The red-haired man’s hands whipped here and there as he measured, wrote, erased, then measured and wrote some more. Chalk dust choked the air. When he’d covered one spot of the table with letters and numbers, he moved to another spot. Soon he was running back and forth between scribblings, muttering all the while. “Got tae determine the celestial sphere.” Mutter, mutter. “Radius AC for the plumb line.” Mutter, mutter. “Determine the zenith, then A equals the mathematical horizon of the observer.” Mutter, mutter. “PN corresponds tae the celestial north pole.” And he kept up the mumblings as he scribbled, until the entire table was covered with equations. “Add in the Greenwich hour angle.” Mutter, mutter.
Homer understood that last bit. “The Royal Observatory is in Greenwich, England,” he told Lorelei and Hercules. “It’s the official prime meridian of the world. That means that for the lines of longitude that run from one pole to the other pole, Greenwich is considered to be zero degrees.” It was a basic fact that every modern mapmaker knew.
“I know that,” Lorelei said, crossing her eyes. “My head feels like it’s going to explode. How much longer?” she called out to the man, who now stood at the far end of the table.
“Patience, lassie.”
An hour passed. Then another and another and another. Homer looked at his Quality Solar-Powered Subatomic Watch. The dials whirled and spun. It was 9:00 p.m. in Seattle and 8:00 a.m. in St. Petersburg, while midnight had come to The City. Homer’s legs had gone numb thanks to sitting on that stool, but he thought it would be rude to stretch out on the floor and nap while the man was working so diligently. Lorelei didn’t seem to care. She’d fallen asleep a few hours back, her head resting on her arms. Hercules was also asleep at the table.
Homer’s stomach growled again and again. So did Dog’s. He thought about asking the man if there was anything to eat. Maybe the building had a vending machine? He was about to say something when the man started knocking a piece of chalk against his forehead, deep in thought. Best to wait. Rumpold’s treasure was far more important than the ache in Homer’s stomach—and what a treasure it would be.
Because Homer had read The Biography of Rumpold Smeller at least a dozen times, he felt he knew as much about the pirate as anyone did. Rumpold had been born to a duke a long time ago in the old country of Estonia. Those were the days when the world was only half explored and the blank areas on maps were filled with drawings of sea serpents and monsters. Adventure awaited anyone brave enough to set sail.
And set sail was exactly what Rumpold did. With money he “borrowed” from his father, he bought a three-masted schooner and a crew and headed for ports unknown. And soon after, his reputation for thievery and villainy was the topic of gossip all over the world. The tales of his unpleasant temper were recorded in a few songs, one of which Homer began to hum.
Homer stopped humming. The little man was staring at him. How stupid he was to hum that song. What if the man began to suspect the connection between the song and the map? “It’s just a song,” Homer said. “I… I don’t even know what it’s about.”
“Ah dinnae care nothin’ aboot songs,” the man said grumpily. He stepped over Lorelei’s sleeping head and cleared a new spot on the table for his calculations.
Time passed. Homer’s eyelids drooped. He closed them for a moment. Sleep crept closer and closer. His eyelids pressed heavier and heavier. He imagined his goose-down pillow from back home and the quilt his grandmother had made. Sleep wrapped its arms around him and…
“Got it!” the man announced.
“Huh?” Homer sat up, his eyes popping open. “What?”
“What’s going on?” Lorelei asked, jolting awake. Her hair was matted to her forehead.
Hercules rubbed his eyes. “Did something happen?”
“Ah’ve got it,” the man said from the center of the table. “Ah’ve got the coordinates. Ah’ve got the spot where yer mapmaker was standing.” He drew a circle around two sets of letters and numbers.
Homer took a long, deep breath to make certain he was actually awake. “He’s got it,” he whispered with amazement. Trying to get a better view, Homer climbed up onto the table and leaned over the circled coordinates, but as he did so, his membership coin and its chain slipped out from his shirt.
The man pointed at the dangling coin and bellowed, “Ye’r a member of L.O.S.T.! Ye came here tae spy on me!” He gripped the ends of his braids. “Ah shoulda known. Ye said ah left the door open, but ah never leave the door open. Ye got in here with yer coin.”
Homer quickly tucked the coin back into his shirt. “We aren’t spying on you,” he said. “I promise we aren’t.” Lorelei and Hercules added their assurances that no one was spying.
“Mockingbird,” the man hissed. “He sent ye here. Well ye can tell Mockingbird that ah’m nae interested in goin to one of his meetins. Ah dinna like meetins. Too many people at meetins. And ye can tell Mockingbird that ah have no more Celtic coins. No more, ye hear me?” The man jumped off the table and stomped over to his cot.
Suddenly it dawned on Homer—he knew who this man was. He grabbed Hercules by the arm, pulling him to the corner so they could talk without Lorelei overhearing. “Do you think he’s Angus MacDoodle?”
Hercules, still groggy, yawned and rubbed his eyes again. “Angus who?”
“Angus MacDoodle. You know. The L.O.S.T. member who never goes to the meetings.”
One of Hercules’s duties as records keeper was to take attendance at the meetings. “Oh, that guy,” he said with a nod. “His Lordship was always trying to get him to come and vote on agenda items. I tried to send him a notice about Lord Mockingbird’s funeral, but no one knew where to send it. He’s been in hiding for a long time. But I didn’t know he was a celestial navigator.”
“I didn’t know that, either,” Homer said. “He’s famous for finding those Celtic coins in his backyard.”
“What are you two whispering about?” Lorelei asked, sliding between them.
While Homer didn’t want Lorelei to find out any more secret facts about L.O.S.T., it would be impossible to keep this one from her because Angus was giving it away all by himself.
“Ah had me a perfectly lovely life in the Highlands,” the man grumbled, “minding ma own business. No one tae talk to but the birds and no sounds but the breeze in the heather.” Angus grabbed a plaid suitcase from under his bed and began stuffing clothes into it. “Ah had ma wee cottage on the bluff. No city lights or pollution tae block the stars. But then ah found those blasted coins, and everything changed.”
“What coins?” Lorelei asked.
“Ah dinna care nothin’ aboot coins,” Angus said. He stuffed some shoes into the suitcase. “Ah study the sky. Ah watch the stars. That’s what ah care aboot. But one day ah was digging a hole tae bury ma dead cat and ah found the coins. Ma whole life changed. Ah became famous. Ma yard was filled wi’ folk. Kin ah’d never met came askin’ for money. A strange man flew a cloud to ma cottage and invited me tae join Mockingbird’s club.”
“That’s Ajitabh,” Homer said.
“Aye. He told me that L.O.S.T. would take the coins and donate them tae a museum. Ah told him he could have the coins but he had to gie me a secret place to live, where no one would bother me. A secret place where ma greedy kin couldna find me.”
“So that’s why you live here,” Lorelei said. “You’re hiding.”
“Ah was hidin’. Now ah have tae find a new place.” He zipped his suitcase. “Ye can tell L.O.S.T. tae leave me alone. I did whit they asked. I gave them the coins.” He reached down and patted Dog’s head. “Good-bye wee beastie.”
Dog, who’d been napping, raised his head off the pillow and grunted.
Angus hurried up the stepladder and collected his telescope. With the telescope tucked under his arm and suitcase in hand, he hurried to the door.
“Wait,” Homer called. “I won’t tell anyone you’re here.” But Homer couldn’t make promises on Lorelei’s behalf. Knowing her, she’d probably hold a press conference and tell the world.
Without another word, the man darted into the hallway, slamming the door shut behind him. The instruments on the blackboard table trembled.
“That guy’s weird,” Lorelei said.
“He’s not weird. He suffers from a very serious phobia,” Hercules said. “He doesn’t like people. Maybe we should apologize for disturbing him.” He walked to the door and tried to open it. Turning the knob, he pulled, then pulled again. “I think it’s locked.”
Panic spread across Lorelei’s face, and she ran to the door. She pushed Hercules aside and yanked on the knob. “He locked us in!” she cried. With a grunt, she threw her body against the door, but it didn’t budge. “Let us out!”
“It’s just jammed,” Homer said as he tried the knob. “Why would he lock us in?”
“Because he thinks we’re spying on him, remember?” Lorelei pointed at Hercules. “Use your superstrength. Bust it open.”
“It’s not superstrength. I’m not a superhero. I’m just stronger than I look.” Hercules put his shoulders into the attempt, pushing with all his might. But the door, which was made of some kind of metal, did nothing but give him bruises. “I’m going to need an ice pack,” he said, rubbing his shoulder.
“Look for another way out,” Lorelei said. She ran around the room. “There’s got to be a way out.”
Homer searched around the knob. Maybe there was a slot for his membership coin. But he found nothing.
“There’s no other way out!” Lorelei cried.
“Don’t panic,” Hercules said, still rubbing his shoulder. “If you start to panic, then I’ll start to panic. I’m very susceptible to suggestion.”
“Yeah, we shouldn’t panic,” Homer said, though his stomach was tightening as he spoke. “The building opens in the morning. One of the workers will let us out.”
“Only a L.O.S.T. membership coin will let someone open the elevator door,” Lorelei reminded him. “And none of the L.O.S.T. members know we’re here. Except for Angus MacDoodle, and he’s run off to hide.” She grabbed Homer’s arm and yanked. “This is bad. Really bad.”
“It’s going to be okay,” he tried to assure her, though he had no idea how it was going to be okay.
“Don’t you get it, Homer?” Lorelei threw her hands in the air. “If we don’t find a way out, we could be trapped here… forever.”
Rumpold Smeller’s a dastardly feller.