Compass in hand, Homer pushed deeper into the forest. The summer sun trickled through the canopy of cedar and alder, pooling on boulders and patches of moss. His stomach growled. Dog’s stomach was probably growling, too.
“I’m thirsty,” Hercules said.
Homer licked his dry lips. After working in the field, his father often said, “I got me a mighty strong thirst.” That’s exactly how Homer felt as a nearby stream called to him in its soft, gurgling voice. But without water-purifying pills, which were in the lost backpack, Homer didn’t dare take the risk. Drinking directly from a stream was a sure way of making that fortune-teller’s prediction come true.
Chapter 5 of Twentieth Century Treasure-Hunting Disasters told the tragic story of the Smittys, three wet-behind-the-ears brothers who’d set out for the Wild West in search of gold. They survived a bandit attack, a buffalo stampede, and some saloon girls who wanted to get married. After all that, the Smitty brothers found the largest gold vein in historical record. They didn’t get to spend their fortune, however, because they celebrated by drinking from a stream without boiling the water first.
“We’ll have to wait for Baldwin to bring us water.” After checking his compass again, Homer veered back on course. “We should be getting close to the X.”
“How can you be certain?” Hercules asked.
Without the atlas and Lord Mockingbird’s map, which were in the backpack, Homer had to rely on his memory. “On Lord Mockingbird’s map, the X was drawn in the center of the mushroom cap. That’s the forested part of the island. I got a good look at the island from the floatplane’s window. If I keep us on a straight course from the beach, we should get there.” He slid between two sprawling ferns, stepped onto a patch of leaves and, before he could scream out, found himself sitting at the bottom of a hole.
Homer looked up to find Hercules looking down with an equally confused expression across his face.
“Hey, you just fell in a hole. Are you okay? Did you break anything?”
Pain shot through Homer’s legs. He’d landed right on his tailbone. “I think I’m okay.” He slowly got to his feet, his rear end aching something fierce. Once again he checked his limbs for breakage. Once again he sighed with relief. “I didn’t break anything.”
“This hole’s really big.” Hercules lay on his stomach and peered over the edge at Homer. “Do you think it’s an abandoned well?”
Homer squinted up at him. “Maybe. But Mushroom Island is supposed to be uninhabited,” Homer said. The hole was about as deep as two men, so it could have been a well. A mat of woven sticks lay at Homer’s feet. Broken by Homer’s fall, the mat had been covering up the hole. He picked it up. “Don’t you think that if someone wanted to cover up an abandoned well they would have used something solid, like planks, to keep people from falling in?”
“Unless you’re supposed to fall in.”
Homer dropped the mat. “It’s a booby trap.”
“Hey, you know why they’re called booby traps? Because the word booby is another way of saying stu—”
“Get me out of here.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.” Homer picked his Panama hat off the ground and set it back on his head. Then he ran his hands over the walls of the hole. There was nothing to grab on to. He stood on tiptoe and stretched his arms, but Hercules couldn’t reach him. He sighed. A coil of rope sat at the bottom of the lost backpack. Rope always comes in handy on a quest. “Do you know how to make rope from vines?”
“No.” Hercules looked over his shoulder. “Hey, Homer, I don’t like being alone up here. What if that bear comes?”
“Well, I don’t like being stuck down here. Lorelei’s already got a huge head start, and now I’ll never catch up.” He pushed his bangs from his face.
“Here, I’ll use my branch.” Hercules wrapped both hands around his makeshift sword and plunged it into the hole. “Grab it and climb out.”
It was the nightmare of gym class all over again as Homer held on to the end of the branch and pulled with all his might. One hand, then the next, he told himself. You can do it. He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing all his energy into his arms. One hand, then the next. He opened his eyes. He was only a few inches off the ground. “I can’t do it,” he said, letting go. “I’m not strong enough.”
Hercules looked over his shoulder again. “Did you hear that?” he asked. “Something’s moving around out there.” He scrambled to his feet and gripped the end of the branch. “Hold on and I’ll pull you out.”
“You can’t do that,” Homer said. “I weigh—”
“Just hold on.”
Homer grabbed the branch and, to his surprise, he found himself standing in forest sunlight. One moment he’d been standing at the bottom of a booby trap, the next moment he was looking into Hercules’s brown eyes. “You did it. You pulled me out.” He wiped dirt off his hands and looked at his friend with amazement. Hercules had caught Dog in midair with one arm. He’d ripped a branch off a tree. And he’d pulled Homer from the bottom of a very deep hole. “You’re really strong.”
Hercules scratched a welt on his arm, his gaze darting between the trees. “Yeah, I’m strong.”
“No, I mean you’re really strong.” Homer narrowed his eyes. Hercules wasn’t much taller than Homer, and he was definitely a lot lighter. No muscles bulged from beneath the rugby shirt, and yet… “You’re as strong as your brothers and sister, aren’t you?”
Hercules didn’t respond. He turned away from Homer.
Homer thought back to his visit to the Simpleton Palace and one image stuck in his mind. “Wait a minute. Are you telling me that when Brutus was sitting on us, you could have pushed her away?”
“No, I couldn’t. I mean, yes, I could. But if I’d pushed her away, then my family would know that I’m strong.” Hercules’s voice warbled with emotion. “You can’t tell anyone I’m strong. Please, Homer. It’s my secret. Dad thinks I can’t do anything but spell. If he finds out, he’ll make me play some dangerous sport like rugby or baseball. I hate physical contact sports. Imagine what could happen to my brain if I got a concussion. I’d never be the first person to win the World’s Spelling Bee twice in a row.”
“You want to win twice in a row?”
“More than anything.”
If Homer understood one thing, it was the feeling of wanting something with one’s entire heart. Surrounded by the deep greens of the forest and the morning chatter of birds, he promised to keep the secret—for what was one more secret in the trove of secrets he already held? And who better to keep such a secret than Homer W. Pudding, the boy from Milkydale whose very bedroom held one of the greatest secrets of all time?
Homer checked his compass again. “We’ve got to keep going.” Hercules took a step, but Homer grabbed his arm. “Don’t step there.”
A discolored patch of ground waited a few feet from Hercules. “It’s another booby trap,” Homer said. “If you know what to look for, you can see the woven mats. There’s another one. And another,” he said, pointing. “Someone has set booby traps all over this place. It’s kinda like the Temple of the Reptile King.”
“What do you mean?” Hercules squeezed Homer’s arm. “Are there reptiles around here? Bears and reptiles?”
One of the maps from Homer’s ceiling filled his mind. “The Temple of the Reptile King was protected by viper-filled pits. After Wilma von Weiner found the temple and got rid of all the vipers, she decided to keep the traps. She didn’t want anyone to get an early peek at her discovery, so she covered the traps with mats. I guess she caught a few sneaky thieves and reporters.” Homer poked another booby trap with the stick. The mat gave way. “Lord Mockingbird must have had someone dig these holes to test my skills.”
“Lord Mockingbird was good friends with Wilma von Weiner,” Hercules said. “I had to organize L.O.S.T.’s photo collection, and there are lots of pictures of them together when they were young.”
“Really?” A tickling sensati
on crept up Homer’s neck, and it wasn’t caused by a bug. Wilma von Weiner had founded L.O.S.T. She’d been highly respected by the treasure-hunting community. She’d died a long time ago. “Zelda told me that someone in L.O.S.T. doesn’t want me to join. What if it’s Lord Mockingbird? If he was good friends with Wilma von Weiner, then he probably wants her daughter, Madame la Directeur, to have my uncle’s chair when she gets out of jail. What if Lord Mockingbird put these booby traps here, not as a test, but as a way to…”
“To get rid of you,” Hercules said.
A bird screeched from a nearby branch.
Homer took a deep breath. He’d fallen into one booby trap, but he wasn’t going to fall into any more. “Let me have that branch.” Hercules handed it over. “Let’s go.”
“No way,” Hercules said. “If I fall into a hole, you’ll never be able to pull me out.”
“I’ll go first,” Homer assured him. “Follow my footsteps exactly. If one of us falls, it will be me.” Homer checked his compass, then scanned the forest floor for a way between the traps. “I thought Torch was the one who didn’t want me to join,” he said as he poked the ground with the branch. “Remember how she kept questioning my honesty, like she was trying to prove that I wasn’t Drake’s nephew?”
“Don’t take it personally. Torch is rude to everyone,” Hercules said. “And she’s always in a bad mood. According to the files, she’s the only member of L.O.S.T. who’s never found anything. Think about it. Her specialty is Atlantis. That place is just a story.”
“It could have been a real place.”
“Then why hasn’t she found anything?”
That had to be frustrating. Uncle Drake’s specialty had been Rumpold Smeller the Pirate, and everyone knew he’d existed. Eyewitnesses had written lengthy accounts of his dastardly deeds. But Torch had no proof. No wonder she was so grumpy.
Maneuvering around the booby traps proved to be a slow process. The only consolation was that Lorelei had probably had trouble, too. But what if Dog had fallen into a trap? He could have broken one of his little legs. I’m starting to think like Hercules, Homer told himself. Focus on one worry at a time.
The trees thickened and soon there was barely any space between them. With no more room for holes, the traps also disappeared. Homer squeezed between the trees, checking his compass again and again. He pushed between a pair of cedars. “Whoa.” He stopped in his tracks. Right in front of him, a rat sat on a moss-covered log, holding a granola bar in her claws. “Daisy,” he whispered.
Hercules bumped right into Homer. “Hey, what—”
Homer put a finger to his lips, then pointed. Hercules peered around the tree’s trunk.
Daisy the rat stared at Homer with her beadlike eyes. Wiggling her nose, she sniffed the air. Then she turned the granola bar in her little hands and continued eating. Homer took a cautious step forward. She sat up straight and hugged the granola bar to her chest, her little eyes saying, You can’t have this. It’s mine. Homer was hungry enough to eat anything, even a granola bar covered in rat slobber, but he had something else on his mind.
“Daisy,” he cooed. “Where’s Lorelei?” He took another step toward her.
Daisy the rat darted beneath a fern. “There she goes,” Hercules said, pointing. They followed, squeezing between more trees. Just when they thought they’d lost sight of her, the rubbery tail popped out from behind a rock, then disappeared around a tree.
Homer followed, then froze. A patch of pink had caught his eye.
Lorelei stood in a small clearing, just a few yards away. She wore no professional adventurer clothing, just a pair of jeans, a black-and-white-striped shirt and her usual sneakers. Homer sighed with relief. Dog stood at Lorelei’s feet, at the end of a blue leash. The leash was too large for a rat, so clearly Lorelei had brought it, intending to steal Dog. Homer wanted to kick himself for feeling surprised. Of course she’d intended to steal Dog. She was in this to win.
But where was Zelda?
Homer cleared his throat, but neither Lorelei nor Dog turned to look at him. Hercules caught up and peered over Homer’s shoulder. “What’s she—?”
“Don’t move,” Lorelei said, still not turning around. A soft growl rose from Dog’s chest.
That’s when Homer’s gaze traveled beyond Lorelei to the other end of the clearing. And that’s when Hercules fainted.
32
Rumpold Smeller the Boy, Part VI
It didn’t take long for Rumpold to settle into the horse’s pace. The steady clip-clopping eased his thoughts, pushing away the images of his teary mother and his frowning father. As the morning passed, the landscape changed from fields dotted with peasants and livestock to hills covered in young alder and oak. The geometry of a fern caught his eye, as did the perfect blackness of a raven perched on a branch, but Rumpold fought his urge to draw these things. The forest waited.
The task assigned to him was far better than he could have imagined. Though he’d never drawn a map before, at least he’d get to use his charcoal and parchment. There was that little matter of survival, however. All the last-minute instructions would help, but there’d been so many. “Don’t let your kindling get wet.” “Stock the fire before going to sleep.” “Always skin a rabbit downwind.”
“I’ll do my best,” he’d told his father.
By midday he’d arrived at the forest’s edge. A trail, trampled by deer hooves, proved wide enough for the horse. The afternoon passed quickly and pleasantly, and they stopped every so often so Rumpold could take notes about the landscape. It was on such a break that he spied an ants’ nest. While the horse grazed nearby, Rumpold sat on a log and watched the ants go about their daily chores. Could he possibly capture the depth and complexity of the nest? What about the texture of the twigs, piled one atop the other in a mysterious labyrinth? He couldn’t deny himself the artistic challenge. Gripping a thin piece of charcoal, his hand moved in a hypnotic rhythm, his gaze shifting from nest to parchment.
It was the shadows on his paper that woke him from his daze. The sun was setting and darkness lingered at the edges of the trees. A chill pierced the air. Rumpold whistled for the horse, who obediently appeared. He tucked his parchment and charcoal into his travel bag, then wrapped a blanket around his shoulders and wondered what to do next. Should he build a fire, or make a shelter the way his tutor said to do? His stomach growled, so he drank water from the sheep’s bladder his father had given him. He chewed a piece of dried venison that his tutor had tucked into his pocket.
Perhaps, Rumpold thought, my current predicament isn’t so bad. If he used his time wisely, he could travel in the morning, draw the map, then use the entire afternoon to work on his own drawings.
As night crept in, the forest filled with odd sounds. Rumpold reached into his bag for the flint. Fumbling, he grabbed it, but it flew from his fingers and landed somewhere on the dark forest floor. There’d be no fire that night. The horse trampled some undergrowth, then lay down with a satisfied snort. Rumpold settled against the horse’s belly, which was plenty warm. He wrapped the blanket over his body and laid his head on the horse’s side.
He thought of his family back at the palace. If only he could tell his worried mother that he was fine. His father would be worried, too, but more for his reputation. It would be better to die in the forest than to return home without a map and break his father’s heart.
Rumpold’s eyelids grew heavy and the horse’s steady breathing lulled him into a shallow sleep. But a rustling from the nearby shrubs perked the horse’s ears and Rumpold’s, too. The rustling grew closer and was accompanied by heavy breathing. Rumpold’s eyes flew open. “Who’s there?”
The horse bolted to its feet and neighed with fear. Rumpold shot to his feet and grabbed the horse’s reins. He squinted into the darkness. A stench crept up his nose as the breathing grew louder. Panicking, the horse kicked its back legs, then bolted forward, ripping the reins from Rumpold’s grasp. Trying to escape in the darkness, the horse st
umbled and bumped into a tree.
Rumpold took a few steps back. The breathing was close enough that it blew hot across his face. A dark mass loomed before him. “Please don’t hurt me,” Rumpold pleaded. Then something knocked against the side of his head and he fell over backward.
He was standing at an easel, painting a vase of flowers. His canvas was the purest white that money could buy. His brush was made from the finest camel hair. His palette was covered with colors he’d never imagined. A smile of pure happiness spread across his face.
Then darkness swept over him.
33
The Scent of Honey
There are bears and there are BEARS. There are little stuffed bears that children keep on their beds and cuddle at night. There are black-and-white panda bears that coax smiles and laughter from even the most evil-minded scoundrels. There are the black bears that like to eat berries and honey and that are so shy that if you say “boo” to them, they run away. But then there are the grizzly bears. If you say “boo” to a grizzly bear, it will eat your face.
That’s why Lorelei and Dog stood frozen—because that’s what stood at the edge of the clearing, the face-eating variety of bear. Zelda would have been impressed by the bear’s grandeur. It balanced on its back legs like a monolith. Its eyes were so black, they looked like holes punched into its face. Homer’s entire body broke into a quiver. Hercules moaned and sat up. “What happened? I think I fainted.”
“Don’t move,” Lorelei said from the corner of her clenched mouth.
Smells Like Treasure Page 19
