The Wicked Passage (A Blake Wyatt Adventure)

The Wicked Passage

A

Blake Wyatt Adventure

N.M. Singel

MITCHELL-MORRIS PUBLISHING

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used factiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

MITCHELL-MORRIS PUBLISHING

Port Richey, Florida

Copyright © by N.M. Singel

E-ISBN-13: 9781937629168

MITCHELL-MORRIS PUBLISHING, December 2011

mitchellmorrispublishinginc.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles and reviews.

PROLOGUE

October 9, 1492:

Somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean

“Diego, it’s time. He dies tonight.”

“No, Rat. We wait.”

“Wait for what?
Another day on this floating tombstone?”

“Calm down, my friend. We must stick to the plan.”

“What plan? These men are losing their mind! The food’s rotten, there’s hardly any water to drink, and at last watch, Pero tried to kill Luis for a scrap of maggoty fish.”

Rat grabbed the wet, slimy rail of the Santa Maria and looked out over the blackness of the sea. He sucked back the mucus running from his nose. According to the grand assembly’s archives, land would be in sight in just a few days, and time was his enemy. He studied the documents again. He knew the perfect time to strike. He’d convinced just about every man and boy on the ship that the great Christopher Columbus was sending them to their death. But looking down at the bubbled, infected sores on his hands, he remembered that the strong determination of these men still stood in his way.

Rat wiped off a bit of pus oozing down his hand from a newly opened wound. The constant rope burns had scarred his once-pampered fingers, and the scabbed-over blisters seemed to blend with the rough wood of the ship. But the gold ring around his finger still shimmered brightly, reminding him of his real mission, a mission he’d complete even if he had to kill to do it.

He watched as Diego de Araña inspected a new patch on the arm of his shirt and tried to chew off a piece of stray thread with his remaining teeth. “Patience, Rat,” said the pudgy master-at-arms. “There’s much to think about first. King Ferdinand will ask questions. And it’s rumored that our precious admiral has the favor of the queen. Are you prepared to go back to jail?”

“What do I care about jail? We’re all going to die out here.” Rat looked to the stern of the ship. The raised quarterdeck of the Santa Maria, a platform several steps above them, accommodated the admiral’s cabin, where a lamp burned. “Ah, look, Diego! He’s saying his evening prayers. Let’s end this doomed voyage now. He’ll never see us coming.”

“We can’t kill a man who’s talking to God.”

“God has abandoned us! Do you not see that? It’s been thirty-three days since we last saw fertile earth. No bird even ventures over these cursed waters.”

Diego joined Rat’s inspection of the open ocean and nodded. “True. No man should come to the end of the earth without
so
much as a good meal.”

Rat straightened. “It is decided then. He’ll be dead before first light.”

Diego deeply inhaled and looked back at the soft glow coming from Columbus’s cabin. “You must have faith, my friend. Perhaps the admiral will find his way after all.”

Rat pulled a knife from his belt and ran his finger down the dull, jagged blade. If he didn’t get this mutiny started soon, then Columbus would certainly find the New World.

The thought sent an ice-cold shiver up his spine.The Tolucan would not fail this time. All the Wyatts were dead--except one, a kid who didn’t matter.

Rat latched on to Diego’s upper arm, digging his dirty nails deep into the man’s blubbery skin, hoping the slight pain would help Diego focus on Rat’s words. “Señor de Araña, you’re nothing but a mouse. Finding a new route to India is a myth. If we don’t turn back now, we’ll never see our beautiful Spain again.”

“We will see our beautiful Spain again!” Diego shook free and rubbed his arm. “Rat, my friend, I fear this long voyage is making you sick in the head. Perhaps you should cut back on all that rat meat you eat. You’re turning into one.”

No one knew his real name, and no one dared to ask. Of course Rat wouldn’t have told them anyway. He tucked the knife back into his belt, then tied his long, matted hair into a ponytail and glared at the admiral’s cabin. “The king will see that this great enterprise is madness. Just a reckless idea dreamed up by a foreigner--an Italian, no less.”

Both men abruptly stopped talking when Admiral Columbus opened his cabin door and walked across the little deck above them.

“My friend, Diego,” he yelled down. “What a beautiful night! It’s like April in Andalusia. Only the song of the nightingale is missing.”

“Very true, Admiral,” Diego yelled back.

“Who’s that with you down there?”

“No one--just me, and, uh, Rat.”

“Well, what does my favorite rodent catcher make of this great adventure?”

Rat looked up at the ruddy-faced Italian and spat on the deck. He wasn’t going to pretend that he cared about this miserable voyage anymore. It was time to murder Columbus. He looked up at the admiral and bleated out centuries of frustration. “I think you are an arrogant fool, Admiral.”

Columbus walked slowly down the creaking wooden stairs. The lamplight from his cabin still burned, and the glow behind him made him appear even taller than his above-average frame. He folded his arms and stared at the weather-beaten man. “I don’t think I heard you, deckhand. Perhaps this salty air confuses my hearing.”

“I said I think you are an arrogant fool, señor.”

“Admiral,” Diego said quickly, “
pay
no attention to him. Hunger is talking. He means no disrespect.”

Columbus didn’t answer. He turned and walked back into his cabin. A few seconds later the soft light dimmed until it extinguished.

“What’s wrong with you?” Diego hissed. “Do you want him to suspect something?”

“It doesn’t matter, señor. My work here is almost done.”

“Listen to me, Rat. You’re nothing on this ship. Glory drives these men, and I will not let you take that from them. The men on Niña and Pinta need to be with us or this mutiny will surely fail. Now listen and listen well because I’m tired of keeping my eye on you. At first light we sail closer to the other two ships. We’ll send Juan over with the message. He can be trusted.”

Diego scanned the horizon for the other two ships and continued. “There they are. Dios! Those caravels are moving like they have Portuguese cannons aimed at their hulls. Who knew they’d be so nimble in these windless seas?”

“Money drives those men, not glory,” Rat muttered.

“Yes, well, ten thousand maravedis is a year’s wages for most men, including you. Perhaps Queen Isabella’s reward does kindle their fires. That’s quite a prize for a hungry sailor.” Diego exhaled a loud sigh and inspected the lifeless sails over his head. “Where has God put all the wind tonight?”

“There’s no wind on the edge of the earth,” Rat said.

“God willing, these sails will swell like muffins in an oven before night’s end. We’ll catch up by daybreak.”

Rat grunted, continuing to focus on the western horizon.

“Yes, well, I suggest you get some sleep, Rat, my friend. Rodrigo will signal them to slow on the morning watch.”

Rat pulled a small piece of rope from his pocket and stuck it in his mouth. The taste of the rope was far better than the stale, hard biscuits left in the bug-infested food supply. He farted. The vile rat meat he ate not only earned him his foul name but gave him uncontrollable gas.

He turned away from Diego and continued to stare at the open sea, unmoved by the sailor’s babble. Christopher Columbus would be dead before sunrise.

CHAPTER 1

THE SUBSTITUTE TEACHER

Thunk! Blake Wyatt’s forehead crashed squarely onto the center of his desk, piling his unruly mop of blond, sun-scorched hair into a mound of unwashed curls around his ears.

“Am I disturbing your nap, Mr. Wyatt?” Mr. Price, the substitute teacher, asked.

Thirteen-year-old Blake woke when he heard his name. He looked around his classroom and tried to clear his head from the crazy-weird dream he’d just had: Hundreds of riderless dirt bikes were doing doughnuts on the school’s football field, ripping up all the newly planted grass with their knobby tires and scattering the turf like a giant blender without a lid.

“Whoa,” he said to himself as he cleared the foggy images from his brain. Straightening out his bunched-up Clover Heights football jersey, he said, “That was totally awesome.”

“I assume you’re speaking of today’s lecture, Mr. Wyatt,” the substitute said, pushing his little square eyeglasses farther up his nose.

“What lecture?”

“The lecture that has apparently interrupted your sleep.”

“Uh, what?
Uh, no.
I slept pretty
good
,” said Blake, cracking up the class as he tried to settle into a more comfortable position on the butt-numbing molded plastic chair.

“I’m not amused, Mr. Wyatt,” Mr. Price snapped. He resumed his scribbling on the chalkboard.

“Sorry,” Blake said.

“Sorry is a word designed for those who refuse to get it right the first time, Mr. Wyatt.”

“Whatever, dude,” Blake mumbled. He snuck a peek at the buzzing text message on his cell phone from his best friend, Trevor: Rttr ticked.
Knows UR quitting.

Blake scrunched up half his face and slid the phone back into his pocket. How the heck did Coach Ritter find out he was quitting the team? He told only Trevor and a few of the other guys. He knew Ritter would totally freak, and so would his mother, but he
had
to do it. He just didn’t have enough time for playing football and fixing his dirt bike and doing all the stuff his mom wanted him to do. He took a deep breath and began sketching dirt bikes in the margins of his notebook. Maybe he should have stayed home sick today.

“Mr. Wyatt?” Price asked.

Blake looked up to see the substitute standing beside his desk.
“Yeah?”

“Your little illustrations do not appear to be notes for today’s lecture.”

“Sorry,” he said.

“Sorry again?
That word is quite convenient for you, isn’t it?” He made his way back to the chalkboard.

Blake didn’t respond; instead, he turned to look at the steam rising from the cafeteria below, drifting into the only open classroom window. The lunch ladies were at it again, poisoning the air with that disgusting meat-and-vegetable concoction they’d brewed up every Tuesday since the beginning of time. Everyone called it the “upchuck bowl.”
So much for lunch.
No way could he stomach that heap of brown chunks smothered in blue-green gravy. At least there was still half a candy bar in his locker.

Blake studied the clock hanging over the chalkboard. The second hand looked stuck. He slouched in his chair and flipped the page of his notebook. Maybe he’d tell his mom tonight, after he mowed the lawn, and after he took out the trash, and after he fixed the gate latch. Then she’d understand why he quit the team. He was the only man around the house, and quitting football was his only option.

His stomach growled. Where was that bell? He glanced at his phone again and scrolled back through the messages. One was from his mother. She sent it a few weeks ago, just before the first game of the season. It said: Go get em Tiger I’m so proud of you.

He sighed and tucked the phone back in his pocket. His mom worked two jobs just to make sure he and his sister, Erica, had everything they needed, including the extra money to buy his football cleats and that broken old dirt bike. No way would his mom believe that argument. Maybe he should just tell her straight: practices were a total hassle.

Doodling
some random lines in his notebook, he caught himself trying to remember his dad, but he couldn’t. He connected the lines and made the letter M, then added ichael next to the M, then underlined the whole thing. He scratched out his dad’s name and brushed off the pencil dust.

His father was supposed to be the man of the house. It wasn’t his fault that his dad had died. What if Blake didn’t want to be the man of the house anymore? He examined the teeth marks on his pencil. One of them looked like a football. He scratched off the black numeral two and tried to carve a goalpost in the chewed wood with his thumbnail. Come on, bell! Fifty minutes of this history garbage was all he could take.

“Ladies and gentleman, as you can see, I have exhausted every inch of space on this chalkboard for today’s lesson,” Price said, dusting chalky powder from his hands. “So I ask you, why do we even bother to teach history?”

Blake wondered the same thing. He glanced up at the strange little man with the graying beard. He was wearing a stained tweed jacket, and his necktie hung crooked against his wrinkled shirt. He looked like a grandfather--sort of shriveled and messy.

“Anyone?”
Price asked again, scanning the class.

Blake sunk lower in his chair. Come on, clock! Move!

“Mr. Wyatt, how about you? Please enlighten us. You look like a bright young man despite your apparent lack of sleep.”

As the chuckling class quieted, Blake squirmed in his chair.
Bright?
He went out of his way not to look bright. He hated being called on for anything, but this history stuff had to be the absolute worst.

“Well, I’m, uh, not sure,” he said slowly, trying not to sound as though he was stalling for more time off the clock. Come on, bell,
ring
!

The man turned to the chalkboard and wildly erased the entire mess and scribbled Future in giant, scraggy letters. “Mr. Wyatt, do you know why I would write this word in a history class?”

“Uh, no.”

“Because the future needs the past, Mr. Wyatt--like an old friend in trouble. Without history, there can be no future.” He turned and wiped more chalk off his jacket sleeves. “Do you understand?”

“Uh, yeah, whatever.”
Blake peeked at the clock. This guy was getting really weird.

The substitute coughed a few times before he started patting down his pockets, searching for something. “Everything you see before you today
exists
because history shaped the present and will eventually create the future. Remember, you hold the answers in your hand.”

Price’s speech stopped abruptly when the bell finally rang. Blake voiced a muffled “Yes!” and grabbed his books. As the noise from the retreating class got louder, a tiny, weak call came from the odd little man. It sounded like “Mr. Wyatt, I need to speak to you,” but Blake ignored it and hurried toward the door with the rest of class. He probably didn’t hear it right, anyway. There was nothing more this substitute could want from him.

“Mr. Wyatt!”

Blake stopped and slowly
turned,
knowing his plan to escape wasn’t going to work. “I really need to get going.”

“Just a few minutes.
I have something important to discuss with you.”

Blake examined the man a bit closer. His dirty beard clung like roadkill to his thin, unwashed face, and a putrid odor escaped from his mouth with each breath. But the strangest thing was how the old guy looked at him as though he already knew him.

“Are you ready to learn something now, Mr. Wyatt?”

“Uh, this is my lunch period,” Blake tried to say politely. Resorting to Plan B, he inched away as he spoke.

“Believe me, lunch can wait.” Price stood and from under Mr. Mancuso’s desk retrieved a beaten-up wooden box, about a foot high and a foot wide. There was some sort of carving on the lid--maybe a bird with a lion’s head?--but the weathered carving was barely visible. The substitute carefully placed the box on the desk and wiped the dust from the lid.

The carving looked familiar, but Blake had no idea why. Examining the box more closely, he tried to remember where he’d seen those markings before, but only meaningless, disjointed thoughts filled his head.

“Good and evil come in many sizes,” the man muttered.

Blake repositioned his books under his arm and slowly walked backward toward the door. “Uh, yeah, that’s nice, but, seriously, I’m kinda hungry.”

The man looked up at him and grimaced.
“For that distasteful vegetable and meat entrée?
Or perhaps you’re referring to that stale, partially eaten candy bar in your locker, Blakemore?”

Blake struggled to hang on to the books that were slipping from his hands. Nobody knew his real name was Blakemore except his mom and his sister. He’d even made Erica swear on their dad’s grave never to tell their friends.

Price shuffled past him to the door and closed it. “Somehow I thought you were going to be
more noble
--more valiant--or at least a bit more sophisticated. You’re nothing like your father.”

Blake’s skin suddenly felt cold. This guy knew something about his dad? His father had been dead for years. He was a total mystery. His mother rarely talked about him except for a few rehashed stories around birthdays and holidays. And the only photograph of his dad that even existed was framed and propped up on his mother’s dresser--as though he actually might come home one day and be part of the family again.

Blake studied the man’s rigid face. His wrinkles were harsh and thick, and his eyes were clouded, as though he needed more than glasses to see.

“Did you know my father?” Blake asked. He felt dizzy.

The man gently ran his hands over the wooden box again. “Well, Mr. Wyatt, let’s just say we were . . . business associates.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? My dad wasn’t in any business.”

“My apology.
You are correct, in part. He was, by far, the best sapphire traveler who ever lived. I was very saddened to hear what happened to him. Oh, yes, yes, yes, very sad indeed.”

Blake felt his face redden. Sweat from his hands moistened the vinyl stickers on his notebook’s cover.

“Set your things down, young man.”

Blake tossed his rarely opened history text onto the nearest desk and tried to shake off a weird feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Who are you?”

“That’s not important. We have pressing issues at hand. I need to tell you about your father.”

“Look, dude, I don’t know who you are or why you’re in my history class, but there’s nothing I don’t already know about my dad.”

“Are you sure?”

Blake shivered. What did this guy know about his father? And why would his mother keep it a secret from him? “You know my mom, too?” he whispered.

“Of course.
The beautiful Madeleine Eleanor Wyatt,” the old man said, slightly singing her name. “You’ve inherited her blond curls.”

“She never said anything about you.”

“That’s because of quite a long story, which will be saved for a more opportune time. But for now we must hurry.” The old man pulled a silver, tarnished pocket watch from his jacket. “We’re losing precious minutes. I must say, I am just a bit surprised. I thought you’d be ready by now.”