Smells Like Treasure

by Suzanne Selfors

  “That’s okay,” Homer said, not wanting to leave his gear with anyone. Even if they’d landed in a place that was riffraff-free, he wasn’t about to take the chance. The contents of his backpack were all he had in his quest to defeat Lorelei. That, and Dog.

  Homer followed Hercules down the stairs. Dog piddled on a tuft of grass just outside the hangar’s doors. “Did anyone notice my absence?” Hercules asked as Baldwin opened the door of a black stretch limousine.

  “Your absence went unnoticed as usual, Mr. Simple.”

  Hercules frowned. Clutching his first-aid kit, he slid into the limousine’s backseat.

  “Come on, Dog,” Homer called. Dog lifted his leg over another tuft of grass, then another. Even though Dog couldn’t smell, the instinct to leave his scent was in his blood. And once he started marking, it was always difficult to get him to stop. “Hello, over there. We’re waiting.”

  After a heave and a push, Dog landed on the limousine’s floor. Homer climbed in and smiled in wonderment. The limo was a house on wheels. A white leather couch wrapped around the interior. A sink and a refrigerator sat in the corner. Baldwin, who’d exchanged his pilot’s hat and epaulettes for a shiny black driver’s cap and black driving gloves, took the driver’s seat and drove the limousine out of the hangar and onto a paved road. Hercules scooted to the far end of the seat, as far away from Dog as possible.

  Homer’s Quality Solar-Powered Subatomic Watch read 7 a.m., Tuesday morning in Lofty Spires. Five hours until noon. “How will Lord Mockingbird get the clues to me if there’s a wall around the neighborhood?” he asked.

  “The mailman is allowed inside, same with the hired help.”

  “You have hired help?” Homer asked.

  “We have gardeners, cooks, butlers, pantry maids, and a laundry and cleaning staff. I’m sure there are more, but I can’t keep track of them. And there’s Baldwin, of course. He’s my personal butler.”

  Homer had never known anyone with a butler. He’d seem them in movies, though.

  At ground level, the mansions of Lofty Spires were as impressive as anything Homer had ever seen in history books. They drove past a hedge trimmed like a row of hearts, where two heart-shaped wrought iron gates opened onto a red driveway. A brick wall surrounded another residence. Grimacing gargoyles lined the wall and guarded its gates, as did two men in security guard uniforms. They passed one of the moats Homer had seen from the air. GUARDED BY PIRANHAS, a sign read. As Homer and Dog watched the scenery pass by, Hercules kept his distance at the far end of the limo, clutching his first-aid kit and nervously tapping his feet.

  “Are my parents home?” Hercules asked, leaning toward the driver’s seat.

  “No, Mr. Simple. Your parents are in Saint-Tropez at a fund-raising event for children who have only one millionaire parent. But your brothers and sister have returned from college for summer vacation.”

  Hercules swallowed hard. “All of them?”

  “Yes, Mr. Simple. All four of them.”

  “Crud.” Hercules opened his first-aid kit. “If they’re home, I’m going to need another tube of antibacterial ointment, a bag of cotton swabs, and a quart of benzoyl peroxide. Another ice pack would be good, and I should boost my immune system with vitamins C, D, A, E, B12, and B6.” He closed the first-aid kit. “Are you certain no one noticed my absence?”

  “I’m certain, Mr. Simple.”

  If Hercules lived in a house as large as the other houses in Lofty Spires, then it made perfect sense that no one had noticed his absence. His family members probably got lost just trying to get from their bedrooms to the kitchen table. Good thing, Homer thought, that I brought a compass—even if it was a fake Galileo Compass from that traitor Lorelei.

  “Here we are,” Hercules said as the limousine turned up a paved driveway and passed beneath a stone arch that was entwined with ivy. Broad green stripes crossed the lawn in a perfectly mowed pattern. Statues of Roman archers, gladiators, and soldiers rose from the grass like giant chess pieces posed for a game. As the limousine slowed, Homer rolled down his window and he and Dog stuck out their heads. Eight massive columns loomed over them.

  “It looks just like the Pantheon,” Homer said, imagining the ancient Rome map from the southwest portion of his ceiling.

  “My father is a Romanophile,” Hercules told him as Baldwin opened the limousine door. “He loves all things Roman.”

  “Is that why he named you Hercules?”

  “Yep.” Hercules pointed to his helmet. “I have an extra one in my room. You can wear it.”

  What was he worried about now? That something would fall from the sky and land on Homer’s head? “I’m okay. I don’t need a helmet,” Homer said.

  “Believe me. You do.”

  Up the huge stone steps they walked, then between two of the columns. A white-gloved doorman held the door as they walked into a grand room. Homer felt as if he’d shrunk. Not even Zelda, standing on a ladder, could touch the ceiling. The polished marble walls gleamed, reflecting a million shards of light from the crystal chandelier. Homer shielded his eyes with his hand. When his pupils had adjusted, he looked around.

  A wall of painted portraits dominated the room, each portrait more than double life-size and each labeled with an engraved gold plate. Homer adjusted his backpack, then wandered over to the wall. He had to crane his neck to read the plates.

  SENATOR SIMPLISTICUS SIMPLE. The man in the portrait wore a red suit. His gray hair was crowned with a laurel wreath.

  “That’s my father. He’s a senator.” Hercules scratched beneath his helmet. “You’d better not stand too close. If one of those fell off the wall, you’d be instantly crushed.”

  Homer took a step back, then moved to the next frame. SYLVANIA SIMPLE. The beautiful woman in the portrait wore a green gown and a diamond necklace.

  “That’s my mother. She’s an elitist. She and my dad travel all over the world. They never take me with them.”

  “My dad and mom are goat farmers. They own the Pudding Goat Farm in Milkydale.”

  “Really? I’ve never met any goat farmers. Is it dangerous?”

  “No. And supposedly, goat farming is the happiest job you can have.” Homer walked farther down the wall. “Are these your brothers and sister?”

  “Yep. And they are, in one word, simpletons.”

  ROMULUS. A guy with black smudges beneath his eyes and a football tucked under his massive arm had posed for the artist in full football gear. Homer could practically hear a growl vibrate behind Romulus’s mouth guard.

  TIBERIUS. He’d posed in a wrestler’s singlet. His skin glistened with sweat and his muscles bulged like balloons. He held some unfortunate kid in a headlock.

  CAESAR. This brother held a hockey stick and was the only person on the portrait wall who was smiling—probably to show off his two missing front teeth.

  DIANA. She was the only girl on the wall, but as beefy as the boys. She’d posed in a soccer uniform, her hands on her hips, a soccer ball caught beneath her cleats. Mud covered her shin guards, as well as parts of her face and neck.

  All four had the same wiry black hair as Hercules.

  Beneath these portraits, on a long shelf, stood dozens of gilded trophies, each engraved with the word champion. Homer had never won a trophy. His sister had three from past science fairs. Last year she’d won the Golden Cup of Taxidermy.

  Homer came to the end of the wall and the final portrait. HERCULES. Hercules had posed in a suit and tie, a dictionary in his hands. His portrait was smaller than the others. No trophy stood beneath. “Didn’t you get a trophy when you won the World’s Spelling Bee?” Homer asked.

  “Yes, but someone took it,” Hercules said, his voice echoing off the gleaming walls. “One of them took it.” Then he tucked his first-aid kit under his arm and hurried toward a long hallway. “We’d better get out of here,” he called. “Before they see us.”

  They?

  And that’s when the floor began to vibrate. Dog whined and pus
hed between Homer’s shins. The portraits rattled against the wall. One of the trophies tipped over. Was a train approaching? Homer hadn’t noticed a train track. Dog whined again. “Oh no,” Hercules said, stopping midstride halfway down the hall. He spun around, a wild look in his eyes. “Too late.”

  The vibrations ran up Homer’s legs to his back teeth. He’d never been in an earthquake. In Mrs. Peepgrass’s class, they prepared for earthquakes by hiding under their desks. “What do we do?” he asked, looking around for something to crawl under. The vibrations turned into steady pounding, like an approaching herd of elephants.

  “There’s no time!” Hercules cried, flattening himself against the hallway’s wall as the pounding intensified. “Save yourself!”

  “How?” Homer cried.

  “Get out. Get out now!”

  22

  A Horde of Simpletons

  Romulus Simple, one of Hercules’s brothers, charged up the hall, a football tucked in the crook of his arm. His arms pumping, his face gritted with determination, he ran. With each of his pounding footsteps, Dog bounced an inch off the ground.

  Romulus was as wide as two men, and his elbow barely missed Hercules, who was holding his breath and pressing against the hallway wall. Homer, who still stood in the front room, grabbed Dog by the collar and pulled him out of the way just as a whoosh of air, thick with body heat and sweat, swept past them.

  But there was no time for a sigh of relief because more pounding footsteps sounded in the distance.

  Hercules, his helmet atilt, peeled himself off the wall and dashed up the hallway toward Homer. His eyes darting wildly, he pushed Homer and Dog behind a giant pedestal that held a bust of Senator Simplisticus Simple. Homer’s backpack slipped off as he crouched next to Hercules in their hiding spot. Dog peered around the side of the pedestal. A low growl hummed in his chest.

  “Shhh,” Hercules whispered breathlessly.

  The bust rocked back and forth as Tiberius, Caesar, and Diana Simple barreled up the hallway and into the front room. “Tackle him!” one of them hollered.

  “Don’t let him get to the front door!”

  Just as Romulus reached for the front door’s knob, Tiberius, Caesar, and Diana threw themselves on him. If Homer hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he might have thought a building was being demolished, such was the decibel level as the Simples crashed into the door. Forming a great writhing heap, they broke into a fit of laughter.

  Hercules whispered to Homer. “Follow me. Be very quiet.” On tiptoe, his first-aid kit hugged to his chest, he started toward the hallway. Homer grabbed his backpack, but as he stepped out from behind the pedestal, a helmet flew through the air. Hercules was lying on the floor, flat on his back. Then something flashed before Homer’s eyes, and before he could react, his backpack flew from his hand and he also landed on his back. Something very large pinned him to the floor.

  Sniff, sniff, sniff.

  “Whatever you do, don’t move,” Hercules whispered as they lay shoulder to shoulder on the floor. “It’s Brutus.”

  A wet nose poked Homer’s chin. A face the size of a lion’s, black as coal and surrounded by saggy folds of skin, stared down at Homer. A thick thread of drool swung back and forth as the beast panted. Pungent dog breath infiltrated every cell in Homer’s body. “N… n… nice doggy,” Homer said, cringing as the breath washed over him, hot and sticky.

  “She’s a Neapolitan mastiff,” Hercules whispered. Both he and Homer were pinned—Hercules by the beast’s back half, Homer by its front half. “She’s our guard dog and she’ll eat your face if you try to get away.”

  “Grrrr.” Dog was doing his best to push Brutus off Homer, an impossible task because Brutus could have worn Dog as a hat. Homer flinched as the thread of drool dipped closer. No wonder Hercules didn’t like dogs.

  “Hey, look what Brutus caught.” Tiberius, who looked exactly like his portrait, only smaller, leaned over and stuck his face next to Brutus’s. They both looked down at Homer with matched satisfaction. “Brutus caught a kid. Good girl, Brutus.” Brutus panted joyfully, her tail thwapping against the marble floor. She must have weighed a ton—at least that’s how it felt as Homer tried to breathe beneath her bulk.

  Caesar, another brother, leaned in to get a look. Homer could see right up his nose. “Hi, kid.”

  “Uh, hi,” Homer said.

  “Is this your little dog, the one trying to wrestle Brutus?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “That’s a funny little dog.” Caesar straightened and hollered, “Hey, Diana, did you see this funny little dog? It’s wearing a little vest.”

  Homer couldn’t see Dog, but he could hear the growling. “Dog,” he said, wheezing beneath Brutus’s weight. “Come here. Leave the nice big dog alone.”

  Dog had worked himself into a tizzy, growling like a rabid mongrel and head-butting Brutus with all his might. Brutus ignored Dog, her eyes focused on Homer’s face. Dog had droopy skin, but Brutus’s was ten times droopier, the folds framing her black face like drapes around a window. A second thread of drool emerged from the other corner of her mouth. Please don’t eat my face, Homer thought.

  “Hey, Hercules,” Diana said, looking down at her little brother. “We’re heading out to the coliseum, and we need someone to scoop horse poop.”

  “No way,” Hercules said, gasping for breath. “I’m not going to the coliseum. I just got the cast off my arm.” He groaned. “Could one of you please get this dog off of us?”

  “Yes, please get the dog off of us,” Homer said, so drenched in dog breath that he was certain he’d never be able to smell anything else ever again. And that’s when Brutus sneezed. The two threads of drool broke and fell across Homer’s cheek. “Gross,” he said, trying to turn away.

  Dog stopped growling and collapsed onto the floor. With a frustrated groan, he rested his chin on Homer’s shoulder. Homer knew Dog would faithfully stay by his side—at least until someone offered him something to eat.

  “Hey, what’s this?” asked Romulus, the eldest brother. He stood over the boys, dangling Homer’s backpack in midair.

  “That’s mine,” Homer said. He recognized the evil smile that spread across Romulus’s face. It was the same evil smile that always appeared on Earl’s face just before a game of keep-away. Earl, one of Homer’s classmates, often yanked Homer’s Galileo Compass off its string. He’d tossed it back and forth with a buddy while Homer bounced between them, trying to catch the compass. They’d reenacted this humiliation countless times over the years. Homer had tried to ignore the boys—a tactic supported by Mrs. Pudding. But what Mrs. Pudding didn’t understand, because she’d never been bullied, was that the very thing that angered a boy like Earl was being purposefully ignored. In fact, it enraged him. And so the one time Homer put his mother’s advice into action, his book Buried Celtic Treasures ended up in the school toilet.

  Homer grimaced as the smile on Romulus’s face widened. A new game of keep-away was about to begin.

  “You want your little backpack?” Romulus asked with a snicker. Homer could practically see the wheels spinning in Romulus’s head. Me got backpack. Me throw backpack. Make boy cry.

  Pinned to the floor, Homer was as helpless as a fish in a bucket. Panic shot down his limbs. “Please,” he said. “That backpack contains very expensive equipment, and some of it can’t be replaced.”

  “Oh?” Romulus tucked the backpack into the crook of his arm. “Is that so?” Then he charged toward the front door.

  “Catch him,” Diana yelled.

  The doorman opened the front door, and Romulus charged outside. Caesar, Tiberius, and Diana took off after him.

  “Ruff.” Brutus heaved herself to her paws and bounded out the front door, her jowls flapping like wings, threads of drool flying through the air like streamers.

  Homer wiped the drool off his face with his sleeve. Then he and Dog scrambled to their feet. Homer’s chest ached as if it had been flattened, but he managed to stumble out the
front door. Romulus, the backpack imprisoned beneath his muscular arm, jumped over a gardener who was weeding the pansies. The gardener looked up for a moment, then threw himself on the ground as the rest of the Simple siblings charged like a raiding horde of Vikings, bellowing and shaking their fists. More gardeners crouched fearfully as the horde trampled patches of lilies and marigolds. “Ruff!” Water sprayed as Brutus charged through a fountain like a four-legged tidal wave. One of the gardeners caught a goldfish in midair.

  Homer stood at the front of the Simples’ palace, trying to figure out how to get his backpack. Romulus, still on the move, toppled a wheelbarrow as well as the gardener who’d been pushing it. Then he disappeared around the garden wall, his brothers and sister close behind. Brutus leaped from the fountain and bounded after them, her skin rippling like black waves.

  “What are you doing out here?” Hercules asked, quickly strapping his helmet back onto his head. “It’s too dangerous. Come on.”

  “But I need to get my backpack. It has everything in it.”

  “They’re heading for the coliseum. You can’t go out there.”

  “But…”

  “Do you know how dangerous it is out there?” He waved his first-aid kit in the air. “Even this can’t protect you out there. You have to come inside. We’ll go to my room, where we’ll be safe. Don’t worry. My brothers and sister have very short attention spans. They’ll toss your backpack around, and then they’ll forget about it. I’ll tell Baldwin to get it for you.”

  Homer hesitated. So much of his life was in that backpack.

  Hercules grabbed Homer’s arm. “Listen to me. I’m supposed to keep you safe. If they come back and find us, they’ll make us go to the coliseum. The last time they forced me to the coliseum, they used me as a human shield. I was in the hospital for a week.”

  Homer imagined himself dressed in a tunic and standing in a Roman coliseum, facing Brutus the way gladiators had faced hungry beasts. Had Hercules been forced to endure this his whole life? No wonder he was afraid of everything.