Sir George Toots a Lot was the most enthusiastic explorer in all of Atlantis. He wore a brass diving helmet with a feather on top, a sea-green cape, and boots with tiny fins. At his belt hung a compass that pointed not north, but toward interesting trouble.
Every morning, George stood on the balcony of the Coral Palace and listened to the underwater city wake up. Pearl carts rattled along shell-paved streets. Silver fish darted between towers of pink coral. Seaweed gardens waved lazily in the blue light that filtered down from the surface.
Then George would declare, “Atlantis, my magnificent city, what shall we explore today?”
Usually, the answer was a quiet bubble.
But on this particular morning, his compass spun so quickly that its needle squeaked. At the same moment, a deep sound rolled through the streets.
BWOOM.
The windows of the Coral Palace trembled. A school of sleepy seahorses shot out from behind a fountain. George placed one hand over his helmet.
“Was that thunder?” he asked.
“It is difficult to have thunder underwater,” said a voice from the curtain of seaweed beside him.
Out stepped Illusionist, Atlantis’s clever maker of magical pictures. She wore a cloak covered in shiny scales that changed color whenever she moved. One moment it was purple, then gold, then a very serious-looking blue. Her long wand was topped with a crystal bubble.
“Then perhaps,” George said, “it was an enormous stomach grumbling.”
BWOOM.
Illusionist raised an eyebrow. “An enormous stomach with rather poor manners.”
George’s cheeks puffed behind his helmet. “I would like it known that none of my toots have ever shaken a palace.”
From below came the clatter of metal spoons, springs, and something that sounded suspiciously like a singing kettle. Inventor emerged from a workshop door, riding a small submarine with six wobbling legs.
“I heard it too!” Inventor cried. He had ink stains on his fingers, goggles on his forehead, and a beard tied into three neat little knots. “My Tremble-Tester measured a rumble from the Forbidden Trenches. The reading was so large that the needle fell off and asked for a holiday.”
A gray wolf paddled quietly into the palace courtyard. Wolf was not from Atlantis originally. He had once lived on a rocky island above the sea, but he loved diving so much that Inventor had built him a clear bubble helmet and four silver fin-boots. Wolf was watchful, loyal, and much less scary than he looked. He sniffed the water anxiously.
“The currents smell hot,” Wolf said. “Like burnt pepper and old stones.”
George’s compass stopped spinning. Its needle pointed toward the deep black water beyond Atlantis’s glowing walls.
The Forbidden Trenches.
“That sounds interesting,” George said.
“It also sounds forbidden,” said Illusionist.
“Exactly,” George replied brightly. “Forbidden places often contain the best maps.”
Before anyone could agree, another rumble shook the city. This time, a shower of tiny pearls slipped from the ceiling. Outside, the great Beacon Shell at the center of Atlantis flickered. Its warm golden glow faded to a weak, bluish wink.
Everyone became quiet.
The Beacon Shell was no ordinary decoration. Long ago, it had been found at the bottom of the first trench by the founders of Atlantis. Its light guided travelers home, warmed the coral gardens, and kept the wild currents away from the city gates.
“If the Beacon Shell goes dark,” whispered Inventor, “the cold current will pour through Atlantis by nightfall.”
“And the baby sea turtles are still in the nursery pools,” said Illusionist.
Wolf’s ears flattened beneath his helmet. “We have to help.”
George looked at his friends. He was brave, but he was not foolish. The Forbidden Trenches were deep, twisting, and said to be guarded by a dragon with fins as sharp as swords.
Still, he tightened his cape.
“Then we shall find what has troubled the Beacon Shell,” he said. “Explorers do not wait for danger to finish its breakfast.”
Inventor clapped. “Wonderful! I have supplies.”
His supplies were packed into a round yellow submarine called the Picklefish, although it looked nothing like a pickle and only a little like a fish. It had portholes shaped like spectacles, a propeller shaped like a flower, and a horn that played three notes whenever it was nervous.
Toot-toot-tooooooot.
“That horn is nervous already,” Illusionist observed.
“It is eager,” said Inventor.
“It sounds like it is apologizing,” said Wolf.
George climbed into the front seat. “All aboard! Destination: the Forbidden Trenches!”
The Picklefish bounced away from Atlantis. Behind them, the shining city became smaller, its coral towers dimmer in the fading Beacon Shell light. They traveled through forests of giant kelp where orange crabs waved their claws like little flags. They passed an archway made from the rib bones of some ancient, peaceful whale. They crossed the Bubble Plains, where thousands of round bubbles rose from cracks in the sea floor and popped against the submarine windows.
Inventor checked his meters. “Depth: very deep. Pressure: very pressy. Tea supply: excellent.”
“Do you always bring tea on rescue missions?” George asked.
“Especially on rescue missions,” Inventor said. “A problem seems smaller after a warm cup.”
The water grew darker. Bright fish disappeared. Even the kelp thinned away until there was only gray rock and drifting sand.
Then Wolf growled softly.
Ahead, enormous claw marks scarred the side of a cliff.
Illusionist held up her wand. A small glowing image appeared above her palm: a map of the trenches, drawn in threads of blue light. “The Beacon Shell’s power travels through crystal channels in the rock,” she explained. “One channel runs into this trench. If something has blocked it, the city’s light cannot reach its source.”
“What is at the source?” George asked.
Illusionist’s light-map flickered. “According to the oldest stories, the Heart Pearl.”
Inventor nearly dropped his teacup. “The Heart Pearl? The treasure that hums a lullaby to sleeping volcanoes?”
“The very one,” said Illusionist.
George leaned forward. “A legendary treasure. I knew this was going to be a good morning.”
The Picklefish descended into the trench. Its lamps lit strange creatures with see-through bodies and eyes like stars. The cliff walls rose on both sides, close and crooked. Soon the passage narrowed so much that the submarine’s fin-brakes scraped stone.
Scrrrraaaape.
“Please stop doing that,” Inventor told the rocks.
A sudden current shoved the Picklefish sideways. George grabbed the steering wheel. Wolf braced himself with all four fin-boots. Illusionist made an illusion of bright red arrows that showed the safest path.
“Left!” she called.
George turned left.
“Other left!” she added.
George turned the other left just before they bumped into a cluster of purple spines.
“That was close,” he said.
“Those are tickle-urchins,” Inventor explained. “If touched, they make you laugh for seven minutes.”
As if to prove it, one spine brushed the outside of the submarine. The Picklefish shuddered and let out a series of ridiculous squeaks.
Toot! Hee! Toot! Hee! Toot!
George laughed despite himself. “Your submarine is ticklish.”
“Every machine deserves feelings,” Inventor said, though he was smiling too.
At the bottom of the trench stood a colossal stone door. It was carved with pictures of waves, dragons, and a pearl held in two clawed hands. Across the center, words glimmered in old Atlantean.
Illusionist read them aloud. “Only a true guide may enter: one who sees past fear, one who shares a path, and one who knows the sound of home.”
Inventor frowned. “A riddle door. I have a Riddle-Unscrambler at home. It uses seventeen gears and a small biscuit.”
“We do not have it,” said Wolf.
George studied the carvings. “One who sees past fear. That could be Illusionist. She sees what is real and what is only a trick.”
Illusionist touched the first carving. It shone.
“One who shares a path,” George continued. “That is Wolf. You always make room for others, even when you are worried.”
Wolf placed a paw on the second carving. It shone too.
“And one who knows the sound of home…” George looked uncertainly at the final picture.
From deep within the trench came another terrible BWOOM.
The stone door trembled.
Wolf sniffed. “That sound is lonely.”
George listened closely. Beneath the booming rumble, he heard something else: a weak, sad little whistle, like wind passing through an empty bottle.
“The sound of home is not always a song,” George said. “Sometimes it is someone asking to be found.”
He pressed his gloved hand against the last carving.
The door opened.
Inside was a cavern so wide that Atlantis’s Coral Palace could have floated in it. Blue crystals glittered overhead. Rivers of warm bubbles flowed between black rocks. In the center rested a mountain of gold, old helmets, jeweled cups, and polished shells.
On the mountain lay Dragon.
He was larger than the Picklefish. His scales were dark green, his wings were folded tightly against his sides, and his tail curled around a glowing pearl the size of a cartwheel.
The Heart Pearl.
George gulped.
Dragon opened one golden eye.
“WHO ENTERS MY CAVE?” he roared.
The roar sent a wave of bubbles tumbling through the cavern. Inventor’s teacup flew upside down. The Picklefish horn fainted with a long, weak toot.
George stood, though his knees wanted to sit down. “I am Sir George Toots a Lot, explorer of Atlantis. These are my friends, Illusionist, Wolf, and Inventor. We have come for the Heart Pearl.”
Dragon lifted his head. “To steal it?”
“To save our city,” said George. “The Beacon Shell is losing its light.”
Dragon’s eye narrowed. “The Heart Pearl belongs to me. I found it in these trenches. I will not surrender it.”
Illusionist whispered, “George, look at his wing.”
Dragon’s left wing was caught beneath a fallen slab of crystal. It was badly bent, and several scales had been scraped away. Near his claws sat a pile of broken crystal channels. The glowing water that should have flowed to Atlantis was trapped behind the rubble.
George remembered Wolf’s words: The sound is lonely.
“Did the crystals fall on you?” he asked.
Dragon looked away. “Three days ago. I tried to move them. I roared. I pushed. I blew hot bubbles. Nothing worked.”
“Why did you not ask for help?” Wolf asked gently.
Dragon gave a grumpy snort. “Dragons do not ask for help.”
“Wolves do,” Wolf said. “At least, the clever ones do.”
Dragon looked at him.
Inventor hopped out of the Picklefish, carefully avoiding the dragon’s claws. “Aha! This is a lifting problem! I adore lifting problems.” He pulled a bundle of tools from his backpack: a fold-up lever, three suction cups, a coil of sea-silk rope, and a tiny machine with six legs.
“What is that?” George asked.
“My Rock-Wriggler Mark Two. Mark One wriggled too much.”
Inventor placed the little machine beneath the crystal slab. It whirred, dug its metal feet into the cavern floor, and began to push.
Whirr. Creak. Whirr. Creak.
Nothing moved.
Dragon sighed, and a few smoke-like bubbles drifted from his nostrils. “It is useless.”
“Not useless,” Inventor said. “Merely under-muscled.”
Illusionist swished her wand. Suddenly, ten enormous blue whales appeared around the slab. Their shimmering tails beat the water.
“An illusion cannot lift a rock,” she said, “but perhaps it can give us an idea.”
George watched the whale shapes. “Not one huge push,” he said. “Many small pushes, all together.”
He pointed to the treasure pile. “Dragon, may we borrow some of your gold?”
“My gold?” Dragon rumbled.
“Only for a moment.”
Dragon hesitated. Then he nudged several thick gold bars toward them. “Do not scratch them.”
Inventor’s eyes gleamed. “Gold is soft, strong, and wonderfully shiny. Perfect!”
For the next hour, the friends worked. Inventor turned gold bars into wedges. George and Wolf carried them beneath the slab. Illusionist created glowing arrows so everyone knew exactly where to place each piece. Dragon, though hurt, used his strong claws to clear loose stones.
At last, Inventor connected the sea-silk rope to the Picklefish’s propeller.
“This may work,” he said.
“May?” George asked.
“All grand inventions begin with ‘may.’”
They took their places. Wolf gripped the rope. George held the lever. Illusionist held her wand high, making the cavern bright as morning. Dragon squeezed his eyes shut.
“Ready?” George called.
“Ready!” said Wolf.
“Readyish!” said Inventor.
“Ready,” whispered Dragon.
“Pull!” George shouted.
The Picklefish propeller spun. The rope tightened. Wolf pulled backward with his four fin-boots digging into the stone. George pushed down on the lever with all his might. Inventor’s Rock-Wriggler buzzed furiously.
The slab shifted one tiny inch.
“Again!” cried George.
They pulled. They pushed. The cavern echoed with creaks, grunts, whirrs, and the increasingly worried horn of the Picklefish.
Then George’s helmet slipped over his eyes.
“Cannot see!” he yelped.
He tried to shove it back into place, but his elbow bumped a small valve on his belt. The valve let out a loud, bubbly toot.
Prrrrooooot!
For one surprised second, everyone froze.
Then the hot bubble from George’s valve shot beneath the crystal slab. The trapped water expanded with a mighty hiss.
HISSSSSS!
The slab leaped upward.
Dragon yanked his wing free.
The whole cavern shook. The broken crystal channels cracked apart, releasing a stream of golden light that rushed into the trench and toward Atlantis.
Far away, the Beacon Shell flared bright again.
Dragon spread both wings, testing them carefully. His left wing wobbled, then opened wide. He gave a joyful roar that was so loud it made the treasure pile sparkle.
“You freed me,” he said, astonished. “And you restored the current.”
George adjusted his helmet. “It was a team effort. Also, perhaps a tiny effort by my emergency belt valve.”
Inventor made a note in his book. “Never underestimate unexpected gas pressure.”
Dragon laughed. It was a rumbling sound, but no longer frightening. “You came for the Heart Pearl. Take it.”
He rolled the great glowing pearl toward George.
George placed both hands on it, but did not lift it. “The Heart Pearl should stay where it can send light to Atlantis. But it needs a guardian who will make sure the channels never break again.”
Dragon blinked. “You trust me?”
“You were scared and hurt,” George said. “That does not make you an enemy. And you know this place better than anyone.”
Wolf nodded. “Everyone needs a home to protect.”
Dragon looked down at the pearl. Very slowly, he curled his tail around it again, not like a thief holding treasure, but like a guardian sheltering a lantern.
“I will protect it,” he promised. “And if the channels crack, I will ask for help.”
“Excellent,” said Inventor. “I shall install a Help-Request Bell. It will be loud enough to hear from Atlantis, but not so loud that it startles the clams.”
Illusionist smiled and flicked her wand. Above the dragon’s treasure, a new sign appeared in gleaming letters: HEART PEARL LIGHTHOUSE, FRIENDS WELCOME.
Dragon read it slowly. “Friends welcome,” he repeated.
As they prepared to leave, Dragon nudged aside a pile of old shells. Beneath it sat a chest made of mother-of-pearl, covered in tiny golden maps.
“This belonged to the first explorers of Atlantis,” Dragon said. “I found it with the Heart Pearl. It should return to your city.”
George opened the chest. Inside were twelve star-shaped compass coins, a telescope made from blue crystal, and a folded map showing hidden pathways beneath the sea. In one corner, the map marked a place called the Garden of Singing Stones.
Inventor gasped. “A blue-crystal telescope! It can probably see through fog, darkness, and possibly my workshop cupboard.”
Illusionist lifted one compass coin. It glowed softly. “These are Wayfinder Coins. They point toward anyone who needs help.”
George beamed. “The greatest explorer’s treasure is not gold. But gold-colored compasses that find new adventures are certainly close.”
Dragon gave another laugh.
They returned to Atlantis in a bright procession. Dragon flew above the Picklefish, carefully carrying the mother-of-pearl chest in his claws. The golden current surrounded them like a river of sunlight. Fish gathered along the way, curious to see the dragon who had once been only a frightening rumor.
When they reached the city gates, the people of Atlantis cheered. The Beacon Shell shone more brightly than ever, painting the streets with warm gold. The baby sea turtles paddled in circles in their nursery pool. Even the sleepy seahorses wore little ribbons.
The Queen of Atlantis placed a coral medal around George’s neck. On it were engraved the words: Explorer of the Open Heart.
“For courage,” she said, “and for remembering that a roar can hide a request for help.”
George bowed so deeply that his helmet tipped forward again.
Prrrrooooot!
The crowd fell silent.
Then Dragon roared with laughter. Wolf barked. Inventor’s Picklefish played its nervous little tune. Illusionist made a hundred sparkling bubbles burst into the shapes of laughing faces.
Soon all of Atlantis was giggling.
That evening, Sir George Toots a Lot placed one Wayfinder Coin beside his bed. Its point settled toward the distant trenches, where a friendly dragon guarded the Heart Pearl and a new lighthouse shone in the dark.
Then the coin trembled and pointed somewhere else: toward the far eastern sea, beyond the Garden of Singing Stones.
George smiled beneath his feathered helmet.
“Tomorrow,” he whispered, “we explore again.”