Smells Like Treasure

by Suzanne Selfors

A squeal sounded outside the door. Rumpold’s mother had fainted.

  Duke Smeller laid a hand on Rumpold’s shoulder. “That you will follow in my footsteps is my wish for you, my son. You will make your family proud, and the name Smeller will be forever linked to the greatest knights the world has ever known.”

  Rumpold couldn’t ignore the itchy pants any longer. As he scratched his leg, he thought about what his father had just told him. He was to join a secret society of knights?

  In all his wildest dreams, this was not the path Rumpold had imagined for himself.

  15

  Leech-Proof Socks

  Homer looked out the kitchen window. Beyond the windswept grasses, white-tipped ocean waves crashed onto a plain of glossy, hard sand. He hadn’t slept much, what with Hercules’s snoring, Dog’s wheezing, and all the thoughts crashing around in his head. But he didn’t mind the grogginess. Today was going to be brilliant.

  After a breakfast of porridge and tea, Homer read a few more chapters of the biography. Hercules kept interrupting. A mysterious red blotch had appeared on his cheek, and he was very worried about it. Homer told him that the spot was a crease from the pillowcase, but Hercules wouldn’t listen. “I think your dog bit me in the middle of the night. What if I get rabies?”

  “Dog doesn’t have rabies,” Homer said.

  When Hercules strapped a helmet to his head because he was worried that he might trip over Dog and get a concussion, Homer couldn’t take it any longer. Hercules’s constant worrying and fussing was annoying. Not that Homer overflowed with courage, but at least he wasn’t afraid of feather pillows.

  “I think I’ll see if Zelda needs help,” Homer said, hurrying out of the living room.

  Zelda was in her shop. Every nook and cranny in Zelda’s Trinket Shop was crammed with things. Mechanical things, musical things, artistic things, and playful things. Rusty, shiny, painted, carved—if you desired it and had the time to look, you could probably find it there. A towering pile of scrap metal sat outside the door. Dog draped himself over a large, flat bone and proceeded to gnaw on it. “Found that on the beach,” Zelda said as she dusted some shelves. “It’s the fin bone from a blue whale.”

  Homer picked up an old clock and dusted its face. The clock read one o’clock. The meeting was still six hours away. He’d never seen such a clock. The face was an actual face, and it blinked at ten-second intervals. “It’s one of a kind,” Zelda said. “Created by King Ludwig’s royal clockmaker. Go ahead, set the alarm and see what happens.”

  Homer set the alarm for twelve o’clock, then moved both hands to the number twelve. The face’s mouth opened and made a cuckoo sound.

  “It’s missing a piece,” Zelda said. “Such a shame that the clock is not whole. I could go to the hardware store and replace the missing piece, but then it wouldn’t be one hundred percent authentic. I’d love to find that piece, but try finding an eighteenth-century nut in this mess.”

  “Oh, wait a minute,” Homer said, remembering Dog’s discovery on the Gloomy Moor trail. He reached into his jean pocket. “Is this it?” He dropped the nut onto the worktable. Zelda grabbed a magnifying glass and inspected it.

  “Why yes, this is it, Homer. Where did you find it? I lost this five years ago!”

  Homer looked over at Dog, who was still gnawing. Someday Zelda might be told the truth about Dog. But not yet. “I found it on the trail.”

  Though she didn’t smile, her mask of sadness eased just a bit. “Thank you,” she said.

  “You’re welcome.” He smiled at Dog, who didn’t seem to mind that he hadn’t gotten credit.

  As Homer continued to dust, his thoughts drifted to the writer with the orange scarf. “Zelda? Do you like your job?”

  “I’m suited for it,” she said. “Artifacts don’t require conversation. They don’t care how tall I am.”

  “Do you think most treasure hunters are unhappy?” Homer asked. “Do you think they are unhappier than most people?”

  “It’s possible.” She set the fixed clock on a shelf. “Most treasure hunters never find what they are seeking. That can lead to a lifetime of regrets.”

  A bell jingled as the trinket shop’s door opened. A man in a brown shirt and brown pair of shorts bustled in. “Delivery,” he announced, plunking a box onto Zelda’s counter.

  “Hello, Peter,” Zelda said. “How is the moor today?”

  “Wet as usual.” Peter wiped mist from his glasses. “No time to talk. I’m busy, busy, busy. See you next time.” And as quickly as he’d entered, he left, a pair of muddy boot prints marking his path in and out the door.

  “The package is from Victor Tuffletop,” Zelda said. She handed Homer a box cutter. He smiled with excitement as he carefully cut through the thick, clear tape. Peeling back the box’s flaps, he found a layer of perfectly creased white tissue paper. And nestled between the sheets—his official adventurer clothing.

  “Can I go try these on?” he asked.

  “Of course.”

  With Dog at his heels, Homer raced across Zelda’s yard, through the cottage, and into the bathroom. He closed the door, then set the box on the floor. Panting, Dog stuck his nose into the box. “Careful,” Homer said. “Don’t drool on the clothes.”

  First he pulled out a long-sleeved shirt, forest green and nearly weightless. Then he unfolded a pair of khaki shorts, covered in pockets of all shapes and sizes. Something glinted between tissue layers. It was a leather belt and a silver buckle engraved with the initials H.W.P. “Look,” Homer said proudly, showing the initials to Dog.

  “Urrrr.”

  Homer undressed, then put on the shirt, shorts, and belt. A pair of knee-length green socks, soft but sturdy, and a pair of brown leather boots came next. The boots’ spongy interior conformed to his feet. A khaki-colored vest, also covered in pockets of all shapes and sizes, fit perfectly. Last but not least, he set a wide-brimmed Panama hat on his head. Each item bore the same label: Waterproof, Sun-proof, Blade-proof. DO NOT PUT IN THE DRYER! Homer had to stand on his tiptoes to see into Zelda’s mirror. For the briefest of moments, he thought he was looking at his uncle. Drake had worn the same kind of hat.

  “I look like a real treasure hunter,” he told Dog.

  “Urrrr.” Dog pulled something out of the box. It was another vest.

  “Hey, I think that’s for you.” Like Homer’s vest, Dog’s had many pockets and fit around his middle perfectly.

  “Let us see,” Zelda called. After a few adjustments, and a few more minutes of staring at himself, Homer sauntered into the living room. “Oh my,” Zelda said, choking back tears. “Your uncle would be so proud. So very, very proud. You look very distinguished. Victor Tuffletop did an amazing job.”

  “The only thing Mr. Tuffletop made me was a finger guard so I wouldn’t get blisters when I take notes during meetings,” Hercules said. He’d changed out of his pajamas and green bathrobe into a purple-and-black-striped rugby shirt and jeans. He was listening to his heart with a stethoscope.

  Zelda pointed to the various pockets on Homer’s vest and shorts. “Folded maps fit here; rolled maps, here. This pocket will carry drafting supplies, mechanical pencils, protractor, et cetera, and this pocket will hold extra pencil leads. Here you can store a compass, here a magnifying lens, here a ruler and a T square.” Then she ran her hand along the back of his vest. “It’s woven with titanium thread,” she explained. “That makes it impenetrable to everything from thorns to swords. And those are leech-proof socks. Very practical.”

  “What about Dog’s vest?” Homer asked.

  “That pocket is for a bone; that one holds a canteen. That one is detachable and forms a dog bowl.”

  Dog wagged his tail as everyone looked at him. No one could possibly think Homer’s dog was useless—not while wearing such an impressive vest.

  “Now you are both ready,” Zelda said, wiping away another tear.

  “We are,” Homer agreed as he patted Dog’s head. “We are ready.”

 
16

  The L.O.S.T. Membership Convenes

  Just before 7 p.m., the membership began to arrive. They came by horse, Rolls Royce, scooter, motorcycle, and helicopter. One even came by a giant yacht called Cave Woman. Zelda told Homer to wait upstairs until she summoned him. Jittery currents ran down his legs and arms. He’d never felt so nervous. Peeking over the stairway railing, he caught a glimpse of a cowboy hat, then a head of blond curls. When the grandfather clock struck seven, Zelda came upstairs. She leaned very close to Homer and looked deeply into his eyes. “Remember,” she whispered, “answer all questions honestly. Do not try to be your uncle. Be yourself.”

  Homer worried about that. The real me is terribly boring, he thought.

  “And you,” she said, patting Dog’s head. “Be good.”

  Homer tugged on his Panama hat, making sure it was secure. Then he and Dog followed Zelda down the stairs and into the kitchen.

  Six people sat around Zelda’s long kitchen table. Six pairs of eyes stared at him. No one said a word. What had he expected? Trumpets to herald his entrance? That would have been nice. Maybe a round of applause or a great big “Hello, Homer.” But they only stared. They’re disappointed, he thought. I’m just a kid. Homer’s knees began to shake. He felt as if he were standing in front of his school giving a presentation, only a million times worse.

  Dog waddled into the kitchen. He walked right past Homer and stopped at the chair at the end of the table. He wagged his tail and stared up at the old man who sat in the chair—a man so shrunken that he had to perch on a pile of phone books. Red, pinlike eyes peered out from the man’s prunish face. His black wool suit looked like funeral clothes, especially with the black top hat that rested by his elbow. The old man didn’t notice Dog. Dog kept right on wagging. “Dog,” Homer whispered. “Come here.” But Dog didn’t obey. He crawled under the old man’s chair and lay down.

  “Lord Mockingbird,” Zelda said. She and Homer remained standing. “We’re ready for you to call the meeting to order.”

  Lord Mockingbird? Had Homer heard right? The Lord Mockingbird? The author of Marvels of Mapmaking?

  “Hmph,” Lord Mockingbird said. Turned out he was the old man with the prunish face. “Let the secretary do it.”

  “I’m not actually a secretary,” Hercules said timidly. He sat next to Lord Mockingbird, his helmet still on his head. “I’m the records keeper.”

  “You’re a namby-pamby,” Lord Mockingbird snarled. “Get on with it.”

  Hercules cleared his throat. “I hereby call to order the seventy-ninth meeting of the Society of Legends, Objects, Secrets, and Treasures. Four members are not present. The Unpolluter never attends. Ajitabh is in New Delhi. Sir Titus Edmund’s whereabouts are still unknown. And Angus MacDoodle would rather, and I quote him directly, ‘shave his bottom than attend another one of our boring meetings.’ ” A few people snickered. Hercules cleared his throat again. “Seven members are in attendance, however, which constitutes a quorum.”

  Lord Mockingbird grunted. “Keep going.” He returned his focus to a muffin from which he was picking yellow raisins.

  Stacks of papers surrounded Hercules, along with file folders and notebooks. He picked up a page and read. “The first item on the agenda is to meet Homer Winslow Pudding, who has come to claim Drake Pudding’s chair. The procedure, according to our bylaws, is for each member to ask Homer questions.” Hercules looked up. “Zelda, will you do the introductions?”

  “Of course,” Zelda said.

  “Hurry up!” Lord Mockingbird hollered with unexpected gusto.

  Zelda took Homer’s arm and stepped closer to the table. “Homer, this is His Honor, Lord Mockingbird the Eighteenth. Lord Mockingbird is the eldest member of L.O.S.T. and its current president.”

  Lord Mockingbird picked another raisin from his muffin. Though Homer had never met His Lordship, he knew all about him. Five of His Lordship’s maps were thumbtacked to Homer’s ceiling. He was considered to be the greatest mapmaker ever. Homer had thought he was long dead. But there he sat, grunting and picking and looking like he might topple off the chair. “It’s nice to meet you,” Homer said quietly.

  Lord Mockingbird said nothing.

  “Your Lordship,” Hercules said, a quill perched in his hands. “It is your turn to ask a question.”

  Lord Mockingbird flicked a raisin across the room. “The boy looks like a nincompoop.” Homer wasn’t sure what a nincompoop was, but a word ending in poop couldn’t be very good. Despite the insult, he felt overwhelmingly honored to be in the great mapmaker’s presence.

  “Lord Mockingbird, do you have a question?” Zelda asked.

  “Hmph. How old is the nincompoop?” he grumbled.

  “Twelve,” Homer said. “But I’ll be thirteen this fall.”

  “I was twelve once,” Lord Mockingbird said. “And I could eat as many raisins as I wanted and they didn’t give me the runs.” He flicked another raisin. Hercules used a file folder as a shield, then dipped his quill into a bottle of ink and scribbled on a piece of paper.

  A large woman sat in the next chair. Zelda motioned with her hand. “Homer, this is Dr. Gertrude Magnum. Gertrude earned her doctoral degree in Subterranean Worlds.”

  Homer imagined his bedroom ceiling and the map of the Great Crystal Cave. Dr. Magnum had discovered that cave and in turn had become the most famous subterranean explorer of all time. “I’ve got your book,” he blurted, starstruck. “Cavernous Realms. I’ve read it twice.”

  Dr. Magnum smiled sweetly at Homer, two deep dimples forming on her round cheeks. She fiddled with a necklace of bright jewels. More jewels sparkled from her wrists, her fingers, her ears, and from the barrettes she wore throughout her curly blond hair. “Hello, Homer,” she said, her voice squeaky.

  “Hello,” Homer said.

  “My question for you is this: What is your opinion on caves?”

  “I’ve never been in one,” Homer said, immediately taking a liking to Gertrude Magnum. Her voice reminded him of a chipmunk, as did her face. “But I’d like to explore one.”

  “Is that so?” She rested her jeweled arms on the table, nearly knocking over Hercules’s inkwell in the process. “Which cave would you like to explore?”

  If he chose her discovery, the Great Crystal Cave, then surely she’d be flattered. But Zelda had told him to be honest.

  “I would choose the Lost Cave of the Pygmies,” he said.

  Dr. Magnum raised her painted eyebrows. “And why would that be your choice?”

  “Because no one has found it yet.”

  She smiled and nodded. Hercules continued to scribble.

  “Move on,” Lord Mockingbird grumbled while gumming a piece of muffin. “Move on, move on.”

  Zelda took Homer’s arm and gently led him a few steps down the table. Next to Dr. Magnum sat a middle-aged man with enormous ears that poked out from a bushy head of salt-and-pepper hair. “I know who you are,” Homer said. “I’ve got a collection of miniature plastic mummies. Your picture was on the back of the box they came in.”

  “Homer, this is Professor Thaddius Thick, Distinguished Professor Emeritus of Egyptology at Cairo University.”

  “Hello Ho… Ho… Homer.” Muffin crumbs fell from Professor Thick’s gray beard as he struggled through the next sentence. “So… so… so nice to meet you.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, too,” Homer said. “You’ve found more mummies than anyone else. I read an article at the library in Archaeologist Monthly, and it said that all you have to do is stick your shovel in the sand and out comes a mummy.”

  “Yes… yes… yes, that seems to be the case.” Professor Thick pulled a pen from the pocket of his safari shirt and drew something on his paper napkin. Then he pushed the napkin toward Homer. “What is… is… is this?”

  Professor Thick had drawn a rope, knotted at the ends to form a circle. Homer’s mind flew to the northern corner of his bedroom ceiling, to a map called “The Land of the Pharaohs.” “It’s a car
touche,” Homer said. His shaking knees calmed down as his mind focused on the questions. “It’s a symbol of protection. The rope protects whatever lies inside. If you find a cartouche on a map, it means that someone very important is buried there.”

  Hercules stopped scribbling and looked at Homer. Except for Dog’s scratching at a flea, the kitchen fell into silence. Everyone watched and waited for the professor’s reaction.

  Professor Thick twisted one end of his mustache and smiled. “Ver… ver… very good.”

  Zelda and Homer simultaneously released a long breath. Zelda patted Homer’s back. Then she motioned to a woman in a brown motorcycle jacket who sat next to Professor Thick. “Homer, this is Torch. Torch specializes in the Lost Civilization of Atlantis.”

  Homer had never heard of Torch. The snake tattoo that wrapped around Torch’s neck might have caught Homer’s attention, if it hadn’t been for the live hawk that sat on her shoulder. It wore a little leather hood over its eyes and clicked its beak. Hearing the sound, Dog scooted out from under the chair to investigate.

  “You don’t look nothing like Drake,” Torch said, glaring at Homer with icy black eyes. “How do we know you’re his nephew?”

  “You have my word,” Zelda said.

  “I’d rather have proof.”

  Zelda, towering over the table, lowered her voice. “Are you questioning my integrity, Torch?”

  “I question your motives,” Torch replied, stroking one of the hawk’s talons. “You were friends with Drake. We all know you were helping him with his quest to find Smeller’s treasure. Some of us think Drake found Smeller’s treasure map and left it to the kid. If Homer joins the society and we finance his quest, then the two of you could become very famous.”

  “Unlike you, Torch, I do not desire fame,” Zelda said, her tone as cold as the mist on the moor.

  Torch snorted. “Everyone wants fame. Do you want fame, Homer?”

  Homer couldn’t honestly say that he didn’t want fame. He’d often imagined all the kids from the Milkydale schoolhouse standing in line to buy tickets to the Homer W. Pudding Museum. Or tickets to a movie called The Great Adventures of Homer W. Pudding. “Maybe a little,” he answered.