Fish Finelli Book 1: Seagulls Don't Eat Pickles (12 page)

“Fish, maybe we should come back another day,” said Roger. He scratched a mosquito bite on his elbow.

“You could leave the map with a note,” suggested T. J. “You know, like when your mom writes the teacher a note because your sister ate your homework or something.”

“No kidding!” said Roger. “Mmm ate your homework?”

T. J. nodded. “It was a whole page of double-digit equations and everything. Mickey dared her.”

“I’d like a plate of multiplication with mustard, hold the subtraction, please,” joked Roger.

I whistled. I guess T. J. is not the only Mahoney who will eat anything.

“Leaving the map with a note isn’t a bad idea,” said Roger.

“I can’t just leave the map,” I said. “It’s a valuable document. It could be blown away or lost or stolen.”

“Stolen by who?” said Roger. “The flock of wild turkeys up in that tree? Gobble! Gobble! Gobble!”

T. J. laughed so hard, red fireball juice rolled down his chin.

Roger had a point. We couldn’t wait all day. And there was the small problem of the leak in the kayak. We would have to plug it up if we wanted to get home at all.

“While we’re waiting, we might as well fix the kayak,” I said.

“With what?” said T. J. “I’ve got more fireballs because I bought the jumbo pack, but no more gum.”

I frowned. We still had the old gum, but it was no good without something to actually fill the crack.

“What about we make a giant wad of spitballs?” joked Roger. “Or tie our shoelaces together, or—”

“That’s it. Shoelaces!”

“Fish, I was kidding,” said Roger. “Not even a great dodo brain like yours can come up with a way to fix a leaking boat with shoelaces. That’s just crazy!”

“As a matter of fact, early shipbuilders used twine to fill spaces and holes in the wood. Shoelaces might work, unless we find some real twine. Of course, if we want it to hold, we’ll need a hammer to hammer it in. Then we can use the ABC gum to seal the twine, or shoelaces, in place.”

EARLY SHIPBUILDING

On Viking ships, the planks were sealed with grass or animal hair. On early American ships, the planks were sometimes sealed with twine.

“The Great Dodo Brain strikes again,” said Roger.

“There’s got to be a shed somewhere,” I said. “You know, to keep all the gardening equipment and stuff.”

The three of us headed around the back of the house. We passed the gardens, the koi pond, a gazebo, and a swimming pool. There was a five-car garage, but it was locked. We walked what felt like a mile till we got to where the lawn ended. There was a pond, and beyond that, a bunch of pine trees. Right by the edge of the trees was a shed. We ran over and Roger knocked on the door. There was no answer. All we could hear were some crows cawing.

Roger turned the knob. “We’re in, men!” He walked into the shed.

“Guys,” said T. J., squirming. “I have to . . . um . . . you know . . .”

Roger and I looked at each other and raised our eyebrows.

“You know!” T. J. danced back and forth.

“Just go out to the woods, T. J.,” I said, my eyes scanning the wall of tools for a hammer.

“Where?”

“Anywhere you want. It’s not like there’s anybody around.”

There really wasn’t anybody around. The caretaker must have been in town to get supplies. Now that I thought about it, that explained why the boat wasn’t at the dock. And the rest of the staff seemed to be gone, too. They must have had the day off or something.

“Watch out for the lion,” joked Roger.

T. J. turned back from the door.

“No worries, T. J.,” I said. “He’s just kidding. I told you Lyons Island is not a lion’s natural habitat. Therefore you cannot be in danger from one unless it escaped from a circus, which is highly unlikely since it would have to swim all the way across the bay, and lions do not like to swim.”

“But alligators do,” said Roger. He jumped on top of a ride-on mower and gnashed his teeth and made roaring sounds.

“Don’t listen to him,” I told T. J. “Just go.”

T. J. left, but he still looked uneasy.

“Check it out, Fish!” Roger bounced up and down on the seat of the mower. “It even has a cup holder. You could drink and mow at the same time. How cool is that?”

I didn’t answer. I was busy looking for a hammer. I found one in an old toolbox under the workbench. Next, I went hunting for some rope.

“T. J.’s been gone a while,” Roger said.

“I guess.” I was busy looking through a drawer of empty plant containers. “Help me find some rope, will you?”

“Why didn’t you tell me you needed rope? I was just making a lasso to rope that wild bull over there.” Roger twirled a circle of rope over his head and aimed it at the wheelbarrow behind me. He missed.

“Will you quit fooling around—” I started to say, as Roger aimed the rope again. This time it landed around my shoulders.

“Olé!” Roger yelled. “Yippee! Yahoo!”

“Get that off me!” I yanked at the lasso. “Olé is for bullfighting, dude, not roping bulls. Now, we just have to cut off a length of rope and—”

Suddenly we heard a scream. We ran outside. The screaming got louder.

“T. J.!”

The screaming seemed to be coming from the grove of pine trees just past the shed. We hurried through the trees. But he wasn’t there. And the screaming had stopped.

We looked at each other, listening hard. Suddenly, it started up again, faint but unmistakable.

“That way!” I pointed to a forest of gum trees.

We dashed through the trees. Something swooped through the dim understory of the forest. But there was no sign of T. J.

“T. J.!”

Our voices echoed through the trees.

“T. J.!!!”

There was a muffled shout. It was coming from somewhere ahead of us. Green moss hung like curtains from the branches. It took us a few minutes to push our way through. When we got to the other side, there was T. J. Gray and white goop dripped down his face.

“What happened to you?”

“This gigantic monster bird, like one of those dinosaur birds, came after me,” said T. J. “I ran, and the next thing I knew it bombed me with this stuff.”

“Where did this monster bird go?”

“That way!” T. J. pointed off into the trees.

Roger headed for the trees. I handed T. J. some leaves to clean himself up.

“T. J., that was no pterodactyl,” I said, trying not to laugh. “It was an osprey and you got pooped, is all. There must be a nest around and it was just protecting its territory.”

“All I see is flowers and a big blue rock,” Roger called back to us. “No monster bird, dude.”

Blue Rock?
I thought. Why did that sound so familiar? I had heard that name before.
Blue Rock.
And then it hit me. I had not heard it. I had
read
it.

“No way!” My heart beat faster.

“No way what?” asked Roger. “You’re surprised there is no monster bird?!”

I ran through the break in the trees. In the middle of a field of wild flowers was a blue-gray sandstone boulder.

“That’s it!” I said, pointing at the boulder. “It’s the first marker!”

“Huh?”

“Blue Rock is one of the markers on the map,” I explained. “It’s right near where the treasure is buried.”

“Whoa!” said T. J.

“Not whoa!” said Roger. “Don’t you mean, yo-ho-ho?!”

Fifteen Fireballs on a Dead Man's Chest

I took out the map. The X was near a stream that ran almost the length of the island. I looked around the clearing. The stream was just across the field from us.
Bingo!

So, the next question was, which direction was the X from the stream and Blue Rock? The map key didn’t have NORTH at the top like usual. Instead, it was to the right, where EAST is supposed to be. Weird. Captain Kidd sure was tricky. If the key was correct, that meant the X was northwest of Blue Rock.

“So, are we ready to dig up the treasure?” asked Roger.

He and T. J. crowded around me to get a look at the map.

“Not yet.” I frowned.

“Is it because you feel bad again about how you kind of stole the map?” said Roger.

“No!”

“Is it because you’re afraid you can’t? Don’t be afraid! Look that fear in the eye, Fish. Tell it to make like a banana and split!”

Roger is always saying stuff like that. He gets these crazy ideas from the “find your inner power” CDs Mrs. H. likes to listen to. She says they help her sell houses.

“No! I’m not afraid of anything,” I snapped. “It’s just that there should be a third point.” I jabbed my finger at the map. “See, the X where the treasure is buried is a certain distance and direction from the stream—or actually from the footbridge across the stream—the Blue Rock, and there should be one more marker.”

“You mean like that tree,” said Roger. He pointed to a small tree on the map that was east of Blue Rock.

I couldn’t believe I had missed it. “Yes!” I looked at the map’s legend. “According to this, it’s a small white oak. So all we have to do is find it and then we’ll know where the treasure is buried.”

We looked around the clearing. There were lots of trees, but there was no small white oak.

“The only oak tree I see is that giant one over there.” I sighed. “And that hasn’t been a small tree for a long, long time.”

“That’s it!” yelled Roger. “When was this map made? Like, over three hundred years ago. So, a small oak tree would now be—”

“A big one!” We all high-fived.

“Okay, guys, we’re ready to call the paces.”

I pulled out my compass. “T. J., go stand at Blue Rock. Roger, you go over to the oak tree.”

Roger raced to the tree, while T. J. munched his way over to the rock.

I checked the map and then ran over to the oak tree. “Okay, Roger, walk fifty-four paces southwest.” I checked my compass and pointed him in the right direction. It seemed to take forever to count 54 steps, but finally he was standing in front of a clump of pricker bushes. I sure hoped the treasure wasn’t buried under them.

“T. J., you have to go twenty-six paces northwest.”

I raced over to T. J. with the compass. We walked the paces and wound up a few feet away from Roger and the pricker bushes. I dashed over to the crumbling stone bridge. I carefully walked twenty paces east toward T. J. and the rock. Then I walked thirty paces north.

The three of us stood looking at one another. There was an awful big space between us where the X was supposed to be.

“That’s gonna be a whole lot of digging,” said Roger.

I frowned. “The map is so detailed, the space should be way smaller.”

“We did everything you said, Fish,” said T. J., sucking on another fireball. “We walked all the paces, right?”

“Just like pirates,” added Roger. “Ahoy, mateys, and heave-ho, and yo—”

“That’s it!” I said. “Captain Kidd had longer legs than we do!”

So we walked the paces all over again, this time taking giant steps. When we were finished, the X where the treasure was buried was much smaller.

“X marks the spot!” I put down the backpack. “Now we just need some shovels and we can start digging!”

T. J. stayed to mark the spot. Roger and I hurried back to the shed. When we got there, we stopped to catch our breath. We stared up at the house. All quiet.

I thought I saw a light for a second at the top by the widow’s walk. I was about to point it out to Roger, but when I looked again, it was gone.

“Dude, what are you waiting for?” said Roger, pushing open the shed door.

We grabbed some shovels we found stacked up against one wall, along with an ice pick in case we hit rock, then raced back. T. J. was just where we had left him, still eating fireballs. I tossed him a shovel and the three of us got to work.

The ground was really hard. We had to keep using the pick to get rocks out of the way. It felt like hours had passed but we kept on digging. My arms started aching. I was hot, sweaty, and tired. I sure hoped the treasure wasn’t buried much deeper.

“Sure you don’t want a fireball?” T. J. asked for about the millionth time. He popped another one in his mouth.

“I don’t know how you can eat those things,” I said, wondering how deep we had gone. I figured about four feet.

“Yeah, dude, they can burn a hole right through your intestines and out your stomach,” said Roger. “No joke.”