Beneath the Devil’s Canopy
A full-on Mickey take on the jungle romance novel. Strap in, it might be a bumpy ride. Think Indiana Jones and Alan Quartermaine.
Like Tokyo Drift... but with less budget and more canoes.
Coming out in about one year... if Chief Kalembe will let me out of my cell.
1952. Deep in the heart of the Congo, where enchanted jungles hum with ancient power and the rivers whisper secrets in the dark, three treasures, older than empires, await beneath the ruins of a shattered civilisation. Rupert Drake, disgraced academic and emphatic explorer, has uncovered a map. One that points to the lost city of Umvanu, split in two by betrayal and an ancient civil war, and now guarded by deadly curses.
Ruby Fairfax, runaway heiress with impeccable aim and very little patience, is supposed to be getting married. Instead, she teams up with Rupert and flees into the jungle in search of freedom, fortune, and something worth believing in. They are hunted by the vengeful Lord Randolph Fortescue-Smitherington-Hall III, a man with a private army, an ego the size of Belgium, a nifty moustache, and absolutely no sense of humour. Between them and the treasures lie ancient spider cults, sacred snake temples, enchanted flowers with impossible powers, and Lulubelle, a goat with a taste for anarchy and her own militia.
The jungle doesn’t care who you are. The Gods demand blood. And the ancient city of Umvanu is… not really paying attention.
Here’s a taster of what you’re in for…
Pure pulp nonsense but with a moral twist...
The church doors banged open, echoing like gunfire across the vaulted ceiling. The crowd gasped as Rupert stormed in, his hair wild, shirt half-untucked, a battered leather satchel slung across his shoulder.
‘Ruby! I’ve found it! I found the map to the lost city of Umvanu!’
A beat of stunned silence. Ruby’s heart clawed against her ribs, the weight of Lord Randolph Fortescue-Smitherington-Hall III pressing against her like a suffocating corset.
She always wanted Rupert. The rogue explorer with the dangerous grin and that noble chin that jutted forward in stubborn defiance, like he could stare down an empire and still come out on top.
Without a second thought, Ruby turned on her heel and dashed down the aisle, leaving Randolph spluttering and the congregation in stunned dismay.
Rupert caught her in his arms, pulling her close, his lips grazing her ear, ‘Let’s go, Ruby. Before he comes after us.’
They bolted from the church, clambering into Rupert’s battered convertible, its engine rumbling like a beast ready to devour the road.
As they sped toward Plymouth docks, Ruby glanced back once, only once, and saw Randolph’s crimson-faced fury at the church door. But it was too late. They were gone.
Africa awaited.
