1. GOLDEN
Gemma was only five minutes away from her parents’ hut, but the jungle had already taken on a different personality. It was thicker. The trees had grown taller. The ti plants shaded the green forest a sinister red. There was no doubt about it- the jungle was more dangerous here, and Gemma loved it. As a baby, Gemma’s parents had taken her on their expeditions over mountains, deserts, and vast seas. It was exciting, unpredictable, and deeply irresponsible. Now that they had settled down in the tropical rainforest, Gemma had to devise intricate plans just to sneak out for morning adventures.

This particular plan hinged on the help of Milo, her ring-tailed lemur. Years of mischief, tom-foolery, and Gemma’s influence had helped Milo develop skills that other lemurs would give theirs rings to have themselves, were such a transaction to be made possible. And on this morning, Milo was lying in Gemma’s bed, wearing a wig made of straw, the same sandy blonde color as Gemma’s hair, snoring loudly. In a stroke of genius, they had even braided it into pigtails to match her style. They tried adding a pair of her old glasses but those kept sliding down his face, given that she had a human-sized head, and his was irreparably lemur-sized.

“I swear, her snoring is getting worse and worse,” said Gemma’s dad from the breakfast table, sipping on a warm tea.

Gemma’s mom raised an eyebrow from across her book.

“It doesn’t even sound human!” he continued.

“You’re exaggerating a little, don’t you think, dear?” Gemma’s mom said.

But he was not. And had either of them walked one room over to check on their daughter, they may have shouted, and woken up a little, groggy primate with straw pigtails.

A short walk away, Gemma brushed past a prickly bush and followed a small break in the twisted liana vines. She came to a wall of leaves and grew excited at the sound of movement ahead. She often felt like she could sense when adventure was near. In fact, she felt it almost every single day, and for the past year, she had been wrong roughly every single time. So, despite the eagerness to find something remarkable, her shock was genuine when she brushed the leaves aside. In a small clearing, no larger than a rock pond, was a black jaguar.

She bravely, confidently, froze.

As she rubbed the condensation from her glasses, Gemma spotted a small mammal underneath the jaguar’s paw. Further rubbing led to further clarity, and she recognized the animal as a golden mole. Both rare and beautiful. A fear rushed in that, if she didn’t act soon, the mole would be eaten or crushed under the jaguar’s leg.

“Oh, Bramblerot!” she whispered.

Half thinking, half not-at-all-thinking, Gemma reached into the brown satchel at her waist and found a small piece of suede. Wrapped tightly inside was her favorite brass bell. It was a dented, old gift from an even older grandma, and Gemma never left it behind when she ventured out. Normally, she reserved for it occasions that required making a lot of noise, but an emergency like this called for something much more risky.

Stepping forward stealthily, Gemma used her other hand to free a thin purple ribbon from her hair, turning her pigtails into a pigtail. She pressed the suede against the bell tightly to make sure that it didn’t attract any unwanted attention. A few paces ahead, and completely unaware of Gemma, the jaguar lifted his paw up for just a moment then pinned the mole down again. Gemma allowed herself a quick and disapproving scowl then focused on the task at hand. She opened the cloth and tied the ribbon around an opening in the brass bell. Then, with the delicacy of a snowflake on a silk napkin at afternoon tea with the Queen, Gemma tied the other end of the ribbon in another knot.

She slid backwards through the leaves and grabbed the closest suitable rock. As the jaguar leaned down with his teeth bared, Gemma tossed it towards the dense jungle to her left.

Without a moment to spare, the jaguar lifted his head, and whipped his body around.

And that’s when he heard a jingle. A strange, suspiciously close, jingle.

He whipped back the other way and heard the jingle again, but all he saw was jungle. He tried prowling around the clearing, looking for the source, but again saw only jungle. The jingles came faster, one after the other. The mole looked on in surprise as the frustration grew. Then, in the type of overreaction that jaguars are known for, he leapt into the deep brush next to him, looking for anything to attack.

Gemma immediately rushed in to grab the wounded golden mole and quickly hid behind the nearest tree. The jaguar ran back into the clearing and looked around with a vicious stare. As soon as he took another step, the bell, which Gemma had fastened securely to his tail, jingled again. Having lost his target, and plagued by the mysterious jingle, the jaguar picked a direction, almost at random, and charged deep into the dark tropical rainforest. When the jingles finally grew quiet, Gemma laid the golden mole down.

“Don’t worry. He’s gone,” she said, petting its head softly. “And he won’t be sneaking up on anyone for a while,” she added with a smile.

The mole wheezed out a tiny giggle then shook out its fur. It looked up at Gemma for a long moment, then scrunched its nose. Without a sound, it dug a hole in the soft earth and dove down.

Gemma watched in awe as it worked its way out of sight at impressive speed. She peered down to catch one last glimpse, but its little feet had disappeared in a flurry of dirt and dust. Gemma looked around. She had maybe ten minutes before her parents would try to wake her up and then find her missing. It was time to head back. Besides, she had found more than enough adventure for one day. Best for her to leave some for the other young explorers out there.

Carefully listening for the jingle of her favorite bell, Gemma weaved through the thick brush until it loosened and gave way to the path that she had personally made, stomp by stomp, over the better part of a year. She was almost to the hut when a small patch of dirt a few steps ahead of her started to move and shake. Approaching slowly, she leaned down and saw the furry face of the golden mole pop up to greet her. It scurried out of its hole and looked Gemma up and down. Gemma waved hello instinctively, as a matter of manners, and with no idea what else to do.

The mole reached into the dirt, pulling out an instrument that Gemma had seen many times before. It was a dark blue compass, set on a weathered chain. Gemma grabbed it with two curious hands, turning it over and around to inspect. The compass itself was older than her bell, she imagined, and built with much greater care. Then she reminded herself that her bell was now a jaguar accessory, and no longer hers at all. By the time she was done thinking, the mole had hopped back down its hole, leaving the compass behind. Gemma decided then and there that golden moles were strange creatures with strange habits. It’s worth noting, however, that this was an unfair generalization and would only serve her poorly.

Later that day, Gemma sat at the kitchen table and watched her parents rush around the hut.

The compass was hanging around her neck, unnoticed. She had never seen them so animated as they gathered their belongings and shouted out questions and commands to each other. It was on this day that they had revealed they’d be going away on a trip of indeterminate length. Without her. Milo looked up at Gemma and cocked his head to the side. She patted her shoulder, the signal that it was okay for him to climb up and sit. Deftly, he swung up her torso and rested. Most times he would wrap only his tail around her neck, but today was different. He hugged her whole head with every limb he had.

“Gemma,” said her Mom. “Come and take a walk with me to the waterfall. I have something to tell you.”

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