Smells Like Treasure

by Suzanne Selfors

  The binoculars fell against Homer’s chest. “What if you land in deeper water? We could swim to the island.”

  “No way,” Hercules said. “Do you know how cold that water is? We’ll get hypothermia within minutes.”

  Lorelei would have no problem because the cloudcopter could land directly on the beach. Homer gripped the side of the pilot’s seat. “But I have to get onto that island. Right now.”

  “Then you’ll have to jump,” Baldwin said.

  Surely that was a joke.

  “Huh?”

  “You’ll have to jump,” Baldwin repeated. “If you want to get onto the island right now, you’ll have to jump.”

  “NO WAY!” Hercules cried, just about falling out of his seat. “No way, no way, no way. That is not going to happen. Never, ever, ever am I jumping out of a plane. Not in a million years. No, no, no.”

  Dog moaned and sat up. He licked his lips and looked around for something to eat. A few pretzels had found their way to the floor, as had a pretzel bag. He stuck his nose into the bag and licked the salt-flecked lining.

  “We have two options. I could fly low, just above the beach, and you could jump right onto the sand, but that is very risky,” Baldwin explained. “We’d be traveling at more than fifty knots and you’d most likely break some bones because you wouldn’t be able to control your fall.”

  “That doesn’t sound like an option,” Hercules said.

  Homer agreed. “What’s the second option?”

  “If you jumped from a height and used a parachute, you could land with less risk of breaking anything.”

  Homer couldn’t believe what he was hearing—less risk of breakage was the best option? “I don’t want to break anything,” he said. “I’ve got to hike to the X.”

  “How about this option?” Hercules said. “How about we forget this entire crazy quest?”

  “If you are willing to delay the quest, we could go back to the mainland and hire a boat.” Baldwin turned slightly in his seat and looked at Homer, waiting for a decision.

  By the time they got back to the mainland it would be dark. They’d have to hang around until morning to get a boat. Lorelei would have hiked to the X and would have the coin in her greedy little hands.

  Sometimes a decision has to be made in an instant. Like the time the famous American volcano jumper Millicent Smith ran into her burning house to save her bungee cords. She’d had no time to weigh the pros and cons of such an action, and she’d met a fiery end. Then there was the time when Sir Richard Borington, inventor of the Borington Binoculars, dropped his eyeglasses. He’d had no time to weigh the pros and cons of crawling under an elephant to retrieve the glasses, and he got squashed as a result.

  Homer, like these treasure-hunting predecessors, now faced a spur-of-the-moment decision. There’d been no opportunity to take a parachuting class. No chance to say good-bye to his parents. The jump would work or it wouldn’t.

  Treasure hunting will kill you.

  The air suddenly felt as thick as syrup and no matter how fast Homer breathed, he couldn’t get a full breath. Baldwin continued to circle the island, waiting for a decision. “This is crazy,” Hercules mumbled to himself. “How did I get myself into this?”

  Dog removed his nose from the pretzel bag and stared expectantly at Homer.

  What do I do? Homer peered out the window. The evening sun hung heavy over the western horizon. As Baldwin continued to fly the plane in a circular pattern, the eastern sky came into view, darker but clear. Except for one puffy little cloud moving steadily toward them.

  Lorelei!

  “I’ll jump,” Homer announced.

  28

  Rumpold Smeller the Boy, Part V

  Rumpold yawned. His tutor and father had been instructing him throughout the night, trying to fill his head with as much information as possible. He needed to know which plants in the Estonian forests were poisonous and which roots he could dig and eat. Learning the intricacies of rabbit snaring, rabbit cleaning, and rabbit cooking would keep him from starving. They tried to teach him how to make fire with a flint, how to build a rainproof shelter, and how to stave off insect bites with river mud. Of course, Duke Smeller didn’t know any of this stuff. Like his son, he had spent most of his life living in a castle. On the few occasions when he’d worn his Teutonic knight’s armor and had guarded the borders, he’d done so with a traveling party consisting of a cook, a tent-erecter, and a groom to tend to the horses. Fortunately, Rumpold’s tutor had found a book written by a monk who had spent most of his life living in the woods. “How to make soup from a rock and a leather shoe,” the tutor read. “That might come in handy.”

  Rumpold’s mother, the duchess, threw open the door and burst into the room. “Soup from a rock and a shoe?” She threw herself at her husband’s feet and wrapped her arms around his shins. “Do not do this to my son, my only son. Do not send him into the wilderness alone.”

  “It is done,” the duke said.

  “Then I’ll go with him.”

  “That is ridiculous.”

  The duchess tightened her grip. “Then I’ll send the servants with him.”

  “No. He must do this on his own.”

  She burst into tears. “A wolf will eat him. Or he’ll starve to death. Or a barbarian will enslave him.” She pulled Rumpold into her arms, nearly suffocating him in her embrace. “I will never see him again. My son. My only son.”

  Rumpold, who’d quietly begun to accept his fate, suddenly imagined himself running from the tutor’s study, taking a horse from the stables, and riding off into a world where he could be anyone but a duke’s son. Where he would never have to become a knight.

  “Enough,” the duke said, prying his wife’s arms from Rumpold. “You think I am not worried? He is my only son, too. But this must be done. It is the highest honor to be a Teutonic knight.” Then Duke Smeller turned toward the doorway. Duke Vladmir stood there, his arms folded.

  “The time has come,” he said.

  “It is dawn?” Duke Smeller asked with surprise. Duke Vladmir nodded.

  Rumpold’s tutor grabbed a leather satchel and filled it with parchment and writing implements. Then he stuffed the monk’s book inside. His eyelids were heavy with sadness when he shook Rumpold’s hand. “Good luck,” he said.

  The knights gathered in the courtyard. They watched silently as Rumpold said his good-byes. “Good-bye, Mother,” he said, holding back his tears as best he could. Sobbing, she fled into the house, her serving women at her heels. “Good-bye, Father.”

  Duke Smeller leaned close to his son’s ear. “Do not disappoint me. Our family honor is at stake.”

  Rumpold looked over at his sister, who stood off to the side, her arms folded, her eyes narrowed. “Good-bye, Sister,” he called. She said nothing, but he knew what she wanted. She wanted, more than anything, to take his place. He’d give her that chance if he could.

  His satchel slung over his shoulder, Rumpold walked down the castle steps into the courtyard. He took his horse’s reins and led him beneath the archway and out onto the road. He was supposed to head into the forest and draw a map. But what was to keep him from simply heading down that road, and going on and on and on to wherever it took him?

  When he reached his favorite tree, he dropped the reins and climbed until he could see out over the landscape. This was his father’s land. His ancestors’ land. To be the son of a duke meant that life came without choices. The path set before him was the one he had to follow.

  “Come here,” he called to the horse. The horse stopped grazing and ambled beneath the branch. Rumpold waited until the horse was in perfect position, then he scooted to the edge of the branch.

  And jumped.

  29

  Falling Through the Sky

  It is highly advisable to take a class in parachuting before jumping out of an airplane. Most experts would recommend more than one class—maybe even a college degree in parachuting, just to be on the safe side.

>   “You’re going to jump out of the plane?” Hercules asked.

  Hearing someone else say those words was like a jolt of electricity to Homer’s brain. Homer Winslow Pudding, a goat farmer’s son, was going to jump out of a plane? The same Homer who’d failed every school physical fitness test? While the other kids scrambled up the ropes like monkeys, Homer never got more than two feet off the ground. While the other kids ran the mile in the allotted fifteen minutes, Homer always finished five minutes behind. While the other kids flew across the sand in the long jump, Homer landed on his bottom at the three-foot mark. So what made him think he could jump out of a plane and survive?

  Hercules leaped from his seat and grabbed Homer’s shoulders. “Are you insane?”

  Maybe Homer had lost his mind. But falling through the air didn’t require any special abilities, did it? A person didn’t need strength or dexterity to step into nothingness. Mrs. Peepgrass had taught her students that objects fall at the same speed. She’d proven this by dropping a book and an apple from the top of a ladder. So in this case, weight wouldn’t put Homer at a disadvantage.

  Homer had lived his life accepting that he’d never be as fast as the other kids in his class, that he’d never be the first chosen for a team. That he’d always come in last in a race. But at that moment, as he stared at the distant cloudcopter, a force shot down his legs and sent his heart thumping like a rabbit’s back leg. This was the force that made the sprinter want to reach the finish line first, the competitive drive that propelled the swimmer down the lane. Homer wasn’t going to lose this time. “I’m not insane,” he said. “I’m going.”

  “But I’m supposed to keep you safe,” Hercules said. “I won’t let you go.”

  “Sorry, Hercules, but I’m doing this.” He walked to the back of the plane and opened the EMERGENCY PARACHUTE compartment. With a swift tug, he pulled out an orange parachute, an exact replica of the one Hercules was already wearing.

  “I’m supposed to be your guardian.” Hercules looked out the window. “But Lord Mockingbird didn’t say anything about jumping out of a plane.” Who could blame Hercules for not wanting to jump? Why should he risk his life? He was already a member of L.O.S.T.

  “You stay here,” Homer said. “This is my quest and I’m the only one who should take the risk. Besides, you went to the coliseum with me. You spotted the atlas and that was a huge help. You and Dog go back to the mainland with Baldwin and get a boat. Then come and get me.” He carried the parachute to the cockpit door. “How do I put this thing on?”

  Baldwin showed Homer. It wasn’t much different than putting on a backpack, except that the straps secured in the front. Homer’s hands trembled as he clicked the safety belts into place.

  “Hercules, I’ll need you to open the door,” Baldwin said. “I can’t leave the cockpit.”

  “Open the door? What if I get sucked into the void?” Hercules checked his own safety belts. “It happens all the time in science-fiction movies.”

  “Can that happen?” Homer asked Baldwin.

  “Not likely.”

  Dog pawed Homer’s shin, then looked up at him with those red-rimmed eyes. Homer knelt and ran his hands over Dog’s ears. Love, pure and true, filled the space between and around them. Dog, who’d been with him every moment for three months. Dog, who trusted and relied on him. Even though Homer needed Dog’s treasure-smelling talents, he wasn’t going to risk Dog’s life. “I can’t take you with me,” he told Dog. “It’s too dangerous. You stay here with Hercules.”

  Dog cocked his head. “Urrrr?”

  “You’ll be safe here.” Homer kissed Dog’s forehead. Then he stood and looked steely-eyed at Hercules. “You’ll watch him?”

  “Yeah, I’ll watch him,” Hercules said.

  “He’ll howl when I’m gone. You’ll need to pet him.”

  Hercules frowned. “Yeah, okay. I’ll pet him.”

  A little wave of dizziness washed over Homer. Flying around and around the island was starting to get to him. Would falling toward the island be worse?

  “What do I do?” Homer asked.

  “I suggest a hop and pop,” Baldwin said. “You’ll open the parachute immediately after leaving the plane.” He pointed to a string with a handle that hung from the parachute. “You will pull that toggle, which will open the small pilot chute. The pilot chute will catch the air and open the main chute.”

  “What if the chute doesn’t open?” Hercules asked. “Have you considered that? What if that happens?”

  “There are two parachutes,” Baldwin said. “If the first doesn’t open, you will pull the second toggle.” He pointed to the other toggle.

  Homer swallowed hard. “Does that happen? Does the first chute sometimes not open?”

  “Sometimes,” Baldwin said.

  “You see,” Hercules said. “This is crazy.”

  “Maybe it is,” Homer said. Fear was growing like a weed in his brain, trying to smother his determination. “But Lorelei would jump out of this plane in a minute, without a second thought. She’ll do whatever it takes to get my coin.” He pushed the fear away. “What do I do after I open the chute? I mean, how do I steer the thing?”

  “Use the steering lines,” Baldwin explained. “Pull the left one to turn left, pull the right one to turn right. Aim them at the landing site, which is the beach.” Homer looked out the cockpit window. Wave-wrinkled sand covered the south tip of the island. “You do not want to land in the trees.” The plane tilted. “We’re approaching the target.”

  Homer opened an aft luggage compartment and pushed Dog inside. “You stay here,” he told him. He closed the door. Dog scratched at it. “Don’t let him out. I’m serious. He’ll try to follow me.”

  “Okay,” Hercules said. Then he grabbed his first-aid kit. “Here,” he said, shoving it into Homer’s backpack. “You might need this.” It was a huge gesture.

  Dog whined and scratched the luggage door again.

  Homer made sure that the chin strap for his Panama hat was extra tight. Then he slid his arms through the backpack, wearing it across his chest. Hercules opened the exit door, then darted behind a seat. Homer stepped to the edge. The view had dramatically changed. “Why are we so high?”

  “We have to be high enough for the chute to open and still have time for the reserve chute if need be.”

  “I can do this,” Homer whispered.

  “You don’t have to do this,” Hercules said.

  “Howoooo!”

  Homer inched his feet to the edge of the precipice. I can do this. I can do this. He wrapped an arm across the backpack, holding it protectively to his chest. His other arm stiffened, the toggle gripped in his fingers.

  “Homer,” Hercules said. They shared a long look. “Good luck.”

  “Thanks.”

  “We’ll get a boat, Mr. Pudding, and meet you tomorrow,” Baldwin called from the cockpit. “There’s the beach. Best jump now.”

  “Okay.” He closed his eyes.

  And so it was that Homer Winslow Pudding, farm boy, gunnysack slide destroyer, hopeful treasure hunter, stepped into nothingness.

  Skydiving had never been on Homer’s list of things he wanted to do. The sensation of falling had never thrilled him, but somehow this moment didn’t feel like falling. He didn’t fall straight down as he’d expected. Instead, he moved forward. The air felt cushiony as it pressed against and around him like a great big pillow. Then he pulled.

  His body jerked upward as the smaller chute opened. His stomach shot down to his feet, then up to his throat. His body jerked again as the larger chute opened, and the sensation changed. Homer opened his eyes and took a deep breath. The earth wasn’t rushing toward him as he’d expected. Instead, he was floating steadily toward the ground. And his hat was still on his head.

  “I did it,” he cried. No one back home would ever believe that he’d jumped out of a plane. Uncle Drake would have been so proud. Surely this alone would prove his worthiness to the L.O.S.T. membership. “
I DID IT!” he cried, hugging his backpack.

  “Howoooo!”

  What was that? Homer craned his neck and looked up. Something was falling through the sky.

  Something shaped like an enormous vest-wearing sausage.

  “DOG!” Homer screamed.

  30

  Beached Boys

  A free-falling dog is a terrible thing to behold. Truly there are few sights that can compete on the blood-chilling, heart-stopping scale. With nothing but the heavens above and the earth below, Dog fell, and fell, and fell. With his ears sticking straight up like a rabbit’s, he frantically kicked his stubby legs. His attempt to dog-paddle across the sky might have been humorous if Homer didn’t believe that Dog’s certain demise was mere moments away.

  “DOG!” Homer screamed again. He instinctively reached out his arms and, as he did, the backpack fell away. Homer didn’t watch it plummet. Nor did he care, at that moment, that his gear was about to smash to smithereens on the reef. Paddling his own legs in a desperate attempt to reach his best friend, Homer swung from the parachute lines. Dog was supposed to be locked in the plane’s luggage compartment, safe and sound. How had he gotten out? Why hadn’t Hercules stopped him? Homer couldn’t bear watching Dog plummet. Tears filled his eyes. “NOOOOOO!”

  “DOG!” Someone other than Homer had called Dog’s name.

  Homer wrenched his neck. Another shape was falling through the sky. Had Homer gone mad? Was he seeing things? It couldn’t be, but it was. It was Hercules. His parachute was still strapped to his back, but it wasn’t open. Rather, Hercules was free-falling headfirst. His arms pointed straight at the earth like an Olympic diver. He was gaining on Dog. How could this be? This is not what Mrs. Peepgrass had taught her students about gravity. Homer stopped paddling and watched, openmouthed, as Hercules caught up to Dog. Hercules threw an arm around Dog’s middle, then pulled his parachute’s toggle. The little chute appeared and almost immediately after, the second chute popped open, blocking Homer’s view. He didn’t know if Dog was still in Hercules’s arms. He watched over the tips of his boots as the orange chute floated to the beach and crumpled upon landing. Nothing moved beneath the chute.