The bulldogs appeared from the waving blades. They padded through the mud toward him, occasionally stopping to sniff the ground.
“The invisible made visible,” the book said. “The unknown made known.”
“You knew where the bulldogs were all along?”
“In Saphir Pré, nothing is as it seems.”
Blake snorted. “Yeah, like tell me something else I didn’t know.”
The Parabulls trudged closer.
The blue grass changed into bright misty blobs of red. He stumbled backwards. Green mist appeared to his right and yellow mist to his left. Blake turned around. The fog was dark blue. He tried to touch the colors, but his hand moved through the mist. “Cool trick, but I’m done with all this.”
“It is pretty cool, isn’t it?” MacArthur emerged from the red fog. His bulldog voice resonated strong and sure, like that coming-attraction guy at the movies. “This is how the world looks from the inside out.”
Guinevere appeared from the green haze. “Poor boy, so much to learn.”
“You guys talk?” Hey, the book talks, too, he thought, so why should I be surprised.
Guinevere surveyed the haze. “This beautiful, strange place has always been here.” She turned to Blake. “You were just never able to see it.”
“So is this like magic or something?”
“Magic? Of course not,” MacArthur said. “It’s science.”
“This doesn’t look like anything I ever saw in a science class.”
MacArthur grunted. “Maybe it should’ve been. This is how all science begins--quantum physics, the smallest particle that you can’t see or hear or touch. You should know about this.”
“But now you can see it,” Guinevere said. “Knowledge. Truth. Energy. Matter. Each tiny bit makes up the whole. It’s how things work. You’re just seeing it up close.”
Blake looked around.
“All things have energy, Blake, a flower, a bird, you . . . everything.”
“So? What does that have to do with anything?”
The bulldogs looked at each other.
“Everything,” MacArthur blurted out. “It’s the power that commands this universe.”
“Yeah, right. Like a flower or a bird commands the universe.”
Guinevere said, “In a way, you all do. Where do you think all this energy comes from?”
“I don’t know. I never really thought about--”
MacArthur interrupted. “Maybe I can explain it this way. Let’s start with the sun. There’s a lot of energy in the sun. Right?”
“Yeah.”
“So when the sun sends out all that energy to our planet, what do you think happens to it?”
“It fades away?”
“No, more like the energy gives itself away.” MacArthur glanced at Guinevere. “He won’t be able to understand. He doesn’t understand time, either.”
“Yeah, I do.” Blake squinted. “Sort of.”
“See what I mean, Guinevere?” MacArthur sat and with his hind leg, began vigorously scratching one of his ears.
Guinevere turned to Blake. “Let me try again.” An amazingly beautiful flower grew from the ground in front of her. It looked like a daisy, but each petal was a different color. “This flower is borrowing the sun’s energy to grow, just like everything else in the universe.”
“Borrowing?”
“Of course. The flower doesn’t keep all that energy for itself. That’s not how things work.”
A large brown rabbit with droopy ears hopped out of the red mist near Blake and ate the flower.
Guinevere looked up at Blake. “Now do you see? The flower borrowed the sun’s energy so it could grow into a beautiful plant. The rabbit ate the flower. Now the rabbit has the sun’s energy.”
“What does this have to do with me?”
“This energy doesn’t stop at flowers, Blake,” MacArthur said. “The knowledge of the past gives energy to the future. Time and space? Just part of the whole enchilada.” MacArthur tilted his head and looked at Blake.
He sighed and inspected the colors around him. An enchilada sounded really good right now. He needed to eat.
Guinevere sat next to MacArthur. “You’re inside light, Blake, in the middle of a particle.”
He looked around. “How can I be inside a light particle?”
“It’s just a matter of size,” MacArthur explained. “You’re just a speck right now. Actually, you’re less than a speck.”
“The power of the Rellium starts with the smallest particle, invisible but still there.” Guinevere dug a peephole in the purple squish. “Look. It’s your house.”
Blake dropped to his knees in the gunk and peered through the opening. His mother was reading the back of a bag of chocolate chips while the kitchen TV blared some talk show about how not to look fat. “Hey, Mom! Mom!”
“She can’t hear you,” the chronicle said from nearby. “You’re just a particle in the invisible space above her.”
Blake sat hard in the squish and cradled his head in hands. “I never asked for any of this.”
MacArthur turned to Guinevere. “I think he needs to see it.”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. The last time we opened it, we almost couldn’t close it again. Dagonblud’s damage to the membrane was so extensive that--”
“He needs to see it.”
“See what?” Blake asked quickly.
Guinevere paused. “All right,” she said finally, “but let’s hope there’s enough power to close the membrane.”
MacArthur turned to the chronicle. “If it can’t be closed, your service to the Rellium will forever be remembered.”
“What are you talking about?” Blake persisted. He was getting frustrated.
“The membrane of the Rellium. It’s the barrier that separates the dark energy or antimatter of the Tolucan world from the light energy or matter of your world,” she explained.
“Open it,” MacArthur said to Guinevere.
She moved toward the peephole. The colors around Blake swirled down the hole where he had seen his mother. Misty gray darkness replaced the light and filled the air with a disgusting stench. He’d smelled it before. Where?
He buried his face in his sleeve and tried to hold his breath.
“When the power of the Rellium is gone, dark energy consumes everything around it. Light is gone. Lessons are over. We are left with darkness and ignorance.”
“Have you seen enough?” Guinevere asked.
Blake gagged. “What am I seeing?”
“You’re getting a glimpse of your world if the Tolucan steals the Rellium’s power. Your world will become their dark world.”
Blake struggled to get air. “Whatever, just make it go away!”
“You must understand this,” MacArthur said. “It’s crucial.”
“I get it! We can’t let the bad guys win.”
The bulldogs vanished into the mist. The stench intensified.
Blake hacked out more foul air. “Guine--” he called out, and sank onto his knees. The mist thickened. “Book!” He tried to pull himself to his feet but collapsed. “Everything’s gone black! I can’t see!”
CHAPTER 7
THE ADMIRAL
Rat picked bits of dried fish from his teeth as he watched the sunrise paint the Atlantic Ocean the color of sour wine--the same wine that swirled around the remaining barrels of drinkable liquid on the ship. He spat the scales from his teeth into the ocean, then turned to watch a cabin boy climb the mast and perch in the crow’s nest.
Rat knew the boy would spot the New World within days. He needed to start the mutiny now. He pulled his knife from his belt and licked the blade. The honed edge cut his tongue. None of the eighty-nine sailors in the doomed fleet would make it back to Spain, and the only remnant of the so-called admiral would be the plunder from his cabin.
Rat bit off another piece of dried fish and chewed until it stopped crunching. The taste disgusted him, but he needed to maintain his s
trength for the riot.
The grand assembly counted on him, but that mattered little. More important, the imperial regent had vowed to promote him to general after the success of the Columbus mission. Then all this miserable time travel would be over.
Rat bit off the head of the fish and savored an eyeball as he surveyed the horizon. The Atlantic seemed like a giant pond in this early morning hour--no waves, no wind, just limp sails over his head. He thought about his plan for revolt. Now was the time.
“Rat!” Diego de Araña yelled from the bow of the Santa Maria. “The admiral needs these decks cleaned now! No need to live in filth just because we’re at sea.”
Rat waited until Diego turned his back. Then he spat the remaining wad of dried fish head onto the deck. Why should he waste energy cleaning anything on a condemned voyage? Scrubbing slime off a rotting ship was beneath him anyway. He looked up at Columbus’s cabin--the only cabin on this leaking boat--and palmed the weathered handle of his knife. The cabin’s rough-hewn plank door was slightly open, sending out snippets of the admiral’s morning prayers. The man would need more than prayers to escape the rebellion.
“Rat!” Diego shouted over the rumble of freshly oiled ropes being unwound. “You have orders! The admiral will be inspecting every inch of timber after he speaks with God.”
Rat didn’t answer. Instead, he staggered to the other side of the ship, intentionally bumping several crew members along the way. The men, who were lowering the sails for repairs, nodded their complicity.
The men on all three ships were ready for the mutiny. Rat could feel it. Their fear and anger exposed the crack in loyalty he needed. He merely had to choke off their allegiance, and every man and boy on the Santa Maria would be a murderer.
Niña and Pinta cruised westerly, but he could still see tiny outlines of the two caravels. By day’s end, all three ships would be heading back to Spain, and each sailor would be begging God to protect his remaining rations for the voyage home. The great Christopher Columbus would be gone forever, erased from the Chronicle of the Rellium as though he never existed, and Rat could finally get back to his comfortable life.
Diego yelled louder, “Rat!” The master-at-arms tripped over partially coiled ropes and misplaced buckets, stumbling toward Rat. His face, overripe from days in the sun, looked as though it was about to explode off his head. “Do you have rocks in your pants? These decks are filthy. Clean them now! The admiral is tired of your incompetence.”
Rat stood at the base of the steps leading to Columbus’s cabin and shouted up, “The admiral must think I care about this useless journey!”
“Sssh! Do you want him to hear you?” Diego grabbed Rat and shoved him aside.
“So you choose your words more carefully when my door is open?” Columbus appeared on the top step. He pulled his cabin door closed behind him and stomped down the wet wooden planks to the main deck. “I expected disrespect from this common criminal, but you also, Diego?”
Diego winced. “Admiral, please, I was merely trying to tell this deckhand that--”
“Enough! I can feel every whisper that haunts this ship. Your two-sided words are like vinegar in a cask of good Spanish wine.”
He turned to Rat. “But you, I see something much worse in you. Your words are poison to the minds of my men, and I won’t stand for it. You will obey my orders, or I will put you in chains.”
Columbus looked to the other sailors. “That goes for every man and boy on this ship. Do I make myself clear?”
A sailor called Scabby waved toward the other men with one of his sore-crusted hands and approached the admiral. “Sir, Rat doesn’t speak for all of us.”
“Bootlicker,” Rat muttered.
Diego quickly joined the crew gathering around Scabby. “Admiral, I give you my word. We will follow your every order.”
Rat slid his knife from his belt and flung it, tip first, into the deck at Columbus’s feet. “Shall I obey you? A Genovese wool monger who tricked all of Spain with lies about some new route to India?” He tongued fish scales from his teeth and spat the wad on Columbus’s tattered jacket. “There, now the Italian weaver can do something he’s good at--make himself new clothes.”
Diego grabbed Rat by the arm. “The whip will reason with you now!”
Columbus brushed the scales and stink from his jacket. “Wait, Diego. Lashes to the back won’t change his heart.” He looked at each man staring back at him. “Have you forgotten the purpose of our journey is to open a door for all of Spain? Yes, I am a Genovese, but destiny knows no nationality, and God has already set the course. I want you all to look from the bow of this ship, not the stern. But if you must look backwards, do not forget the victories already won.”
“Whose victories?” Rat shook his arm free from Diego’s clutch, snatched his knife from the deck, and returned it to his belt. “Yours or theirs?”
Columbus eyed Rat briefly, then turned to the rest of his crew. “Men of Spain, This is a voyage of destiny! Think about our good fortune! Portuguese bounty hunters nearly took us down--in open waters! But we outwitted their cannons. We’ve repaired the rudder of Pinta with the most useless tools I have ever seen, and we’ve endured windless seas and rough oceans with nothing more than strong backs and the Lord’s good graces.”
Columbus looked to Rat. “And as for you, deckhand, your sloth is against God and the king and queen. You’re going to clean these decks and then atone for your sin to the Almighty.”
Rat turned his back on the admiral and spat the remaining scales swimming round his mouth onto the deck.
“Take him to my quarters, Diego. I will deal with him there,” Columbus said.
Diego clutched Rat’s arm. “As you wish, sir.”
Rat yanked his arm free. “I know the way.” He glared at each sailor he passed. “You’re all fools. Soon you’ll know what I know.”
Diego followed Rat up the rickety steps into Columbus’s tiny cabin. The only bed on the ship was shoved against the wall with nothing but a few worn, wool blankets for comfort. Next to the bed, a small table with a little chair crowded the corner, and an oil lamp hung tightly against the plank walls from a wooden peg. The room was dark in the early morning hour. A brass lock, dangling from the open lid of a small oaken sea chest wedged into a corner of the table, flashed a bit of sunlight from the tiny windows above the table.
Columbus hurriedly squeezed into the cramped room, grazing his head on the low ceiling. He quickly closed the lid of his chest and turned to Diego.
“Leave us,” Columbus said.
“But, sir--”
“Leave us.”
“As you wish, sir. I will remain at the bottom of the steps if you need my, uh, assistance.” Diego closed the door behind him.
Columbus ran his finger along the edge of the worn little sea chest. His face was tight, and his eyes were sunken and sickly, as though exhaustion had devoured his endurance.
“My life isn’t one of luxury as you might think. I left Genoa when I was a boy, sailing for any crown that would pay me. And, yes, my father was a weaver, but the clothes on your back are because of a weaver.” Columbus rubbed the stubble on his face, then crossed his arms. “God chooses our battles--not you, not me, not any of us. We can only hope to win the fight as He sees fit.”
“My battles have nothing to do with your God,” Rat answered.
Columbus removed a gold cross hanging on the cabin wall. “Confess your sin to the Almighty now! I will not permit blasphemy on my ship.”
“Does your God know that you disguise murder as exploration?” Rat steadied his gaze on Columbus. A mere cut, a stab, a thrust between the ribs separated him from a formal commendation in the grand assembly or another day of groveling for rotted fish guts. His fingers itched to grab his knife.
“You will be given one more chance as a member of this crew. If I am not satisfied with your attempts to reform, you will be chained for the duration of the voyage.”
Rat sneered. End it now, he tho
ught, then checked himself. To kill Columbus now would be shortsighted. The men on Pinta and Niña might continue west on their own. The hefty reward from the queen for finding this new route would feed their fire. Instead Rat smiled tightly. “Yes, sir.”
“Good,” Columbus said. “We will not speak of this again.”
A yellow light flashed on the wall behind Columbus, then an orange light, then blue, then every color all at once. “It can’t be,” Rat said, looking beyond the explorer at the wall. He brushed Columbus aside and ran his hand up and down the plank wall.
Columbus turned. “What concerns you? The Santa Maria is a sturdy vessel.”
Rat patted down the walls. “They’re all dead. They have to be.”
Columbus looked at the wall again. “Sit down, deckhand. I think you need some water.”
“I don’t need water!” Rat watched as one of the planks turned bright yellow, then green, then purple. Then globs of brilliant red light dripped down the entire wall. Rat rubbed his eyes and looked again. The colors had vanished. He shook his head and wiped his face with the side of his arm.
Coriane, that’s all I need, he thought, nothing more. It was just an illusion, a memory of the last battle with the Parabulls and Michael Wyatt.
“Food then, perhaps you should--”
“I don’t need food!” Rat pressed his ear to the wall. If those colors had been real, then trouble was on the way. The colors meant the Parabulls had opened a portal, and the Wyatt kid was right behind.
“I know what you did, Hugo Price. I suspected you all along! The grand assembly believed your ridiculous lie. Dagonblud himself handed the chronicle to you. Nicely done. You never intended to use the book to trap the kid.”
“Rat, sit down.”
“My blood stained its pages, and you gave the book to the Wyatt boy. What’s your real name, Price? Is it Wyatt?!” Rat pounded on the wall. “Come out and fight, Wyatt boy.”
A scar on his hand from the final battle with Michael Wyatt began to sting, and the gold ring taken from the sapphire traveler seared the skin on his finger. A Wyatt must be near.
The Wicked Passage (A Blake Wyatt Adventure) Page 6