“He’s too polite,” the duke fretted. “It’s not natural for a boy to be so polite.”
“Worry not,” the duchess said. “All things will change in him when he becomes a man.”
But what the Duchess of Estonia didn’t know, as she smiled at her vegetable-eating, homework-doing, authority-minding child, was that all things would change, but not in the way she expected.
For Rumpold Smeller would become known as the most fearsome pirate to sail the seven seas.
3
Secrets Beneath the Bed
Homer bolted up the porch steps.
“Where are you going?” Squeak asked.
“I gotta do something. Come on, Dog.” With Dog at his heels, Homer charged through the warm kitchen. The scent of baking cherry pies swirled in the air. “I need to wash up before the fair,” he announced, hoping this would keep his mother from assigning more chores.
“Don’t run in the house,” Mrs. Pudding called as she peered into the oven to check her pies’ progress.
If there was anything Dog hated, it was being left behind. If left behind, whether on purpose or by accident, he’d voice his discontent with the loudest howl anyone had ever heard. It was extra likely he’d get left behind if a staircase was involved. It took forever for him to haul his long body up a staircase. And carrying him was a Herculean feat. Homer had learned that if he needed to speed Dog’s progress, it was best to push Dog’s rump. So up the squeaky farmhouse stairs Homer pushed.
Once they’d stumbled into Homer’s bedroom, Homer shut the door. A boy with as many secrets as Homer Pudding should have kept a padlock on his bedroom door. Since that was not allowed in the Pudding household, he slid a chair under the knob, securing the door as best he could.
Maps covered every square inch of the bedroom’s walls and ceiling. All those colors and lines might have induced dizziness in someone not skilled in the art of map-reading. But Homer wished he had room for more.
Panting, Dog collapsed onto the carpet, his chin landing on a dirty sock. Homer settled next to him and reopened the letter. The paper was white and plain, with only those four words.
Your time has come.
The letter’s author had purposely kept the message vague. No details about where or when, who or how. Homer understood that this was necessary in case someone other than he had opened the letter. He’d have to interpret the message on his own. It could mean only one thing—that he was going to be given the chance to take his uncle’s place. And once he became an official member of L.O.S.T., he’d be a professional treasure hunter. But when, exactly, would this happen? In a few minutes? Tomorrow? Next week?
“My time has come,” he said. He wanted to stick his head out the window and shout those words to everyone. But he especially wanted to tell one person—his uncle Drake. His beloved uncle, with his scruffy mustache and can-do attitude, had understood Homer like no one else ever had.
“Treasure hunting’s in your blood,” Uncle Drake had often told him. “It’s in my blood, too.” But now he was gone, eaten by a mutant carnivorous tortoise, and it was Homer’s duty and honor to finish what his uncle had started—to find Rumpold Smeller’s treasure.
Homer reached under his bed, found the loose floorboard, and pried it off. Then he stuck his hand into the hole and pulled out a book. Dog raised his head and sniffed the air, his tail wagging. Dog had been the one to find the book—he’d been the one to smell the treasure hidden within.
The book, Rare Reptiles I Caught and Stuffed, was a rather tedious, scientific account of odd reptilian creatures from all over the world. Very few people would want to read such a book. That’s why Uncle Drake had hidden something very important within its pages.
Before his death, Drake Horatio Pudding had found the treasure map of Rumpold Smeller the pirate. He’d cut the map into precise pieces and had pasted those pieces throughout the reptile book. Homer was eager to assemble the pieces. But that would be dangerous because then it wouldn’t look like a boring old book, but a true treasure map—the most coveted map in the treasure-hunting community.
So for now, it remained hidden.
“HOMER!” Mr. Pudding hollered from the driveway. “Where are you?”
Homer shot to his knees and pushed open his bedroom window. “I’m right here,” he called, dreading what would follow because it would probably contain the word chore.
“It’s time to go.”
Already? Homer glanced at his Quality Solar-Powered Subatomic Watch. Noon in Milkydale. The Milkydale County Fair officially opened at one o’clock. Corn dogs, raspberry lemonade, and soft-serve ice cream in every imaginable flavor waited inside the fairgrounds fence. But what if, while he was at the fair, someone from L.O.S.T. came looking for him or sent another letter with instructions?
“Um, I think I’ll stay home,” he said. He’d never said that before. Mr. Pudding’s mouth fell open.
“Stay home? Have you lost your mind? No son of mine’s gonna miss the dog agility trials.”
“But, Dad, I’ve got some things to figure out.”
Mr. Pudding slid his cap onto his head. “You can figure them out later. It’s a family tradition to go to the fair.”
Homer knew there’d be no arguing with his father. When Mr. Pudding set his mind to something, there was usually no changing it.
Homer closed the reptile book and returned it to its hiding place beneath the bed. He didn’t want anyone to see his letter, so he stuck that under the floorboard, too. “Come on, Dog,” he called as he slid the chair away from the door.
Downstairs, Mrs. Pudding was putting her cherry pies into boxes. She wiped her hands on her apron and cast Homer a concerned glance. “Is that what you’re wearing to the fair?”
Homer shrugged. “I guess so.”
“Those jeans are getting too short. We’ll have to make a trip to Walker’s Department Store.” She kissed Homer’s forehead. “Now, please go and find your sister. Tell her we’re ready to leave.”
“Where is she?” he asked.
“In her laboratory.”
Homer frowned. As a soon-to-be professional treasure hunter, he knew he’d end up trekking through his fair share of unpleasant places—a cave full of vampire bats, a swamp full of leeches, an underground sewer full of rats. But his sister’s laboratory was one place he wished he’d never have to go.
“Do I have to?”
“Yes, you do.”
“But it’s disgusting out there.”
“Homer Winslow Pudding, go get your sister.”
4
Gwendolyn’s Laboratory
Gwendolyn Maybel Pudding was Homer’s fifteen-year-old sister, which made her the eldest Pudding child. While Homer, the middle child, loved to read maps, and Squeak, the youngest child, loved to help around the farm, Gwendolyn was crazy for taxidermy. She’d mastered the art of preserving dead animals when she took a summer correspondence course at age nine. Her dream was to become a Royal Taxidermist for the Museum of Natural History.
Taxidermy is not for the squeamish. After an animal dies, it begins to deteriorate, which causes a horrid stench. In order to preserve the creature, all its innards must be removed. The inside is cleaned, and the creature is stuffed. Its teeth, tongue, and nails are painted with lacquer. Its eyeballs are replaced with glass eyeballs. It’s a wonder anyone wants to do it.
A few years back, after Mr. Pudding opened the door to Gwendolyn’s bedroom and stepped in a pile of raccoon guts, he declared that she was forbidden to perform her artistic endeavors in the house. So she moved her tools and chemicals to the old shed and filled the shelves with her work. All of her subjects—field mice, squirrels, foxes, weasels, sparrows, and crows—had been caught by the barn cats or the farm dogs or had died from natural causes. Gwendolyn wasn’t a murderer—just a preserver.
GWENDOLYN’S LABORATORY: KEEP OUT OR BE STUFFED! the sign on the door read. Homer knocked and called her name. Maybe he wouldn’t have to go in. He knocked again. And agai
n. Then, with a steadying breath, he opened the door.
Gwendolyn stood at her workbench, up to her elbows in some sort of goo. Homer gagged, then plugged his nose. The sickly sweet scent of formaldehyde clotted the air. “Hey,” he said.
Dog pushed between Homer’s legs and stared up at Gwendolyn. Homer stared, too, because there was something very different about his sister. Her lips were as red as cherries and her eyelids were smeared with blue sparkles. And, beneath her lab coat, she wore a red paisley dress. “You’re not supposed to be in here,” she said.
“But—”
“You’re interrupting important work.” She stirred the goo. “I’m practicing for a real job. Not like you and those stupid holes you dig everywhere.”
“Treasure hunting’s a real job,” he said.
A low growl rose in Dog’s throat as his gaze traveled over the shelves. Homer suspected that the stuffed creatures confused Dog. After all, they looked alive. But any other dog would have smelled the difference.
“Why are you all dressed up?” Homer asked. “You never dress up for the fair.”
“I didn’t dress up for the stupid fair. For your information, Homer, I dressed up because I felt like dressing up.” After pouring green liquid into a beaker, she dropped in an eyeball. Then she whipped around and glared at Homer. “Why are you in my laboratory?”
The eyeball floated in the liquid like a marshmallow in green Jell-O. Homer cringed.
“Hello? Earth to Homer.”
“Uh, Mom wanted me to tell you that it’s time to go.”
“Why didn’t you say something?” She plunged her hands into the sink and scrubbed. “If we’re late, I’m gonna be soooo mad.” She tossed her lab coat onto a hook. Then, with long, huffy strides, she headed out the door. Homer unplugged his nose and shared a confused look with Dog. Predicting the weather was so much easier than predicting Gwendolyn’s moods—no clouds hung over her head to let you know when a storm was about to let loose.
With a final growl at a stuffed raccoon, Dog followed Homer out of the laboratory and into the front yard, where Mr. Pudding stood, his eyes widening as his daughter stomped past. “What did you do to your face?” Mr. Pudding asked.
Gwendolyn groaned and slid into the truck’s backseat. Mrs. Pudding set the pie boxes on the floor of the front seat, then turned to her husband. “Don’t tease her,” she said.
“Tease her? I’m not teasing her.” Mr. Pudding rubbed the back of his neck. “I just want to know what she did to her face.”
“She has a date,” Mrs. Pudding said as she climbed into the front seat.
Mr. Pudding grabbed his chest as if he were having a heart attack. “A date?”
Squeak stood in the truck’s bed. “Come on, Max, come on, Lulu,” he called. Max and Lulu dashed up the wooden ramp that had been set up for them. They settled in the truck’s bed, their tails happily wagging, their freshly shampooed coats shiny and smooth.
“Date,” Mr. Pudding mumbled as he grabbed the ramp.
“Hey, Dad, what about Dog?” Homer asked.
Mr. Pudding frowned. “What about him?”
“He needs the ramp, too. I can’t lift him.”
“You want to take your dog to the fair?” Mr. Pudding asked.
“I can’t leave him here alone. He’ll howl. And what if he eats something he’s not supposed to eat?”
“That’s true, dear,” Mrs. Pudding called from the front seat. “That dog will make a ruckus if we leave him alone. And he could get into serious trouble by eating something indigestible. Let him come. Homer will look after him.”
“Fine.” As Mr. Pudding set the plank back in place, he grumbled about Dog not being like the other farm dogs. Homer led Dog to the end of the ramp, then gave his rump a push. While Max and Lulu had mastered the ramp with grace and ease, Dog struggled and wobbled, then slid backward.
“Homer!” Gwendolyn cried, her face pressed against the truck’s back window. “Hurry up. We’re gonna be late!”
Homer pushed again and again, until finally, Dog stumbled into the truck’s bed. Homer joined him. Max sniffed Dog while Lulu licked Dog’s long nose. Dog didn’t sniff back. Homer wondered if this was considered rude in the canine world, like a person refusing to shake another person’s hand. Maybe that was why the farm dogs never hung out with Dog.
Mr. Pudding drove the red truck down the Puddings’ driveway. The Pudding farmhouse grew smaller as the truck turned onto Grinning Goat Road. Soon, Homer’s bedroom window was just a speck.
Homer ran his hand over one of Dog’s long ears. It wasn’t easy having to watch Dog all the time. Sometimes it frustrated Homer, no doubt about it. It would be nice to simply open the kitchen door and send Dog out into the yard to do his business. To know that he wouldn’t eat anything poisonous and that he wouldn’t get lost because he’d wandered off and couldn’t track his way back home.
But Dog wasn’t the most difficult dog in the world. And so what if he wasn’t like the farm dogs? So what if his hair wasn’t glossy and it didn’t ripple when the wind blew through it? So what if he didn’t have long athletic legs or the instinct to herd? And so what if he didn’t smell like shampoo from the groomer’s salon but instead smelled exactly like a basset hound, which was kind of like a rancid corn chip? Dog could do something that no other dog in the world could do. Homer smiled as the secret tickled his insides.
“Homer, what’s a date?” Squeak said.
“It’s when a boy and girl go somewhere together ’cause they like each other,” Homer told his little brother.
“Oh.” Squeak buried his face in Max’s fur. “That’s weird.”
“Yeah. Really weird.”
Homer reached into his shirt and pulled out a fake Galileo Compass that he wore on a leather cord around his neck. The compass had been a gift from a girl named Lorelei, sent to him just a few weeks ago. She wasn’t his girlfriend, not in that way. But she was his friend—a fellow adventurer who lived beneath the Museum of Natural History in her own secret lair. He’d met her when he’d traveled to The City three months ago to solve the mystery of the gold L.O.S.T. coin. She’d been nice to him, but then she’d deceived him by kidnapping Dog. In the end they’d saved each other from the evil Madame la Directeur and her mutant carnivorous tortoise and had parted as friends. He’d promised to keep the secret of her lair and she’d promised to keep the secret of his treasure-smelling dog.
Homer imagined her smiling face, her bold pink hair, and the way she clomped around in her sneakers. He wanted to write her a letter, but how do you send a letter to a secret lair?
Someday they’d meet again. He hoped. And when they did meet, he’d be an official member of the secret Society of Legends, Objects, Secrets, and Treasures. A professional treasure hunter.
“We’re going to the fair,” Squeak said, sticking his face into the wind.
Homer tucked the compass back into his shirt and smiled.
5
Opening Day of the Milkydale County Fair
Mr. Pudding drove into the muddy, pothole-covered parking lot just outside the fairgrounds. Trucks of all sizes and colors filled the lot. Everyone in Milkydale had come for the opening ceremony, as had families from the nearby towns of Plumtree and Turkeyville, and from as far away as the coastal village of Sunny Cove. Some families had arrived in motor homes, while others had set up tents. The fair would run all week, and many families would stay for the duration.
Kids screamed with glee as they ran toward the gates. Even their parents smiled giddily. The fair was usually the most exciting thing to happen in Milkydale. With no shopping mall or bowling alley, with only a single-screen movie theater and a one-room schoolhouse, the village tended to be a quiet, low-key kind of place. Sure, people got worked up when the baby goats were born and when the frogs hatched in Frog Egg Pond, but other than when the library burned to the ground three months ago, most Milkydale days could be described in one word—ho-hum.
“I need to deliver my pies to t
he pie booth,” Mrs. Pudding said as the family scrambled out of the truck. She handed Gwendolyn a ten-dollar bill. “I’d like you to take Squeak to the gunnysack slide.”
“The gunnysack slide!” Squeak hollered, just about keeling over from anticipation. Last year he hadn’t been tall enough to ride the monstrous slide, but the latest pencil line on his growth chart revealed he’d finally passed the three-foot mark.
“Me?” Gwendolyn stomped her foot. “Why can’t Homer do it?”
“Gwendolyn Maybel Pudding, don’t argue with me. Homer has enough on his hands watching that dog of his. I need you to watch your little brother until the pie contest is over. I’m sure your friend won’t mind.” Mrs. Pudding checked her reflection in the truck’s window. She fluffed her curly hair, then turned back to her daughter. “I’m relying on you, Gwendolyn. I don’t want Squeak shooting off the end of the slide and bumping his head.”
“The gunnysack slide!” Squeak hollered again, dancing right through a puddle. “I’m finally tall enough,” he informed another boy who was hurrying past with his parents. The boys shared an ecstatic giggle.
“Whatever,” Gwendolyn said through clenched teeth. “But as soon as the pie contest is over, I’m doing my own thing.” She took Squeak’s hand and pulled him toward the gates.
Mrs. Pudding handed Homer a ten-dollar bill. “You have some fun before the dog trials begin.” She kissed his cheek. Then, boxes in hand, she hurried away, the ruffle on her denim skirt swishing. Homer tucked the bill into his jean pocket, imagining the colossal corn dog he’d buy.
“Good luck,” Mr. Pudding called to his wife. Then he opened the truck’s tailgate and set the ramp into place. Max and Lulu sniffed the air. The rich scents of popcorn and cotton candy mixed with the pungent scents of horses and cows. The dogs’ tails wagged eagerly. “They know why they’re here,” Mr. Pudding said. “They can’t wait for the dog trials.”