The Island of Dr. Libris

by Chris Grabenstein

  Billy grinned. “Come inside. I think I found us the perfect treasure-hunting partner.”

  Billy led Walter into Dr. Libris’s study.

  “Hey, Billy, you ever notice that the ceiling tiles in here are made out of metal?”

  “Yeah. Tin. The same kind are on the ceiling over the back porch, too.”

  “My dad says tin is a good conductor of electricity,” said Walter.

  “Huh,” said Billy. “And have you noticed—there’s a satellite dish in the backyard but no TV in the cabin?”

  “So maybe … the tin ceiling picks up your electronic brain signals when you read a book and transmits them to the satellite dish, which beams them up to space, where they hit a satellite with a bunch of digital movie projectors that send holographic images down to the island or directly to the underwater cable my dad’s construction crew ran out there a couple years ago.”

  “Whoa,” said Billy. “Wait a second. They ran a cable out to the island?”

  “Yuh-huh. They spooled it off the back of a big boat. My dad said it was for the bird sanctuary’s telecommunications and Internet system. I asked him if birds use landline phones and Web browsers. He told me that information was classified.”

  Billy thought about his encounter with Poseidon. Walter’s underwater cable might explain that.

  “Uh-oh,” said Walter, studying the books lined up in the case. “Stay away from that one.” He was pointing at The Time Machine by H. G. Wells. “We have enough weirdness already. You definitely don’t want to mess with the space-time continuum, too.”

  “Good point.”

  “You should pick Treasure Island. Get it? Island? Treasure? Treasure Island!”

  “I had the same idea,” said Billy. “But there’s no Treasure Island on any of the shelves.”

  “No Treasure Island?” Walter sounded bummed.

  “Nope. So I started thinking about other books with treasure or treasure hunters in them.”

  Walter snapped his fingers. “National Treasure Two: Book of Secrets! Raiders of the Lost Ark!”

  “Those are movies, Walter.”

  “Weren’t they books first?”

  “Nope. Sorry.” Billy opened up the bookcase and took out a midnight-blue clothbound edition of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain. “But Tom Sawyer goes treasure hunting all the time. He’s an expert. He can tell us where to start digging.”

  “So we don’t waste a lot of time digging random holes like in that other book!”

  “Holes,” said Billy.

  “Yeah. That one.”

  Billy sat down in the comfy chair, flipped open Tom Sawyer, and started reading.

  Tom lay awake and waited, in restless impatience. When it seemed to him that it must be nearly daylight, he heard the clock strike ten!

  In the distance, Billy heard a clock tolling ten times.

  “Did you hear that?” he asked Walter in an anxious whisper.

  “Nope.”

  Same as the day before. Billy heard stuff in the study; Walter didn’t.

  “Okay,” he said. “Here come the meows.”

  “Is there a cat in the book?” asked Walter.

  “Nope. It’s Tom Sawyer calling out to his friends because he’s ready to go treasure hunting. And you know what? So am I!”

  Billy ran out the door first.

  “I’m right behind you!” cried Walter.

  Billy manned the oars, and fifteen minutes later they reached the island.

  Walter tied off their docking line with another messy shambles of a knot. Then the two boys toted their shovels up the mulched path, ready to strike it rich.

  “Let’s hope all those characters from yesterday are still asleep,” said Walter.

  “Well, you said it was a level-four spell. That ought to keep them conked out. Right?”

  Walter nodded. “Definitely. I think.”

  Billy held open the dome flap so Walter could step in ahead of him.

  “Walter?” said Billy.

  “Yeah?”

  Billy pointed at Walter’s butt. “What’s that?”

  “What’s what?”

  “The rectangle jammed down the back of your pants.”

  “Oh,” said Walter nervously. “Nothing. I just grabbed some fresh reading material.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a book from the bookcase.”

  Billy was confused. “But I brought Tom Sawyer.”

  “I know,” said Walter. “But seeing the Junior Wizard come to life was so cool I wanted to try it again.”

  “But …”

  “Don’t worry, Billy. I picked something totally safe.” Walter pulled out the book and showed it to Billy. “It’s called Pollyanna: The Glad Book. Judging from her picture, I don’t think this Pollyanna girl will be armed or dangerous like all those people yesterday.”

  On the cover of the new book, Billy saw a happy girl in a straw hat and pigtails toting a basket of flowers.

  “Fine,” said Billy. “Who knows? Maybe Pollyanna is a treasure hunter, too.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Walter, flipping through some pages. “So far, she’s mostly just ‘glad, glad, glad’ about everything.”

  “Well, listen to this,” said Billy as he riffled through the pages of Tom Sawyer. “It’s from Chapter Sixteen. They’re on a sandbar in the river and Tom says, ‘I bet there’s been pirates on this island before, boys. They’ve hid treasures here somewhere. How’d you feel to light on a rotten chest full of gold and silver—hey?’ ”

  “I’d feel awesome!” said Walter.

  The two boys raced up the trail with their shovels but stopped in their tracks when they reached the gate.

  Paris was gone.

  So were Robin Hood, Maid Marian, Hercules, and all four of the musketeers.

  The cobblestone Parisian square was now a wide country lane lined with tall elm trees.

  Walter pulled his rubber-banded stack of trading cards out of his shorts, found the Junior Wizard, and started reading a grid of power stats on the back.

  “Oops,” he said. “Guess I’m not very good at playing Magical Battical, either.”

  “What?”

  “I forgot. Level-four spells only last one turn.”

  “How long is a turn?”

  “Depends. Usually about an hour.”

  Billy sighed and unlocked the gate. “Let’s go find ’em.”

  Walter propped the shovels up against one of the twin stone columns.

  The two friends headed up the shady country lane.

  But they didn’t walk very far.

  Because they saw something nailed to one of the elms lining the path.

  A WANTED poster—with Billy’s name on it.

  WANTED

  DEAD OR ALIVE

  ROBIN HOOD

  &

  SIR WILLIAM OF GOAT,

  HE WHO DIDST CAUSE ME TO BE CRIPPLED

  —THE SHERIFF OF NOTTINGHAM

  “This isn’t good,” said Billy.

  He and Walter walked up the road a few more yards. The next elm tree had a WANTED poster nailed to it, too.

  And so did all the other elms lining both sides of the road.

  “Excuse me,” cried a happy voice, “but why do you two boys look so glum? Especially since today is such a bright and cheery day!”

  “No, it’s not,” said Billy.

  “Well, you can make it better! Just play the glad game!”

  “Woo-hoo!” said Walter with an excited arm pump. “I did it again! That’s her! That’s Pollyanna.”

  The girl smiling at Billy and Walter was maybe eleven years old with lots of freckles, two blond pigtails, and a straw hat the size of a small umbrella. She wore a bellshaped yellow gingham dress that made her look like an upside-down daffodil. She also carried a basket of freshly cut yellow flowers. Daffodils.

  “What’s the glad game?” asked Billy.

  “Oh, it’s ever so simple,” gushed Pollyanna. “Change a few words an
d you can change everything! My father and I started playing it when I asked for a doll and got crutches instead. The game was to find something to be glad about in everything.”

  “Even crutches?” said Walter.

  “Of course, goosey! Why, just be glad because you don’t need them.”

  “Well,” said Billy, “I’d be really glad if my name wasn’t on that ‘wanted’ poster.”

  “But I think it’s wonderful!” said Pollyanna, sort of dancing on her toes.

  “You do?”

  “Why, you’re nearly as famous as Robin Hood, and, heavens—he’s legendary.”

  “Do you know Robin Hood?” asked Billy.

  “Oh, yes!”

  “Any idea where he might be? We’re kind of looking for him.”

  “I gather he and his merry people are on their way to the Saint Petersburg Sunday School Picnic and Archery Contest.”

  “Saint Petersburg?” asked Walter. “Where’s that?”

  “Just up the road a piece in Missouri, right on the banks of the Mississippi River.”

  Pollyanna reached into her flower basket and pulled out a parchment scroll.

  “Mr. Hood was kind enough to give me this handbill announcing today’s event.”

  She passed the small scroll to Walter.

  “Huh,” said Walter. “ ‘Ye Olde-Fashioned Sunday School Picnic and Archery Contest. Today. Saint Petersburg, Missouri.’ ” He looked up at Billy. “The grand prize is an arrow made out of solid gold. Robin Hood will win it for sure.”

  Something didn’t feel right. Billy shook his head. “It’s a trap.”

  “Heavens,” said Pollyanna. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “The Sheriff of Nottingham knows Robin can’t resist an archery contest with a prize like that. So when he shows up at the Sunday school picnic, the sheriff will arrest him. He’d probably like to arrest me, too.”

  “Billy?” said Walter. “Why is the sheriff after you?”

  “He thinks I’m a traitor.”

  “How come?”

  “I sort of said I was joining Robin Hood’s merry band of outlaws.”

  “Maybe we should go home,” said Walter. “We could come back tomorrow to find the treasure.”

  “We can’t, Walter. Robin Hood’s in danger. Maid Marian and Hercules, too. And it’s my fault. Maid Marian only threw her dagger at the sheriff to protect me.” Billy turned to Pollyanna. “Can you take us to the picnic?”

  “I’d be glad to show you boys the way.”

  “Wait,” said Walter. “What if the sheriff does arrest you? What’ll you do?”

  Billy shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I’ll play Pollyanna’s glad game.”

  Pollyanna clapped her hands. “Oh, goody!” She skipped up the trail.

  Billy and Walter followed her.

  Neither one was skipping.

  The winding path ended in a lush green glen filled with tables, tents, and fluttering banners.

  The people strolling across the grass and working in the canvas booths were dressed in their Sunday best and looked like they had stepped out of an old-fashioned photograph taken before the Civil War.

  The fluttering banners, on the other hand, came from some other century—maybe the Middle Ages.

  “Golly,” said Pollyanna. “I’m so glad we’re here! Now, if you two will excuse me, I need to go help out over in the pie tent.”

  “There’s pie?” said Walter.

  “Of course, goosey. You can’t have a proper picnic without pie.”

  A barefoot boy munching on an apple sauntered toward Billy, Walter, and Pollyanna. He was wearing blue jeans cut off at the knee, a faded blue shirt, and leather suspenders, and he was crowned with a speckled straw hat.

  “Hello, Thomas Sawyer,” said Pollyanna.

  “Thomas?” said the boy. “That’s the name they lick me by. I’m ‘Tom’ when I’m good.”

  “Well, then—see you later, Tom!” Pollyanna pranced off to her pie pavilion.

  “Hi, Tom,” said Walter. “I’m Walter. This is my friend Billy. We’re here to hunt for treasure.”

  “I figured you weren’t here to cure warts with spunk-water. Did you boys bring shovels?”

  Walter nodded eagerly. “Yeah. Two of ’em. We left them back at the gate.”

  “Wait,” said Billy. “First we need to rescue Robin Hood.”

  “You two playing Robin Hood?” said Tom Sawyer. “Me and Joe Harper play Robin Hood all the time. Why, I’d rather be an outlaw in Sherwood Forest than president of the United States.”

  “Not me.”

  Behind Tom Sawyer, Billy had just seen the Sheriff of Nottingham limp his way up a set of steps to a raised platform. Four stern deputies marched behind him.

  “Uh-oh,” said Billy. “It’s the musketeers. Looks like they’re working for the sheriff now.”

  “Why, that ain’t right,” said Tom Sawyer. “That ain’t the way it is in the book.”

  Billy didn’t have time to explain to Tom Sawyer how the three musketeers had ended up in Robin Hood.

  He and Walter slipped behind an oak tree to hide. Tom hid with them. The three boys were close enough to hear the sheriff as he gave orders to the musketeers.

  “A right good reward have I offered to whosoever should bring me Robin Hood and the traitorous Sir William of Goat. But no man in Missouri hath proved brave enough. Therefore, brave musketeers, keep an eye upon our contestants. Unless Robin Hood should prove a coward as well as a rogue, he will surely be amongst the archers competing here this day.”

  “Wait with Tom,” Billy said to Walter. “I need to go warn Robin and Hercules.”

  “Hercules?” said Tom Sawyer. “Is he here, too?”

  “See that archer in the hooded robe? The huge guy disguised as a monk?”

  “That there is Hercules?”

  “Yup.”

  “Oh, this is bully!” exclaimed Tom.

  “Does ‘bully’ mean ‘good’?” asked Walter.

  “Nope,” said Tom. “Bully is better than good.”

  “Well, this isn’t ‘bully,’ ” said Billy. “The sheriff wants to hang us all.”

  “Don’t let him see your face,” suggested Walter.

  “Good idea. Can I borrow your hat, Tom?”

  “I reckon so.”

  Billy put on Tom’s straw hat, lowered his head, and trotted away from the tree. He had to talk to Hercules, warn him about the danger.

  Behind him, someone blew a flourish of trumpet blasts.

  The archery contest was about to begin.

  Billy needed to hurry.

  “Herc!” Billy whispered when he reached the big man.

  “Billy?” said Hercules. “What are you doing here?”

  “You guys are in trouble. Where’s Robin?”

  Hercules nodded toward an archer at the far end of the shooting line. The guy was dressed in tattered clothes and a feathered cap, and he wore a black patch over one eye. Despite the disguise, Billy knew the half-blind beggar was really Robin Hood.

  “Is Maid Marian here?”

  “No,” said Hercules. “Robin said too many royals would come to this picnic and they’d all recognize her, since her father is Sir Richard of Leaford.”

  Great, thought Billy. If things get ugly, it will just be Hercules and his bow against the four musketeers’ swords.

  “This is a trap,” said Billy. “The sheriff is going to arrest Robin the second he shoots his winning arrow.”

  “Fear not, for I shall protect him.” Hercules nocked an arrow and tugged back with all his might.

  The bow snapped.

  “By Zeus,” he muttered, “that is the fourth bow I have broken this day.”

  The trumpet sounded again and all the archers in the line stepped forward to take their shots.

  Arrows sliced through the air. One archer hit the dead center of his hay-bale target’s bull’s-eye.

  “We have a winner!” cried the Sheriff of Nottingham.

  “
Nay,” said the half-blind beggar. “For I have not yet loosed my shaft.”

  He aimed his arrow at the very same target.

  “Are you blind in both eyes, you tangle-headed old fool?” cried the champion archer. “How could you top my shot?”

  “Top it, I cannot. But split it, sir, I might.”

  Billy ducked his head again and hurried down the line of archers, using their bodies as a shield so the sheriff couldn’t see him.

  “Robin? It’s me. Sir William. The Sheriff of Nottingham has the musketeers on his team. They’re going to arrest us both.”

  “Ah-ha-ha-ha!” Robin laughed merrily. “Fear not, Sir William, for the day belongs to the brave.”

  Robin raised his elbow, drew back his bowstring, and shot an arrow that shredded the other archer’s shaft into two splintered halves. Double bull’s-eye.

  The crowd cheered.

  “You there!” called the sheriff. “Come, noble archer, claim thy prize. For well and fairly hast thou won it.”

  Tucking his chin to his chest, hiding under the brim of Tom Sawyer’s hat, Billy followed Robin as he proudly marched to the sheriff’s reviewing stand.

  But when Robin held out his hand to accept his trophy, the sheriff plucked the golden arrow out of his reach.

  “Before thou claimeth thy prize, good sir, tell me—art thou not that cowardly knave known high and low as Robin Hood?”

  “Robin’s not a coward!” shouted Hercules, tearing off his robe to reveal his tight green tunic and leggings.

  Now Robin threw off his disguise, too. “And I shall dash to pieces any who dare say that I am!”

  “Ah-ha!” shouted the sheriff. “Seize him! Seize Robin Hood!”

  The musketeers drew their swords.

  “All for one, and one for—”

  Hercules grabbed the nearest tent pole, which made the canvas collapse.

  “By Zeus,” cried Hercules, “I will smite all of you!”

  He swung the pointy-tipped post like a mighty baseball bat and knocked the four swords out of the musketeers’ hands with one swoop.

  “Ah-ha-ha-ha!” laughed Robin. “There shall be no smiting here today, my good friend.” He snatched the golden arrow from the terrified sheriff. “But mark my words, Sheriff: Shouldst thou ever attempt to trap me again, Hercules shall knock thy noggin into the next county. Come, good friend. Let us flee!”