged finger, ‘he ate a bun in front of our hungry children.’

  ‘Wait.’ Quempo ran into his hut. He ran out again clutching a book. ‘Are you sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin.’

  As the sun sank behind the trees, Quempo read the Quechua translation of Jungle Tangle (the prequel to this story. If you haven’t read it, you’d better, so that you can answer the following exam question: If Chunca, Bacpac and half the villagers listened enthralled, while the other half yawned and picked their noses, which half was correct?).

  When Quempo had finished, there was a long silence, broken only by the rustle of a million soldier ants putting on six million bedsocks.

  Finally Bacpac said, ‘So now, you say, the stoutest crook is in England?’

  Chunca leapt up from the log. ‘Incaland? You mean there’s a country where my kingdom lives on?’

  Quempo laid a hand on his arm. ‘No. England is far away, across a huge river called Ocean. To get there you must travel to a big city called Quito and climb into a huge metal parrot called Plane. But first you’ve got some work to do.’

  Chunca frowned. ‘I’ve never lifted a finger. It’s one of the perks of dictatorship.’

  Quempo grinned. ‘No fingers needed. Just ears.’ He ran into his hut and came out carrying a black box. ‘This is called a radio,’ he said. ‘I brought it from the hotel when I left.’ He pressed a button on the side. There was a sniffing sound. Chunca backed away.

  ‘Relax,’ laughed Quempo. ‘It’s just modern magic.’ He twiddled a knob. The Incas squealed as the box cleared its throat. Quempo put a finger to his lips.

  ‘BBC World Service,’ said the box in English. ‘And now our restaurant drama for language students: “Eat Your Words”.’

  The Incas sat back for their first English lesson.

  1

  The Call of Nature

  ‘Remarkable,’ said Mr Dabbings. ‘Quite remarkable.’ He patted the exercise books on his desk. ‘An amazing effort all round, kids. But three poems especially impressed me.’

  Mine, thought Abbie. Please mine.

  The teacher looked round the class. ‘Rukia, Marcus and Henry. Please come out and read your Nature poems.’

  Mean, thought Abbie. He’s mean. Dabbers never chose her. She never impressed. She was useless … pointless … an odd sock in the washing basket of life.

  The chosen children strutted to the front. With a smile as neat as an envelope Rukia Zukia took her book. ‘Walk in a Field,’ she began.

  ‘Dandelions sprinkle the air with soft down,

  Cow pats sit everywhere, crusty and brown.

  Brambles all tangle and mangle my dress.

  Nature, I hate you, you make such a mess.’

  Mr Dabbings nodded. ‘Thanks Rukia. Marcus?’

  Marcus Strodboil cleared his throat. ‘Bee. A bee does nothing but trouble you. Unless it’s a BMW.’

  ‘Well read, Marcus. And finally, Henry.’

  Henry Holler took a deep breath. ‘Rock,’ he shouted, ‘you ROCK!’

  ‘Good expression, Henry. Thanks kids, you can all sit down.’ As they swaggered back to their desks, Mr Dabbings ran his fingers through his golden curls. ‘Those poems spoke to me, boys and boyettes. And do you know what they said?’

  ‘Ouch!’ squealed Ursula Slightly, a tiny, pale girl, as Henry passed her desk and pulled her ponytail.

  ‘No, Ursula. They said, “Oh dear. We are written by children who are blind to the beauty of Nature. Children who wouldn’t feel the peace of a sunset if it punched them on the nose.”’

  Ursula ducked as Henry tried to punch her on the nose.

  ‘Do stop fidgeting, Ursula. Now, where was I? Oh yes. In a nutshell, kids, those poems upset me.’ Mr Dabbings sighed while Marcus scowled at the floor, Rukia sharpened an already sharp pencil and Abbie decided that not impressing had its plus side. ‘But guess what.’ The teacher winked. ‘A little bird gave me an idea. A darling little bird, with hair like corn and eyes like chutney.’

  Abbie looked at her best friend and rolled her eyes. After four months of marriage Mr Dabbings was still as soppy as soup over his
wife Wendy. Her best friend giggled till her three plaits wiggled.

  Abbie grinned. What would she do without Perdita Platt? With her crazy hairstyle and even crazier home life, Perdita was another odd sock in life’s washing basket. The difference was that she didn’t care. And being around her made Abbie care less too.

  ‘A holiday!’ Mr Dabbings clapped his hands. ‘Yes folks – Mrs Dabbings suggested a field trip for the class.’

  Gasps went round. ‘Wow.’

  ‘Cool!’

  ‘Barbados?’

  ‘Las Vegas!’

  Mr Dabbings reached behind his desk. He brought out a tube, unrolled it and stuck it to the wall with Blu-Tack. It was a map of Northern Europe. He took a knitting needle from his desk and pointed. ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Ireland,’ said Perdita.

  ‘Correct.’ The needle moved left. ‘And that?’

  ‘The Atlantic Ocean,’ said Marcus.

  ‘No, I mean that dot in the ocean.’

  ‘America,’ said Craig Nibbles, who wasn’t the sharpest crisp in the packet.

  ‘A squashed hff … ant,’ said Barry (a.k.a. Snorty) Poff through his permanently blocked nose.

  Mr Dabbings frowned. ‘We don’t squash ants, Snort–, um, Barry. We hug them. No, this,’ he tapped the dot, ‘is Remote Ken.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Not who, Abigail, what. Remote Ken is a tiny island. Most people haven’t even heard of it. Which makes it perfect.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Not what, Abigail, who. For us. To go there and make friends with Nature.’

  Abbie pictured the teacher high-fiving a daffodil.

  Questions flew. ‘What’s the hotel like?’

  ‘Is there a jacuzzi?’

  ‘Sky Plus?’

  ‘Whoaa!’ Mr Dabbings held up a hand like a policeman stopping traffic. ‘Everything’s explained here.’ He waved a piece of paper. ‘Give this to your parents tonight.’ He strode round the room, throwing a letter on each desk and breathing deeply, as if already hiking over hill and dale.