Smells Like Pirates Page 20

  After all the trouble she’d gone through to get the map, her offer surprised him. But he wasn’t going to argue. He picked up the bundle.

  “Homer picked up the bundle,” Hercules mumbled as he took notes. “You could cut the tension with a knife.” Then he looked up. “Should I write that? Is that cliché?”

  Lorelei put a finger to her lips. “Shhhh.”

  The wrapping was smooth and rubbery, just like the wrapping that had covered the diary. There were three skins, each held in place by a golden chain and clasp. As Homer removed the chains, Lorelei slipped them over her head. He wanted to tell her that the necklaces looked pretty on her. But he didn’t. With trembling fingers, he peeled open the last skin.

  “What’s that?” Hercules asked.

  Homer held up a little dried creature that had been stuck to the wrapping. Hercules and Lorelei leaned close. It was about six inches long, jet-black, with eight spiky tentacles.

  “Those spikes look dangerous,” Hercules said. “They might be poisonous. Be careful.”

  “I bet Rumpold was trying to protect his treasure. Or maybe the creature crawled in and died by accident,” Lorelei said. “Either way, it’s totally creepy. Get rid of it and keep unwrapping.”

  “Don’t eat this,” Homer told Dog as he set the creature aside. The final layer of wrapping was a Jolly Roger flag, folded so that the hollow eyes of the skull stared up at him. “It’s a warning,” he whispered. “It’s supposed to scare us.”

  “It’s scaring me,” Hercules said.

  “Oh for goodness’ sake, open it!” Lorelei practically exploded.

  As Homer peeled back the flag’s corners, Lorelei and Hercules hovered so close he could smell their energy bar–scented breaths. “Paper?” Lorelei said. “It’s a pile of paper?”

  It was a pile of paper. Folded paper, to be exact. One of the papers had threads woven through it; another looked as if it had been made from grass. Homer carefully unfolded one that was as delicate as a butterfly wing. He burst into a grin. “It’s a map!”

  The map was composed of needle-thin lines, drawn in black and green ink. It appeared to be a map of a building. Chinese characters ran along the edge. At the bottom, in the same loopy handwriting as found in the diary, were some notes.

  This map was taken from Emperor Ming’s treasure ship. I found it stuffed in a drawer of recipes, long forgotten. It is the only map of the buried Golden Crane Palace.

  “Golden Crane Palace?” Hercules said. “I’ve never heard of that.”

  “Neither have I,” Lorelei said.

  The next map was drawn on paper made from some sort of reed. Egyptian hieroglyphs ran across the map, which showed a river and a desert.

  This map was taken from Prince Badru’s pleasure craft. Some fool had wadded it up and was using it to stop a leak. It is the only map to the Lost Pyramid of Isis.

  “Isis was an Egyptian goddess,” Lorelei said. “Can you imagine the kind of treasure you’d find in that pyramid?”

  Homer was speechless. What words could he possibly utter that would express his amazement and delight? He unfolded the next paper, which was glossy and thick. “It’s in Latin,” Hercules said, pointing to the Roman numerals and letters. It appeared to be some sort of maze. “It says Ninth Labor of Hercules.” He smiled. “Cool. What was the ninth labor?”

  “Well,” Lorelei said. “That was when Hercules had to go get a belt from Hippolyte. She was a warrior queen.”

  This map was taken from an Italian merchant vessel. An illiterate servant had used it to line a stocking drawer. It leads to the famous belt of Hippolyte.

  There were a dozen maps in all. After the twelfth had been unfolded and gazed upon, Homer leaned against the Seaweed Processing Biofuel Unit. His giddiness made him a bit dizzy. His mind raced. Rumpold Smeller’s treasure was not a chest of jewels and gold, as many had suspected. It was a collection of treasure maps that would lead to lost kingdoms, secret worlds, and magical objects. It was a treasure that would lead to more treasure. “These maps will keep L.O.S.T. busy for decades,” he mumbled.

  “Half of the maps,” Lorelei corrected. “Half of the maps will keep L.O.S.T. busy for decades. Remember, we are splitting it fifty-fifty.”

  “Right,” Homer said. “I remember.” It tormented him to think that Lorelei would take six of these maps and sell them to the highest bidder. Or worse, she’d go on six quests and the discoveries would end up on the black market for someone’s private collection.

  “Too bad Lord Mockingbird didn’t live to see this,” Hercules said. Homer nodded sadly. Lord Mockingbird had been a renowned mapmaker, and only a mapmaker could truly appreciate this trove, not only for what they led to but for the craftsmanship, the instruments used, the measurements taken, long before satellites and GPS units, some even before longitude and latitude had been figured out.

  For the rest of the trip, with the autopilot in control, Homer studied the maps, Hercules wrote in the notebook, and Lorelei read Rumpold’s diary. Dog ate the last of the energy bars and stretched out on the floor, his legs kicking as he drifted in and out of dreams.

  Maybe he was dreaming about being swallowed by a whale shark. Or falling out of a hot air balloon. Or running from a berserk seaplane. Or maybe it was a happy dream of chasing rabbits across the goat-strewn pastures of Milkydale. Whatever the case, he was safe, his belly was full, and he was on his way back home.

  PART SEVEN

  HOME

  Homer awoke to the sound of the seaweed-powered engine kicking into gear. He was lying on the floor, the maps scattered around him like wrapping paper on Christmas morning. He raised his head. The view through the observation window showed half water, half air.

  “Oh, good, you’re awake,” Hercules said from the pilot’s seat. He gripped the steering wheel. “Autopilot shut off when we surfaced. City Lake is just ahead.”

  They’d made it. They’d finished their quest in one piece. Homer pulled a treasure map off his chest and rubbed his eyes. Sunlight streamed in through the upper half of the window. Dog lay at his side, another map covering him like a blanket. Homer pressed his nose into the back of Dog’s neck, inhaling the stinky scent of basset hound. He smiled. Nothing smelled better. It was the scent of loyalty. The scent of courage. The scent of friendship. “You’re a good dog,” Homer whispered. Dog opened one eye, groaned, then went back to sleep.

  “He’s a very good dog,” Lorelei said. She sat against the captain’s chest, the diary propped on her knees. Dark circles clung beneath her eyes. “We wouldn’t have found this diary without him. I just finished it.”

  “You read the whole thing?” Homer pushed the maps aside and sat up.

  “Yep. I didn’t sleep at all. You snore, by the way.”

  “Entering City Lake,” Hercules announced as he turned the wheel. The water grew murky. Some fast-food containers floated by the window. A pair of mallard ducks pecked on the glass, then swam away.

  “Is the diary good?” Homer asked. He wanted it to be good. He wanted it to be brilliant. But not all diaries are brilliant. Not everyone knows how to tell a story.

  What if Rumpold turned out to be a terribly boring writer? What if all her entries were like, Dear Diary, Today I got some treasure, and then I went to bed.

  “Is it a good story?” he asked.

  Lorelei smiled. “It’s the best story ever!” She closed the diary and hugged it to her chest. “She lived the life I dream about. She made her own rules. No one told her what to do. Every day she faced danger and adventure. I would give anything to live that kind of life.”

  “But it sounds like your life,” Homer pointed out.

  “My life?”

  “Sure.” He began to fold the maps into a tidy pile. “You make your own rules. You live where you want. You eat what you want. You have no parents or teachers to tell you what to do. And you just rode a seaweed-powered submarine at hyper-speed. If that’s not an adventure, I don’t know what is.”

  “Don
’t forget about the hot air balloon,” Hercules said. “That was definitely dangerous.”

  “You’re right,” Lorelei said. “I’m kinda like Rumpold.” She squeezed the diary tighter. “I want to keep it.”

  Homer stopped folding. “Huh?”

  “I want it. I want this diary. I want to keep it. You can have the maps.”

  “Huh?” Both Homer and Hercules did a double take.

  Dog groaned, then rolled onto his back for a belly scratch. But Homer was too stunned to notice. “You don’t want the treasure maps?” he asked, his mouth falling open.

  “I want to trade my six maps for the diary,” Lorelei said. She stuck the diary inside the captain’s chest, then got to her feet. With her hands folded behind her back, she stared out the observation window. “I think it’s a fair trade. You can take all the maps and give them to L.O.S.T.”

  Homer got to his feet. Was she up to something? Was this another one of her plans? “Why?” he asked, scratching his matted hair. “Why would you give up the maps?”

  “I want to write a book about Rumpold.” She spun around and smiled. “I want the whole world to know that she was a girl who did all these amazing things. She was a girl like me.”

  “A book?”

  “Sure. I can do it. And then I’ll turn it into a movie. Maybe I’ll give myself the starring role!” She laughed. “Why not? I can dress like a boy and wave a sword.”

  “But the treasure maps…” Homer couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “I thought you wanted to be rich.”

  “I still have a bag of harmonic crystals. I don’t need money.” She held out her hand. “So, do we have a new deal? A new gentleman’s agreement?”

  “You sure about this?” Homer asked.

  “Yep.”

  “Okay, but there’s one more thing I want you to add to this agreement.” He could hear The Unpolluter’s voice in his head. If there’s a way you can keep her from blabbing, you’ll save me some work. “You can’t ever tell the world about L.O.S.T. Even though you’re not a member, you must agree to secrecy. If you make that part of our gentleman’s agreement, then I’ll agree to the trade.”

  “You got it,” she said. “I’ll never tell.”

  And so they shook. Hercules slid out of the pilot’s seat, grabbed his notebook, and wrote, “And with a handshake, they sealed the deal that would change history.” The submarine bumped into a paddleboat. “Oops,” Hercules said as he rushed back to the pilot’s seat and steered the sub around the paddleboat and its wide-eyed passengers.

  “Does this mean you’re giving up treasure hunting?” Homer asked. The question troubled him because he could never imagine making such a drastic decision. That would be like cutting out his heart.

  “Give it up? No way.” She flared her nostrils. “I can be a writer and a treasure hunter. I expect you to include me on your next quest. I mean, let’s face it, you need my help. Without me, your map would still be in Milkydale and Rumpold’s treasure would still be in that dragon’s neck. You may not always like the way I do things, Homer, but at least I do things.” She smiled. “I’m the yin to your yang.”

  Homer furrowed his brow. “The what to my what?”

  “Yin and yang are polar opposites,” Hercules explained as he pulled the submarine up to the lair’s gate. “Even though they are different, they complement each other. Even though they are opposites, they work together.”

  Homer slowly nodded. There was much truth to what Lorelei had said. She was a doer; he was a dreamer. She twisted the truth to get what she wanted; he preferred honesty. And without her stealing the map, he’d be back home, waiting to grow up. Waiting to set out on the quest.

  “Urrrr,” Dog complained, his legs up in the air, his white belly still waiting for its morning scratch. Homer obliged.

  “I promised to hold another press conference when I got back,” Lorelei said. “But don’t worry. I won’t tell the world about the maps. I will only tell them about the diary.” She pushed the button on her remote control, and the gate rose. Hercules drove them through the tunnel and into the lair’s pool. Soon, they were gathered on the deck, the captain’s chest at their feet, the treasure bundle in Homer’s arms.

  Lorelei stood frozen, her joyous mood gone as she stared into the lair. At first, Homer thought she was upset because Madame had made such a huge mess. But then, as tears pooled on her lower lids, she whispered, “Daisy.”

  Homer couldn’t imagine what it would feel like if he went home and Dog wasn’t at his side. No Dog sitting on his feet, keeping them warm while he ate breakfast. No Dog lounging beside him, chewing on straw while he milked the goats. No Dog hogging the bed, snoring and breathing dog breath all over his face. That would be very sad indeed. His gaze darted to the garbage can. Madame had dumped Daisy’s body into that can. He didn’t want Lorelei to look inside. Somehow, he and Hercules would move the can and—

  “Daisy!” Lorelei suddenly belted, the word echoing off the stone ceiling. She leaped from the deck and ran into the lair. “Daisy!” A gray rat scurried across the floor, then clawed its way up Lorelei’s jumpsuit. Lorelei hugged so hard that the rat squeaked. “Daisy, you’re alive. I love you. I missed you.”

  “But…” Homer stepped off the submarine. “Are you sure that’s Daisy? That rat looks skinny. Daisy had a big belly.”

  “Of course I’m sure.” Lorelei hugged the rat again. The rat climbed onto Lorelei’s shoulder and twitched its nose and whiskers. “But you’re right. She has lost weight.”

  Hercules stepped close and pointed. “I’m no doctor, but I think that rat is nursing,” he said. “Look at all those nipples.”

  “What?” Lorelei lifted the rat, revealing her underside. Sure enough, six nipples poked out from the rat’s belly. “Daisy? Are you a mommy?”

  “That would explain the weight loss,” Hercules said.

  Daisy wiggled out of Lorelei’s hands and scurried over to the vending machines. She climbed into the coin return bin. Homer, Hercules, and Lorelei gathered in front and watched as Daisy climbed into tray A3. There, in a nest of gum and candy-bar wrappers, lay five tiny, squirming pink things. Dog stood on his hind legs, trying to get a better view. “Oh, they’re sooooo cute,” Lorelei cooed.

  Homer and Hercules raised their eyebrows. Cute?

  “Hey!” Lorelei’s cooing turned angry, and she punched Homer’s shoulder. “You told me Daisy was dead. Why’d you do that? Were you trying to hurt me so I’d give up the quest?”

  “No. I wouldn’t do that. I wouldn’t lie to you about your rat dying. I really thought she was dead.” He rubbed the sore spot. Lorelei sure could throw a punch. “I saw Madame put a rat into that garbage can. I thought it was Daisy.”

  Lorelei narrowed her eyes in disbelief, so Homer walked over to the garbage can and opened the lid. “Oh, how sad,” she said as she looked inside. “That must be the daddy rat.”

  Hercules peered in. “That does look like Daisy. It was an honest mistake.” Then he plugged his nose and stepped away.

  Lorelei gently touched Homer’s shoulder. “I’m sorry I hit you. And I’m sorry I thought you’d lied to me. I’ll bury him out in the museum garden. Daisy would want her babies’ daddy to be buried in a nice place.” It wasn’t a fake apology. There was no wicked smile or snicker. Homer could tell that she meant it.

  “Yeah, okay,” he said. As he closed the lid, a buzzer sounded.

  “Who could that be?” Lorelei asked. Homer grabbed Dog, and he and Hercules stepped into the corner, so that whoever was calling wouldn’t be able to see them. Lorelei sat in her red throne and turned on the screen. “Hello?” she said. Torch’s image came into focus, her hawk balanced on her shoulder, chewing on a piece of fake map. Torch had a piece of fake map stuck to her cheek and another stuck to her fingers.

  “Oh, it’s you,” Torch said. “What’s going on? Where’s Madame?”

  “She’s not here,” Lorelei said sweetly. “She’s gone back to jail.”

 
“Jail?” Torch’s snake tattoo flinched. “Jail?”

  “That’s right,” Lorelei said, folding her hands on her lap. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  Torch picked the map piece from her face, but it stuck to her fingers. A glue stick fell out of her hair. “Something you can do for me? Yes, there’s something you can do for me!” Her face turned flaming red. “You can get over here and help me with this map, you little—” The hawk shrieked, leaped onto the table, and flew off with one of the pieces.

  “What did you say?” Lorelei asked, cupping a hand around her ear. “There’s some sort of problem with the connection.”

  “Get over here and help me put this map together!” Torch got so close to the camera, Homer could see that wobbly thing in the back of her throat.

  “That’s called a uvula,” Hercules whispered in Homer’s ear. “It looks inflamed. That’s what happens when you yell too much.”

  “Sorry,” Lorelei said, cupping a hand around the other ear. “I can’t hear you. I don’t know what you’re saying.”

  Torch’s face pulsed red. She pointed a glue stick at the camera and opened her mouth to shout something else, but Lorelei interrupted. “Uh-oh, you seem to be breaking up.” Lorelei made buzzing sounds as she spoke. “Too… bzzzz… much… bzzzz… interference. I’m… bzzzz… losing… bzzzz… you.” She pressed the button, and the screen went blank. Then she reached under the screen and unplugged it from the wall. She turned to look at the boys and broke into laughter. Homer laughed, too. So did Hercules. Dog, who didn’t laugh in the way of humans, but who appreciated joviality as much as any dog, turned in a circle and barked.

  Hercules laughed so hard he started coughing. After finding his first-aid kit, which was floating at the side of the pool, he helped himself to a lozenge. Then they all took drinks from the soda fountain. Homer held two cups under the green stream. Dog slurped the lime-flavored beverage, then whined for more.

  After the laughter and thirst had passed, Lorelei sat on the side of the fountain and yawned. “I haven’t slept in forever,” she said. “I’m really tired.”