The Wicked Passage (A Blake Wyatt Adventure) (8 page)

“Show your face, Hugo Price!” Rat pounded on the wall again.

“Rat!
Gather your wits before illness takes your mind.
 
Nothing haunts this ship.”

“I’ve had enough of this!” He decided to kill Columbus now. The knife lodged in his belt was ready to do the job. He could feel his face redden, his pulse race, and his muscles shudder.

“For God’s sake, sailor, get hold of yourself! Now, sit down. Here, take my handkerchief. Your hand appears to be injured.”

Rat looked down. The scar on his hand had opened, and blood ran down his fingers. “No!” Blood flowed over the gold ring on his salt-bloated finger. “Impossible!”

The stagnant air now smelled sweet, like that unnatural sapphire grass. The Parabulls were there somewhere, and the thought of fighting those menacing creatures again was more than he could take. “I will not fail!”

Columbus steadied himself against the small table as the ocean began to churn. “Of course we won’t fail,” he said. “Victory is just beyond the horizon. The sea knows where to take us, and glory is our reward.”

“What do you know about glory?” Rat curled his fingers around the knife handle. The time had come to kill Columbus. If he failed, the consequences would be even more terrifying than another fight with a Wyatt. It meant a slow and pathetic extermination, left to die in the cavernous, barbaric dungeon under the floor of the grand assembly.

Columbus turned from the deckhand. “I’ve done all I can for you. You will follow my orders for the rest of this voyage. You know the consequences.”

Rat ripped out his freshly sharpened knife and held the edge against Columbus’s throat. “Tell me again. What are the consequences, Admiral? We’re all fools rooked by your promise of gold.”

Columbus swallowed and closed his eyes. “Please--my children are already without a mother.”

“Soon they’ll be without a father.” Rat squinted as colored pools of light streaked wildly across the room.

“Think about what you’re doing.” Columbus opened his eyes. “God’s rewards won’t be granted to a murderer.”

“My reward is already pressed firmly against your neck.”

Suddenly the colors vanished. He looked at his hand. The blood was gone. The old scar returned. He exhaled through a croaking laugh. The colored lights, the sapphire grass, the bleeding scar had been a mirage, a cruel joke of coriane deprivation. Nothing was there.

Rat returned the knife to his belt. “This is your lucky day, Admiral. You will die at the hands of your own men, not by mine.”

Rubbing his throat, Columbus forced his way past the deckhand and opened the door.
“Diego!
I want this man in chains!”

Diego raced up the little steps.
“Chains, sir?”

“Now!”

Diego barged into the little room and collected Rat. “Let’s go.”

“Listen to me, you overstuffed coward,” Rat whispered, pulling Diego within a few inches of his rotting teeth. “Pinzón says the crews of Pinta and Niña are in worse shape than we are. I finally have proof of this weasel’s lies. When the two caravels sail in for the morning progress report, we send a message. Columbus dies tonight.”

CHAPTER 8

THE BEST KEPT SECRET

Blake struggled to free himself from the mud’s grip but fell back into it. “Come on, MacArthur. I need to get home,” he said into the blackness.

Light cut through the dark. Blake identified the chronicle floating next to him. “Thanks, Book.” Again he fought against the squish. “Aww, come on.”

He rolled onto his side, planted his hands in the slime, and pushed himself upright. “Guinevere, you got to get me out of here.”

“Not before you complete your mission,” the book said. “The Parabulls may not be able to heal the membrane without your help.”

“I’m not sure I get the whole membrane-thing.”

“Help me, Lord,” a man’s voice pleaded. “My crew is losing faith, and land is only days away.”

“Who said that?” Blake turned around several times in the dark, spongy field.
“Hey, anyone out there?
Did ya hear that, Book?”

He ventured farther into the muck. Using only the glow of the chronicle, he searched for the bulldogs. “Hey, guys, this isn’t funny. Ya can’t just leave me here.”

He continued through the thick slop until the gummy goo sucked off his socks. Slime squished between his toes. “Aw, man, this is gross. Come on, you guys! This is totally uncool. Get me outta here!” Blake tried to retrace his steps, but the blue grass reappeared in the light of the chronicle and blocked his path.

“Joke’s over. Come on, Book, tell me where they are.”

“The den of the Parabulls is not what it seems.”

“You already said that.”

The air around him suddenly soured, like the musty, moldy stench of his basement after it flooded, but it had been nothing close to that torn-membrane funk.

“Guinevere, MacArthur, knock it off! You’re supposed to be on my side, remember?” He pressed through the waist-high grass and stepped onto an uneven wooden floor bucking beneath him.

“Whoa!” He grabbed a small table--the closest thing he could find to steady himself on the lurching surface. Hair-thin wood splinters pierced through the skin on his hand.

Blake noticed a wooden chest about the size of a toolbox sliding across the table. A chair, pushed underneath the tabletop, thumped against the wood. Beyond the chest, two openings that looked like windows without glass framed what appeared to be an ocean. Where were the Parabulls? His only company was a tall man in a stupid-looking costume who stared at his every little twitch and fidget. Blake quickly glanced behind him, hoping to step back into the sapphire pasture, but the wall of blue grass was gone.

Wherever he was, at least the light was better. Clutching the chronicle tightly, Blake smiled and gave a small wave. “Hey,” he said to the guy in the funny clothes.

The man traced a cross over his heart and bowed his head. “I knew you’d come.”

“You did?” Blake examined the man. He was tall, with a scruffy beard, reddish hair shot with gray, and a thin face.

“Of course.”
The man placed his hand over his heart.

Blake scanned the room. “Where am I?”

“The flagship of their majesties King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella.
Welcome to the Santa Maria.” The man swept his hand across the little room. “My name is Cristoforo Columbo. I am commander of this expedition.”

“You mean, like, Christopher Columbus?”

“My name is familiar to you?”

“Uh, yeah, like to everyone.” Blake patted the rough wood wall that used to be a squishy field of blue grass and found another splinter. “I can’t believe this. You’re, like, a real person!”

“This surprises you?”

Blake turned back to Columbus. “Well, yeah. I mean, it’s not every day ya get to hang out with Christopher Columbus.”

“Hang out? Was there a hanging?”

“A hanging?
No. I just meant kick back. You know, chill.
Talk.”

“Talk.
I see. You must forgive me. I am not familiar with the language of the saints.”

Blake stared at the commander. “What saints? If you mean me, I’m definitely not a saint. I don’t even know how I got here.”

Columbus smiled. “You are here because I asked the Lord for help in my quest. Did you not hear my prayer?”

“Well, I heard something, but if God had anything to do with this, I don’t think He would’ve sent me. I mean one minute I was in my history class, and then the next minute all this weird stuff happened, and now I’m here. I don’t even know why.” Columbus placed his hand on his shoulder.

“What is your name, young man?”

“Blake.”

“It’s Blakemore, isn’t it?” Columbus smiled at him again.

“Yeah, but how did you--?”

“I knew your name long ago.”

“You did?”

“Please sit down, Blakemore. We have much to discuss.”

Blake looked around then sat on the lumpy little cot against the wall.

“Would you like some food?” Columbus asked him.

“Yeah!
I’m starving, but how do you know my name? And you can call me Blake. I mean, if that’s okay with you.”

Columbus reached into his tattered pocket and pulled out a yellowish-orange wrinkled glob, along with a flat piece of something that looked like the white ceramic tile in the school’s bathroom. “Blake you shall be called, then. Here, I have some vizcocho and an apricot.”

Blake sized up the scraps of food and scrunched his nose.

“If this doesn’t suit you,” said Columbus, “I’m sure we can find something--”

“Oh, no, this is cool.” He tucked the chronicle under his arm and accepted the shriveled apricot and piece of tile. “Thank you.” He bit into the fruit and chewed the gooey, rotting food until he had the nerve to swallow it. “Thanks, yeah. This is, uh, great.”

“I’ve managed to save a few apricots from my favorite tree. I think Andalusia produces some of the finest fruit in all of Europe, though my Genovese countrymen would be sure to disagree.” Columbus smiled slightly.

“Yeah, I’m sure.” Blake had no clue what the guy just said. He tried to chomp down on the stone pancake but could only gnaw on the hard edge.

Columbus stepped over to the small door in his cabin and locked the iron latch. “The whispers on this ship are growing by the day, Blake. I can’t risk another treasonous outburst by my crew. I already have one in chains.”

Blake managed to bite off a shard small enough to chew. It tasted like a pizza that had been nuked in the microwave way too long, but he was really hungry. Even the school
cafeteria’s
upchuck stew sounded good right now.

Columbus walked back to the table. He opened the wooden chest, reached inside and then pulled out a thin old binder.

Water sprayed into the cabin. Blake stood, moved toward one of the windows, and looked down at the huge rolling waves capped with white foam. “Whoa!”

“Quite a sight, isn’t it?” Columbus wiped a bit of sea spray from the cover. “I find it difficult to keep the ink from smudging when the sea is unsettled, but we do what we must.” He flipped open the binder and thumbed through several pages covered with tightly packed words and pictures doodled in the margins.

Blake crunched down on another piece of tile. He couldn’t believe it. Columbus also drew little pictures in his notebook. The ship pitched, and Blake moved his foot to widen his stance.

“Yes, here it is.” Columbus fingered down a particularly jammed page. “Friar Antonio de Marchena was right, after all.”

“Right about what?”
Blake asked. A chunk of the over-nuked pizza snapped off and cut his tongue.

“This is my journal,” Columbus said. “It’s just a fraction of my thoughts. It crosses the sea with us because every day I must remind myself that this journey to the other side of the world is providence.”

“Providence?” Blake bit off another piece.
“The capital of Vermont?
No, wait, Rhode Island.
No. I don’t know, one of those little states.”

Columbus frowned at him as though trying to understand a strange language. After a moment, he continued. “Providence, Blake. The guardian of God’s will.”

“Oh.” He tried the fruit again. Not so bad this time.

“I am aware that we must accept what is meant to be,” Columbus explained. “This new route to India, this new direction, all of it is in the map of the heavens, and I will follow it as planned.”

Map of the heavens? Blake thought, and studied the tattoo on his palm.

Columbus leaned against the small rectangular table and placed the journal on a corner of the sturdy piece of furniture. “When I was a young boy, oh, quite a bit younger than you appear to be, I said a prayer to St. Christopher and asked that divine guidance be bestowed upon me. I was his namesake and I felt that--no, I knew that the Lord had a plan for my life as long as I stayed determined to follow it.”

Columbus rested his hand on the cover of his journal. “The early entries in this book are, shall I say, awkward. I couldn’t read or write well at that time, but I knew a secret that was worthy of a man far more refined than a weaver’s son. So to follow the design that God had created, I needed to acquire the skills of someone more educated than myself. I learned quickly--so much was at stake. The knowledge that guides me will uncover a truth that has been concealed under a blanket of ignorance for centuries.”

“What is it?” Blake popped the last of the fruit in his mouth.

Columbus stared at his journal and rubbed the cover with his thumb. “Patience, Blake. My story has many colors. I didn’t tell Friar Antonio immediately, either.
But when I did tell him the sensitive information, he so believed in its truth that he spoke to Queen Isabella on my behalf.”

“So what does this friar guy have to do with me?” Blake asked.

“Everything.
Friar Antonio de Marchena is a pious and educated man whom I can call a friend. He knows much about the sea and the travels of the stars and is interested in the ways of discovery. So we spoke at length about this delicate matter.”

Columbus looked down at his dirty, worn journal. “My son just wanted to play in the fountain that warm day as most children do. The angel of fate wields her hand in the most extraordinary places.”

“Sounds like it.” Blake had no idea what the commander was talking about.

“My pardon, Blake, this long voyage sends me deep into my own thoughts on occasion.”

“Yeah, I daydream a lot, too.”

“So it all began at La Rábida, the monastery where Friar Antonio devotes his life to prayer. This tranquil place contains a large fountain on its grounds. My son slipped away from my watchful eye to play in the water. By the time I found him, Friar Antonio was scolding him for this mischief, and now, because of a child at play, I find myself on the edge of the world.”

“You have a son?”

“I have two sons. Diego is twelve years old, and Ferdinand just passed his fourth birthday. I do miss them.”

“They’re lucky to have a dad like you. I barely remember my dad.” Blake traced a knot in the floor with his toe and then looked back at Columbus. “So how do you know who I am?”