Smells Like Treasure

by Suzanne Selfors

  “I’m sorry,” Homer said, torn between helping the boy and finding Dog before he did more damage. A chorus of barking solved the dilemma. Homer jumped over a gray angora bunny, leaped over a golden hare, then ran out the far end of the barn and turned the corner. His stomach clenched. The barking came from the dog barn. Dog must have chased the black rabbit into the dog barn. Homer’s father was in there, along with the other farmers and their dogs.

  “Dog!” Homer called.

  The black rabbit appeared, a wild expression in its eyes. It tore out of the dog barn and ran right past Homer. Dog appeared next, bounding after the rabbit, his ears swinging, his stubby legs pumping furiously. Then, like balls from a cannon, border collie after border collie shot out of the barn. Homer pressed against a red wall as they raced past, their sleek black-and-white coats rippling.

  “Molly!” “Spot!” “Rover!” the farmers cried, rushing from the barn.

  Mr. Pudding cupped his hands around his mouth. “Max! Lulu!”

  What followed is best described as a natural disaster. The black rabbit led the dogs on an agility course that had no rules, no borders, no judges or blue ribbons. The dog pack knocked over a lemonade seller, whose cart rolled from his hands and overturned, creating a sticky yellow lake. The dogs knocked over Mayor Sneed, who’d been judging an all-you-can-eat ice cream contest. Her red sash got wrapped around her head and her high heels flew off. The dogs darted beneath a striped tent, where screams erupted as a table of pies flew into the air. Apple, cherry, and peach filling rained down on the unlucky bystanders. Homer stopped long enough to help his mother to her feet. Piecrust clung to her hair. “Sorry about the pies,” he said.

  The dog pack trampled a balloon seller, charged through a ringtoss game, then darted around the sheep barn. Dog, his leash dragging behind, was no longer the leader, but was doing his best to keep up as the black rabbit headed for the gunnysack slide.

  Next to the slide, Gwendolyn and a frizzy-haired boy sat on a bench sharing a tub of popcorn. Homer cringed as the dog pack knocked the bench over. Her legs in the air, popcorn all over her face, Gwendolyn spotted him and screamed, “HOMER!”

  “Sorry!”

  Momentarily losing track of the rabbit, the dogs skidded to a stop at the base of the gunnysack slide and turned in confused circles. Homer, gasping for breath, caught up with the dogs and looked around. Where was the rabbit?

  “Hi, Homer,” Squeak called, waving proudly from the very top of the slide. Kids were lined all the way up the stairs waiting for their turns. An exit stairway stood on the other side of the slide for those kids who chickened out and changed their minds once they reached the top. Squeak, unaware of the impending doom, arranged his gunnysack. “I’m gonna go so fast,” he said. He waved at Homer again, then went to sit on his sack but found a black ball of quivering fur sitting on it. “Hey, what are you doing here?” The rabbit, breathing wildly, thumped a warning with its back leg.

  Like a black-and-white jet stream, the pack of border collies flew up the exit stairs. The entire slide wobbled. Dog whined, his front paws planted on the first step, waiting for someone to push his rump up the stairs.

  “Go away,” the gunnysack man hollered, shaking a fist at the oncoming dogs.

  Homer froze, watching openmouthed as the slide wobbled to and fro. The wooden beams creaked. “Earthquake!” someone yelled. Parents shouted at their kids to get off. The first border collie reached the top of the stairs and headed toward the rabbit.

  “Squeak!” Homer cried. “Hold on!”

  But what was there to hold on to? As the rest of the dog pack reached the top, the slide jerked violently. Squeak lost his balance and fell onto his gunnysack, right on top of the rabbit. “Ahhhh!” Squeak cried as, face-first, he started down the slide. The rabbit, its nose aquiver, peeked out from beneath Squeak’s chest. The dogs watched from the top as Squeak and the rabbit flew off the end of the slide. Squeak landed at Homer’s feet, but the rabbit shot right between Homer’s legs. Then it scampered beneath a chain-link fence and disappeared.

  Rather than taking the slide, the dogs pushed their way down the other set of stairs, right through the lined-up kids. Parents held out their arms to catch their toppling children. Between all the barking and screaming, Homer could barely hear his own voice. “Are you okay?” he asked his little brother.

  “Yeah.” Squeak rubbed his backside as a smile burst across his face. “That was a blast!”

  The pack of border collies leaped off the stairs, then raced to the chain-link fence. Sticking their noses through the gaps in the links, they barked and barked. But once they realized they couldn’t get through, they lost interest, stopped barking, and settled down. Dog, exhausted from the rabbit chase, collapsed next to Squeak.

  Parents hugged their frightened children. The farmers began to gather their border collies. People wiped pie filling from their faces, and Gwendolyn and her date picked popcorn out of their hair. Homer sighed with relief. It was over. No one had gotten seriously hurt. For a moment it seemed as if the fair would go on as usual.

  But a loud groaning sound made everyone stop, turn, and stare in horror. The gunnysack slide, which had been wobbling back and forth, shuddered, then collapsed in a heap of wood and metal, sending a cloud of gunnysacks into the air.

  For a long moment no one said a word. Children and adults alike stared at the pile of rubble. Squeak’s eyes filled with tears. The gunnysack man stared at the wreckage that had once been his livelihood. “My slide,” he whimpered.

  “What’s going on?” Mayor Sneed asked as she pushed her way through the gathered crowd. “Who did this?”

  The boy who owned the black rabbit pointed at Dog. “It’s his fault. He chased my rabbit.”

  “That dog?” Mayor Sneed asked. She straightened her sash. “That fat dog lying on the ground?” Her gaze darted here and there until it rested on Homer’s red face. “Isn’t that your dog?”

  “Uh-huh,” Homer said.

  “Thanks a lot, Homer,” said Prudence, a girl from school. “The gunnysack slide was my favorite ride.”

  In all his years of going to the Milkydale County Fair, Homer had always had a good time. But this day was the worst ever. “It was an accident,” he murmured. “Basset hounds are supposed to chase rabbits. He couldn’t help it.”

  Mr. and Mrs. Pudding pushed their way through the crowd. “Homer, what’s happened?” Mrs. Pudding asked, cherry filling on her cheeks. “Is anyone hurt?”

  Gwendolyn lunged at Homer, pointing a finger in his face. “I can’t believe you did this,” she hissed. “I could just die of embarrassment. You’re the worst brother ever!”

  Mr. Crescent had an opinion, as usual, and he expressed it so the entire crowd could hear. “Those Puddings don’t know how to control their animals. First the library, now this.”

  Mr. Pudding grabbed Homer’s arm and pulled him aside. “Did you do this?” he asked, anger sizzling beneath the words. “Was it your dog that started the rabbit chase?”

  “It was an accident.” Homer looked at his feet. “I’m sorry, Dad. It was an accident. It’s his instinct to chase rabbits. He couldn’t help it.”

  “Maybe so, but he’s your responsibility.” Mr. Pudding let go of Homer’s arm. “I wish I’d never let you keep that dog.” Homer’s thoughts flew back to three months prior, when his father had wanted to send Dog away. Panic swelled in his chest.

  “Mr. Pudding,” Mayor Sneed interrupted, “may I speak to you privately?”

  Mr. Pudding tucked his cap into the back pocket of his overalls. Then he and Mayor Sneed spoke in hushed tones. People stopped hollering and leaned forward, trying to catch the conversation. After a few nods, the mayor spun around and waved her arms. “That’s enough. This area will be roped off. Everyone go back and enjoy the rest of the day. There’s nothing more to see here.”

  “But what about the Pudding kid and his dog?” Mr. Crescent asked. “What if they cause more trouble?”

  “H
omer Pudding and his dog are banned from the fair for the duration,” Mayor Sneed announced, her hands planted on her ample hips.

  Banned? Surely Homer hadn’t heard right?

  “What about my gunnysack slide?” the gunnysack man asked. “Who’s gonna pay for that?”

  “I’ll pay for it,” Mr. Pudding said. “If my boy’s dog did this, then I’ll pay.”

  Homer’s stomach clenched. His father couldn’t pay for the slide. Goat farmers weren’t rich.

  “Mr. Pudding and I will discuss compensation,” Mayor Sneed said. “Now, everyone, please go and enjoy the day.”

  Murmuring, the crowd dispersed, including Gwendolyn’s date. Mayor Sneed turned to Mr. and Mrs. Pudding. “I won’t change my mind. Homer and his dog are banned, and that’s final. I suggest you send them home immediately. As for the cost to replace the gunnysack slide, I will be in contact with you.” She sidestepped some pigeons that were helping themselves to the spilled popcorn, then strode away, the ends of her sash flapping in her wake.

  Mr. Pudding hung his head. Homer reached out to touch his father’s arm but stopped midway. It was as if an invisible wall stood between them. “Dad?”

  “There’s nothing to be done now,” Mr. Pudding said. He took his handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped sweat and frustration from his face. “I’ve got to get the dogs back to the dog barn. You go on home, Homer. We’ll talk about this tonight.” Without looking at his son, he walked off, his shoulders hunched, the farm dogs following at his heels.

  Homer had seen those hunched shoulders too many times in his life, and he’d always been the cause. Why do I always mess things up? he asked himself.

  Mrs. Pudding put her hand on Homer’s back. He looked into her gold-flecked eyes. “Why does Dad have to pay for the slide? It wasn’t his fault. I’ll pay. Just like I did with the library. I’ll figure out a way to get enough money.”

  “Your heart’s always in the right place,” Mrs. Pudding said as she hugged him. “Don’t you worry about all the details. The grown-ups will sort that out. Now, I’ve got to stay and help the ladies clean up the pie mess. I want you and Dog to walk on home. We’ll see you later, around suppertime.”

  “Bye, Homer,” Squeak said as Mrs. Pudding took his hand and headed toward the pie tent. “Bye, Dog.”

  Dog, still lying on his side, barely mustered the strength to wag his tail.

  “I will never live this down,” Gwendolyn snarled. “And now my date’s too embarrassed to be seen with me.” She kicked the empty popcorn bucket, then stomped off.

  A cleaning crew, dressed in white overalls, hung orange DANGER tape around the pile of rubble that used to be the gunnysack slide. Homer heaved Dog to his feet. “I know you’re tired, but we have to go.”

  “Ur.”

  Clutching the end of the leash, Homer took the long walk of shame down the fair’s main pathway, his feet like concrete blocks. Never in the history of the Milkydale County Fair had anyone ever been banned. Even if he became a professional treasure hunter and found Rumpold Smeller’s treasure, he’d never live this day down. Opening day of the 157th Milkydale County Fair would go down in infamy.

  “Don’t try sneaking back in,” the guy at the ticket booth said.

  “I won’t,” Homer grumbled as he and Dog walked out the front gate. They passed the empty grandstand and trudged across the parking lot. What a cruddy day. It had begun on such a high note with the words Your time has come. Then it had veered off course with the warning Treasure hunting will kill you. Only to smash to smithereens with You are banned.

  Homer wished he had a book for the long walk home—something to take his mind off his troubles.

  “Grrrr.”

  The black rabbit sat just beyond the parking lot, beneath an oak tree. Dog pulled hard on the leash. “Oh no,” Homer said. “You’re not chasing that rabbit again. No way.”

  The rabbit hopped here, then there, sniffing a tree, tasting a shrub, bouncing around in a crazy freedom dance. Then it stopped and sniffed a puffball of fog that was about the size of Homer’s hand. The puffball floated over the rabbit’s head into a grove of trees where a larger patch of fog hovered. Odd, thought Homer. What’s fog doing in the woods on such a beautiful, sunny day?

  Homer took a quick breath and held it as he realized what he was looking at. It wasn’t fog. It was a cloud, fallen from the sky.

  And that could only mean one thing.

  8

  An Errand of Utmost Importance

  Zelda!” Homer cried as he ran into the grove of birch trees.

  Sure enough, Zelda Wallow stood next to her cloudcopter, her head level with its roof. At eight feet two inches, she was the tallest person Homer had ever seen or known.

  For those of you not familiar with a unique mode of transportation known as a cloudcopter, imagine a helicopter that has no doors and is powered by steam. Imagine a tangled mass of pipes sticking out all over the ’copter, from which soft puffballs of cloud emerge. The pilot refers to this as “cloud cover” and it can be set on minimum or maximum, depending on how much camouflage is needed. Now imagine looking up and seeing one of these things. It would look like a cloud, and even though it was moving kind of fast, you’d never suspect that someone was driving it. That would be insane. Who drives a cloud?

  “Hello, Homer,” she said, sliding her goggles onto her broad forehead. She bent over and gave him a hug. Then she knelt and patted Dog’s head. “Hello, Dog.” Dog wagged his tail.

  Homer’s grin pushed his cheeks so high that, for a moment, the world went blurry. Though he’d only known Zelda for a short time, he felt as if they’d been lifelong friends.

  Just before he died, Uncle Drake had written a last letter to Homer telling him that Zelda could be trusted and that she’d continue Homer’s treasure-hunting education. Zelda knew about Homer’s secret map. She’d been the one to advise him to keep it hidden. She was a kindred spirit. But she didn’t know Dog’s secret, because Uncle Drake’s last letter had urged Homer not to reveal Dog’s secret. So Homer had never told Zelda, or anyone else. Lorelei, the girl with the lair, had figured it out on her own.

  Homer peered into the ’copter. “Is Ajitabh with you?” Ajitabh, the inventor of the cloudcopter, was another friend of Uncle Drake’s who’d become Homer’s friend.

  “No,” Zelda said. “Ajitabh is visiting his family in India. His father is ill, so he will not be joining us. So sudden, and so sad.”

  “Oh.” Homer’s smile faded for a moment. The swoosh of the fair’s roller coaster and the screams of its passengers sounded in the distance. “I’m glad to see you,” he said.

  “The feeling is mutual.” Zelda stopped petting Dog. As she stood, her legs creaked like branches in the wind. When they’d first met, she’d told Homer that she’d been born with a chromosomal abnormality that caused her to grow too much. Though she wasn’t a giant in the fairy-tale way, her condition was called gigantism. “But I’m not here for a social visit. I’ve come to get you.”

  “Because of the letter?” Homer asked. “Is that why you’re here? Did L.O.S.T. send you?”

  “They didn’t send me, but I am here because of the letter.”

  “Really? You mean…?” Excitement was building inside him, like the bubbles in a shaken can of soda. He was going to explode right there and then. “YOU MEAN…?”

  “Calm down, Homer.” Zelda motioned gently with her hand. “Yes, it’s true. The membership is inviting you to join.”

  Homer dropped the leash. As he shouted with joy, his feet took on a mind of their own and danced him around the ’copter. Dog focused his enthusiasm on a stick, which he gnawed and chewed as if it were a delicious piece of jerky.

  “When? When can I join?”

  Zelda pressed her hot-dog-size fingers together. “A special meeting of the Society of Legends, Objects, Secrets, and Treasures will be held in a few days. The membership is meeting specifically to discuss your uncle’s chair.”

  “My uncl
e had a chair?”

  “Yes, he had a chair. Well, not an actual chair. A symbolic chair. There are twelve chairs in L.O.S.T., and each chair is filled by a member. But now that Drake’s dead, the twelfth chair is empty.” She looked him up and down. “Before you claim the chair, however, we’ve got an errand to run. Go ask your parents if I can take you away for a couple of hours.”

  “Uh…” Homer fiddled with his ear. “They’re at the fair. I can’t go ask them because…” He looked away, too embarrassed to tell the story of an afternoon gone terribly wrong.

  “Homer? What has happened?”

  He fiddled with his other ear, which had started to burn. “I’ve been banned from the fair. Dog got banned, too. We’re supposed to be walking home.”

  Zelda wrapped her black cloak around her arms. Then she strode to the edge of the grove and looked over at the fairgrounds. The red roller-coaster cars flashed with sunlight as they sped over a village of striped tents. The orange arms of the octopus ride rose and fell. A massive bouquet of balloons bounced in the breeze. “No one’s ever banned me from the fair, but it feels that way,” Zelda said in her low voice. “I do not fit on any of the rides. Watching everyone else go round and round on the Ferris wheel always makes me feel so sad.” She sighed. “So utterly sad.”

  Homer had figured out, from their short time together, that Zelda was the kind of person who felt sadness the way other people feel awakeness. It was always with her, carried in her slow movements, floating in her baritone voice. Sadness made her words heavy. She spoke more slowly than most other people, and it sometimes made Homer sleepy just listening to her.

  Wispy tendrils of cloud filled Homer’s nose with their fresh snowy scent. Dog stretched out on the grass and chewed on the stick. Zelda didn’t move, lost in sad memories. Homer hadn’t heard from her or from Ajitabh since his adventure in The City, three months ago. He’d worried that they’d forgotten about him.

  “What kind of errand?” he asked.

  As she strode back to the ’copter, Zelda swept her long silver hair behind her shoulders. “Before he was… murdered, your uncle registered your name with the Society as his rightful heir.” She reached into the ’copter and grabbed a pair of flight goggles. Then she looked down at Homer, the ever-present furrow between her eyebrows deepening. “That should be enough to guarantee your membership; however life never goes exactly as we plan. I expect that one member will be opposed to having you join.”