Smells Like Treasure

by Suzanne Selfors

  Homer didn’t have a moment to contemplate the amount of courage it had taken Hercules to throw himself from the plane. He’d been so distracted by the skydiving acrobatics that he’d forgotten to steer. The wind had pushed him away from the beach and he was heading out toward the ocean. He kicked his feet, trying to propel himself in the other direction. That didn’t work. What do I do, what do I do? he asked himself, trying desperately to remember Baldwin’s instructions. How do I turn? He grabbed the dangling lines. Pulling the right line turned his body toward the ocean. Pulling the left line turned him toward the beach. But was there enough time? He pumped his legs. Come on, come on. I don’t want to land in the water.

  Closer and closer. Waves broke against the reef. Saltwater spray drifted in the wind. Mushroom Island’s only beach, shaped like a mushroom stem, spread before him. Bleached driftwood lay everywhere. He pointed his feet at a patch of gray sand. When had he last breathed? Was his heart still beating? He decided to start running through the air, so that when his feet touched down he’d already be in motion. And guess what? That technique worked brilliantly. His new boots cushioned his ankles as he hit the tide pools. He ran a few yards, the momentum pulling him forward. His boots crunched barnacle-encrusted rocks. Purple sea anemones sprayed as he ran past. I did it, he thought. But I can’t… slow… down. He ran up onto the sand and straight into a log, landing in a crumpled heap on the other side. The parachute deflated and collapsed.

  Homer sat up and spat sand from his mouth. He staggered to his feet. Untangling himself from the parachute’s rigging, he found that his arms and legs worked. Aside from a few scrapes on his hands, he was in one piece. And his Panama hat was still on his head. He’d done it. He’d parachuted from an airplane and had lived to tell the tale.

  But what about his friends?

  With a yank, he released the safety harness and slid his arms free of the parachute’s pack. It fell onto the sand. Homer scrambled up a large log. On tiptoe, he surveyed the beach. Where were they? If only he had his Borington Binoculars, but he had no idea where his backpack had landed.

  Then he saw the puddle of orange. The compass thumped against his chest as he darted between logs.

  “Dog!” he called. “Hercules!”

  A lump lay beneath the shiny fabric—an unmoving lump. As Homer climbed over a massive log, he feared the worst—that the second chute hadn’t had enough time to adequately slow them down. Reaching the parachute, he grabbed an edge and pulled. The lump was revealed. Hercules lay on his stomach, facedown in the sand. Homer fell to his knees. “Hercules,” he said, laying his hand on Hercules’s back. His hand rose and fell as Hercules took quick shallow breaths. He was alive! “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

  Hercules groaned, then slowly turned his head. “I’m too scared to find out.”

  “Urrrr.” Dog’s nose poked out from under Hercules’s armpit. He was trapped beneath.

  Homer gently rolled Hercules over, freeing Dog, who stood and shook sand from his fur. So many emotions competed for that moment, but it was anger that won. Homer shook a finger at Dog. “Bad boy,” he said. “Bad boy for jumping out of the plane. You could have been killed. Bad boy!”

  Dog stuck his wet nose into Homer’s sleeve and wagged his tail.

  Homer hugged Dog so fiercely that Dog moaned and farted at the same time. “Don’t ever jump out of a plane again. Never again.”

  “I won’t,” Hercules said. He lay on his back, his eyes clamped shut, his face frozen in a grimace. “Never, ever again.”

  Homer hovered over Hercules, looking for signs of injury, like blood or bones sticking out in weird directions. “Can you sit up? Is anything broken?”

  Hercules opened one eye, then the other. “Homer?” he asked, his jaw trembling. “Did I just jump out of an airplane?”

  “Uh-huh,” Homer said. “And you didn’t even have your helmet.” He grabbed Hercules’s arm and helped him sit up. Then he picked a piece of dried seaweed from Hercules’s hair and brushed sand off his shoulders. “It was amazing. I couldn’t believe it when I saw you. It was the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “It was?” Hercules rubbed his head. “I didn’t even have my helmet.” A surprised smile pushed at the corners of his mouth. “I jumped out of a plane. Me.”

  Homer smiled, too. “You were like a professional skydiver. And you caught Dog with one arm. I couldn’t believe it. Dog weighs a ton. How did you do that?”

  “I jumped out of a plane,” Hercules whispered. He ran his hands over the parachute’s straps. “I jumped out of a plane.” Then a smile burst across his face and he laughed. “I must be crazy.”

  Homer laughed, too. Not a belly laugh, like when a joke’s been told. Not a snicker, like when something nasty has been said. His laughter was a hearty mixture of awe and relief, like the moment after the roller-coaster plunge when the track straightens and the ride is over.

  Dog nudged Hercules’s arm and Hercules stopped laughing. “I’m sorry, Homer. I was about to close the door, but the plane banked. I think Baldwin was trying to watch your fall. Anyway, the luggage compartment flew open. Dog raced after you before I could stop him.”

  “Why did you jump, too?”

  “I didn’t even think about it. I saw him falling without a parachute. I already had mine on, so I jumped. Just like that.”

  Homer ran his hand along Dog’s back. “You saved his life. You’re a hero.”

  Hercules unstrapped the harness and got to his feet. He strode across the beach and stopped at the water’s edge. The sleeves of his rugby shirt rippled in the salty breeze. On the horizon, the sun had begun its evening melt. “My brothers and sister will never believe I did that.”

  “I know what you mean,” Homer said as he and Dog caught up. He stuck his hands in his pockets and stared at the tangerine horizon. Though his family would never believe that he’d jumped from a plane, his uncle would have believed it. Skydiving had been one of Uncle Drake’s favorite pastimes. But had his uncle ever saved a dog in midair? “I’m happy that I pulled your name from Lord Mockingbird’s top hat,” Homer said.

  They stood side by side, Dog between them. A crazy old man had brought them together. Near-tragedy had made them friends. But as the sun disappeared and the sky darkened, their amazement faded away and reality crept into their thoughts. “So, what do we do now?” Hercules asked.

  “We’ll…” Homer swatted a mosquito as it whined near his ear. “We’ve got to find the backpack.”

  “What do you mean we’ve got to find the backpack?”

  “I dropped it and I don’t know where it landed.”

  “You what?” Hercules’s chest deflated, as if all the newfound confidence that had puffed him up now suddenly leaked out of his skin. “You what? My first-aid kit was in the backpack.”

  “Don’t freak out,” Homer said. But the truth was, Homer was freaking out a little, too, because without the backpack they had nothing. No food or emergency blankets, no night vision goggles or matches—nothing. And darkness was closing in. Last night’s summer moon, the one that had lit up Zelda’s beach, was stuck behind a growing blanket of clouds. There was no way to tell how much distance the cloudcopter had covered since Homer had spotted it from the plane’s window. “Maybe we can make a torch. Then we can start hiking.”

  “Hike? At night?”

  “Yeah. We have to beat Lorelei to the X.”

  Dog pulled a long strand of kelp from the water and started munching on the bulbous end. “I don’t know how to make a torch,” Hercules said. “Do you?”

  “It’s easy. You take a rag and dip it in something combustible and then light it.”

  “Uh-huh. First of all, we don’t have anything combustible. Second of all, how are we going to light it? Third of all, there are wild animals in the woods and I’m pretty sure most of them come out at night.”

  Homer swatted another mosquito. While most of Hercules’s fears were silly, like worrying about choking on a feather fr
om a pillow, or worrying that something might fall on his head, this latest worry made Homer look over his shoulder. “What kind of wild animals? Like bears?”

  “Yes, definitely like bears. And wolves. And maybe porcupines. Porcupines can shoot their quills right into your eyes.” Hercules stepped closer to Homer. “And sharks. Don’t forget about sharks. A shark can leap right out of the water and grab something off the beach.”

  “I don’t think that’s true,” Homer said. But not wanting to take the chance, he slid two fingers under Dog’s collar and pulled him away from the water’s edge. If only he’d kept his Swiss army knife in his vest pocket rather than inside the backpack. Though the blade was small, it would have been better than nothing.

  Eeeeeee. A high-pitched whine filled Homer’s ear. His hand flew to his neck. “Stupid mosquito.”

  Hercules slapped his own neck. Then his cheek. Then his neck again. “Uh-oh.”

  Like a symphony performed on crystal goblets, the air rang with high-pitched notes as a swarm descended. “There are too many to swat,” Homer said.

  Dog shook his head, trying to deflect the bloodthirsty insects with his flapping ears. It didn’t work. Yelping, he ran in a circle.

  “They’re going to eat us alive,” Hercules cried. He covered his face with his arms. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

  Like tiny aerodynamic needles, the mosquitoes pierced their targets and drew blood. “Into the water!” Homer shouted. But that’s when his Panama hat made an odd whirring noise. Something dropped in front of his face. It was some kind of netting and it hung from his hat all the way to his feet, encompassing his entire body. “Mosquito netting,” Homer cried. Mr. Tuffletop, the tailor, had sewn mosquito netting into the brim of Homer’s Panama hat. “It must have some sort of motion detector or sound detector. Oh, I bet it’s programmed to the sound of mosquitoes.”

  “Help!” Hercules cried as he and Dog ran in circles up the beach.

  “Get in, quick!” Homer called. He ran up to them and lifted the netting. Hercules ducked beneath. Dog squeezed between Homer’s shins. Homer dropped the netting. The boys froze, holding their breaths. Would it work? Though the insects continued to swarm, not a single mosquito penetrated the net. Homer and Hercules took a long, relieved breath. Dog whimpered.

  “What do we do now?” Hercules asked.

  “We wait for them to go away.”

  And so, as the sun completely disappeared, they stood shoulder to shoulder. Homer checked his watch. Five minutes passed. Then ten. “They’re not going away,” he said. “Why aren’t they going away?”

  “They can still smell our blood. Until they find someone else to eat, we’re stuck.”

  Welts rose on Homer’s neck and cheeks. Scratching didn’t bring relief. Dog chewed on his legs, his own technique to deal with the itching. What would they have done without the netting? What other surprises had Mr. Tuffletop built into Homer’s clothing?

  “We can’t just stand here,” Homer said. “I’ve got to get to the X.”

  “I think I’m having an allergic reaction,” Hercules said. “I’m all itchy. I need my first-aid kit.”

  Homer racked his brain for ideas. They couldn’t hike across the island stuck together like this. “I need to sit down and think.” Carefully, making sure they kept the net secure around every inch of their bodies, they sat on a log. While Homer stared up at the dark sky, wondering where Lorelei was, Dog curled at Homer’s feet.

  “What’s going on with Dog’s vest?” Hercules asked.

  Homer looked down. Dog’s vest glowed in the fading light. He touched the fabric. “It’s made of glow-in-the-dark material.” Another ingenious touch by Mr. Tuffletop. “Hey, we don’t need a torch if we’ve got this.” They could follow Dog through the dark woods. Just like having a fat furry firefly as their guide.

  “You have to get rid of that vest,” Hercules said.

  “Why?”

  “It’s like a big neon sign. Here we are, wild animals, come and eat us.”

  “But…” Homer sighed. Hercules was right. The glowing vest was an invitation, like a highway billboard for a fast-food restaurant. Until the swarm flew away, they were stuck beneath the netting, unable to continue the quest. Homer unstrapped Dog’s vest and buried it in the sand under his feet.

  As the glow faded, night poured in like ink. Homer could no longer see down the beach or out over the sea. He couldn’t tell if a lone cloud hovered above the island. The whine of the mosquitoes persisted. “I’m sorry I got you into this,” he said, both to Dog and to Hercules.

  Hercules sighed. “Baldwin will come tomorrow with a boat. We just have to make it through the night.”

  And so they sat, waiting for the mosquitoes to hunt elsewhere. Homer’s eyelids grew heavy. Dog yawned, followed by Hercules, then Homer. “We can’t all fall asleep,” Hercules said. “One of us needs to keep watch.”

  Homer agreed. His parents thought he was on a nice camping trip with Zelda. Last thing they needed, what with the worry about rebuilding the gunnysack slide, was to learn that Homer had been eaten by a bear. “You sleep first.”

  Hercules yawned again. “You sure you’ll stay awake?”

  “Yeah. I’m sure.”

  Homer stretched his legs. The whine of the mosquitoes no longer rang in his ears. Seagulls called to one another as they swooped the shore. Seals barked their morning greeting. Dawn had come to Mushroom Island. Homer’s Panama hat lay in the sand next to him. With the swarms’ departure, the netting had retreated beneath the hat’s brim.

  “We made it through the night,” he said with as much surprise as if he’d discovered he’d grown a tail or had turned into a toad. “We did it,” he said, poking Hercules’s arm.

  Hercules moaned, then rolled onto his back. And that’s when Homer saw the note pinned to the front of his rugby shirt.

  I’ve got him.

  You can have him back after I get the coin.

  31

  The Forest of Holes

  Why did she do that?” Hercules asked as they tromped through the woods. “Why did she take your dog?”

  “She hates me,” Homer said. That might have been true, he wasn’t exactly sure, but he couldn’t tell Hercules the real, secret reason why Lorelei had taken Dog.

  If anyone hated Homer Pudding at that moment, it was Homer himself. He’d volunteered for the first watch last night and he’d dozed off, right away. What kind of adventurer falls asleep when he’s supposed to be guarding his two friends?

  “How come Dog didn’t bark when Lorelei took him?” Hercules asked, scratching a welt on his neck.

  Homer pushed a branch out of his face. “For some reason I can’t figure out, Dog likes Lorelei. Did you see how he was wagging his tail when she showed up at Zelda’s? I guess he doesn’t remember that she kidnapped him.” He scrambled over a fallen tree. “And now she’s done it again.”

  “Even so, how come we didn’t hear her?”

  “She’s sneaky. She gets in and out of places all over The City for free. She’s just like that rat of hers.” Maybe that last statement was a bit harsh, but Homer felt bad about it for only a few seconds. Once Dog got close enough to smell the membership coin, he’d start digging. And then Lorelei would be the winner. Homer’s boots stomped the forest floor. Maybe comparing Lorelei to a rat was too nice.

  Homer pulled his sleeve free of a prickly branch, then stepped in something squishy. “Gross.”

  “That’s bear poop,” Hercules said, keeping a wide berth around the large pile, which happened to be steaming.

  Homer wiped his boot on a fern. “How do you know it’s bear poop?”

  “Of course it’s bear poop. What else would make a pile that big? And it’s fresh. That’s not a good sign.” Hercules turned in a full circle, scanning the forest. “It’s a known fact that bears eat humans. They stalk them and sneak up on them and…” He stepped closer to Homer. “I’m a walking target. Look at me. Your green and khaki colors blend into the
forest, but I’m in orange and yellow stripes. I might as well pour honey all over my head.” He grabbed a branch. “I’ve got to protect myself.” And just like that, he tore the branch off the tree. Then he stripped off the leaves and held the branch like a sword.

  Homer cursed himself for dropping his backpack, because that Swiss army knife would have really come in handy. But maybe Hercules had the right idea. A large stick was better than nothing. If cavemen had used sticks to fend off saber-toothed tigers, then maybe they’d work against bears. Homer grabbed a branch. It bent but wouldn’t tear away from the trunk. Even when he hung like a dead weight from the branch, it wouldn’t pull away. How had Hercules made it look so easy?

  “What if the bear is stalking us?” Hercules asked, still turning in a circle.

  As Homer let go of the branch, it sprung back into place. He peered at a shadowy place between the trees, half-expecting to hear a growl. Standing still didn’t seem like the best tactic. “Let’s go,” he said, checking his compass. Then he scratched three different bug bites. “Lorelei’s probably there already. And don’t forget to keep looking for my backpack. We really need to find it.”

  It’s surprisingly easy to wander off course in a forest. The filtered light settles here and there and disrupts any directional instinct a hiker might have been blessed with. Even a straight line becomes blurred, what with the thick undergrowth and the random pattern of tree distribution. Without a compass, Homer and Hercules might have walked in circles. Even though the compass had been a gift from Lorelei, Homer was glad he had it.

  After climbing over another fallen tree, Homer checked to make sure Dog’s vest was still tucked into one of his pockets. He’d dug the vest out of the sand before they’d headed into the woods. Soon the vest would be back where it belonged, securely wrapped around Dog’s big tummy. The last time Lorelei kidnapped Dog, Homer had thought he might never see him again. But this time was different. He’d get Dog back, no doubt about it. Lorelei wanted to use Dog, but she’d never keep or hurt him—because if she did, Homer would tell the world about her secret lair. And besides, Zelda was with Lorelei. Even though Zelda was merely there to drive the cloudcopter and to keep Lorelei safe, she’d never let Lorelei hurt Dog.