“No!” the supervisor cried when he realized what he had done. In his carelessness, he had smashed the emergency switch, causing the machine to screech to a halt. Warren used the distraction to rush over and pull his guest off the conveyor belt.
“Oh! What horrors!” Mr. Vanderbelly gasped as he shook himself free. “Let us flee this place immediately!”
“Don’t let them get away!” the supervisor yelled, and the workers dashed after Warren and Mr. Vanderbelly as they made a break for the exit—but not before Warren snatched a copy of the paper from the freshly printed stack.
“Hey!” the pirate paperboy protested. Warren flicked the doubloon at him—the one the rooftop crows had gifted him—and the boy caught it in his grubby hands. He gaped at it in awe—it was worth 100 papers alone!
With the pirates hot on their heels, Warren and Mr. Vanderbelly plowed through the lobby and out the front door, spilling into the street where Petula and Bonny waited. Thankfully, Petula had a new portal ready and waiting, and Mr. Vanderbelly dove through it—only getting partially stuck before he managed to disappear all the way inside.
The pirate workers behind them skidded to a halt, fearful of the magical whirlpool.
“Arrgh! What’s that?” cried the supervisor, taking a step back.
“Witchcraft!” the secretary cried as she burst out of the building. “Stay away from that thing!”
“Hurry!” Petula cried. Bonny jumped into the portal next, and Warren dove in after her. Petula leaped in last, closing it behind her.
The group landed with a thud on the wooden dock outside the hotel.
“At least I got the paper!” Warren said. He grinned weakly.
“Ooh, let’s see,” Bonny said, taking it from him. “Yep, this is tomorrow’s edition. It’s as current as it gets.”
There came a sudden gust of wind, and the Privateer Post slipped from Bonny’s fingers.
“Whoops!” she cried.
“BAD LUCK!” her parrot screamed.
“No!” Warren cried as the paper fluttered off the dock and cartwheeled over the water. After all that effort—everything was about to be ruined!
Without a second thought, Warren ran full speed to the end of the dock and jumped off, snatching the paper midair. He crumpled it into a ball and tossed it back to Petula seconds before splashing into the frigid water. It was unpleasant, but at least the ink from the press was washed away in the process.
“That was a close one,” Petula muttered, shooting Bonny a stony glare.
Bonny scowled back.
arren wasted no time in steering the hotel away from Scurvyville. “Was there any trouble while I was away?” he asked Captain Grayishwhitishbeard.
“Yarr, just a little. But yer Beatrice put a quick stop to it. Pirates don’t much like magic, you see. If there’s one thing they’re scared of, it’s witches.”
Warren smiled. He would have to thank Beatrice later.
As soon as Scurvyville was nothing more than a smog-colored smear on the horizon, Warren permitted himself to uncrumple the newspaper and read the latest puzzle from the sea circus. It was a riddle.
Warren scratched his head in confusion.
“I wonder if there’s a strange island somewhere,” he said. “Maybe the legs aren’t really legs, but towers of rock.”
“Arr, in my travels, I’ve never seen a place like that,” Captain Grayishwhitishbeard said, stroking his beard.
“Anyway, islands don’t drink, either,” Warren sighed.
“Maybe it’s a trash island,” Petula said. “Because it’s messy.”
“But how is that refined?” Warren asked.
“I guess it’s not,” she admitted. “And that still doesn’t explain the drinking part.”
“The riddle seems to be describing a living creature more than a place,” said Warren.
“Maybe it’s a giant turtle?” Petula suggested.
“What kind of turtle is big enough to hold an entire circus on its back?” Warren countered.
“Mmm, turtle soup,” muttered Uncle Rupert from his hammock.
Warren and Petula made a face at each other. Yuck!
“So rich and oily…” Rupert smacked his lips. Then he frowned. “No, Mother, I will not wash my hands!”
“Does your uncle Rupert only dream about food?” Petula wondered aloud.
“Yes—oh! Wait a minute,” Warren said, the gears in his head turning. “Rich and oily, rich and oily…”
He clapped his hands excitedly. “That’s it! An oil rig! That’s the next location!”
“I don’t get it,” Petula said, frowning. “What’s an oil rig?”
“It’s a special structure that sucks up crude oil from beneath the sea so it can be turned into diesel fuel to power things like automobiles,” Warren explained. “The process of turning crude oil into fuel is called refining.”
“I’ve never heard of such a thing,” Petula said. “How do you know about it?”
“I learned about it from Jacques Rustyboots and the Gas-Powered Galleon,” Warren said. “In the book, the hero stumbles across an oil rig and uses the diesel to upgrade his ship’s engine, winning the annual pirate ship race.”
“It’s a good thing you read,” Petula said, “otherwise this riddle would have had us stumped.”
“Uncle Rupert solved it for me,” Warren said. “Maybe he’s smarter when he’s sleeping.”
“Pants sure are funny,” Rupert giggled.
“Or maybe not,” Petula said.
“Captain Grayishwhitishbeard, do you know of any oil rigs out here?” Warren asked.
“Arr, I do, indeed! There be a big one off the coast of the Crumbly Isles. It should be northeast o’ here, but I’d double-check with yer navigator to be sure.”
“I’ll go tell Mr. Friggs!” Warren said, hurrying off to the library.
Bursting into the room, Warren could see that, despite his recent organizing, the library was already slipping back into disarray. He almost tripped over a stack of books placed randomly in the doorway, and for some reason all of Mr. Friggs’s ceremonial masks were scattered on the ground instead of on the wall where Warren had hung them.
Warren slapped the newspaper onto his tutor’s (still relatively tidy) desk.
“I solved the puzzle!” Warren announced. “We need to chart a course for the oil rig near the Crumbly Isles as quickly as possible. Captain Grayishwhitishbeard thinks it should be northeast of our location.”
“I’m afraid we’ll have to wait for dark and use the stars to navigate,” Mr. Friggs said. “The compass hasn’t been working properly.”
He reached into a drawer and pulled out a large object the size of a dinner plate.
The compass’s needle swung wildly, then reversed. Back and forth it went, as though searching for true north but incapable of pinning it down.
“What’s wrong with it?” Warren asked in alarm.
“I wish I knew,” Mr. Friggs said. “And I’ll have to do my best without my tools—they’re still missing. At least I still have my trusty map.”
He reached for a rolled-up tube of yellowed paper and spread it across his desk.
“Oh, no!” he and Warren cried in unison.
The map was covered in blotches of ink that blotted out most of the surface.
“It’s ruined!” Mr. Friggs gasped.
“How could this have happened?” Warren said. “I know how careful you are with your maps!”
“I—I must have spilled a bottle of ink without realizing. Oh dear, this does complicate things.”
“Maybe there’s another map in the hotel. This can’t be the only one,” Warren said.
“You’re right. Check the game room. I do believe there could be a map in one of the bookcases there.”
Warren hurried off at once
, fretting over what bad luck he was having. It seemed like every effort he made to find Sketchy was being thwarted. Missing tools, broken compasses, spoiled maps.
It’s the thirteen-year curse! he thought in despair. Just when I think things are going my way, something bad happens!
As Warren entered the game room, he could hear the clack of wooden balls being hit with a cue as a group of elderly pirates played a game of snooker. Five more sat at a table nearby, playing cards, and Sharky was with yet another group at the far end of the room; huddled together, they pored over some sort of jigsaw puzzle.
Warren went to the bookshelf, which was stacked with novels and strategy guides for winning at chess, checkers, and other games. He pawed through the books, but there were no atlases or maps that he could see. He sighed wearily.
“Whatsh wrong, lad?” the toothless pirate asked. “Me eyeshight may be poor, but even I can shee yer upshet.”
“I’m just frustrated,” Warren said. “It seems that everything I do, I—”An argument erupted at the other end of the room, cutting him off.
Warren went over to see what the commotion was. As he got closer, he saw that it wasn’t a puzzle the pirates were working on…
And it was a splendid map, fully colored and with renderings of each island and continent on the globe. He could see that several large pins were stuck into the surface, marking various locations.
Two of the pirates were wrestling over a pin with a yellow head.
“Hand it over!” one growled.
“No, YOU!” the other snapped.
“Hold on!” Warren said. “Someone’s going to get hurt!”
He gently pried the pin from their hands and held it securely. “What’s this fight about?”
“Arr, each time we solve the riddle of where the Sea Circus will be, we stick a pin in the map marking its location,” Sharky explained. “These louts are fighting over who’ll get to do the honors. We take turns, ya see.”
“She did it last time!” one pirate complained. “It be my turn!”
“But he does a poor job!” the other replied. “His hands are shaky and he always sticks it in the wrong place!
“All right,” Warren said. “No more fighting in my hotel. Let’s all go back to being friends.”
He placed the pin on the coastline of the
“There! That’s the next place the Sea Circus will be.”
The pirates forgot their squabble as they leaned forward to inspect the locatioin.
“Now, do you mind if I borrow this map for a bit?” Warren asked. “We’ll need it to get to where we’re going.”
“Go on ahead, Cap’n!” Sharky said. “Just bring it back in one piece! We’ve been tracking that Sea Circus for years.”
“Aye, aye!” Warren said, and he hurried off to deliver the map to Mr. Friggs.
As he scurried up the stairs to the fourth floor, Petula burst out from around the corner, almost running into him.
“Waaah!” Warren cried.
Petula reached out and grabbed his lapels, preventing him from toppling backward.
“You must stop startling me like that!” Warren said when he recovered from the shock.
“Sorry. But listen, Warren, I’m very concerned.” Petula glanced about, making sure no one was within earshot.
“What’s wrong?”
“Everything!” she cried. “Haven’t you noticed how things keep going awry? Items are going missing. Machinery is getting broken. There was a leak in the hull this morning that my mother and I had to patch up with magic!”
“Well, yes,” Warren admitted. “But we have a hotel full of guests again. Things always get a little hectic when people are about.”
“No, it’s more than that…” Petula said, dropping her voice low.
Warren swallowed nervously and nodded.
I’ve thought the same thing.”
“What? No!” Petula cried. “That’s nonsense. What I mean is…Bonny!”
“Bonny?”
“She’s behind all of this, I’m convinced of it!”
Warren digested this information, and then he shook his head. “No, I don’t see how she could be responsible. She’s been trying to help us.”
“Is that what you call it? Warren, you’re too trusting!”
Warren was growing a little cross. “I know you don’t like Bonny, and yes, she’s a little rough around the edges. But she’s not used to having friends. She makes some mistakes, but she really does try.”
Petula sighed. “Warren, I was in the dining hall this morning, and when Bonny walked by the table, all the silverware quivered. I think she had a magnet in her pocket!”
“So?” Warren said.
“So?! That’s highly unusual…and suspicious!”
Warren couldn’t help but think of the broken compass. Could Bonny’s magnet have something to do with its malfunction? But why would she deliberately sabotage their progress? He decided he would have a chat with her later, but for now he had more pressing matters to attend to.
“I need to see Mr. Friggs,” Warren said to Petula, a little gruffly. He didn’t like what she was suggesting…but what if she was right?
hanks to the pirates’ map, Mr. Friggs was able to chart a course for the oil rig. Without a working compass, however, Warren had to stay on the roof all night, keeping an eye on the stars to ensure the hotel stayed on course. A blustery wind blew from the west, threatening to push them off track; Warren used the intercom to contact the control room and give Captain Grayishwhitishbeard instructions to adjust coordinates each time they drifted.
Warren huddled in his blanket and was grateful for the deep sides of the crow’s nest, which helped protect him from the biting wind. He was reading Jacques Rustyboots and the Caterwauling Coconuts by the light of a flickering lantern. So far, Warren’s hero had to contend with a band of sea witches riding sharks, a cannon battle with a fleet of rogue banjo smugglers, and, worst of all, a nasty cold—all while trying to transport a shipment of screaming haunted coconuts to a wealthy and mysterious client. As riveting as the story was, Warren’s eyes began to droop. It was getting late.
Just as he was nodding off, the rooftop trap door squeaked open, jolting him awake. Warren peered over the edge to the deck below.
He could see Bonny, without her parrot for once. (That was a relief. The bird could be annoying at times!) He watched as she paced around, rubbing her chin thoughtfully. What was she up to?
“Bonny?” Warren called. “What are you doing?”
Bonny let out a squeak and jumped. Then she glanced up at Warren and scowled. “It’s not nice to sneak up on people!”
“I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to. You seemed a little lost.”
“I’m NOT lost. I just came up for some fresh air.”
“It’s awful windy. Why don’t you join me in the crow’s nest?” Warren offered. “I could use the company.”
Bonny hesitated, but then nodded curtly and began to climb the pole. She hopped into the basket and looked about appraisingly.
“Not bad,” she said.
“I made it myself,” Warren said proudly.
“Hmph,” was all Bonny said to that.
“Here, share my blanket,” Warren said, offering her a corner.
Bonny looked at it stubbornly for a moment, then pulled it over her knees.
“Say, you must be tired,” she said. “Why don’t you let me take a shift? I can keep us on track.”
Warren recalled Petula’s suspicion and instantly felt guilty for almost believing her. Bonny was only trying to help.
“Thanks, but I’m wide awake now,” Warren said. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you, though.”
“About what?” Bonny asked warily.
“Well, um, I just want to get to know you better.”
“Ain’t nothin’ much to know,” Bonny said. “You stole my pirates, so here I am.”
“I didn’t steal them,” Warren protested.
“I’m just joking,” Bonny said with a snort. “You’re so gullible.”
Petula’s voice echoed in Warren’s mind: You’re too trusting.
“I’m sorry,” Warren said. “I’ve been a little worried of late. All sorts of strange things have been happening around the hotel, and it’s beginning to feel like something is up against me.”
He watched Bonny closely to see how her reaction. A smile crept onto her face and she said, “You mean, like a CURSE?”
“Er, well, sort of!”
“That’s because you’re unlucky thirteen,” Bonny stated matter-of-factly. “And it’s even worse because you’re the thirteenth Warren. The curse is doubled!”
“Yep,” she said. “I wouldn’t want to be you. Good thing I’ve still got a couple years before I turn thirteen. I don’t intend to fall victim to any curse. I’ll do whatever it takes!”
“Do you think there’s anything I can do to stop it?” Warren asked.
“Well, if I were you, I’d quit sailing all over the globe trying to chase down your friend. The more you travel under a curse, the more likely things are to go wrong.”
“But I can’t just abandon Sketchy!” Warren cried.
“Why don’t you wait till you turn fourteen? Then the curse will be over. It’ll be a lot easier for you, I promise.”
“But that’s a whole year…”
“Hey, I’m only trying to help,” Bonny said. “And I’m telling you, if you keep going forward, only worse and worse things are gonna happen.”
Warren considered Bonny’s words. Then he said: “Haven’t you ever cared about anyone enough that you would even risk a curse to help them?”
Warren the 13th and the Thirteen-Year Curse Page 8
