Smells Like Treasure

by Suzanne Selfors

  The weight of the evening’s events pulled on Homer’s legs. He wanted to curl up on the floor next to Dog. “Zelda?” he said quietly. “What do we do?”

  She stood like a praying mantis unfolding itself—first her legs straightened, then her spine, then her neck, until her head, once again, floated above the lamplight. “Homer,” she said, her low voice gravelly with pain, “I am responsible for you until Sunday evening. I must ask you to reconsider this challenge. You do not have your parents’ permission, and I will not be able to protect you.”

  “What are you saying?” Homer asked. “You want me to go home?”

  “It would be the safest decision.”

  “Hey, I think that’s a great idea,” Lorelei said. She set the phone books on the table, then sat in Lord Mockingbird’s chair. Daisy the rat jumped onto the table and began nibbling on muffin crumbs. “I don’t have parents, so I don’t have to worry. I can go anywhere.”

  Homer ground his teeth together. His mom and dad would be worried, of course, but they didn’t have to know. They thought he was at Zelda’s and they expected him back on Sunday. That gave him five days to find the membership coin. He had to try. For Uncle Drake, he had to try.

  “I’m not going home,” he said.

  Zelda nodded. Of course she understood. The same passion ran through her blood.

  Hercules shuffled through the papers. “I don’t want to do this. There’s got to be a way out,” he mumbled.

  “I think you should leave now,” Lorelei said. “Zelda and I have a lot to talk about.” She smiled sweetly at Homer, but he knew, with all his heart, that the sweetness was a clever ploy. Not an ounce of her could be trusted.

  Zelda took Homer’s hand and looked down at him. “Please, never doubt me. Though I’m helping Lorelei, my heart is with you.”

  “I know,” Homer said.

  Homer, Hercules, and Dog stood beneath Zelda’s driftwood arbor. The horse, Rolls Royce, scooter, motorcycle, and helicopter were gone, as was the yacht. “Good luck,” Lorelei called before shutting Zelda’s front door. A gentleman would have wished her good luck in return, but Homer couldn’t bring himself to say those words—not after everything she’d done.

  “I’m real sorry about this,” Hercules said, adjusting his helmet strap. “I know you don’t want to be stuck with me.”

  “Uh…” What could Homer say? It was true. “It’s fine,” he lied as he slid his arms through his backpack straps.

  “It’s not fine. I don’t want to go on a treasure hunt. I’m supposed to file papers.” Hercules shuddered. “What if we have to climb something? Or go underwater? Or… do something dangerous?”

  Homer wiped sea spray off his face. “You don’t have to do any of those things,” he said. “I’ll do them. I’m the one who has to find the coin. You’re just supposed to make sure I don’t cheat. And drive me around.” Homer looked around. “So, you have a butler?”

  “Yes, and I scheduled a pickup.”

  A roaring sound filled the air. Clutching his first-aid kit and pulling a little wheeled suitcase, Hercules led Homer and Dog around Zelda’s cottage to the beach. The summer moon floated above the calm sea. The seabirds had gone to bed. But there, on the hard sand, sat an airplane. The airplane’s door opened and a small staircase unfurled. A man with a red mustache walked down the stairs. He removed his pilot’s hat and bowed. “Good evening, Mr. Simple,” he said.

  Hercules dumped his suitcase at the man’s feet. “Hi, Baldwin. What’s the weather like?”

  “No need to worry,” Baldwin said. “Flying conditions are mild. The chance of crashing is one in thirty billion.”

  Hercules frowned. “One in thirty billion? Are you sure we won’t encounter any hurricanes? It is hurricane season, you know.”

  “No hurricanes. The sky is perfect for a night flight.”

  “Okay.” He adjusted his helmet. “Uh, this is Homer Pudding and his dog, Dog.”

  Baldwin bowed. “Good evening, Mr. Pudding. Good evening, Dog.”

  A renewed sense of hope wrapped itself around Homer. “Hercules, is this your plane?”

  “Yep.”

  “Really?” A plane was so much better than a cloudcopter. They’d be able to beat Lorelei to any location. “This is great.”

  Baldwin picked up Hercules’s suitcase. “Where to, Mr. Simple?” he asked.

  “Home,” Hercules said.

  20

  Rumpold Smeller the Boy, Part III

  Rumpold balanced on the branch. It swayed slightly, but the base was sturdy enough to hold him. His long, skinny legs were built for climbing, and he weighed little more than he had last year.

  Duke Smeller’s castle had been in the family for fourteen generations. Built atop a rocky hill, it overlooked fields where peasants worked their crops, and where goats and sheep grazed. In exchange for the duke’s protection and land, the peasants provided the estate with eggs, milk and cheese, cabbages, carrots, and potatoes. The duke also employed a band of hunters who kept venison and rabbit on the supper table.

  Rumpold balanced a piece of wood on his lap, onto which he set a precious piece of parchment. With a sharpened stick of charcoal, he sketched the horizon where the forest met the sky. A few minutes into the drawing, a cloud of dust caught his attention. A horse moved along the road at a fast pace. Rumpold frowned. It was another knight, come to join the others who’d been arriving throughout the day.

  Rumpold rested his back against the tree’s trunk as the horse and rider started up the steep road to the castle. They cut through a herd of sheep that were crossing to the other field. The knight did not wear armor but wore a long white tunic with a black cross sewn across the chest.

  Why do I have to join the knighthood? Rumpold wondered. It was bad enough that he was destined to become the next Duke of Estonia. He’d be stuck in the castle, overseeing and protecting, when all he wanted to do was travel down that road, on and on, sketching everything he saw.

  “It is your duty to get married and have a son,” his mother often told him. “Duke Frederick’s daughter would be a suitable match.”

  Rumpold had met Duke Frederick’s daughter once, at his cousin’s wedding. She’d called him ugly and had pushed him to the ground.

  “Daydreaming?” The knight, having stopped his horse beneath the tree, looked up at Rumpold. His long blond hair was tied back with a cord, and his beard was neatly trimmed. “Thinking about faraway places?”

  “Yes,” Rumpold admitted.

  “That is understandable. Faraway places can be most intriguing.” The knight nudged his horse and continued up the road.

  Rumpold tossed the drawing board to the ground, rolled up his parchment, then scrambled down the tree. With a long stride, he ran after the horse. “Have you been to faraway places?” he asked when he’d caught up.

  “Many.”

  “Really?” Rumpold stumbled over a stone. The knight slowed the horse’s pace so that Rumpold could walk alongside. “Where have you been?”

  “I’ve fought in Cypress and Macedonia. I’ve battled in Scotland and Wales.”

  “Oh.” The horse kicked some dust onto Rumpold’s face. He wiped it away with his sleeve. “Is that why you go places? To fight?”

  “In my youth I went where the money was good. If they paid, I fought. But now I stay here to protect my homeland.” He reached out and rubbed the horse’s neck. “Things never stay the same. Change is always in the wind, like the seasons.”

  “My father expects me to become a knight.”

  “Ah. You are Duke Smeller’s son.” He smiled kindly at Rumpold. Then he nodded at the rolled parchment. “You are an artist?”

  “Yes,” Rumpold said. “I want to go to other lands and whatever I see, I want to draw. And then I can put it all into a book so that other people can see the world, too.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes. That is so.”

  The road grew steeper as they approached the palace. An armed guard stepped
aside as Rumpold led the horse through the gates and into the courtyard, where the knight dismounted. He removed his gloves and put a hand on Rumpold’s shoulder. “I only have daughters. Silly-minded creatures who spend their days needlepointing and combing their hair. It is every father’s dream to have a son who will follow in his footsteps.”

  Rumpold nodded, pretending to agree. This knight would never understand Rumpold’s true feelings—that following in his father’s footsteps was the last thing he wanted to do.

  Clutching the parchment, he watched as the knight strode into the palace. Then he looked up and met his sister’s gaze. Rumpoldena stood on the balcony, a piece of needlepoint in her hands, her face heavy with sadness. He waved to her. She frowned as a woman appeared and escorted her off the balcony, back to the women’s chambers.

  The horse snorted, then nuzzled Rumpold’s arm. Rumpold looked into its gentle brown eyes. Maybe this horse didn’t want to be ridden. Maybe it wanted to be free, to roam the fields, to graze in the meadow. Maybe his sister didn’t want to sit around all day and do needlework. Maybe she, too, wanted freedom. But she was a girl. And he was the son of a duke.

  Rumpold knew, there and then, that he’d never be a traveling artist. His future was carved like a riverbed.

  PART THREE

  LOFTY SPIRES

  21

  The Palace of the Gods

  Dawn sent its rosy rays through the airplane’s windows, tickling the faces of the sleeping passengers. Homer opened his eyes and rubbed away bits of crust. He’d fallen asleep in what Hercules had called a “sleeping berth”—two airplane seats that folded out to make a little bed. The night had passed quickly—at least that’s how it felt to Homer, who’d slept so soundly he couldn’t remember dreaming or even changing position. Not that he could have changed position. Late last night, Dog had wedged himself between Homer and the armrest. His soft brown ear was draped over Homer’s arm. His white tummy rose and fell in steady breaths.

  There was a moment each morning, just as Homer woke and his brain kicked into gear, when he worried that Dog wouldn’t be beside him. This fear had plagued Homer ever since that horrid morning three months ago when he’d woken to find that Lorelei had kidnapped Dog. It could happen again. If the wrong person found out that Dog could smell treasure…

  The thought was too much to bear. The last thing Homer wanted was to relive the panic and heartache of that day when he’d thought he’d lost Dog for good.

  Homer picked a strand of dog hair from his mouth. He’d gotten used to the short strands appearing in all sorts of odd places, like in his pockets, in his cereal, and mixed in his belly button lint. They were like little invaders, those dog hairs.

  He stretched his legs, then sat up. Dog, his eyes still closed, moaned his disapproval. “Don’t worry, you can sleep some more,” Homer whispered.

  Hercules lay in the berth across the narrow aisle. With a black mask over his eyes to keep out the light, he looked like some kind of bizarre superhero. He’d taken a pill to prevent motion sickness, which apparently he’d never suffered from, but “there is always a first time,” he’d said. Then he’d grabbed an orange parachute. “Just in case we get hit by lightning or a meteorite.” He’d fallen asleep clutching the parachute to his chest.

  While Homer had flown on a cloudcopter, he’d never flown on an airplane. The ride was much smoother, but the best part was that he didn’t have to worry about being flung from his seat and falling over the side. The other benefits of airplane travel, he decided, were not having wind blowing in his face and not constantly inhaling cloud cover, which had a flavor unlike anything else. The only true description is, “It tastes like cloud.”

  The world outside was pinkish, thanks to the morning sun. It was also flat and composed of green squares, like the quilt that lay on Homer’s bed, the one his grandmother had sewn from old pillowcases. A house sat on each square. Homer leaned over Dog to get a better look out the tiny window. At first glance they looked like houses, but as the plane descended, Homer realized that the houses were sprawling estates—some with towers, some with moats, most with Olympic-size swimming pools. One even had a Roman coliseum in the backyard. No one in Milkydale, not even Mayor Sneed, lived in a house half as large as these. The former Milkydale library couldn’t even compare.

  Milkydale felt a whole world away. Homer sighed, remembering last night’s phone call to his family, just before leaving Zelda’s cottage. “Zelda and I are going camping,” he’d lied to his mother. He’d regretted the lie, but there was no way he could tell her about the L.O.S.T. challenge. “So I won’t be able to call you for a couple of days.”

  “Oh dear,” Mrs. Pudding said. “You’ll be sure to take your raincoat?”

  “Yes.” That wasn’t a lie. He’d packed it into his backpack. “What happened at the fair today?”

  Her voice instantly cheered. “I won first place for my lemon cream pie. But tomorrow is mincemeat day, and you know I don’t like mincemeat.”

  “How did Dad do at the dog trials?”

  “Max and Lulu both made it to the finals,” she said. “But we’re five points behind the Crescent dogs. Your father and Squeak are out in the barn right now giving the dogs a good rubdown.”

  “Tell Homer that someone threw another rock!” Gwendolyn called out.

  “Another rock?” Homer asked. “Did it have a note?”

  “Don’t you worry about it. It was just another silly note telling you to keep away from the fair.” Mrs. Pudding paused for a moment. “It’s best to ignore bullies. If you ignore bullies, then they’ll get bored and go away.”

  “Homer!” Gwendolyn must have pulled the phone out of Mrs. Pudding’s hand. “I’m stuck doing your chores. You’re gonna owe me big when you get home. I’m gonna make you do my chores for the rest of the summer.”

  “I’m sorry,” Homer said. He didn’t want Gwendolyn to get stuck doing his chores, but he wasn’t about to rush home, no matter how miserable Gwendolyn was planning to make his life. He had to finish his quest.

  “Be careful on your camping trip,” Mrs. Pudding said after wrestling the phone away from Gwendolyn. “And call me as soon as you can. We all miss you very much and can’t wait to see you on Sunday.”

  “Tell Dad that I hope he wins. And I hope you win the mincemeat contest, too.”

  As the conversation faded from Homer’s mind, he focused on the green plaid landscape. The plane tilted slightly and turned to the south, granting him a clear view of the next mansion with its glass dome ceiling. A loudspeaker crackled. “Good morning, Mr. Pudding,” Baldwin said. “Would you please wake Mr. Simple and let him know that we are landing in five minutes?”

  Homer reached across the aisle and nudged Hercules’s shoulder. Hercules bolted upright and tore the mask from his eyes. “What’s going on?” he cried. Dog’s eyes flew open. “Are we plummeting to earth?” He blinked once, twice, then looked at Homer. “Well?”

  “We’re landing in five minutes,” Homer said.

  “Oh.” Hercules grabbed his helmet and stuck it on his head.

  It took a great deal of nudging and then a giant shove to get Dog out of bed. He scratched his ear with his hind leg, which was an amazing feat considering the distance between his head and his back feet. Then he waddled over to the exit door and whined.

  “You can go to the bathroom in five minutes,” Homer told him, setting the seats upright.

  “Urrrr.” Dog sat, his tail thumping on the carpet, his gaze never leaving the exit door.

  As the plane descended, Homer felt as if someone had stuffed cotton balls into his ears. “Hey, Hercules, where are we?” he asked.

  “The gated community of Lofty Spires,” Hercules said, still hugging the parachute.

  The plane tilted again. “What’s a gated community?” Homer asked.

  “It’s a fancy neighborhood with a big wall around it to keep out the riffraff.” As the plane straightened, Hercules squeezed his eyes shut. “You can only get
in if you’re invited.”

  They passed over a circular lawn that glistened like a green lollipop. What kind of people live in a gated neighborhood? Homer wondered. Maybe a president, or a king, or a movie star?

  The loudspeaker crackled again. “Please make sure your seat belts are fastened.”

  “Dog,” Homer called, but Dog refused to leave his place by the door. Homer secured his seat belt, then gripped the armrests as the floor vibrated and a humming sound filled the air. “What’s that?”

  “Landing gear,” Hercules explained, squeezing his eyes harder. “That’s a good sign, but there’s still the chance we could miss the runway entirely. Or explode on impact.”

  Those weren’t reassuring words to hear, especially since Homer had never landed in an airplane before. As the black runway rose up to meet them, Homer also closed his eyes. The plane gently bounced as the wheels touched down. The engines quieted and the movement eased. Hercules released a loud sigh. Homer opened his eyes just as a sign passed by the window:

  PRIVATE AIRSTRIP.

  Property of Lofty Spires. No Riffraff Allowed.

  “Terra firma,” Hercules said, tossing the parachute aside. “Solid ground.” The plane taxied to the end of the runway, then turned toward an enormous metal building. HANGAR 3B: THE SIMPLES. The hangar’s double doors opened, and the plane taxied into the gleaming interior.

  As soon as the plane was parked and the engines shut off, Baldwin emerged from the cockpit. “Our guest looks eager to leave,” he said, giving Dog a pat on the head. Baldwin reached up and pulled a lever. As the exit door lifted upward, a staircase unfolded downward. Dog, his tail wagging madly, pushed past Baldwin and scrambled down the stairs.

  “Ur, ur, ur,” he grunted.

  Homer unbuckled his seat belt and grabbed his backpack.

  “You can leave your baggage,” Baldwin said. “I will have it delivered to Mr. Simple’s room.”