Smells Like Treasure

by Suzanne Selfors

  The farm dogs circled each other, eager smiles on their faces. While border collies love to work the field, they also love to play. And that’s what the dog trials were—a day of fun and games, of jumping through hoops, crawling through tunnels, and racing around obstacles. Those with the best times would compete tomorrow, and then the next day, until the final dogs competed on the last day of the fair.

  “I see you’ve brought the same dogs as last year.” The unfriendly voice belonged to Mr. Crescent, the Puddings’ neighbor. The sign on his driveway read:

  CRESCENT GOAT FARM

  Home of the Champion Crescent Border Collies,

  Winners of Five County Fair Blue Ribbons.

  “I’ve brought Molly and her pup, Bull,” he said as he walked up to the red truck. Two leashed border collies followed. “You remember Molly, I’m sure. Last year’s champion.” He slid his toothpick to the other corner of his mouth.

  Mr. Pudding tucked his thumbs behind his overall straps. “This isn’t last year, Crescent, so don’t go getting yourself all puffed up. My dogs are good and ready.”

  “As are mine.” Mr. Crescent tucked his thumbs behind his straps. “Good and ready.”

  As the two men glared at each other, Homer leaned against the truck. He didn’t much like Mr. Crescent, but it had nothing to do with dogs. It had to do with the time Mr. Crescent hollered at him for digging a hole. Homer hadn’t realized he’d crossed the property line because he’d been thinking about Angus MacDoodle, a local man who’d found a trove of Celtic coins in his backyard. Homer had gotten so wound up with possibility that he’d forgotten to look around before digging.

  As the two men boasted about who would win the blue ribbon, the border collies wagged their tails, greeting one another with licks and sniffs. Dogs don’t have much use for blue ribbons, though Homer’s dog would probably eat one if given the chance.

  “I see you’ve got that other dog with you.” Mr. Crescent pointed to the corner of the truck’s bed where Dog lay curled on Homer’s coat, fast asleep.

  “He’s not competing,” Mr. Pudding said.

  “No kidding?” Mr. Crescent snickered. “I think he should compete. The audience always appreciates a good laugh.”

  Homer’s cheeks burned.

  Mr. Crescent tugged on his leashes. “Come on, Bull, come on, Molly. We’ve got to get you ready. You’ve got a blue ribbon to win.” As they sauntered off toward the dog barn, Mr. Pudding mumbled a few things that needn’t be repeated. Then he gathered his own leashes. “You go have some fun, then meet me at the dog barn just before the trials.” With a quick whistle, the farm dogs followed him toward the fairgrounds.

  Homer looked into the truck bed. No rich scents tickled Dog’s nose. No memories of past fairs washed over him. His back leg twitched as he snored. Homer guessed he was chasing something, probably a rabbit. He’d learned from Dr. Huckle, Milkydale’s veterinarian, that basset hounds were bred to track prey, like rabbits. But since Dog couldn’t pick up scents, rabbits often sneaked right past him. Once, a rabbit hopped right over Dog as he slept in the upper pasture. But in his dreams, Homer suspected that Dog was the king of rabbit-chasing.

  The Ferris wheel and the Whirl-a-Tron loomed behind the fairgrounds’ gate. The top of the galaxy roller coaster peaked in the distance. The scents of popping corn and cotton candy beckoned. Next year when I go to the fair, I’ll be a member of a secret society, Homer thought, a grin spreading across his face. He climbed into the truck bed. “Wake up,” he said, gently poking Dog’s leg. “Let’s go get something to eat.”

  Dog opened one eye, then the other. “Ur.”

  “Yeah, something to eat.”

  And that’s when Homer noticed it—a little black card, covered in gold stars, tucked at the edge of the truck’s tailgate.

  Excelsior the Excellent—

  Fortune-teller to the Stars.

  This card is good for one free fortune told on opening day of the Milkydale County Fair.

  6

  The Worst Fortune Ever

  Welcome to the one hundred and fifty-seventh Milkydale County Fair,” Mayor Sneed called. She stood just inside the gate, waving at people as they entered. Her white blouse was buttoned all the way to her pointy chin, and she wore a big red sash that read: THE HONORABLE MAYOR. Her smile turned sour when she spotted Homer. “Is that the same dog that burned down our library?”

  “It was an accident,” Homer said, holding tight to Dog’s leash. Almost every day, somebody reminded Homer that he and Dog had been responsible for burning down Milkydale’s only library. Homer had given up his real Galileo Compass, which had been sold to fund the new library. Fortunately, the foundation had been poured, and Homer couldn’t wait to walk through the doors.

  “Well, you make sure he doesn’t get into trouble, young man.” Mayor Sneed shook a finger in Homer’s face. “The first sign of trouble and that dog will have to leave.”

  “He won’t get into trouble,” Homer said. As he hurried away, he murmured to Dog, “Please don’t get into trouble.”

  “Hey, Homer.” Wilbur, one of the boys from school, knocked into Homer’s arm. “Where’s your compass? Better get it out or you might get lost.” Earl, another boy from school, laughed. Fortunately, teasing Homer wasn’t as important as getting to the roller coaster and they dashed past, tickets in hand. Homer rubbed his arm. They wouldn’t think he was so funny when he had an entire wing of a museum named after him.

  Homer’s stomach growled as a succulent scent drifted up his nose. After finding the familiar red-and-white-striped booth, he bought two colossal corn dogs—one for him, one for Dog. Sitting side by side on a bench, they enjoyed their meal. Dog inhaled his in three bites, licking his lips with satisfaction. Homer dipped his in yellow mustard. Then they both washed the corn dogs down with a long drink of lemonade. A brief struggle followed as Dog tried to eat the lemonade cup and Homer had to wrestle it free.

  “Come on,” Homer said, tossing the mangled cup into the garbage.

  They turned onto a side path and walked beneath a banner: ODDITIES AND FABULOSITIES. Stalls lined each side of the path where vendors sold all sorts of stuff—blue fish swimming in bowls, rings that changed color if the wearer told a lie, nets that caught nightmares. Homer was about to try on one of the rings when something sparkly caught his eye. There, at the end of the path, sat a black tent covered in glimmering golden stars. A man in a long black robe stood outside the tent. He smiled at Homer.

  “Who’s that man?” Homer asked the ring seller.

  “He’s a fortune-teller,” the ring seller said. “But he’s a fake. My rings, however, are not fakes. They will always tell you the truth.”

  Homer reached into his pocket and pulled out the card he’d found. EXCELSIOR THE EXCELLENT—FORTUNE-TELLER TO THE STARS. Homer had never had his fortune read, and he definitely had some questions about his future. He flicked the card between his fingers, thinking.

  “Grrrr.” Dog stood in the next stall staring at an African tribal mask. Homer had to tug extra hard on the leash to pull him away. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go get our fortunes told.”

  The robed man’s smile widened as Homer and Dog approached. “Salutations,” he said with outstretched arms.

  “Hi,” Homer said. “Are you Excelsior?”

  “The one and only.” He spoke in an odd sort of way, with a voice much higher than one would expect from such a large man. A gentle breeze blew through his long white hair and long white beard. If Homer had to imagine a fortune-teller, say, for a homework assignment, he’d imagine him to look exactly like Excelsior.

  Excelsior reached down and patted Dog’s head. “And you are?”

  “I’m Homer and this is Dog. I’ve got a ticket for a free fortune told.” He held out the ticket and Excelsior took it. Sunlight glinted off a large ruby ring that Excelsior wore on his index finger. On his other index finger, an emerald ring sparkled. He wore both rings over a pair of black gloves.

 
“This must be your lucky day,” he said. “I only printed a few of these tickets.” Then he turned, distracted by a scurrying sound.

  The sound came from a girl who was walking past the tent. She carried a cage in which sat a brown rabbit. Dog, up until that moment, hadn’t noticed the rabbit barn just across the path. But he took notice of the cage as it passed in front of his face, because a pair of red eyes stared warily from between the bars. With a fierce tug, Dog pulled the leash taut, his little legs pumping furiously. “Urrrr.”

  “No, Dog,” Homer said, holding tight to the leash. “Leave the rabbit alone.”

  The girl glanced nervously at Dog, then carried the cage into the rabbit barn. Dog whined.

  “How do you tell someone’s fortune?” Homer asked.

  Excelsior tucked the card into the pocket of his robe. “Well, there are many methods. The crystal ball is popular but highly unpredictable. Tarot cards often ask more questions than they answer. Tea leaves make a mess, and head bumps can be misleading. I prefer palm reading. A palm never lies.” With a sweep of his arm, Excelsior opened the tent’s flap and secured it with a cord. Then he raised his eyebrows and waited.

  “Okay,” Homer said with a shrug. “I’ll get my palm read.” He tugged on the leash. “Come on, Dog.”

  Dog whined, then plopped onto his belly, transforming his long body into what approximated a bag of cement—a clever ploy he used when he didn’t want to go anywhere. Lying on the ground, he pointed his face at the rabbit barn.

  “You can leave him there,” Excelsior suggested. “Tie the leash to the tent pole.”

  “Will you leave the tent flap open so I can see him?” Homer asked. “He hates to be left alone.”

  “Certainly.”

  Homer peered into the tent. An oil lamp glowed from atop a little table. Two stools waited. Homer would have a clear view of Dog, and Dog, if he managed to tear his gaze away from the rabbit barn and turn around, would have a clear view of Homer.

  After tying the leash to the tent pole, Homer sat on one of the stools. Excelsior sat on the other stool, arranged his robe, then placed a puffy black hat on his head. The lamp’s glow spread across Excelsior’s face, casting a yellow tint to his beard and mustache. “What is it you would like to know?” Excelsior asked.

  Homer glanced over at Dog, who hadn’t moved an inch. “My future,” Homer said. “I’d like to know my future.”

  Excelsior fiddled with his ruby ring. “Yes, indeed. But is there something specific about your future? One question that, more than any other question, you would like answered?”

  Homer couldn’t ask when he’d become a member of L.O.S.T., because a secret society must remain a secret. So he decided to ask about Rumpold Smeller’s treasure. But how could he do that without giving away too much information? If he asked, “Will I find what I’m looking for?” Excelsior would probably ask, “What are you looking for?” So Homer thought about it for a moment, then asked, “Will I be successful on my quest?”

  “Ah. A quest.” Excelsior’s eyes widened. “Is it a noble quest?”

  “I think so.” He pushed his curly bangs from his eyes. “How do you know if it’s noble or not?”

  “What is the purpose of the quest?”

  “I made a promise to someone and I want to keep that promise.”

  “Then it is a noble quest. And there is nothing more important in life than a noble quest. I shall help you find the answer to your query.” Excelsior reached out and took Homer’s left hand, turning the palm faceup. Even through the black gloves, his long fingernails prickled Homer’s skin. “It is the left palm that reveals truth, for it is aligned with the heart.”

  That makes sense, Homer thought, sneaking another glance at Dog, who was still fixated on the rabbit barn. Homer could practically hear Dog’s thoughts—rabbit, rabbit, rabbit, rabbit, rabbit.

  Excelsior held Homer’s palm close to the lamp. “Ah,” he said. “How interesting. Did you know that you possess a treasure hunter’s line?”

  Homer nearly fell off the stool. He grabbed the table’s edge with his free hand. “I do? Where?”

  Excelsior pointed to a line that ran across the base of Homer’s thumb. “I have only seen this line one other time. Will you be seeking treasure on this quest of yours?”

  Homer hesitated, his mind racing. It couldn’t hurt to admit such a thing. Everybody in Milkydale knew that Homer wanted to be a treasure hunter. “Yes,” he said. “But I can’t tell you what kind of treasure.”

  “I understand.” Excelsior narrowed his eyes. “A noble quest for treasure is a serious quest indeed.” Then he ran his gloved fingertip across Homer’s palm, stopping in the center. He gasped and leaned closer, the ends of his long white hair brushing the tabletop. He ran his fingertip across Homer’s palm again and stopped in the exact same spot. He gasped louder.

  “What is it?” Homer asked, leaning so close that he and Excelsior bumped foreheads.

  “A fork in the road,” Excelsior whispered.

  They both sat up. Homer fidgeted at the edge of his stool. “A fork?” he asked, the suspense unbearable. “What does that mean?”

  Excelsior let go of Homer’s palm, then shook his head. “Dear oh dear. This is most unfortunate.”

  “What?” Homer asked. “What’s unfortunate?”

  “Is there anything else you could do besides search for treasure? Is there something that your parents would like you to do? Something that’s… safe?”

  Homer didn’t like the direction of this conversation. “My dad wants me to be a goat farmer. That’s pretty safe.”

  “Yes, that sounds like a much better plan.”

  “But I don’t want to be a goat farmer.” Homer held out his palm. “I don’t understand. What does the fork mean?”

  Excelsior tapped a finger on the table. He looked long and hard at Homer. “You will not like the answer. Do you still want me to read your palm?”

  A chill crept over Homer. He stared at his left palm. What other secrets hid between the lines? “Maybe we should go ahead and read the bumps on my head.” He looked up hopefully, but Excelsior said nothing. Homer swallowed. “Okay, I want to know. What do you see?”

  With a sigh, Excelsior pointed to a line that ran diagonally across Homer’s palm. “This is your life line. You see how long it is? You see how it reaches all the way across?” Homer nodded. “It’s a long life line. But you see here? You see where the life line splits? That is the fork. One route is long, the other is short. Very, very short.”

  “You mean…?” Sweat broke out on Homer’s palm.

  “An untimely end awaits you if you take the wrong route.”

  “An untimely end?” Homer wiped his palm on his jeans. “But how do I know which route is the wrong route?”

  “It’s all there on your palm. Your treasure-hunting line feeds into the shorter life line. It’s all very clear. A palm never lies.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing. The fact is etched in skin and blood.” Excelsior smiled knowingly and then said the most horrid words Homer had ever heard. “It’s very simple. Treasure hunting will kill you.”

  7

  The Black Rabbit of Doom

  Treasure hunting is dangerous. Really, really dangerous. Treasure hunters typically have shorter life spans than, say, fortune-tellers or baseball players or even crocodile wranglers. And the causes of death tend to be dramatic—falling off the edge of a volcano, getting crushed by a giant boulder, being eaten by a carnivorous tortoise. Homer knew all this. But still, when someone tells you right to your face that you’re going to die if you pursue your dream, it’s not such a nice thing to hear.

  “How soon will treasure hunting kill me?” Homer asked Excelsior.

  “Oh, very soon. Very, very soon.”

  One half of Homer’s brain said, How can that guy possibly know anything from the lines on my hand? But the other half of Homer’s brain screamed, Listen to that guy!

  “You must take this ser
iously,” Excelsior said. “I have been telling fortunes for many years now, and I am never wrong.”

  That’s when a crash sounded. Homer whipped around. Dog scrambled to his feet and started barking. As Dog pulled on his leash, the tent pole bent and the tent’s ceiling sagged. “Can’t you control your dog?” Excelsior asked in an extra-high voice.

  Homer hurried outside. A boy had dropped his rabbit cage next to the rabbit barn. The cage door hung open. A black rabbit poked its head out of the cage, wiggled its nose, then hopped onto the ground. Dog pumped his hind legs, straining against his leash. “Dog,” Homer said, trying to untie the leash. “Stop pulling.” The pole bent further.

  “My rabbit!” the boy cried as the rabbit hopped in confused circles.

  “Grrrr.” With a burst of energy, Dog yanked with all his might. The tent pole snapped and the leash came free. Dog made his escape just as the tent collapsed and covered Homer in a sea of glittering stars. Flailing his arms, Homer struggled to get clear of the heavy fabric. Finally, a patch of sunlight peeked through and he crawled out. “Dog!” he cried, struggling to his feet.

  “He’s chasing my rabbit,” the boy said, pointing into the rabbit barn.

  “Sorry about your tent,” Homer called as Excelsior stuck his head out of the collapsed tent, his puffy hat tipped over his eyes.

  “Remember,” Excelsior shouted, “I am never wrong!”

  By the time Homer reached the rabbit barn, chaos had hit—overturned cages, escaped rabbits, and dazed, teary-eyed kids lay about. A heat-seeking missile could have caused such destruction but surely not a droopy, overfed basset hound. “Dog!” he called. He bumped into a boy who was trying to catch a pygmy Holland Lop. “Have you seen a basset hound?”

  “Yeah, he knocked over my table,” the boy said, his lower lip trembling. “My rabbit got out.”