The Treasure at Devil’s Hole
Author: Jody M. Mabry
Publisher: Maybury and Gilliam Literary
Pages: 220
Genre: Middle Grade Children’s
Format: Paperback/Kindle
Book Description:
Author: Jody M. Mabry
Publisher: Maybury and Gilliam Literary
Pages: 220
Genre: Middle Grade Children’s
Format: Paperback/Kindle
Book Description:
How would you feel if you knew you had a
legendary treasure right in your own back yard? Francis “Bug” Mosser knows, and
will do nearly anything to find it, even if it means defying the most
villainous person he knows—Mom!
Standing in Bug's way is his nemesis Tad
Pricket, the red headed, pock-holed bully who’s suddenly been seen walking
Bug’s girl, Melanie, home from school—worse, the walk ends with a kiss. Then
there is the mysterious bald stranger and Miss Julia Brandon’s boyfriend who
seems a little “too-classy” for the town of Possum Trot.
With the help of his brothers, and best
friend Billy—along with his not-so-secret desire to impress Melanie
Grainger—Bug goes off in search of fortune and glory, thwarting bad guys,
stolen clothes, and explosions to find the one surprise about the treasure that
he would have never dreamed of...
Buy Links:
Praise for The Treasure at Devil's Hole
“Jody M. Mabry's "The Treasure at Devil's
Hole" is a refreshing return to classic adventure, a genuine stand-out
among modern YA fare. It calls to mind works such as "The Adventures of
Tom Sawyer," right down to the requisite treasure hunting, villains,
expansive caverns, complicated young love, and rule-breaking exploits
intelligent, free-spirited boys simply can't resist. Well written and
wonderfully paced, it keeps you on the edge of your seat from start to finish,
with a clever resolution you never saw coming. I found this to be a delightful
read, and in fact completed the book in one sitting, unable to put it down.
Looking forward to Mabry's next work, I hope one is in the works.” – Amazon
reviewer
Excerpt
Chapter One
Izard County, Arkansas
1946
My older brother, Tom, had
spent the last month digging in the cornfield. Ever since turning seventeen he
had an urge to dig. Nobody knew why he was digging—he just was. When anyone
asked him why, he would just say, “I’m digging for Mom.” I didn’t know how digging
a hole was good for Mom, and didn’t question it. If he wanted to get in trouble
with her, that was up to him.
Tom was standing in his hole, now deeper than he was
tall, as Fred, Peter, and I walked by. He climbed out, face and hands covered
in dirt, and smelling like Chief, our old lazy hog. I was sure it had been days
since Tom had last come with us to the creek for a bath, but for him, I guess
that was good. Tom was never fond of baths, especially in a cold creek during
early spring.
“How’s the digging going?” I asked. He looked up and
smiled; there was always mischief hidden behind his smile. I knew there was
more to his answer than he let on. His long brown hair clung to his forehead as
he halfheartedly tried to brush it away.
“Digging’s good today. Digging is mighty good! Where you
headin’, Bug?”
“Just for a walk. Nowhere special,” I said.
He glanced at the packs we had
on our backs. His left eyebrow rose into a soft pyramid as ideas clearly began
to roll through his mind. “Nowhere special, huh?” He smiled.
My brothers and I couldn’t hide our packs and gear, of
course. We’d spent nearly a week putting everything together, and there was a
lot more than we’d thought there’d be.
“Just camping. Tell Mom we won’t be back tonight.”
“Will do,” he said. “Don’t go getting yourselves killed,
now. Mom will likely blame it on me,” he mumbled as he jumped back into his
hole. I could hear his pickaxe digging into the hard clay and mud as we started
walking toward Devil’s Hole, taking a shortcut through the cornfield, then into
the woods.
Freddy walked slowly as we approached the woods,
hesitating to keep up with us. “What does he mean by ‘Don’t go getting killed’?
Do you think we could get killed?”
Freddy was such a worrywart. Of course we couldn’t get
killed. At least I didn’t think we could. I rolled my eyes at Freddy and didn’t
give him the satisfaction of an answer. “And you call yourself the smart one,”
I said.
Even though Freddy was a chicken, he kind of had a point.
Mom wouldn’t approve of what my two younger brothers and I were about to do.
No, approve is not the word I was looking for. Mom would have killed us.
Well, she would have killed me, and severely reddened Freddy and Peter’s
back cheeks.
I could hear her screams in my head now: “Francis
Mosser!” Mom was the only person in the world who called me Francis
anymore. Everyone else, even Mom when she wasn’t mad, called me
Bug—after my grandfather, who was also called Bug; he was called that because
of the fever, gold fever—Gold Bug. “At what point did you ever think that it
was a good idea?” Of course, I wouldn’t have an answer for her. Even if I
did, I wouldn’t dare use it. Apparently, answering a question while your mother
screams at you is referred to as an “excuse.”
If Mom knew that I had convinced my two younger brothers
to climb down into Devil’s Hole, I would never see tomorrow. But how could we
ever find the Sikeston brothers’ treasure if we didn’t actually go into Devil’s
Hole?
Peter, was only ten years old, had always had more courage
than Freddy, who was three years older. Not once did Peter hesitate on our way
to Devil’s Hole. “Do you think Tom knows what we’re doing?” He skipped along,
hopping from one stone to the next. Peter had long since stopped wearing shoes,
and he made a game out of jumping from one flat stone to the next to avoid
tearing his feet apart.
“Maybe.” I shrugged. It wasn’t too important. Tom had
bigger things to worry about, like his hole. He wouldn’t have said anything
anyway. It wasn’t like Tom to ruin a good adventure—it was more like him to
take over the adventure.
From our house, Devil’s Hole was about a half hour’s walk
through the woods. We each carried machetes that Dad had bought us from an old
army surplus store back in Batesville. Peter whacked through anything he could
hit, regardless of if it was in his way or not. I led the pack, knocking out
the large vines and branches while keeping my eyes open for snakes. I hated
snakes; they were a treasure hunter’s worst nightmare. We trudged along, sweat
dripping off our foreheads and covering our clothes. My arms were scratched
from my hands to my shoulders, sliced by razor-thin blades of grass and
hornet-sharp thorns that struck as often as possible. Mosquitoes dug into us
with their sliver-like needles, drawing blood at will. We still kept moving
forward.
“This stinks!” cried Freddy. “I can’t take it anymore.
I’ve got bites on my arms as big as my nose, and Peter’s bleeding.”
“Oh, stop it. You didn’t have to come, did you?” I
snapped back.
“We should go back.”
“Fine!” I said. He hadn’t stopped complaining since we
first stepped foot in the forest, and we were nearly to Devil’s Hole. I wasn’t
turning back now. “You go back, then. Peter and I are still going.”
He didn’t say anything, but I knew that would shut him up
for a while. Freddy would never go back by himself.
Peter kept hitting his dull blade against whatever he
could, hardly bending the grass and vines, let alone slicing through. I
wondered if he’d even heard Freddy’s complaining. He was in his own world.
The sun was directly above us as we came to the entrance
to Devil’s Hole. A giant boulder rested alongside it, as if it were a tombstone
for the devil himself. We couldn’t see the entrance to the cavern under last
year’s fallen leaves until we were within a couple feet of it. The cover of two
old, massive trees and their fallen branches disguised the cavern even more.
I crept up slowly toward the entrance, watching my step
as my two younger brothers stayed a safer distance away. None of us had gone
inside the cavern before. Our only knowledge of it came from the many stories
we had heard growing up, although I suspect most of those stories were
“colored,” as my dad liked to say. They had a little more sugar coating to them
than reality.
I glanced at the entrance from a few feet away. My nerves
were beginning to reinforce my fear of slipping in and falling to my death. I
had no real idea how far down the hole would go. From where I stood, the
entrance looked like a small ravine, no deeper than Tom’s hole. I knew better
though as I inched closer. The “ravine” went deeper and deeper until it
disappeared from the sunlight above into a thick, seemingly impenetrable
darkness.
“All right, let’s get down there,” I said, trying to hide
my newfound apprehension.
I walked back to my brothers and tied one side of our
sixty-foot rope to one of the thick, ancient trees. I hoped there was enough
rope left for us to climb to the bottom.
Freddy stormed in front of Peter and me, and started to
go first. He didn’t say anything to me, but just looked straight ahead as he
passed. Apparently, he had something to prove. It didn’t take long before he
was holding the rope and starting to climb down.
Freddy inched his way down as slowly as he could, taking
each step cautiously. After a couple of minutes that seemed like hours, he
dropped completely out of view. “Your turn next,” I said to Peter. “You know
what to do, right? As soon as Freddy tugs on the rope, you’re going down. Tug
on the rope when you’re at the bottom, and then I’ll pull it up and lower the
backpacks down to the two of you.”
“Okay,” he said, but he wasn’t paying attention as he’d
already started to reach for the rope. I had to pull him back. “One at a time,”
I said. “We don’t need both of you hurt if the rope breaks.”
The rope began to move as Freddy tugged on it from the
other end. It had taken him fifteen minutes to climb down.
Peter looked at me, as if asking if he could go now.
“Okay,” I said. “Be careful.” Peter grabbed the rope, and began to climb down,
repelling himself more often in small excited bursts than taking steps against
the cavern wall.
“Bug!” yelled Freddy from below. “I don’t want to do this
anymore.”
It was too late for him to back out now. He was already
at the bottom, and if I let him go, he’d run and tell Mom what we were doing.
Freddy was as much a tattletale as he was a worrywart.
“Come on, Freddy. Peter’s doing it. He’s coming down
right now.”
“This is dumb. You know that if the treasure was down
here, it would have been found by now.”
Freddy was probably the smartest of my three brothers.
Not just smart . . . but real smart. Intelligent, like they say a pig
is. Freddy’s only problem was that he didn’t really get smart until he got
scared, and at that moment, I knew he was scared. This was probably the clue
that should have warned me that Freddy was right, that I should have told
Freddy and Peter to come back up so we could go home. If the treasure was
down there, it would have been found already. That same clue should have warned
me that my mother not only knew where we were, but was on her way there to drag
all three of us back home by our earlobes. Mom and Freddy were somehow
linked—Freddy always got queasy when he knew she’d be looking for us, and she
always knew when she should be looking for us—for instance, when we were about
to climb down into a cavern in search of treasure.
Of course, as I just said, Freddy was the smart one.
Peter was the fearless one. And me? Well, I guess I was the mastermind . . .
just not a very good one.
“Really, Bug! I don’t have a good feeling about this.
It’s cold down here, and I can’t see anything.”
“Just wait a second,” I said. I was growing impatient
with Freddy’s complaining. He was always complaining. And when he complained or
worried, he picked his nose as if he were searching for gold nuggets up there.
That almost bothered me more than his complaining, although if he ever did find
gold up his nose, I have to admit, my finger would be the next one
digging.
“I’m sending the flashlights down as soon as Peter gets
to the bottom. Just be patient, will ya?”
“Yeah, yeah, fine!” he said. I could hear the echo of
rocks being kicked at the bottom of the cavern, along with Peter’s feet pushing
off the wall and his body sliding down the rope.
A couple of minutes later, I heard Peter jump the last
few feet to the ground. Peter always jumped the last few feet to anywhere: he
jumped up or down the last step on a flight of stairs; he jumped across every
puddle or crack he came across; he jumped over every toy, every bush, and if he
could jump high enough, I know he would try to jump over every tree in
Arkansas. I heard Peter land with a loud thud on the limestone floor of
Devil’s Hole; at almost the exact same moment, I heard branches crashing behind
me, like something was running through the woods. I heard the crashing sound
again and then a sharp thud as whatever it was hit the ground with hard
footsteps. This time it echoed like a soft, shuddering earthquake. I turned
around and stood there. That was my first mistake. I should have leapt down
Devil’s Hole headfirst, praying that I’d land on the devil himself and beg for
his protection.
The footsteps became louder as I squinted to see farther
into the woods. Quickly, one hard step turned into two, then three, and four,
and then the pace quickened like the drumbeat from an oar-driven barge. Thud
. . . thud . . . thud . . . boom . . . boom . . . boom . . .
Then I saw it: the deep
red hair, tall and full. I only needed to see the hair to know what was next.
Through the trees, her hair disappeared and then reappeared over and over, and
even without seeing her face, I could picture my mom’s eyes, green and hard,
focused on only one thing. Freddy calls it tunnel vision. I call it the perfect
time to start running or, in this case, climbing down—fast!
She must have seen us walking in this direction. It
wasn’t often that my two brothers and I hung out together and got along, and we
must have looked like best friends as we walked off, with backpacks strapped to
us, heading out through the cornfield.
I grabbed the two backpacks and threw them down the hole.
“Incoming!” I yelled to my brothers as the backpacks rolled and tumbled. I only
hoped that my brothers were able to jump aside in time to avoid being hit.
“Ouch!” Freddy cried.
Too late! Freddy clearly hadn’t moved out of the way in
time. He didn’t stop yelling at me the entire time I climbed down, though, so I
assumed he was doing just fine. A little bump on the head from a backpack was a
heck of a lot nicer than a conk on the head from Mom.
I didn’t waste any time, taking Peter’s lead by jumping
down the last five feet and landing hard on the ground.
“It’s Mom! I saw her coming! Grab the bags and let’s
go!” I gave one bag to Peter and pulled
a flashlight out of Freddy’s bag before throwing the bag at him. With the
flashlight, I searched the limestone walls around us.
There was a problem. I could only see walls; there was no
deep cavern, no hole leading deeper into the earth. There was nothing going
anywhere that led to a treasure, only a hole going nowhere, and we were
standing at the bottom of it.
The hard stomping sound of Mom’s feet echoed off the
walls as she came closer. That’s when Peter began to laugh.
Freddy scowled at our younger brother. “Do you know what
she’s going to do to us? Why are you
laughing?”
Peter never seemed to fear anything, and at the most
inappropriate times would burst into tears of laughter, unable to control
himself. Each chuckle or outburst would just cause him to laugh even harder.
Freddy thought it was a defense mechanism like a nervous tic, biting your lips,
or gnashing your teeth together. Freddy did all those, and despite his own
nervous reactions, he still had no patience for Peter’s uncontrollable laughter.
Peter was now laughing so hard that he could barely get
the words out, “It’s like . . . we’re three turds . . . in the devil’s toilet.”
The thudding echo stopped, replaced by the scuffing of
shoes. Pebbles fell from above as if a predator waited patiently for us. A
predator named . . . Mom.
About the Author
Discuss
this book at PUYB Virtual Book Club at Goodreads
About the Author
Born at Great Lakes Naval Base in Illinois, Jody has had
the opportunity to live in places such as Cuba, St. Croix USVI, Mississippi, Illinois, and Kenosha, Wisconsin,
where he spent the teen years of his life in an 1800’s farmhouse that was, of
course, haunted. At fourteen Jody first heard the story of Arizona’s “Lost Dutchman Mine,” sparking an
interest in adventure, ghost towns, and lost treasure. Always prone to telling
a good story, Jody now passes on the tradition to his children who will no
doubt find their own treasure someday. Jody and his family live in the charming
Linden Hills neighborhood of Minneapolis,
Minnesota.
His lastest book is the middle grade novel,
The Treasure at Devil’s Hole.
For More Information
- Visit Jody Mabry’s website.
- Connect with Jody on Twitter.
- Find out more about Jody at Goodreads.
- More books by Jody.
- Contact Jody.
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