Warren the 13th and the Thirteen-Year Curse

by Tania del Rio

  “I’m sure they’re around here somewhere,” Warren said. “Try not to worry.” Inside, though, Warren was more than a little concerned. The missing tools would delay their search for Sketchy.

  “In the meantime, I have something I wanted to show you,” Warren said, hoping a change of subject would ease his tutor’s mind. He rolled up his sleeve to expose the numbers on his arm. “Do these numbers mean anything to you?” he asked. “I found them written in invisible ink on my father’s portrait. The ring revealed them.”

  “Is that so!” Mr. Friggs said, pleased by a new puzzle to distract him from his troubles. “Perhaps it’s some sort of passcode?”

  “Or maybe it’s coordinates!”

  “There’s too many numbers for that,” Mr. Friggs mused. “Let me jot these down and see if I can figure out a pattern. Perhaps if we add them together…” Lost in thought, Mr. Friggs began scribbling equations on a fresh sheet of paper.

  Warren let him be and hurried down to the control room. He wanted to try the numbers on the keypad and see if anything happened. But when he punched the keys of the typewriter, an angry BUZZZZZ! sounded as the control room alarm went off. A piece of paper shot out of a nearby slot, the word “INVALID” printed on its surface in red ink.

  The noise was loud enough to wake even Uncle Rupert, who ran for the door, yelling, “I’m late for school!”

  “Ooops, I guess that’s not it,” Warren said, frantically trying to stop the alarm. “I better think of something else!”

  he hotel arrived at Scurvyville a full day later than expected, due to Mr. Friggs’s missing instruments. The old man had finally agreed to allow Warren to tidy up the library as he continued to puzzle over the mysterious numbers, and even though Warren organized everything splendidly, the navigational tools were never found. What could have happened to them?

  Fortunately, Captain Grayishwhitishbeard had an intuitive talent for sea navigation, and he helped guide them on the right course through the power of his memory alone. Before long, the port could be seen on the horizon, through a thick haze of smog.

  “Land ho!” Captain Grayishwhitishbeard announced from the cockpit, where he was peering through the periscope.

  “Great work, Captain!” Warren said.

  The door to the control room swung open˜and˜Mr. Friggs˜entered,˜looking˜gleeful.

  “What brings you all the way down here?” Warren asked.

  “Good news, my boy! I cracked the code!”

  “You did?” Warren grinned. “How?”

  “I realized that it’s not a mathematical puzzle. It’s a word puzzle! Each number corresponds to a letter of the alphabet. A equals 1, B equals 2, C equals 3, and so on.”

  Mr. Friggs handed Warren a paper inscribed with the numbers from his father’s portrait. Warren grabbed a pen and quickly wrote down the letters that corresponded with the numbers.

  “Palimpsest?” Warren sounded out the word. “What does that mean?”

  “It refers to a manuscript or page that has been written over or erased to make way for new writing,” explained Mr. Friggs. “Traces of the old writing sometimes remain and are able to be recovered.”

  “Interesting,” Warren said. “But why would that word be written over my father’s portrait?”

  “I’m afraid I have no idea,” Mr. Friggs admitted. “But I would start looking around for palimpsests if I were you. I’ll poke through my library and see if I can find any there.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Friggs,” Warren said gratefully. “You did a great job solving this puzzle.”

  “Arrgh, sorry to interrupt,” Captain Grayishwhitishbeard said as the hotel pulled into the docks. “But we’ve arrived at Scurvyville!”

  The thick brown smog clung to the air, smelling of gunpowder and smoke. The sounds of booming cannons and firecrackers could be heard in the distance, as well as the occasional scream or peal of laughter. Trash littered the streets and the brightly painted ramshackle buildings were crammed close together, practically on top of one another, creating a haphazard tapestry of hues.

  Warren hopped onto the wooden dock with Captain Grayishwhitishbeard, and they secured the hotel to a post with a thick rope so that it wouldn’t drift away. Warren couldn’t help but notice several pirates on the boardwalk, eyeing the hotel hungrily.

  “Arr, there might be a bit o’ trouble,” Captain Grayishwhitishbeard said in a low voice. “Some of that lot might get the bright idea to try to take over the hotel. But don’t ye worry, I’ll guard it along with the rest of the Calm Waves crew.”

  “Thanks,” Warren said, though he felt a little uneasy. Luckily, Beatrice had made a full recovery and was currently perched in the rooftop crow’s nest serving as lookout. She was wearing a black cloak and looked rather like a crow herself. As he glanced up, she gave Warren a little salute, and he nodded back. Between her and his pirate guests, he knew the hotel was in good hands. Even so, the less time they spent in Scurvyville, the better.

  Petula walked out onto the dock, looking annoyed as Bonny followed on her heels. Mr. Vanderbelly hurried after them.

  “I’m ready to go when you are,” she said to Warren. “But I think they ought to stay behind.”

  “I know how to deal with unruly pirates,” Bonny declared. “You guys will be swindled silly without my help!”

  “YOU BETTER BELIEVE IT!” her parrot screeched.

  “And I simply must see where the Privateer Post is printed!” Mr. Vanderbelly insisted. “How else am I supposed to steal—er, study their methods?”

  Warren looked at Petula and shrugged. “Safety in numbers, I suppose, right?”

  The unlikely foursome made their way from the harbor into the city. The buildings closed in around them, and suspicious eyes peered at them from every window. They weaved through narrow winding alleys, looking nervously over their shoulders as Scurvyville pirates leered at them with nasty grins or hostile sneers.

  “Where do you suppose the printing press is?” Warren whispered to Bonny. “Should we ask for directions?”

  “Not unless you want to be led into a trap!” Bonny said. “The only way to get information is to bribe someone. Watch.”

  Bonny walked up to a pirate leaning unsteadily against a large barrel. “You there!” she said, pulling out a shiny gold coin. “I’ll give you this if you show us where the Privateer Post is. And I’ll give you another if you do it quickly.”

  The pirate’s eyes went wide at the sight of the coin and he licked his lips hungrily. “Arright, lassie,” he said, holding out his hand. “Hand it over and I’ll show ye the way!”

  “Nice try!” Bonny said. “But I’m not giving you anything until you deliver the goods.”

  “He said hand it over,” snarled a rough voice behind them. “Plus whatever else you have in your pockets.”

  Warren and his friends turned to see that they were surrounded by pirates. They had emerged from the shadows of the alleyway and began closing in, hands on their belts where their cutlasses hung.

  “Great,” Petula whispered. “We just managed to attract attention by flashing money around.”

  Bonny went pale. “Er, hold on, fellas…”

  Warren knew he had to think fast. He grabbed the coin from Bonny’s hand and threw it as hard as he could. “If you want it—go get it!” he cried.

  The pirates stumbled over one another as they raced to reach the loose coin first.

  “Run!” Warren cried, and they bolted in the opposite direction, not stopping until they emerged into a crowded plaza swarming with still more pirates.

  As they paused to catch their breath, Mr. Vanderbelly sniffed the air. “I do believe I smell ink. Follow me!”

  He led them across the plaza and into a vibrant market crammed with stalls where pirate merchants were selling a dizzying array of wares. There were baskets of fruits, spices, tea
leaves, and coffee beans. Tables were laden with silverware, silk, jewelry, tools, and trinkets. A baker was selling tins of “scurvy-proof” biscuits, and a weaver offered handmade flags in custom combinations. At yet another booth, a doctor sold medicine for seasickness and dropsy. There was a stall piled high with wooden toys for pirate children, and a tent filled with knives and other weapons, which was guarded by an exceptionally large woman and her black hound. There was even a stall selling parrots in every color of the rainbow; they flapped their wings to display their plumage. All their squawking was lost amidst the clamor of barter as pirate patrons negotiated for the best prices.

  Warren’s jaw dropped. He had never experienced any place like this. It was so vibrant, so chaotic!

  “Try a taste of these delicious tropical pears, young master!” A young woman smiled at Warren, holding out a tray of peach-colored slices. Warren reached out to take one, but Bonny quickly swatted his hand away.

  “That’s a scam!” she said. “The minute you touch it, you own it. And then she’ll make you buy the whole crate!”

  The woman snarled as Bonny pulled Warren away from the booth. “Don’t touch nothin’!” she warned.

  “Aha!” Mr. Vanderbelly exclaimed as they exited the market. “I can definitely smell the printing press now!”

  Even Warren could detect an acrid scent wafting in the air. The reporter quickened his pace and the rest followed when he turned right, then left, then right again, as though he were a bloodhound on a trail. They took yet another turn and finally there it was: an enormous brick building with rooftop smokestacks pumping out noxious plumes of black smog. Grimy gold letters hanging over the double doorway spelled out “The Privateer Post.” Clanging and banging could be heard from within.

  “You found it!” Warren said happily.

  He stepped up to the door and clicked the brass knocker, which was in the shape of an octopus. It reminded him of his best friend, and his heart lurched. We’ll find you soon, Sketchy! Just hang on! he thought to himself.

  he door swung open and a tight-lipped woman with her gray hair in a bun peered down at Warren through pointy spectacles. “We aren’t interested in whatever you’re selling!” she snapped.

  “Actually, we’re not selling anything. We’re looking to buy,” Warren said.

  “Buy what?”

  “Your most current newspaper. Tomorrow’s edition, if you have it ready.”

  “We don’t sell newspapers here; we make them!” the woman sniffed. “If you want a paper, find a shop that sells them.”

  She tried to slam the door in Warren’s face, but Mr. Vanderbelly quickly stepped forward and blocked it with his arm. “Ahem! Allow me to introduce myself, madam. I am Mr. Vanderbelly, an esteemed journalist from Fauntleroy, and I—”

  the woman said, and this time she slammed the door for good.

  “How dare she!” Mr. Vanderbelly said. “It’s almost as though the people of this wretched city have no respect for journalists!”

  Bonny snickered.

  But Mr. Vanderbelly was undeterred. “We simply must get inside. I must see how their press operates!”

  “They’re not going to let us in,” Warren said. “Let’s just go find a shop that sells the paper. Which is what we should have done to begin with.”

  “Are you giving up so easily?” Mr. Vanderbelly said accusingly. “A true journalist never abandons a task. Not when there is a story to be told.” And with that, he whipped out his notebook and began drafting a new article: “Infiltrating the mysterious Privateer Post. What are they trying to hide? Only I, Mr. Vanderbelly, can find out!”

  “I could make a portal,” Petula said, grinning mischievously.

  “I thought you couldn’t draw portals to places you’ve never been,” Warren said.

  “I can’t draw portals to places I’ve never seen,” Petula corrected. “But while that horrid lady was talking, I looked behind her into the building. I can get us inside.”

  “That would be trespassing,” Warren said.

  “Sketchy is worth breaking a rule or two for, don’t you think?” Petula said. “We’ll just slip in and out. Grab a newspaper and go.”

  “That would be stealing!”

  “Leave a coin behind, if you must,” Petula said. “We’ve already wasted enough time.”

  “He’s too much of a chicken,” Bonny said.

  “BOK BOK BOK!” her parrot shrieked.

  Warren sighed. “I’m not a chicken, I just—never mind. Fine, let’s do it.”

  Petula drew a circle in the air, and a portal appeared. She stuck her head into it, then pulled back out. “O.K., the coast is clear! Bonny and I will wait here—it’s easier to hide two people than four.”

  Warren stepped through the portal, feeling his stomach swirl like the inside of a washtub, and came out the other side. When his vision stopped spinning, he saw that he was in a large, dreary lobby. A desk sat nearby, no doubt the station of the unpleasant woman who had answered the door. Thankfully, she was nowhere to be seen.

  Mr. Vanderbelly gasped, straining to get through the portal. He finally managed to wriggle free and landed with a thump upon the floor.

  Warren grabbed his sleeve and they hurried across the room, then through a doorway into the printing press area. Thankfully, the din of machinery covered up their footfalls.

  The printing press was an impressive hulk of metal and gears. Steam hissed and pistons pumped and metal stamped as paper was rolled onto rattling conveyor belts to be inked with the day’s news. Pirate workers dressed in dirty overalls tended the machine, yelling at one another as they fed paper into the proper slots. There was so much commotion, no one even noticed Warren and Mr. Vanderbelly enter.

  They slunk along the edge of the room, hiding behind pipes and concrete pillars as they followed the progress of the machine from blank paper to printed page. Mr. Vanderbelly looked as giddy as a schoolboy. He scribbled furiously as he walked, attempting to describe every detail.

  Finally, they reached the end of the machine, still unseen by the workers, whose arms were stained black with ink as they pulled fresh papers off the conveyor belt and tossed them onto a large stack. A young pirate paperboy stood nearby, dividing them into smaller stacks, which he wrapped with twine in preparation for shipment.

  How could Warren grab one without anyone noticing?

  “Incredible,” Mr. Vanderbelly said in a low voice. “This machine puts the Fauntleroy press to shame! Look how quickly it runs, how smoothly. Pirate steam technology at its best. I must get a closer look—I must see its inner workings!”

  “It’s too risky,” Warren said.

  “Not for I!” Mr. Vanderbelly declared. “I am a journalist! I have immunity! Enough of this sneaking around.”

  Warren ducked behind a barrel as Mr. Vanderbelly stepped forward, revealing himself.

  “Good day to all!” he said, gesturing grandly.

  The workers started in surprise and the machine ground to a halt with a screeching of metal and a hiss of steam.

  “My name is Mr. Vanderbelly, and I am an esteemed journalist from Fauntleroy! I could not help but admire your most impressive printing press, and I was hoping to write an article about it. Which of you will do me the honor of an interview?”

  The supervisor, a tall, lanky pirate with a stubbly head, stepped forward, holding a large wrench in a rather threatening manner. “You’re trespassin’! How’d you get in here?”

  “Through a portal, if you must know,” Vanderbelly said. “But enough about that—how is it that your machine is able to print so quickly? I would love to see its inner workings, if I might.”

  “He’s come here to spy on us, Boss!” shouted one of the workers. “ ‘He’s here to steal our secrets!”

  “Is that so?” The supervisor slapped the wrench in the palm of his hand. PAT. PAT. PAT. />
  “No, indeed!” Mr. Vanderbelly replied. “I merely came to learn!”

  snarled the supervisor, and the workers descended upon Mr. Vanderbelly like a pack of wolves.

  “I have immunity!” he cried. “Don’t you know the journalists’ code?”

  “We pirates have our own code!” the supervisor barked as his workers tied Mr. Vanderbelly with the paperboy’s twine and heaved him over their heads. “You want to see how the inside of our machine works? We’ll show you!”

  Warren watched in horror as they dropped Mr. Vanderbelly onto the conveyor belt and started up the press. The gears chugged to life with the sound of grinding metal. He had to do something—and fast—or else Mr. Vanderbelly would be pressed like a pancake!

  “NOOOOO!” Mr. Vanderbelly shrieked as the conveyor belt pulled him closer and closer to the mouth of the press.

  Warren saw a red emergency switch near the supervisor. Without another thought, he dashed forward, hoping to reach it before the priates realized what was happening. But he slipped in a puddle of ink and wiped out across the floor.

  “Another one!” the supervisor cried. “Grab him!”

  The workers leaped into action and tried to seize Warren, but the oily ink had coated his skin, making him as slippery as an eel. He wriggled out of their grasp and dashed for the emergency switch.

  “HEELLLP!” Mr. Vanderbelly cried as his feet drew ever closer to a large metal stamper dropping onto the conveyor belt violently. CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

  The supervisor swung his wrench at Warren, missing him by a fraction of an inch. Warren tried again to yank on the switch, but his hands were too slippery. The supervisor swung again, and Warren ducked out of the way. The wrench swooped over his head and banged against the switch, sending sparks flying.