The Wicked Passage (A Blake Wyatt Adventure)

by Singel, N. M.

  Columbus took his lamp from the wall, pulled off the cover, and looked inside. “I’ll need more oil. Perhaps additional light will help you find more of your book. And then you will leave me to my insanity.”

  Leopold looked down and shook his head. “All is lost.”

  “Don’t give up.” Blake stuffed random pages inside the cover. “We’ll fix it. This book can do weird things. Watch.” He placed the heap on the bed and stepped back. “Go ahead, Book, float or something.”

  Leopold expelled a deep sigh. “Even your power can’t bring the chronicle back. Oh, what have I done? I should never have trusted an unworthy teenager with the Chronicle of the Rellium.”

  “Unworthy? I was almost killed! And you’re saying this stupid book is more important than my life?”

  Leopold took the binding and glared at him, his voice tight. “Your instructions were clear--written in the stupid book that is now destroyed. The same book that your father gave his life to protect. Look at your palm. The colors, the images, the Sign of the Ages--all vanished because you neglected your duty. Acknowledge your failure. It may be your last act of bravery.”

  “Look, dude, I had no choice. That guy wanted me dead!”

  Columbus held up his hand. “Gentlemen, please. I know little of what you speak, but I sympathize.” He turned to the table and reached inside the chest. “This is what remains of my life’s work.” He flattened a map across the table. “Two worlds struggle to be one. If I am to find the sea’s path to the Orient, it will be God’s will.”

  “You have a map to your destination?” Leopold’s eyes brightened.

  “This enterprise was not merely a dream, my imaginary friends. The Almighty bestowed this map in my care so that I may carry out His wishes.”

  Erica stepped closer to the table. “God gave you that map?”

  Columbus ran his fingers across the creased paper.

  The right side displayed an intricately drawn coastline, jammed with bays and coves named for people. The left side looked very different. Groups of ovals, possibly islands, were surrounded by a bunch of z-shaped marks. Scribbled words in the margins pointed to strange-looking birds and trees. The top of the page was filled with sketches of naked people, adorned with jewelry.

  “Sometimes we don’t choose our destiny--it chooses us,” Columbus said.

  Blake felt his stomach knot. He didn’t deserve his family’s legacy. Looking upward, he wished for his father’s forgiveness but that was impossible. Dejected, he dropped to his knees and gathered more scraps. The pages no longer felt warm, and the words were smudged. Blake stared at the remains.

  Columbus plucked the paper from his grasp. “Destiny and purpose are not found in a book, Blake. They come from the soul.”

  Blake plopped backward against the bed. “Tell that to my uncle.”

  The admiral placed the torn paper on the table and hunched over his map. “Sometimes failures carry the sharpest swords. This map was created from a great tragedy.”

  “Whatever.” Blake stood and kicked the leg of the bed. “I’m sorry, Mr. Columbus. I guess it doesn’t matter anymore.”

  Erica rested her hands on the table. “So you really got that map from God?”

  “God comes to us in many ways, Child.” Columbus turned to Blake and waved him over. “Let me tell you about this map.”

  He moved next to his sister. His body felt empty, as though someone had ripped out his spirit.

  Columbus looked out the window. “I met a captain in Porto Santo, a bright Portuguese navigator. He was the only survivor of a journey tormented by fierce storms that pushed him farther west than anyone had ever sailed. God spared his life, and he managed to return to Spain. His journal told of a magnificent place where gold washes the beaches and unusual, delicious fruits fall from the trees.”

  “Cool! How do we get there?” Erica asked.

  Blake nudged her.

  “What was that for?”

  “Mr. Columbus, I know you’re trying to make me feel better, but I really messed up.”

  “As did the Portuguese captain. Every sailor on his vessel was killed. But he returned with knowledge once belonging only to myth.”

  Blake gazed at the chronicle’s torn pages. “I’m way past anything good coming out of this.”

  Columbus sighed and pointed to the map. “Look, Blake, there’s land beyond the Canary Islands, beyond the Azores, beyond the setting sun. I always suspected that a westward journey would take us to Asia more quickly than the eastern overland route. This map confirmed my beliefs. The logbook was very detailed--chart distances, locations of drinkable water and food. Any skilled sailor can navigate with this information, provided the Lord is on his side.”

  Leopold moved in closer. “Where is that logbook?”

  Columbus rolled the map. “Unfortunately, it’s missing. In the wrong hands that book is . . . let me say--dangerous.”

  Blake swallowed a lump in his throat. He had seen Rat open the metal chest on Columbus’s table. But why would he have wanted the logbook? The only thing Blake knew for sure was that it couldn’t be good.

  CHAPTER 17

  SECRET CRIMES

  Rat jerked his legs out of the bilge water and onto the bottom rung of the ladder. He slapped Diego’s boots. “Read it!”

  “I’ve seen the logbook before.”

  “Not the real one.”

  Diego continued up the ladder. “I don’t have time for this.”

  “Make time!”

  He stopped and turned. “For God’s sake, Rat, the ship badly needs repairs. I’ll read it later.”

  “I don’t want favors.” Rat glared at him. “But you owe it to these men.”

  Diego sighed. Gripping the ladder with his legs, he opened the book. “What concerns you?”

  “Look at the last entry--written in the hand of the admiral.”

  Diego squinted. “This number must have been recorded in error. That’s all.”

  “Look again. Does our commander make mistakes every day?”

  Diego leafed through more pages. “Where did you get this?”

  “Columbus’s cabin. He hides it under his bed in a locked chest. What other secrets does he keep? Chachu and Lope even heard him talking to people who were not there.”

  Diego climbed higher. “Maybe Pero knows of these blunders.”

  Rat followed, his broken chains clanking against the rungs. “Get these cuffs off me!”

  “Pero!” Diego shouted as he popped his head into daylight and climbed onto the deck.

  Rat caught up with Diego and the ship’s pilot. Pero looked more like a Viking than a Spaniard with his flaming red hair and burly build.

  “What do you want?” He slung back a ladle of the rancid barrel water.

  Diego crowded him. “I need your log.”

  “Why? We’re still on course.”

  Rat moved closer and gritted his teeth. “Get it now!”

  Pero’s nostrils flared. “You’re supposed to be down below with the rest of the rats.”

  “Please.” Diego touched the pilot’s arm. “No quarrels.”

  Locking eyes with Rat, Pero said, “My watch is almost over, and I need food and sleep.”

  Diego looked to the stern of the ship.

  “Then tell me where it is. I’ll get it.”

  Pero yanked back his arm and stomped away. He returned with a tattered leather book. “Here. Give it back when you’re done.”

  “Has the admiral made today’s entry?” Diego asked.

  “That’s the problem?” The pilot rolled his eyes. “Where are those almonds we had yesterday?”

  “In the bodega by the olive oil. Might be soggy. We’ve taken on water. Get Chachu down there to make repairs.” He watched Pero wave over the boatswain, and then both men disappeared down the hatchway.

  “Hope he chokes on those nuts,” Rat muttered.

  Diego stuffed the logbooks in his pants and then pulled him under the quarterdeck. “Quiet.”
r />   “Hard to keep quiet, dragging around chains.”

  Diego unlocked the ankle cuffs. “Don’t let Columbus see you.”

  “Won’t matter when the men know his lies.” Rat kicked aside the shackles.

  “We must be certain of this.” Diego slid out the books and held them side by side. “They do look remarkably similar.”

  Rat snatched one of them. He scanned the pages. “You have the real logbook.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I spent enough time looking at it when you chained me with the cargo.”

  Diego glanced through the text. “Let me check that number again.”

  Rat flipped to Columbus’s last entry in Pero’s log. “Six hundred forty leagues.”

  Diego’s eyes widened as he wiped sweat from his brow. “Seven hundred sixty,” he said softly as he closed the book.

  Pero casually walked up, tossing back some almonds. “Chachu can’t find any leaks. I tried to tell him--” He stared at Diego’s face. “You look like death knocked at your door.”

  “You’ll see why. Do you know how far we’ve traveled?”

  “It’s my job to know.” Pero turned and spat out a shell. “Six hundred forty leagues.”

  Diego opened Columbus’s logbook and pointed to a page. “Look at this.”

  Pero’s eyes narrowed, and his jaw tightened as he read. “Seven hundred sixty?” He faced Diego. “Where’d you get this?”

  “Rat found it in Columbus’s cabin.”

  “We are paid for a journey of seven hundred fifty leagues,” Rat said. “Now we sail for free.”

  Diego exhaled. “We’ve been deceived by a Genovese wool monger.”

  Rat eyed Pero. “Columbus thinks us fools.”

  “I’m no one’s fool!” Pero shoved Columbus’s logbook in his belt and rushed to the port side of the ship. He untied the dinghy. “Full sail! We’re chasing Niña and Pinta. I’m not dying out here for this lunatic!”

  Rat turned to Diego. “I want my knife.”

  Diego nodded and stared at the men gathering around Pero. “I wanted to believe there was a new route to the Orient, Rat.”

  “It’s over. We mutiny today!” Rat strutted to the center of the deck. He glared at Columbus’s cabin. The last Wyatts were behind that worm-infested door. Soon they, too, would be wooden statues. As Columbus begged for his last breath, the membrane would rupture and decompose. No one would be able to save the Rellium. He imagined how pleased Dagonblud would be. He smiled. What a wonderful new world.

  CHAPTER 18

  SECRET HISTORY

  “I’m tellin’ you, Mr. Columbus, Rat took your logbook. I saw him open the chest.”

  Bam, bam, bam, bam!

  Blake turned toward the banging. With each blow the bed blocking the door shook.

  “Murderer!” a beefy voice bellowed.

  “God in heaven.” Columbus held back the wood framework. “Now Pero wants me dead.”

  “Who?” Blake helped push.

  “My pilot.”

  “What’s his problem?”

  The thumping intensified as the timber casing splintered.

  Blake turned to his uncle and sister. “Move the table over here!”

  They dragged the furniture and wedged it against the bed.

  Blake glanced at the top door hinge. The iron pin moved with each whack. “It’s gonna bust!”

  “Everyone, move back!” Columbus shouted.

  Blake recoiled as the doorjamb fractured. “Damn!” He hustled his sister into the corner.

  Uncle Leopold followed and shielded Erica. “Your father’s worst fear.”

  Columbus made the sign of the cross and then pushed the table against the wall. He sighed. “I must face this problem alone.”

  “Wait, Mr. Columbus.” Blake jumped in. “You can’t go out there. Those guys are totally out of control.”

  “Please, Blake.”

  “You don’t understand! If you don’t get to the New World, the future will fall apart.”

  “My men will show mercy.” Columbus slid the bed aside as Pero kicked in the door. He was a huge guy, who looked like a pro wrestler. He grabbed the admiral and dragged him down the steps.

  Erica shrieked and buried her face in Uncle Leopold’s shirt. “They’ll kill him down there.”

  Blake quietly closed the door and repositioned the bed. “They’ll kill us, too, if we don’t think of something fast.” He paced. “How did things get so messed up?” A scrap of the chronicle lodged between planks glistened against the dark floor. He wiggled the paper free. S-s-s-s-s. He turned. “What was that?”

  “What was what?” Erica spun around.

  “That hissing sound.”

  “Probably this boat . . . sounds like it’s going to break apart any second.”

  Leopold pulled over the chair. “Sit down, my dear. You’re looking rather weak-kneed.”

  She scooted the seat forward and then rested her cheek on the tabletop. “Blake, I don’t wanna be wood.”

  Bird-s-s-s, the scrap whispered.

  “There it is again! It sounded like ‘birds.’”

  “You hear birds?” Erica asked, her cheek glued to the table.

  Blake quickly gathered more pieces. He held the wad to his ear.

  Follow the birds-s-s to their winter’s res-s-s-t, a secret map leads a world to the wes-s-s-t. Admiral’s locked chest holds a hidden cours-s-s-e. Known only to him and history’s sourc-s-s-e.

  “That’s the book’s voice!” Blake said. “Doesn’t anyone else hear that?”

  Leopold snatched the paper. “Zounds! What did the chronicle say?”

  “Something about birds and winter. She said more, but . . .” Outside, the hollering and screaming increased. Blake shot a look at the door. “Dude, I don’t know--something about the west.”

  “You must remember everything she said! History is giving us a second chance to save Columbus.” Uncle Leopold held the scrap to his ear. “Oh, how I wish I could still hear her voice.”

  Blake cradled the top of his head in his hands and scrunched his face. “It was like ‘following the birds to their winter’s rest, a secret map goes to the west’ or something like that.”

  “Try closing your eyes,” Erica said. “That helps me remember things.”

  Leopold frantically gathered more of the shredded bits. “It must be precise.”

  “Come on. Someone else must have heard it.”

  Leopold shook his head. “Only you can hear her.”

  “What about Erica? Why can’t she hear it?”

  “Your sister never connected with the chronicle like you did.”

  “Something connected. She touched one of those jewels and flattened Rat on his butt.”

  “I see.” Leopold glanced at Erica. “You must still have the rocks from the membrane.”

  “Yeah, I do.” She pulled out a glowing stone.

  Leopold pushed it back in her pocket. “Incredibly powerful combination, membrane rocks and the chronicle’s jewels. Together they can move the heavens. Yet even they cannot repair her.” He turned back. “You must think, Blake!”

  “Okay, all right, no one talk.” He closed his eyes and stretched out his arms dramatically. “Come on, brain, cough it up.” He remembered some of the words exactly, some were kind of there, and the rest--no clue. This totally blew. “We’ve gotta find another way. Maybe she’ll say it again.”

  Uncle Leopold crossed his arms and glared at him. “Or maybe she will never speak again.”

  “What can I say? I just can’t remember.”

  “Give up, then.” Uncle Leopold looked thoroughly disgusted. “It’s quite easy to do, and you do have considerable experience with that.”

  Erica traced a crack in the table as a tear rolled down her cheek. “What if we can’t get home?”

  “Won’t matter if there’s no home to go back to.” Blake sat on the bed then fell backward. “It was like winter’s source and birds.”

  “Hey, wh
at’s that?” Erica stepped over toward the window and bent down. “Look! A ring!”

  Leopold took the gold band and inspected the inner rim. “Past, present, future. It’s the circle of time--your father’s ring!”

  Blake sprung to his feet. “That Rat guy dropped it when the ship rocked, and he was beating the crap out of me.”

  “Thank you, Fortune!” Leopold kissed the ring. “I thought it was lost forever. Here, Blake, this will help you to remember.”

  “No way,” he said happily, and slid the ring on his finger.

  “It’s a direct link to the Rellium.”

  His hand tingled as the words formed in his mind. “Whoa! That’s awesome. I can see the words--like writing in my brain. ‘Following the birds to their winter’s rest, a secret map goes’ . . . wait, no . . . ‘leads a world to the west.’”

  Kawham! Something big hit the door. Blake glanced at his sister and then walked over to the cracked frame. Pressing his ear against the wood, he heard someone yell, “Mutiny!”

  Another guy shouted, “Throw Columbus into the sea.”

  “They’re getting really mad out there, aren’t they?” Erica backed into the corner.

  “Concentrate, Blake!” Uncle Leopold said.

  Blake turned back. “Okay, let me think. ‘The admiral’s locked chest holds a hidden course known only to him and history’s source.’”

  Leopold shuffled through the torn paper. “Are you certain?”

  “Positive. What are you looking for, anyway?”

  “Our future!” Leopold pieced together strips of paper like a mad scientist conducting an experiment.

  The yelling outside intensified. Men chanted “Kill him, kill him.”

  “Voilà!” Leopold held a scrap in the air. “Words are appearing! The chronicle’s using your strength, Blake!”

  “See? I told you I could fix it.”

  “We’ve fixed nothing, yet.” Leopold handed some of the scraps to Erica. “Find anything readable.”

  Erica flipped over a few pieces. “These are all blacked out.”

  “Just look for writing.”

  “Here. This one says birds,” she said.

  “Good, good, good.” Leopold began arranging the scraps on the table.