“Why?”
“Because I suspect that her values are not the same as ours. That is why we must present you in the very best light.” She handed Homer the goggles. “You must have proper attire.”
“Attire?” Homer cringed. “You mean clothes?”
“Exactly. We’re going shopping.”
If there was one thing Homer hated, it was shopping for clothes. For what seemed like hours, he’d stand in that dressing room in his underwear while his mother flung a constant stream of stuff over the top of the door. “Try this on, sweetie. It’s such a good color on you,” she’d say. Or, “Here’s a packet of one hundred percent cotton briefs, so you won’t get that rash again.”
To Homer, who was not the least bit interested in style, one pair of jeans was just as good as another pair of jeans. Trying on clothing was so boring that one time he managed to sneak a book into the dressing room. He sat on the floor and read, pretending to try on the clothes. The next day, when he came downstairs in a new shirt that wouldn’t even button around his stomach, and a pair of jeans that was two inches too short, his mother figured it out and banned books from the dressing room.
But Homer’s dislike of clothes shopping went beyond the boredom factor. You see, Homer had a body type that did not fit into standard sizes, so he had to shop in the Husky Boys’ section at Walker’s Department Store. The word HUSKY hung above the department in big red letters, and even though his mother thought it was a nice word, everyone knew what it really meant—FAT, FATSO, FATOSAURUS.
“I’ve got enough clothes,” Homer said.
Zelda looked at his blue jeans and plaid shirt and shook her head. “Unfortunately, many people judge others by their appearance. And right now you are dressed like a farm boy and not like a professional treasure hunter.”
Homer raised his eyebrows. “I’m going to get professional treasure-hunting clothing?”
“Of course.”
“But I don’t have money,” he said.
Zelda pressed her fingers together again. “It is my gift to you, Homer. Now, how can we do this without worrying your parents? You are supposed to be walking home, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“How long does it take you to walk home from here?”
Homer shrugged. “An hour. Maybe two if I stop and rest a lot.”
“And where will your parents be while you are walking home?”
“They’re staying at the fair. Mom said they’d be home at suppertime.”
“Then I see no problem,” Zelda said, reaching into the ’copter to grab a smaller pair of goggles. She knelt and placed the goggles over Dog’s eyes. He dropped his stick and shook his head, trying to loosen the goggles. “Walker’s Department Store is a quick trip by ’copter. I shall have you home in two hours. Your parents will be none the wiser.”
Mr. Pudding’s disappointed face flashed before Homer’s eyes. Perhaps it wasn’t the best day for Homer to disobey his parents. He’d embarrassed them at the fair and Dog’s escapade would cost Mr. Pudding a small fortune. But becoming a member of L.O.S.T. was the opportunity of a lifetime. The members of the Society would help him in his search for Rumpold Smeller’s treasure. And with their help he’d be successful—of this he was certain. He’d finish what his uncle had started.
“Homer?” Zelda waited for his decision.
Homer chewed on his lower lip. Though his mother had told him to walk home, she hadn’t specified that he couldn’t run a quick errand along the way. And she hadn’t said that he couldn’t catch a ride with a friend.
Furthermore, it is a fact that a professional treasure hunter does not require his mother’s permission to run an errand.
Homer slid the goggles over his head. “Let’s go!”
They took their places in the ’copter. With Dog draped over Homer’s lap, and seat belts securely fastened, Zelda set cloud cover to maximum. A dense fog quickly formed. As the ’copter rose above the trees, Homer’s stomach clenched. Though he’d ridden on a cloudcopter before, it always took a while for him to get used to the movement. He gripped the edge of the seat as Zelda took a steep turn. Dog whimpered as the ’copter tilted. He tucked his nose inside Homer’s sleeve. “It’s okay,” Homer told him.
“Urrrr.”
A few moments later, the ’copter leveled and they were on their way.
The sounds of the fair faded as Zelda, Homer, and Dog flew over Milkydale. They followed Grinning Goat Road, traveled over the Crescent farm, then the Pudding farm. Higher they rose until the goats in the pasture looked like goat droppings. The air grew cold and, as the cloud cover took hold, the world turned white. Anyone looking up would have seen a pretty little white cloud making its way across the sky, as if it had someplace to go.
“How have you been, Homer?”
“Kind of bored,” he said.
“Yes. I can imagine. It’s difficult to go back to an ordinary life when you’ve discovered that there’s this huge adventure waiting for you.”
“Yes,” Homer said, scooting forward in the seat. “That’s exactly how I feel.” He stroked Dog’s back. “What about you? How have you been?”
“Sad, mostly.”
“Um, last time I saw you, you were going to…” He wasn’t sure what to say, exactly.
“I was going to be reunited with the man I loved,” she said. “And that’s exactly what I did. But, you see, Homer, my situation is similar to yours. How can I accept an ordinary life, living in The City? Once you’ve got adventure in your life, it’s like an incurable infection.”
Just as Homer knew, they were kindred souls.
“Hey, Zelda,” Homer said. Her black cloak and silver hair were barely visible through the thick cloud that filled the ’copter’s interior. “Who doesn’t want me to join L.O.S.T.?”
She didn’t answer right away. Homer stroked Dog’s ear and stared into the whiteness, waiting for reassurance. “Let’s not worry about that right now,” Zelda said. “In each day there are countless things to worry about. I find that it’s best to focus on one worry at a time. Today we must focus on getting you some appropriate clothing.”
Homer rested his head against the back of the seat. “Will I have to take a test or anything like that when I go to the meeting? I’m not very good at taking tests.”
“I suspect there will be a lot of questions for you, Homer. They might ask you about the quest you wish to undertake. You should know as much about your quest as possible.”
“I already know a lot about Rumpold Smeller. I’ve got a copy of his biography.”
“I suggest you reread it,” she said. “You should know everything about him.” She reached through the cloud and patted Homer’s knee. “But don’t mention the map. Not yet. Keep it a secret. Keep it hidden.”
“Okay.”
A mere half hour later they reached the town of Plumtree. Zelda parked the ’copter behind the Plumtree Modern Art Museum. Homer helped Dog out of the ’copter, then tossed their flight goggles onto the seat. As they walked away, an elderly couple stopped to look at the ’copter. “I’ll never understand this newfangled modern art,” the old man said. “What ever happened to good old-fashioned paintings of flowers and fruit?”
Having been to Walker’s Department Store countless times, Homer led the way, with Dog following on the end of his leash. Plumtree was a large town, but not quite a city, for it lacked skyscrapers and pigeon poop. A river snaked through the center of town, crisscrossed by a series of pedestrian bridges. On a street of outdoor cafés, townsfolk looked up from their newspapers and cups of coffee, their jaws dropping as Zelda passed by. Dog stopped to piddle thirteen times.
Walker’s Department Store stood two floors tall and was painted bright yellow. “What am I going to do with Dog?” Homer asked. “He’ll howl if I leave him outside.”
Zelda took the leash from Homer’s hand. “Do not fret. I know what to do.”
As they walked up to the store’s entry, Zelda’s shadow fell over a
uniformed doorman, who looked up and gasped. Then he froze, forgetting all about his job.
Zelda motioned for Homer to open the door, which he did. Bending so she could fit, she and Dog walked right in. Still frozen in bewilderment, the doorman never once looked at the ground, so he never noticed Dog.
No one inside the store noticed Dog, either. Not the perfume girls, or the makeup counter girls, or any of the customers. Time stood still in Walker’s Department Store as each and every person tilted his or her neck and gazed upward.
Homer stepped onto the escalator. “Where are you going?” Zelda asked.
“To the Husky Boys’ department,” he said quietly. “That’s where I get my clothes.”
“But we are not going to the Husky Boys’ department,” she said as she walked past the escalator, Dog waddling behind.
Homer ran up the escalator, then down the other side. “Where are we going?” he asked when he’d caught up.
“We are going to visit my tailor.”
Dog’s nails clicked against the polished marble floor, but still no one noticed him. Zelda’s black cape swished as she wound around displays of purses and fancy gloves. Homer didn’t have to worry about any of the sales staff recognizing him. He might as well have been invisible.
He followed Zelda and Dog through the ladies’ underwear department, through the men’s shoe department, to a hallway with a sign: CHANGING ROOMS. They walked down the hallway to the very last changing room. Zelda pulled a silver key from her cape’s pocket and, after inserting the key into the lock, opened the changing-room door. After they’d all squeezed inside, Zelda closed the door. She had to crouch to fit. Dog pressed against Homer’s leg.
This was very odd. Surely she’d leave so he could try on the clothes. “What are we—?”
“Hang on,” she said, grabbing his hand.
Homer’s stomach shot into his throat as the floor gave way.
9
The Treasure Hunter’s Tailor
Homer and Dog sat in the middle of a large feather pillow, looking equally bewildered. Homer’s bangs hung over his eyes and his mouth was wide open in a silent scream. One of Dog’s ears was flipped inside out and his leash was draped over his nose. They both took shallow, desperate breaths as if they’d had the wind knocked out of them.
We just fell through the ceiling, Homer realized.
A white feather floated past Homer’s face. He closed his mouth and looked at the ceiling. The hole through which they’d fallen had already closed. Dog moaned, then stuck his nose in Homer’s sleeve. Homer, whose heart pounded in his ears, gave Dog a reassuring pat.
The room was large but cluttered. A pair of dressmaker’s dummies stood in the corner. A sewing machine, surrounded by industrial-size spools of thread, sat on a long table. Rolls of fabric lay everywhere. Clothes in varying shades of tan and green hung on racks.
Homer scooted to the edge of the pillow. His legs wobbled a bit as he stood, but they steadied as the fright wore off. He’d never plummeted through a floor before. There’d been that one time when he’d tried to climb a cherry tree to snatch a bird’s nest for Squeak and he’d tumbled off the branch. Both falls had left him with the same breathless feeling.
“Urrrr.” Dog slid off the pillow and squeezed between Homer’s shins.
Zelda, who’d recovered immediately, probably because there’d been less distance for her to plummet, stood in the center of the room talking to a man in a tweed suit. The man’s dark blue cravat spilled from his neck like a waterfall. “I’ve got to get him home in an hour’s time,” she said.
“An hour’s time?” the man said, throwing his hands in the air. “You expect me to work miracles. You ask too much.” In a huffy manner, reminiscent of Gwendolyn, the man folded his arms and turned his back to Zelda.
“I may ask too much,” Zelda said, her husky voice calm and steady. “But there is no one else who could do this work. You are the best, Victor. No one matches your skill. And we need the best.”
Victor tapped his brown shoe that shone like polished chocolate. “Well, I am the best.”
“The very best,” Zelda said.
“That is certainly true,” Victor said, examining his fingernails. “But you are not my only client. My schedule is quite full.”
“Perhaps this would persuade you.” Zelda reached into her black purse and pulled out a wad of cash—even bigger than the wad Homer’s father carried at the annual goat auction. “Double the usual fee.”
Victor spun on his heels and grabbed the cash. Then his pencil-thin eyebrows flew to the top of his forehead. “I accept the challenge. I assume this is the boy.”
Homer shuffled self-consciously as Victor curled his upper lip and stared at him. He tried not to stare back, but it was hard to ignore the tailor’s weird hair. Jet-black and parted down the middle, it ended at his shoulders in a perfectly upturned swoop.
“Yes,” Zelda said. “This is Homer Pudding, Drake’s nephew. Homer, I’d like you to meet Victor Tuffletop. Victor is the official tailor for L.O.S.T.”
“Hi,” Homer said.
“He’s not built anything like his uncle,” Victor mumbled. “Whose dog is this?”
“Mine,” Homer said.
Victor curled his lip again. “I suppose he’ll be accompanying you on your quests?”
“Uh, yes,” Homer said. “Definitely.”
“Then I’ll have to take his measurements, too.” He grabbed a yellow measuring tape. “Take off your shoes.” While Homer untied his shoes, Victor tugged on Zelda’s cape. “Look at this. One of my masterpieces and look how you’ve treated it. The hem is frayed and there’s a discoloration on the shoulder. Did you throw this into the dryer?” His voice swelled to a screech. “The dryer?”
Zelda grimaced guiltily.
Victor threw his hands in the air again. When he did, his hair slid to the right, including the perfect part down the middle. “You have no idea what I go through to create your garments. No one else on the planet works with this fabric.” He ruffled her cape. “This is one-of-a-kind, all-weather fabric handspun from shed cobra skin. You can’t buy fabric like this. And you threw it into the dryer?”
Zelda opened her mouth, but Victor silenced her with a wave of his hand. “No use giving me your excuses. You all mistreat your garments. Boris was in here last week to patch up his jumpsuit. He wore it in a swamp and was attacked by leeches. Leeches! It says right on the label, ‘Not Swamp Compatible.’ Disrespect the label and you disrespect me.” As he spat out the last statement, his hair tilted further. He marched over to a full-length mirror. Noticing his tilted hair, he set it back into place with a quick yank. Then he motioned for Homer to join him.
Homer looked worriedly at Zelda, but she nodded at him. With Dog at his heels, Homer approached the mirror.
Victor Tuffletop wrapped a tape measure around Homer’s neck. “Hold still,” he said. The measuring proceeded, Victor’s pudgy hands flying here and there, writing each measurement in a notebook. “Fair-skinned. I think an extra-wide hat brim is suitable.” More measuring. “Broad-shouldered. I’ll add extra stretch to the fabric.” He wrote that down. Then he measured again. “Do you always wear your pants so short?”
“Uh, no,” Homer said. “I grew.”
“I see. Still growing,” he said, writing in his notebook. “I’ll have to include an extra hem allowance.” Then he tossed the tape onto a table. “What is your specialty?” he asked.
Homer wasn’t sure how to answer that. He looked to Zelda for help. “Homer is a mapmaker,” Zelda said.
“Indeed?” Victor Tuffletop tapped his chin with the end of his pen. “Not too many mapmakers left. It’s a dying skill, much like tailoring.”
Homer wasn’t surprised to hear that. He’d never met any other kids who liked maps.
Zelda sat on a leather sofa. It creaked beneath her weight. “This is a momentous occasion, Homer. Your first fitting,” she said, tears glistening in her eyes. “Your uncle would be so proud. H
e should have been the one to bring you here.” She reached into her black handbag and took out a handkerchief.
“He’s a bit young for membership,” Victor said.
“The youngest yet.” Zelda dabbed her eyes. “But he’s inherited Drake’s chair. This will be his first meeting, so he must look professional when he stands before the membership.”
“Of course he’ll look professional,” Victor said. “I am incapable of producing anything less.” He tapped his pen against the notebook. “What about the dog? What is his specialty?”
Homer didn’t know what to say about that, either. He wasn’t about to tell the tailor that Dog could smell treasure. “He doesn’t have a specialty. He’s just my friend.”
Victor looked down at Dog. “Will he be carrying equipment? Will he be tracking? Will he be guarding the camp?”
“Uh, not really,” Homer said.
Victor narrowed his eyes. “Surely he serves some purpose. No treasure hunter takes an animal on a quest unless that animal serves a purpose.”
“Really?” Homer looked over at Zelda again.
“I’m sure that Dog could carry a few supplies,” Zelda said. She ran her hands over a roll of fabric that lay on the couch. “This is lovely, Victor. What is it?”
“Gossamer gauze. It’s made from silk and moth wings. I’m producing a new line of weightless long underwear.” He slid the measuring tape around Dog’s fat belly. Then he closed his notebook. “I have everything I need. The garments will be ready tomorrow. I expect you’d like them delivered?”
“Yes. To my house,” Zelda said.
“Very well.” He grabbed a roll of khaki-colored material from a shelf. “Sorry to hear about your uncle. He didn’t take care of his clothes any better than the rest of them, but he was a good man. I always enjoyed creating his garments.”