by Tony Abbott
“We have to do reports on characters,” said Frankie.
“Then Treasure Island is the book for you,” she said. “I have one copy left. It’s in a carton marked ‘CLASSICS,’ in the workroom. Over there.”
She pointed over a tall stack of boxes.
I looked. “I can’t even see the workroom. All I see is one thing. Boxes and boxes.”
“Devin, that’s two things,” said Frankie.
Mrs. Figglehopper laughed. “Here, let me draw you a map.” She drew a big square on her pad, then a zigzagging line across it to a big X.
“Ooh, a treasure map,” said Frankie.
The librarian beamed. “I think of books as treasures. Sometimes you have to hunt for the right one. But the reward is that much greater! So, happy hunting!”
An instant later, Mrs. Figglehopper was gone.
“I like treasure hunts,” said Frankie, setting off into the maze.
“Me, too,” I said, taking a sharp left by a box marked Sea Creatures. “Except that there’s not really a treasure at the end of this hunt. There’s only staying up all night reading, then writing a book report.”
After turning enough times to make my head spin, we finally found the workroom. Frankie held up the little map. “The X means it’s right over … there!”
And there it was. The carton marked CLASSICS.
But that isn’t all that was there. Right behind the carton, we spotted something else.
“The zapper gates,” I whispered.
“The zapper gates,” Frankie whispered back.
I was reminded of the Very Impossible Thing.
The zapper gates was Mrs. Figglehopper’s name for an old set of security gates she kept in the workroom. They’re the kind that are supposed to go zzzt-zzzt when a book isn’t properly checked out. Mrs. Figglehopper kept them in the workroom because she said they were busted beyond repair.
But Frankie and I knew those gates were far from busted. In fact, we found out the hard way that if a book goes between them, a bright blue light flashes out and the wall behind the gates cracks open and the book goes in and then you go in and you get shook up like you’re in a blender, and then—plop!—there you are.
Right in chapter one of the book!
With all the characters, and settings, and everything!
How do I know? I know, because The Very Impossible Thing has happened to Frankie and me.
And each time it happens, we get all twisted and stretched and knocked around, and the next thing we know, we’re in a classic book. And the only way out is—you guessed it—to read our way to the end.
Nodding toward the gates, Frankie asked, “Do you think it could ever happen again?”
“Part of me still thinks we dreamed the whole thing.”
But I had to admit that being dropped into a book wasn’t all bad. By the time we got to the end, we knew that book backward and forward. We turned that into a bunch of surprise good grades on Mr. Wexler’s tests, which totally freaked his eyebrows.
“Let’s just get the book,” said Frankie.
I pulled off the lid of the carton. Digging to the bottom, I found a book with gold letters set on a blue cover.
“Treasure Island,” I said. “Got it.” I flipped open the book, and something green fluttered out.
“A bookmark,” Frankie said. She picked it up.
It was a feather, a bright green bird feather.
“Where do you suppose she got this?” I asked.
Frankie sniffed the feather, then handed it to me. “People keep stuff given to them by special friends—”
I stared at her. “You mean … like a … boyfriend?”
She nodded. “Maybe—”
“Well—eeewww!” I tossed back the feather.
“I don’t want it!” she shrieked. She flung it at me.
“Get the boyfriend thing off me!” I threw it back.
She dodged it. “Take it away!”
She tossed it, then I tossed it, then she tossed it, then I tossed it, then it happened.
The feather—Mrs. Figglehopper’s precious green boyfriend-feather bookmark—suddenly twirled up in the air out of reach, then shot straight down like a dart.
“It’s heading for the gates!” I cried. “It’s—”
Kkkkk! The room flashed with bright blue light.
Suddenly—crrrakkk!—the whole wall behind the gates began to crack open. Smoke poured out into the workroom. The light and the smoke surrounded us and we were pulled toward the crack—right into the smoky light and darkness.
“It’s happening again!” Frankie yelled. “Help!”
“Me also!” I shouted.
Then—thumpety-thumpety—we were pulled through the crack and sent rolling across a wooden floor. I just got a glimpse of a room full of dark old furniture and dirty glass windows when—wham!—we slammed hard into a table.
Stinky liquid spilled across the table, over us, onto the floor, and onto a pair of big huge boots.
When we stopped rolling, I noticed that the big huge boots belonged to a big huge man. He was dressed in a dirty blue coat that dragged on the floor. He had a deep scar on one bearded cheek, and a nasty scowl on his lips.
“Um, sorry, dude—” I began.
But the guy burst up from the table and began screaming words that sounded very inappropriate.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, he pulled out the longest, shiniest, sharpest sword ever made, and shook it in the air over our heads.
That’s when I freaked.
“Ahhhhhhh!”
Chapter 3
And I kept on freaking. “Ahhhhhh—ahhh!”
“So!” the man roared, continuing to swish his sword over our heads. “You’ve come to hunt me down, have ye? Well, you fish-eyed, goose-legged lubbers, I’ll chop and I’ll whack and I’ll cut and I’ll—”
“Whoa, guy!” I cried. “Most people wait till they know us to get rid of us!”
“Yeah,” said Frankie, clutching my arm. “It’s way too early for slicing and dicing. It’s not even lunchtime. So how about you put Mr. Pointy down? Please, mister big dude—”
The man stopped chewing up the air and stared at us, blinking his red eyes. “Pah! I see by your strange clothes and strange talk that you be not from around here!”
“We sure be not,” said Frankie, unclutching me. “And, by the way, where is here, anyway?”
“Here?” he snarled. “Why, England, of course!
With a mighty grip, he lifted us both off the floor and leaned his stubbly face close. “Call me Captain, if you like. Others do. But tell me, you haven’t seen an ugly seafaring man with one leg, have you?”
“Not even one with the usual number,” I said.
“Good!” he snorted. “Tell me if you spy anyone with a single leg. Or somebody with bad teeth. Or someone who can’t see.”
“Man,” I said, “your friends need some spare parts.”
“Friends?” he cried. “Pah! They are coming to do me harm! And that reminds me of a song!”
The guy then decided to sing. If you can call his combination of yelling and groaning singing.
“Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest—
Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!”
On hitting that last note, he slid his cutlass back into his belt, slumped in his chair, took a long swig from his bottle of stinky liquid, and dropped his head on the table with a resounding thud.
Frankie and I stood trembling until we heard the guy begin to snore. It sounded like someone sawing wood.
“Interesting guy,” she said. “Nice character, really. I think we’d better stay on his good side.”
“I’m not sure he has a good side,” I replied. “You see that scar? He’s nasty from every angle. He scares me.”
Frankie chuckled. “I heard. You scream like a baby, you know.”
“So would you if he threatened to part your hair all the way to your feet! I just hope his name’s not John or Jim—”
“Did somebody call me?”
We turned to see a fresh-faced teenaged boy come into the room carrying a tray. “I’m Jim Hawkins,” he said. “We don’t get many people coming this way. Are you two new guests here?”
Frankie’s eyes lit up. “Guests?” she said, shooting a glance at me. “That’s one way to put it—”
“Another way to put it is that we’re really here to find treasure,” I said. “You know, the kind that pirates like to bury? According to the title of this story, it’s supposed to be on an island. You haven’t seen an island around here, have you? Lots of palm trees, lots of buried treasure? Maybe a nice beach, with sand to relax on?”
Jim frowned and gave me a quizzical look, as if I had suddenly started babbling. I knew what that look meant.
The clueless factor.
You see, there are rules about being dropped into books. The real book characters never really get why or how we’re suddenly in there with them. It sort of confuses them.
Also, they give us total frowns when we start talking about being in their story. You see, for them, it’s not a story, it’s their life. Frankie and I had learned that you have to be respectful of that, or things go a bit haywire.
It’s just that sometimes I forget.
Seeing poor Jim doing the whole frowny-face bit, Frankie stepped in to save the day. “What Devin means is that we’re new to the area. We’d like to spend time on an island, but we’re not clear on exactly where we are.”
Jim’s face perked up. “Oh, I see! You are at my family’s inn. The Admiral Benbow Inn. It’s been here on the western coast of England for fifty years, since 1704.”
I did some addition in the air with my finger. “Which puts us now in … 1754? I guess that means no TV.”
“Or much else,” said Frankie. “We’re way back in time.”
Jim frowned. “Well, speaking of time, it’ll be 1755 before I know it. I’d better clean up.”
Then, while I helped him collect empty bottles and dirty glasses on his tray, and Frankie tried to find our place in the book, Jim told us how his father was very sick and how he was helping his mother run the inn.
“Dr. Livesey comes from the village every day,” Jim said. “But it’s not going well. Father’s very ill.”
Frankie looked up from the book. “Sorry about that, Jim. And I suppose while you were helping out one day this moldy old sea captain here just appeared at your door acting as if he’s hiding and stuff?”
“That’s exactly right!” said Jim, his eyes wide. “He’s afraid of meeting his former shipmates. You should stay out of his way. He’s got a very bad temper.”
“And a very big sword,” I said. “Yeah, we noticed.”
Jim filled his tray, then leaned close. “The captain’s got a big wooden chest in his room. Once my mother was dusting it, and he nearly drew his sword on her. He’s afraid his old shipmates will find the chest.”
“Especially shipmates without the usual number of eyes and legs and teeth,” I said. I glanced at Frankie. “Hmm. A big wooden chest, eh?”
She shared my look. We huddled for an instant.
“Sounds like a good place to hide secret stuff,” Frankie said. “Devin, maybe Mrs. Figglehopper’s special bookmark is in the captain’s chest. And maybe the treasure, too!”
I grinned. “Already, I feel like taking a look-see.”
But we didn’t get the chance right away. The door of the inn swung open and in came a tall man in a dark coat, who Jim called Dr. Livesey. He greeted us kindly, but then came some awful coughing noises from upstairs, and he followed Jim to his father’s room.
“Poor Jim,” said Frankie. “He’s worried about his dad. I hope the old guy doesn’t, you know, um, die—”
“Die?” roared the captain suddenly, lifting his head. “That reminds me of a song!” He began singing again. “Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest—”
I looked at Frankie. “Nice, cheery tune. Don’t care much for the words, though.”
“If it’s cheer you want,” the captain bellowed, “why the one thing that cheers buccaneers like me, their cutlasses flying and clashing as they battle, is treasure! Wicked deeds are done for the love of treasure!”
I had a sudden thought. “Say, there, Captain, if you’ve seen so much treasure, have you ever seen any precious feathers, maybe?”
“Feathers?” he said. “Why, that reminds me of a song! Fifteen men—”
“Quiet!” roared a voice from the top of the stairs. It was Dr. Livesey again. His face bore a sudden dark expression. “Jim’s father is dying,” he said. “Be respectful and quiet. And that means, no more singing!”
The captain snarled at the doctor, then his head dropped to the table once more. Dr. Livesey glanced at the man, and left the inn without a word.
Frankie looked at me. “Jim’s dad isn’t doing well. Maybe we should go to him—”
Before we could even make a move to the stairs—wham!—the door burst open again, and a tattered man with a mouthful of no teeth stumbled in.
“It’s the no-teeth guy!” Frankie whispered.
“He really shouldn’t smile,” I said.
The man’s black eyes scanned the room, widening when they saw the captain. “Billy Bones!” he cried.
The captain raised his heavy head, gasped, then rocketed to his feet. “Black Dog!”
“We want it, Billy. My mates and me, we want it.”
The captain shook his head. “You’ll not get it!”
“Wait a second,” I said. “Get what?”
“The treasure!” said No-Teeth.
“Treasure?” I said. “As in … treasure?”
“Stand aside, boy!” the captain roared. He pushed me away, drew his blade, and leaped at Black Dog.
Clang! Crash! Ooomph! Yeow!
The captain chased Black Dog around the room, doing that cutlass-swishing-and-slicing thing he practiced on us, but he actually connected a few times. Black Dog yelled, kicked a chair in front of the captain, and slipped out the door, screaming as he fled into the night.
“Pah!” the captain snorted, huffing and puffing. “So much for him!” He slumped into his favorite chair, drank almost an entire bottle of stinky liquid, started singing about that old dead man’s chest again, and—thud—hit the table for the thousandth time.
“It’s all those bottles of rum he keeps yo-hoing about,” said Frankie. “They’re not good for him.”
“But him sleeping is good for us,” I said. “If this guy Black Dog thinks the captain has treasure, I’ll bet it has something to do with that big old wooden chest. Maybe we’ll find Mrs. Figglehopper’s precious feather bookmark there, too!”
“And maybe,” said Frankie, grinning at me, “some actual gold. Shopping spree, here I come! Lead on, Dev.”
Buy X Marks the Spot Now!
About the Author
Over the last two decades, Tony Abbott has written dozens of mysteries, comics, and adventure books for young readers aged six to fourteen, with series including Danger Guys, the Time Surfers, the Weird Zone, Underworlds, Goofballs, and the long-running fantasy series the Secrets of Droon. He is also the author of the fantasy epic Kringle and the realistic novels Firegirl (winner of the 2006 Golden Kite Award for Fiction), The Postcard (winner of the 2008 Edgar Award for Best Juvenile Mystery), and Lunch-Box Dream. Among his latest novels is The Forbidden Stone, the first installment of the twelve-book saga the Copernicus Legacy. Tony has taught on the faculty of Lesley University’s MFA program in creative writing, is a frequent conference speaker and visitor to schools, and presents workshops to creative writers of all ages. His websites include www.tonyabbottbooks.com, www.thecopernicuslegacy.com, and the literary blog www.fridaybookreport.com.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2002 by Tony Abbott
Cover design by Connie Gabbert
ISBN: 978-1-4804-8690-4
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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New York, NY 10014
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