The Lost City of Faar

CLORAL

If I had only one sentence to describe what it was like to be a Traveler, it would be this: “Just when you think you’ve seen it all… you haven’t.”

As if fluming from one bizarre territory to another wasn’t enough, within each of these territories I kept finding new and different places that had my head swimming — no Cloral analogy intended. I guess I shouldn’t be so surprised. It would be the same thing for a first-time Traveler coming to Second Earth. To go from a city like Chicago to the rainforests of South America to a tundra village in Siberia would be just as rattling. Still, what we found under the ocean of Cloral went way beyond my imagination.

As strange and exciting as it was for me, it must have been a hundred times more bizarre for Spader. To him the Lost City of Faar was a fable. Could you imagine walking through the forest and finding a hut where seven dwarves lived with a beautiful princess? Or stumbling upon Noah’s Ark? Or finding the Garden of Eden? Every culture has its myths and legends. I can’t imagine what it would be like to discover that one of them was true. But that is exactly what Spader experienced when we swam through the rocky entrance to the Lost City of Faar.

I wasn’t totally convinced it was a good idea to follow these fish-people into the opening in the wall of rock. So far they hadn’t done anything but frolick, like playful sea lions. But still, they could have been luring us to our deaths. Did these strange creatures feed on excited divers who followed them without a question, convinced they were about to discover the truth behind a myth, only to be served up like reverse-sushi? As always, my mind went to the worst possible outcome.

What changed my thinking was something I saw just below the opening. It was partially hidden by a tangle of seaweed, but there was no missing it because it was about five feet across. It was an ancient carving. Some of the detail had been eroded away by time, but there was no mistaking the strange, interlocking letters. Spader saw it too and smiled at me. It was the symbol his father had left for him. It was the symbol of Faar. We were in the right place.

With a glance and a nod to each other to show we were all prepared to go to the next step, the three of us swam together, shoulder to shoulder, into the light that blasted from the large opening.

We found ourselves in an underwater tunnel that was big enough to drive a car through, if you happened to have a car that could drive underwater. We passed by the big lights that were shining out into the open sea. Once past them, my eyes adjusted to the dark and I saw that the tunnel led far back into the rock. Every few feet were small marker-lights that showed the way. That was a relief because I wasn’t so sure I would have had the guts to swim into a pitch-dark tunnel. I then heard a loud, scraping sound that made me quickly look back. The rock door was shutting behind us. A loudcrunchtold us the door was locked into place and we were closed in. Gulp. We had to go forward whether we liked it or not.

“Everybody cool?” asked Uncle Press.

“I guess,” was my shaky answer.

Spader just floated there with wide eyes.

“Spader, you okay?” Uncle Press asked.

“Just a little nervous,” he answered.

Good. I’m glad he said it first. Truth be told, nervous didn’t quite cover it for me. My heart was thumping so hard I was surprised the others didn’t hear it. Then something touched my shoulder.

“Ahhh!” I screamed, and spun around.

It was one of the fish-people. Man, those guys were quiet. Like snakes. That’s why I hate snakes — too quiet. Did I tell you that?

The fish-guy motioned for us to follow and swam into the tunnel. The three of us had no choice but to follow. We swam close together. It felt safer that way. The tunnel was pretty long and not all that interesting. It gave my mind time to wander and I started to think about what this lost city was going to be like. I wondered if it was completely underwater. That would be weird, like living in one of those fish tanks that people decorated with little castles and sunken ships.

So far the fish-people hadn’t tried to communicate with us other than with hand signals. I wondered if that meant they couldn’t speak. I hoped that a Traveler’s ability to understand all languages included sign language.

These questions, and a whole bunch more I hadn’t thought of yet, would soon be answered, for I saw that the tunnel was growing brighter.

A few moments later the water level began to drop. We were soon able to raise our heads above the water line. The farther we traveled, the lower the water got. We went from swimming underwater, to swimming on the surface, to walking along the bottom. That answered my first question. Faar may have been underwater, but it was dry. That was cool. I didn’t like the idea of hanging out in a fish tank.

The water got low enough so we felt comfortable taking off our air globes. We were now standing in the tunnel with only a few inches of water lapping at our feet. I looked forward and saw that the tunnel was about to make a right turn. The bright light that came from around the bend up ahead told me that we were soon going to see the Lost City of Faar.

We took off our fins and our spearguns, placing them in a safe pile along with our water sleds.

The fish-man we had been following then walked back to us. Yes, I said walked. On two legs. I had a brief memory ofThe Creature from the Black Lagoon, that goofy old black-and-white horror movie. But if this guy wanted to do us any harm, he would have done it back in the water so I wasn’t scared. Much. He reached up to his head and began to peel away the green layer of skin that covered his whole body. It made a wet, sucking sound as he tugged on it. For a second I thought I would puke. If this were some kind of snakelike skin-shedding ritual, I’d rather not have to see it, thank you very much.

But after a few seconds I realized what was really happening. As the light green layer of skin came off, it revealed a guy who was very much human. The green stuff wasn’t skin after all; it was some kind of fish suit. It reminded me of those tight suits that speed skaters wore in the Olympics. It was absolutely formfitting. But unlike speed skaters, this suit also gave the swimmer webbed feet and hands. Once the suit was pulled off, I saw that the guy’s hands were normal too. No webs, no scales. Underneath the fish suit he wore a blue, also formfitting, suit that went from his neck to almost his knees. It wasn’t all that different from the clothes we had on ourselves.

As it turned out, there was nothing unusual about the guy at all. He was short, not much over five feet. But he looked strong. Not a lot of fat on those bones. I couldn’t tell for sure how old he was, but I’d guess he was around thirty, in Second Earth years. He was also completely bald. Michael Jordan bald. That wasn’t all that weird, but something about his face wasn’t quite right. I couldn’t figure it out at first, but then it struck me: He didn’t have eyebrows. You never think about eyebrows until somebody doesn’t have them. It’s kind of freaky-looking. Not horrible, just freaky. Adding to the freaky quotient was the fact that his eyes were the lightest color blue I had ever seen. I actually had to look close to see that there was any color in them at all. His skin was also very white, which didn’t surprise me since he lived underwater.

In all, he was a fairly normal-looking guy, with a few strange characteristics. But nothing that would give me nightmares or anything. Things were looking up.

The guy finished pulling off his suit — it was all in one piece — and walked up to us. “My name is Kalaloo,” he said with a warm smile.

“Are we in…?” Spader asked, a little dumbfounded.

“Faar?” the guy said. “Yes. This is Faar.”

We all exchanged quick glances that said, “We made it!”

Uncle Press said, “My name is — “

“Press, yes, I know,” said Kalaloo. “And you’re Pendragon,” he said to me. “And you’re Spader. You look like your father.”

Whoa! Underwater-guy knew who we were?

“You knew my father?” Spader asked in wonder.

“I was sorry to hear of his death,” the guy said with sympathy. “He was a friend.”

“Time out,” I said. “How do you know us?”

“Spader’s father told us there would be others. We have been expecting you for some time, and watching you as well.”

“I knew it!” I blurted out. “I saw one of you under Grallion when we were escaping from the raiders!”

“Yes, that was me,” he answered. “I wanted to make sure nothing happened to you. I almost failed when you were being pulled into the engine of their ship.”

“That was you?” I said in shock.

He smiled and nodded. “It was very close.”

“Well, uh, thanks,” I said.

“Thanks” didn’t cover it.

The guy had saved my life. My head was spinning. It felt like we were three steps behind, again.

“How do you breathe underwater?” I asked. “You don’t have gills or anything, do you?”

Kalaloo let out a warm laugh and said, “No, but sometimes I wish we did.”

He lifted up the green suit and showed us that built into the fabric was a small, shiny silver mouthpiece.

“This pulls oxygen from the water; it’s very efficient.”

This looked like a smaller version of the harmonica thing on the back of the air globes.

“I was hoping that Osa would be with you,” Kalaloo said. “Will she be joining us soon?”

I looked to Uncle Press, who answered the tough question.

“Osa is dead,” he said solemnly.

Kalaloo looked genuinely hurt. “She had a daughter,” he said.

“Her name is Loor,” I said. “And she’s everything her mother wanted her to be.”

“I am saddened to hear of Osa’s passing,” said Kalaloo. “She will be missed.”

There was a silent moment of respect for Osa, then Kalaloo said, “We should go. They’re waiting for you at The Council Circle.”

“Who is?” asked Uncle Press.

“The Council of Faar,” he answered. “They are anxious to hear from you.”

The three of us exchanged looks. They were waiting foruslThis was all very strange, but there was no reason not to play along, so we followed Kalaloo toward the light.

As we walked I noticed that the ground was now completely dry. When we rounded the corner of the tunnel we stepped into an area that looked like a locker room — Faar-style. There were several people there, all pulling off their green fish skins. They must have been the swimmers we saw outside. They all had the same look as Kalaloo: light skin, bald, no eyebrows, and bluish eyes. It was kinda freaky, but I was already getting used to them. What should I call them? I wondered. Faarites? Faarmers? Faarbarians? I soon learned to refer to the people there as “Faarians.”

They hung their swim skins on hooks and then put on these soft, white tunics that had a little bit of an ancient Roman feel. These gowns pulled down over their heads and went to above their knees. They tied them tightly at the waist with pieces of cloth that varied in color from rich green to deep red. Nobody wore shoes, not even sandals.

As Kalaloo led us past them, many of the people smiled and welcomed us.

I said “hi” back as many times as I could. I wanted to show them that I was cool too. It got to the point where I was walking backward to keep eye contact with them. I kept walking backward until I walked right into Uncle Press.

“Oops, sorry, didn’t mean to — ” I turned around and froze. The words caught in my throat. That’s because I had just gotten my first glimpse of the Lost City of Faar. Or maybe I should call it the Found City of Faar. Maybe I’ll just call it Faar. Or maybe I’ll just call it… phenomenal.

Where should I start? Yet again, I was about to enter an entirely new and amazing place. I had to keep telling myself that according to legend it once existed on the surface. If that were true, then this city would be plenty cool. But when you factor in that we were sitting hundreds of feet below the ocean — well, then it became unbelievable.

As strange as this may sound, I was looking out at a rocky mountain. I know, that’s impossible, but that’s what it was. The city was built into and around the craggy ledges of a small mountain. The mouth of the tunnel was closer to the top than the bottom so we were actually looking down at most of Faar.

The city had an ancient feel to it. There were no modern buildings, no cars, and no sign of technology anywhere. But there were plenty of birds. Can you believe it? Birds were flying in this underwater cavern!

The buildings had an ancient Greek look with marble staircases that led up to the columned entryways of domed structures. They were perched all over this craggy mountain and ranged in size from huge, impressive monuments like you’d see in Washington, D.C., to small simple stone houses made of whitewashed stucco. I saw many Faarians strolling along gentle pathways that snaked in and around and up and down and everywhere in between. There were beautiful, hanging vines draped over most of the city and several waterfalls cascaded from springs hidden deep in the mountain.

Far below, at the base of the mountain, I saw lush, green fields. There were some larger buildings down there that didn’t seem as elaborate as the ones that dotted the mountain. I made a mental note to ask what they were later.

Remember, we were underwater. A major detail that I’ve left out is that the whole place was protected by a glittering dome. There was no sky, only a vast dome that allowed filtered light to make this city as bright as day. I now understood what the upside-down smile on Spader’s father’s map was. It represented the dome that protected Faar.

Kalaloo let us stand there for a while to soak in this wondrous sight. He must have known how amazed we were. Finally he asked Spader, “Is it what you imagined?”

“Hobey,” Spader said in awe. “It’s like someone reached into my mind and pulled out everything I ever thought about Faar and made this.”

“I have to admit,” said Uncle Press, “I’m not familiar with the legend.”

“Let’s walk,” said Kalaloo.

He led us along a gently winding path made of soft sand. That was good, since none of us wore shoes.

“I think the myths have grown larger with time,” he began. “But I can give you the simple story. In the beginning Faar was the only dry land on Cloral. The myths say that it sank after a cataclysmic event, but that isn’t exactly what happened. The simple truth was that the waters of Cloral rose. Luckily it took a very long time to happen. The Council of Faar knew the water was coming and had time to prepare. A giant dome was erected over the center of the city. What you see here was only a small part of Faar. It wasn’t possible to save it all. The waters began to rise even as the dome was being constructed. It was a race. By the time Faar was completely sealed and safe, the water was nearly to the top.”

I thought back to our swim to get here and realized that while we were skimming across the shallow reef, the city of Faar was down below us, hidden by a skin that looked like coral.

“Why does the dome look like coral from up above?” I asked.

“Because it is,” Kalaloo answered. “At first the dome was crystal clear, but over time the coral grew and enveloped it. For the longest time it was kept clear, but eventually the Council of Faar thought it best to allow the coral to hide us. However, we keep the covering thin so that light can find its way through.”

We continued to walk through this amazing city. People strolled by us and always gave a friendly wave. They were all pretty mellow. I heard soft music coming from one of the buildings we passed. It sounded like that New Age stuff you hear in the dentist’s office that’s supposed to calm you down before they drill into your head. Not exactly my taste.

“Why did you decide to hide?” asked Uncle Press.

“Faar was the beginning of life on Cloral. It grew into an advanced civilization that used water for power and created building materials from the silt under the seabed. But people eventually grew restless. Long before the water rose, adventurers built ships and left to explore the rest of our world. They went in search of other dry land, but there was none to be found. Those people lived with many hardships as they struggled to survive on the ocean. Generations passed and because Faar was the only civilized place on all of Cloral, it became a target. The sons of Faar who left in search of adventure now returned as enemies in a desperate search of food. Faar was in danger of being destroyed. So when it was discovered that Faar was going to be swallowed by the sea, it was considered a miracle that gave us our only hope of salvation.”

“So when the city sank, you stayed hidden underwater to protect the city from the descendents of people who were born here?” I asked.

“Exactly. The people in the ships above had to create an entirely new world from nothing. Many died to pave the way for the mighty habitats you see today. The fact that they’ve come as far as they have is due to their undying spirit to survive, and because of the people of Faar.”

“What do you mean?” asked Spader.

“From the time the Council of Faar decided that we would remain hidden, it was declared that we would do all we could, secretly, to help those who remained living on the surface of the water. How could we not? They were our brothers. It became the principal goal of all Faarians. The Clorans, which we call the people above, needed all the help they could get to help them. We would secretly tend their underwater farms. We led them to mines which held material for building. We even saved many from drowning as they struggled to build the habitats.”

“Just for the record,” I interrupted, “you keep sayingwelike you were there. You’re not like, ancient, are you?”

Kalaloo laughed and said, “No, not at all. Most of what I am telling you was passed down to me by my ancestors. There are at least two hundred generations separating me from the Faarians who built the dome.”

“Okay, cool, just wondering.”

“Make no mistake,” Kalaloo continued. “If not for the people of Faar, the Clorans would not have survived to become the great society they are today. We are all very proud of this, and still do all we can to help our brothers above.”

Uncle Press asked, “What do you know of the trouble that’s facing them right now?”

“This brings us to the meeting we must attend at the Council Circle,” said Kalaloo. He suddenly became serious.

“We first heard of the problem from Spader’s father. It is a very rare occasion that a Cloran stumbles upon Faar, but your father was not a typical Cloran. It was like he had a much greater sense of… purpose.”

I knew exactly what Kalaloo meant. Spader’s father was a Traveler. He totally had a greater sense of purpose.

“And I sense that you three are much the same,” he added.

Right again, fish-man.

“What did he tell you?” asked Uncle Press.

“He said he feared a great plague would soon come to Cloral that would endanger every living person.”

I shot a look to Uncle Press and Spader. It seemed as though Spader’s dad saw Saint Dane’s plan coming. The horrible thing was that he became a victim before he could stop it.

“Did he know exactly what was going to happen?” Uncle Press asked.

“He was afraid that something might damage the crops,” answered Kalaloo. “From what we have seen, he was right. We are receiving word from all over Cloral that underwater farms are now producing poisonous crops.”

“It’s the fertilizer,” I said. “It makes plants grow faster, but they become poisonous.”

“Why did my father come to you?” asked Spader. “Was he trying to warn you?”

“Yes,” Kalaloo answered quickly. “But he also came looking for help. Our knowledge of the life cycle is far greater than the Clorans’. He wanted to know if we could do anything to help prevent such a disaster.”

Kalaloo fell silent. The big question hung in the air. Was Spader’s father right? Could the answer to battling the deadly chain reaction be found right here in Faar?

“Well?” Uncle Press finally asked. “Can you help?”

“Absolutely,” answered Kalaloo with a smile.

He pointed down to the bottom of the mountain of Faar and to the large buildings I described before.

“Those buildings contain the life of Cloral,” he explained. “For hundreds of generations we have studied every variety of plant that exists here. To put it simply, we know how Cloral works.”

“So, what about the poisonous plants?” I asked.

“We have already analyzed samples of the mutated plants. We found that their cell structure was changed and their chemistry corrupted. This new fertilizer created a very complex problem, but we have the means to undo it. Even now we are preparing to send hundreds of Faarians out to the underwater farms of Cloral with a simple chemical compound that will reverse the damage. It is a large task, but we have the means. But the Clorans must stop using the fertilizer.”

“That’s already happening,” said Uncle Press. “They know the damage they’ve done and they’re going to stop.”

Kalaloo broke out in a big smile.

“Then you are giving me wonderful news!” he said happily. “Once the Faarians reverse the damage, the crops will be safe again!”

Kalaloo was thrilled that everything was well on the way to being put right.

But we knew differently.

Uncle Press looked worried. So did Spader. An absolute feeling of certainty came over me that made me shiver. I knew what the final act of this conflict was going to be.

These brilliant, ancient people held the key to saving all of Cloral. There was no doubt about what that meant. Saint Dane was going to attack Faar to prevent them from saving the territory.

The people of Faar had been protected for centuries by the waters of Cloral, but they couldn’t hide any longer.

Saint Dane knew where they were, and he was coming.

I had no idea if these brave people were capable of defending themselves, but we were going to find out. I’m going to end this journal here, guys, because, whatever is going to happen, I’m sure will happen soon. This journal was written and sent to you from Faar, an amazing city of guardian angels that is hidden hundreds of feet below the waters of Cloral.

Unfortunately, it won’t be safe much longer.

END OF JOURNAL #7

Mark finished reading the journalbefore Courtney and sat down on the floor with his back leaning against his desk. Of course he feared for Bobby and Press and Spader and for the battle that was soon to erupt on Cloral. Actually, he wondered if the battle had already taken place. Was Bobby on Cloral in the past? Or was it the distant future? Or was everything happening at the same time as events here on Second Earth? The whole relative timeline thing was one of the many great mysteries of Bobby’s adventures as a Traveler.

It was also tough to read about Bobby’s troubles without being able to do anything about them. Not that he had any ideas. And even if he did he wasn’t allowed to interfere. Not after what happened on Denduron. His entire job here was to be a librarian for Bobby’s journals.

Which was the other thing that was upsetting him. As a keeper of the journals, he was doing a lousy job. He kept glancing at his watch, hoping that Courtney would hurry up and finish and get out of there before Andy Mitchell called back to ask about reading them.

Finally Courtney finished the journal and looked up at Mark.

“Those people can’t defend themselves,” she said somberly. “From what Bobby described, they’re totally peaceful.”

Mark stood up and gathered the stray pages together. “Yeah, well, we’ll see.”

“Aren’t you worried?” Courtney asked.

“Of course I’m worried, but what can we do?”

Courtney dropped her head. Mark was right. There was nothing they could possibly do to help.

“It’s getting late,” he added. “I got stuff to do.”

He wanted her out of there because the phone was going to ring any second. She took the hint.

“Right,” said Courtney. “The algebra guy.”

“Huh?” Mark didn’t know what she was talking about. But a second later he remembered his lie and tried to cover.

“Right,” he said quickly. “Algebra. Gotta help m-my friend.”

There it was again. The stutter. Mark tried not to wince.

“You okay?” she asked curiously. “You’re acting all nervous.”

“I–I’m just afraid for Bobby.

Mark hated to lie to Courtney, but he didn’t know what else to do. Besides, it wasn’t a total lie. Hewasafraid for Bobby.

Then the phone rang. Mark shot a look to it as if he wanted it to explode. Courtney caught this look, but didn’t react.

“I’m out of here,” she said, getting up to leave. “You’ll call me when — “

“Soon as the next journal shows up.”

Ring. The phone sounded like thunder to Mark.

“See ya,” said Courtney, and left Mark alone in his room.

Mark answered the phone before the horrible bell could stab at him anymore. “Hello?”

“Well?” came the dreaded voice from the other end of the line.

“Hang on,” Mark said. He glanced out of his window to make sure Courtney was gone. Moments later he saw her walking down the sidewalk, away from the house. His gut rumbled. He felt like a traitor.

“Let’s meet on the Ave,” Mark then said into the phone. “That pocket park below Garden Poultry.”

“Fifteen minutes,” snorted Mitchell.

“Could you make it a little later — “

Click.

“Guess not,” said Mark to himself as he put the phone down. He was trapped. He had to bring Journal #6 to Mitchell. Or Mitchell would tell the police about Bobby. There was no way out of this.

So Mark went upstairs to his attic and opened the old desk that was his safe place for keeping Bobby’s journals. He took out Journal #6 and replaced it with the one they had just finished reading — Journal #7. He had a brief thought that he should probably just takeallthe journals to Mitchell so he could read them at once and get this torture over with. But he didn’t even like carrying around one journal. What if he got hit by a bus? Putting them all together would give him a nervous breakdown.

No, he had to play this out slowly. Hopefully Mitchell would lose interest and just leave him alone. That was his best and only hope. So he slid the drawer closed, made sure it was locked, placed Journal #6 in his backpack and started on his way to Stony Brook Avenue.

It was late Saturday afternoon by the time Mark arrived at “the Ave,” as all the kids called it. It was a busy street, full of shops and restaurants and people strolling the sidewalks in search of bargains and their next latte. But it was just past six o’clock, closing time for most stores. The crowds were getting thin.

Mark hurried along the sidewalk, past his favorite shop, a deli called Garden Poultry. They made the best French fries in history. The smell of hot cooking oil always hovered around the place like a delicious, salty cloud. Normally Mark couldn’t resist the temptation and would always go in for a box of fries. (They always came in boxes, like Chinese food.) But not today. Today he had other things on his mind.

He got to the pocket park that was a few doors down from Garden Poultry. They called it a pocket park because it was nothing more than a space between two buildings, like a pocket. At one time there was probably another building there, but Mark couldn’t remember seeing one. The town had turned the space into a miniature park with grass, a stone walkway, flowering trees, and several wooden benches where people could eat their boxes of French fries from Garden Poultry.

It was a pretty little place except for one thing: Andy Mitchell was sitting on one of the park benches, waiting for him. Actually, he was sitting on the back of the park bench with his feet on the seat.

“You’re late!” shouted Mitchell the instant he saw Mark.

“You didn’t give me much time,” answered Mark.

“You got the — ” He didn’t finish his own sentence. Instead he grabbed Mark’s knapsack away from him and dug inside to get the journal.

“Take it easy!” scolded Mark. “You gotta treat these with respect.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

Mitchell unrolled Journal #6 and began to read. Mark sat down on the bench next to Mitchell’s feet, settling himself in for a long wait. He knew Mitchell was about the slowest reader in history.

As with the last journal he read, Mitchell had to ask Mark the meaning of several words. Mark still couldn’t believe that a guy could live to the age of fourteen and still not know the meaning of words like “manipulate” and “elaborate.” What a loser. It killed Mark to watch Mitchell clutch the valuable pages with his greasy, nicotine-stained fingers like a week-old newspaper. It also turned his stomach every time Mitchell pulled in one of his signature snorts and hawked it out on the sidewalk. Didn’t this guy ever hear about Kleenex?

Finally, after what felt like forever, Mitchell was done.

“Jeez,” he said with a touch of awe.

Mark’s first sarcastic thought wasCould you be any less articulate? But he wouldn’t daresay it for fear of getting pummeled.

“You think this is all really happening?” Mitchell asked.

“I do,” was Mark’s simple, honest answer. He wanted to be home.

“Did you get the next one yet?”

Mark thought of how to answer this question, but came to the conclusion that it wasn’t worth lying. He was tired of lying.

“Yes.”

“Well, I don’t want to read it,” Mitchell said.

Huh? Mark suddenly perked up. Could it be true? Was Mitchell actually losing interest? Maybe reading the journals was too hard for him. Maybe all the big words were taxing that raisin-size brain of his beyond capacity. Or maybe he was getting freaked out by what the journals meant and wanted to pretend like he had never seen them, like the ostrich who sticks his head in the sand. Whatever the reason, it didn’t matter so long as Andy Mitchell left Mark alone and never asked to see another journal again.

“I don’t want to read it until I see journals one through five. I feel like I’m picking up a story in the middle. I want to know how it all started.”

Mark was crushed. The little bit of hope he had that Mitchell would go away, just went away.

“And I want to read ‘em all at once,” added Mitchell.

“No way!” shouted Mark. “I am not going to bring all the journals out at the same time. I can’t let anything happen to them. The best I can do is show you one at a — “

Mitchell tossed the pages of Journal #6 into the air.

“Hey!” shouted Mark in horror as he dove for the pages that scattered across the park.

Mitchell laughed as Mark frantically chased the pages now blowing around in the wind. Finally Mark got them all together and brushed off the bits of dirt.

“You don’t get it,” said Mitchell. “You only got two choices — do what I tell you, or I go to the police.”

This was going from bad to worse to total disaster. Andy Mitchell wasn’t going to go away. That much was clear now. He had gotten a taste of Bobby’s adventure and he wanted more. All Mark could do now was try to control the situation as best as he could.

“Okay,” Mark said. “But I don’t care what you say, I’m not taking all those journals out at the same time. The best I can do is have you come over to my house to read them.”

The idea of Andy Mitchell setting foot in his house made Mark feel like termites were digging into his flesh. It was a nightmare of untold magnitude. But he couldn’t think of any other solution.

Mitchell smiled. “Okay,” he said. “I can live with that. When?”

“I don’t know,” answered Mark. “It’s gotta be when my parents are out. I’ll let you know.”

Mitchell walked over and stuck his nose in Mark’s face. Mark could smell his stale cigarette breath and nearly gagged.

“I like this,” he chuckled. “We’re becoming regular partners.”

Mitchell then snorted, wheeled, and walked away. Mark couldn’t take it anymore. The snort put him over the edge. He gagged a couple of dry heaves. He then sat down on the park bench and looked at the rumpled pages of Journal #6. I’m a failure.

The next week in school Mark did everything in his power to avoid Mitchell. He went to school late because Mitchell knew he usually went early. He went in a different door every time, just to avoid following any patterns. He carried all his books with him so he wouldn’t have to go to his locker. He didn’t even go close to the Dumpster area behind the school where so many kids went to smoke. That part wasn’t so hard; he never went back there anyway — unless of course it was to jump in the garbage and search for a lost page of a journal sent to him by his best friend who was on the other side of the universe. He didn’t like remembering that little adventure.

With all of his planning, Mark had actually gotten through an entire week without seeing Andy Mitchell. But the stress was crushing him. His schoolwork was going south, too. Something was going to have to give soon.

On Saturday it did. Mark’s parents had both left for the day and he was looking forward to a long morning of cartoons. It was a guilty ritual he was sure most of the kids at school still practiced, but would never admit to. He had just settled down into the couch, ready for anything Bugs Bunny, when the doorbell rang. For a second he considered not answering it, but if it were a Federal Express delivery for his father, then he’d be in trouble. So he went to the door and opened it. It wasn’t FedEx.

“I’m getting sick of you ditching me,” Andy Mitchell said as he backed Mark into the house. “What is your problem?”

Mark knew exactly what his problem was. It was Mitchell.

“M-My parents have been around all week,” stuttered Mark nervously. “There w-wasn’t any g-good time.”

“Where are they now?” asked Mitchell.

Mark considered telling Mitchell that they were both upstairs, but he realized he couldn’t take another week of dodging Mitchell.

“They’re out,” said Mark.

“Good! Where are the journals?”

“W-Wait in the living room,” Mark said. “I’ll get them.”

There was no way he was going to show Andy Mitchell his secret hiding place in the attic. Having him know the journals were in his house was bad enough. So while Mitchell sat in front of the TV laughing at Pepe Le Pew, (Who laughed at Pepe Le Pew? Nobody thought Pepe Le Pew was funny!), Mark went to get the journals.

He tried to be as quiet as possible so Mitchell wouldn’t know where he was going. Mitchell was the kind of guy who was a step away from juvi. Mark wouldn’t put it past him to break into the house and steal the journals. But there was no way he would do it if he didn’t know where they were. So Mark quietly went up into the attic, opened the desk drawer, took out the four brown scrolls that were Bobby’s first journals, and quickly went back downstairs. He got as far as the second-floor hallway near his bedroom when -

“You got a bathroom?” Mark jumped and yelped in surprise. Mitchell was upstairs, in his face.

“Of course we got a bathroom,” answered Mark. “Downstairs, near the — “

Mark felt his ring twitch. Oh, no. He couldn’t believe it was happening now, in front of Mitchell. Again.

“What’s the matter?” asked Mitchell. “You look sick. You gotta use the can too?”

Mark had to think fast. He didn’t want Mitchell to see the next journal arrive. The less this creep knew, the better.

“Use the bathroom in my room,” Mark ordered. “It’s closer.”

Mark would sooner drink acid than let Andy Mitchell go into his room, but it was the only thing he could think of quickly.

“Lemme read the journals while I’m sittin’ on the can,” snorted Mitchell.

Mark didn’t need that image. But then he felt his ring move again. It was starting to grow. There wasn’t any time so he handed the four precious journals over to Mitchell and pushed him into his room.

“Let me know when you’re done,” said Mark, and pulled his bedroom door closed.

Mark had pulled it off. Mitchell would be occupied long enough for Bobby’s next journal to arrive. Mark ran down the hallway, yanking the ring from his finger. It had already grown to its largest size and was getting hot. Mark ducked into his parents’ bedroom so that when the light show started, there would be no chance of Mitchell hearing or seeing anything.

Mark closed his parents’ door, placed the ring on the floor, and backed away. Instantly the glowing lights told him the doorway to Cloral was opening up. With a quick tumble of the familiar musical notes and a final, blinding flash, the delivery had been made.

Mark looked at the floor to see the ring had returned to normal and another roll of green paper had been deposited next to it. For a moment the excitement of getting Bobby’s next journal made Mark forget about his problems with Mitchell. He knew that the pages on the floor were going to tell them about the battle for the Lost City of Faar. He wanted to grab the pages, pull them open, and start reading right away. But he couldn’t do that for two very good reasons. One was that Courtney wasn’t here. They never read the journals without each other. He had messed up a lot recently, but that was one thing he wouldn’t fail on. The other was that Andy Mitchell was sitting on his toilet, reading the journals from Denduron. The thought made him shiver.

He didn’t want to risk going up to the attic to hide the newest journal, so he ditched it under his parents’ bed. The journal would be safe there until Mitchell left. Of course, at the speed that Mitchell read, it might take a week to get him out of there. But that was a risk Mark would have to take.

After stashing the journal under the bed, Mark went back to his room to begin the long ordeal of explaining every other word of the first four journals to Mitchell. He opened his bedroom door and saw that the bathroom door was closed. That was good. He didn’t want to catch a glimpse of Andy Mitchell sitting there with his pants around his ankles. Gross.

“Do me a favor, Andy,” Mark called out. “Finish what you’re doing and read the journals out here, okay?”

Mark didn’t want to risk getting the journals wet, with water or anything else.

“All right?” Mark called out.

Mitchell didn’t answer. Mark went to the bathroom door and knocked.

“You okay in there?” he asked.

Still no answer. Mark began to panic. Could Mitchell have fallen down and hurt himself? Could he have gotten sick? How would he explain any of this? He had no choice, he was going to have to go inside. But then he feared Mitchell was just being Mitchell and choosing not to answer. The last thing he wanted to do was open the door and catch him sitting on the toilet. But still, he had to make sure nothing was wrong. So he opened the door.

“Are you all — “

The bathroom was empty.

“Andy?” Mark called out in confusion. “Mitchell!”

Mark backed out of the bathroom, totally confused. What had happened? He looked around his bedroom, trying to see any telltale clue that would explain what was going on.

That’s when he saw it. His window was open. With rising panic he ran to it and looked out. The roof of the first-floor porch was just below the window. There were many times when Mark and Bobby used this route as a secret way to get in and out of the house. The roof led to a rose trellis on the far side of the house. Climbing down the trellis was like climbing down a ladder.

Mark went into brain lock. The evidence was all before him. He didn’t want to accept it, but he had to.

Andy Mitchell had just stolen Bobby’s journals.