The Lost City of Faar

CLORAL

The ceremony was everything it should have been.

The Council Circle was loaded with people. The marble bleachers held the entire Council of Faar. Seated next to them was a group of aquaneers in full dress uniform. Among them was Quinnick, the pilot from Grallion, and Wu Yenza, the chief aquaneer.

The rest of the bleachers held an assortment of others. Some were from Faar. Others were from the Agronomy Society and had made the trip from Panger City. Seated with them was Ty Manoo, the agronomer from Grallion. There were also dignitaries from other habitats. Word was spreading quickly about the reemergence of the city of Faar. It had only been two days since the city rose, but the haulers had already been lifted from their hangar and sent across the territory to rescue the farms.

Cloral had reached its turning point — and survived.

Of course, no one seated in that circle had any clue about the bigger picture. They had no idea that Cloral was only one territory of many that Saint Dane was trying to spin into chaos. To them, victory was having ducked a huge ecological disaster. Nothing more, nothing less. And there was an added bonus in that this near-catastrophe had triggered the discovery of their own ancient roots. The raising of the city of Faar was an amazing event. Imagine if Atlantis had suddenly appeared back at home. How cool would that be? Well, this colossal discovery was all the people of Cloral could focus on now. They didn’t know about the larger evil that had almost destroyed their world.

But I did. So did Spader.

I had mixed feelings about Spader after what happened to Uncle Press. I knew it wasn’t his fault. If he thought his actions would have put Uncle Press in danger, he would have backed off. I’m sure of that. Still, I couldn’t stop thinking that if Spader had listened to us, Uncle Press would still be alive. Spaderhadto learn to control his emotions. He and I were very much in the same place right now. I still feel guilty because Osa died while protecting me. And now I knew what it was like to lose a loved one to death, and Saint Dane. But if we were going to work together as Travelers, we had to move past this. As I stood on the council platform waiting for the ceremony to begin I wasn’t sure if that was possible. I would always remember how Spader ignored our warnings and because of it, Uncle Press was dead.

I hadn’t seen Spader since we got back to Faar. Maybe that was a good thing. It gave us both a chance to chill out and get our heads together. But I was beginning to worry. He should be here for this ceremony. He was the Traveler from Cloral now. I really hoped that he hadn’t bailed.

I stood alone on the edge of the platform, outside of the Council Circle. The marble ceiling had been repaired and hoisted back onto the pillars right away. The round symbol of Faar was rejoined and placed back in its prominent spot. The rest of Faar was still pretty much a mess, but I think restoring the Council Circle was important because it represented the heart of Faar. From here, decisions about the future of Cloral would be made.

The sun was setting on the ocean. Sunsets are always beautiful and this one was no different. There were a few long clouds on the horizon. The warm sun lit them up like blazing arrows shooting across the water. The amber light washed over the marble buildings of Faar, making the city look like a painting. As I looked down on Faar’s mountain I saw that there were hundreds of people standing on the paths, watching the beautiful sunset. For them it must have been extraordinary. Faar had not seen sunsets in hundreds of years.

Kalaloo had explained to me how the transpire had been planned for generations. The scientists of Faar had devised an ingenious mechanism that when triggered would pump air into vast chambers below the city. The pressure built up in the chambers and lifted the city high enough to allow the sea to rush in and force the city even higher. The chain reaction continued until the surrounding seabed collapsed into the chambers, creating a base. It was like a controlled earthquake, where all the force was funneled upward.

It may have been physics that brought Faar to the surface, but to me it was pure magic. Seeing the people of Faar enjoying this sunset made it seem even more so. In spite of how horrible I felt right now, something good had come out of this adventure.

“Pendragon?”

I turned to see Spader standing there. He was dressed in his full aquaneer uniform, the same as on the day he thought he was going to meet his father. What a relief. Though it was going to be tricky working through what happened, at least I knew he understood that his place was here.

“I’ve thought a lot about what to say to you,” he said quietly. “But there’s nothing I can think of to tell you how sorry I am for what happened.”

I said, “How about ‘I’m sorry for what happened’?”

He dropped his head.

“I wish I could change what I did.”

I just nodded and said, “If I told you it was cool and to not worry about it, I’d be lying. But the thing is, now I know how you felt when your father died. Saint Dane killed Uncle Press, just like he killed your father. I want him stopped now more than ever. But there’s something you gotta understand. Getting revenge on him isn’t the answer. If you understand that, we’re cool. If not, then I’m going to have to go forward alone.”

“He understands, Pendragon,” said a familiar voice.

Walking up to us was Loor. I was stunned. Seeing her here, on Faar, was totally out of context. She was wearing a light green Cloral suit that really showed off her athletic body. She looked more beautiful than ever. I wanted to throw my arms around her and give her a hug, but that wasn’t Loor’s style. She stepped up to me and put a hand on my shoulder. That’s about as warm as Loor got.

“Spader came for me. He was confused, and afraid to speak with you,” she said.

I could understand that. If he needed help, the last person he could go to was someone who blamed him for getting his uncle killed.

Loor continued, “We have all lost the ones we loved most. Press always said how this is the way it was meant to be. I believe him. Spader was no more responsible for Press’s death than you were for the death of my mother. When she died, I hated you, Pendragon. But I came to see how this is the course we were destined to follow. It will often be a tragic one, but there is a greater purpose. I understand that. I believe Spader does too.”

I looked at Spader, who finally looked back to me, waiting for a reaction. I could see how genuinely pained he was.

“I can’t tell you that I don’t want revenge on Saint Dane,” he said. “But I believe the only way to do that is to complete our mission. I’m with you, Pendragon.”

We shared eye contact for a moment. I could tell that he was aching for me to say something to make him feel better.

I didn’t say anything at first. That’s because there was something I had to do. I had thought long and hard about it, and after all that had happened, I wasn’t sure if I could go through with it. But now, with Loor’s help, I realized that it was the absolute right thing to do. So I reached into my pocket and pulled something out that I had been holding on to for weeks.

“You’re a Traveler now,” I said to Spader. “This was your father’s. Now it belongs to you.”

It was the ring that Uncle Press had taken from Spader’s father. The Traveler ring. Uncle Press told me I would know the right time to give it to Spader. This was it. I reached out and dropped it into Spader’s outstretched hand.

Spader looked at the large ring and I could tell he was holding back tears.

I then smiled and said, “You realize it’s going to be a tum-tigger.”

Spader smiled. “Hobey-ho,” he said.

The two of us hugged. Our friendship was going to survive this, as it should. I looked at Loor, who winked at me. I always thought that I’d have to call on her for help with some kind of nasty battle. When you needed a warrior to bail your butt out of the fire, call Loor. As it turned out, the first time she came to my rescue, it was to help me work through an emotional crisis. Funny thing, this Traveler business.

Kalaloo then walked up to us and said softly, “We’re ready to begin.”

I saw that now standing on the edge of the platform were two small groups of people. One group was made up of six Faarians, the other six aquaneers. Each group carried a long, yellow container on their shoulders. These were the bodies of Abador, and my Uncle Press. At home you’d call them coffins, but they didn’t look like anything I’d seen on Second Earth. They were more like oval-shaped tubes made out of yellow plastic. The coffin held up by the Faarians had the words”Ti Abador”written in black letters on one end. The coffin carried by the aquaneers had my uncle’s name”Press Tilton.”(Did I ever tell you that Uncle Press’s last name was Tilton?)

The two groups of pallbearers stood with the coffins up on their shoulders. They each walked slowly toward the Council Circle. Abador’s coffin was first, followed by Kalaloo. Then came Uncle Press’s, followed by Spader, Loor, and me. As we walked slowly into the circle everyone stood up. Soft music was playing too. It wasn’t all sad like the church music you hear at funerals. No, this was nicer than that. It kind of reminded me of the mellow New Age music I wrote about before, but somehow it felt right to me now.

The pallbearers placed the two coffins next to each other on pedestals that were in the center of the circle. Kalaloo stood by them while the three of us walked to seats in the marble bleachers. When we had gotten to our places, Kalaloo raised his hands. The music stopped and everyone sat.

“Today is a sad and glorious day,” Kalaloo began, addressing the group. “Here, amid the splendor of a Faar that has been reborn, we must also face the realities of death.”

He went on to give a very nice speech about Abador. He spoke about how he had dedicated his life to serving Faar and its people. He was often the voice of reason when others had trouble finding the truth. And finally, it was his vision and bravery that saved Faar from destruction. He finished by saying that not only was Faar reborn, but for generations to come, people would remember Abador as the father of the new Cloral.

When he was finished, he turned and raised his hand for me to join him. This was going to be tough. I had to say a few words about Uncle Press. I had never done anything like this before. It wasn’t that I didn’t know what to say. Far from it. The problem was, I was afraid that I wouldn’t be able to get through it without crying. Uncle Press deserved better than that.

I walked up next to Uncle Press’s coffin as Kalaloo stepped back. I stood there and looked around at the group. Only a few of them even knew Uncle Press. Most had simply heard about how he helped save Faar and Cloral. To them he was a faceless hero. But he was more than that and I wanted them to understand.

“People have called my uncle brave,” I began. “And he was. But that can be said of many people. Many of you here today have shown incredible bravery. But that’s not what made Press Tilton special. The thing is, Uncle Press cared. Where most people can’t see past their own personal problems, Uncle Press always looked beyond. He helped many people in times of trouble in ways you will never know. Even I don’t know most, and that’s the way he wanted it. He didn’t do it for glory or for riches or to be honored at a wonderful ceremony like this. He did it because he cared. It’s what helped save Cloral, and Faar, and why he’s not with us today. But you know, that’s not really true. Heiswith us today. I know he’s with me. And I know that as long as I keep his vision alive, he will never truly be gone. As I say good-bye to him, there’s one thing I hope for above all else. I hope that when the time comes that I see him again, he’ll be half as proud of me as I am of him today.”

That was it. I couldn’t say anymore. I touched Uncle Press’s coffin and walked back to my place. As I walked everyone stood up. It was time to pay their last respects. I stood between Loor and Spader, trying to be brave. Loor actually reached over and held my hand.

The music began playing again. It was soft and soothing, but began to feel very sad. The two groups of pallbearers gathered around the coffins and lifted them up as the pedestal lowered away. Each group walked their coffins over to a different section of the platform and gently placed them down on the tile. The groups then stepped away, leaving the coffins on the floor of the platform. A moment later the coffins began to sink below. There were panels beneath them in the platform that acted like elevators to gently lower them down.

Kalaloo had come to me the day before and asked if I would honor them by allowing Uncle Press to be buried in the Grand Mausoleum of Faar. This was a place where only the most revered people in Faar’s history were laid to rest. It was right under the ornate, mosaic platform we had been standing on. Of course Abador would be buried there. Having Uncle Press there as well was proof of the Faarians’ gratitude for all he had done for them.

As much as I knew this was a great honor, my first thought was that he should be brought back home, to Second Earth. But if he were on Second Earth, he would be alone. My family was gone. There would be no one to visit his grave or even remember who he was. But on Faar, he was a hero. I remembered his first words to me after he made that perfect swan dive into the pool of water below the flume. He told me that this was his favorite territory. What better place to stay forever?

I humbly accepted Kalaloo’s offer. Uncle Press would stay here on Faar. He’d be remembered as a hero, though the people here wouldn’t even come close to knowing how great a guy he really was.

Shortly after the ceremony we returned to Grallion. Loor came with us and we showed her around the amazing farm habitat. We even raised a glass of sniggers to Uncle Press at Grolo’s.

I was happy that Cloral was out of danger. We had done our job. But I still felt kind of numb. Of course, most of that was because of Uncle Press. Not having him around was… strange. That’s the best word I can use. Of course I missed him and the sadness was like a heavy weight on my chest, but there was more. The sadness was about looking back. Losing him was also losing the final link to my family and my life on Second Earth.

The strange part came when I thought about the future. Uncle Press had been my guide. Though I wasn’t freaking out twenty-four-seven anymore, I still didn’t know much more about being a Traveler than when I started. Up until now, if I was confused about something, I could turn to Uncle Press. He wouldn’t always give me the answer, but I always felt as if he was pointing us in the right direction.

Now I was on my own. The biggest question now was, what next? I seriously thought about getting back to Second Earth and hiding under your bed, Mark. You could feed me leftover mac and cheese, nobody would know where I was, and I’d never have to think about anyone named Saint or Dane again.

But that wasn’t going to happen. The real question was, should I chase Saint Dane to Veelox? That’s the last territory he flumed to. I wasn’t sure if it was the right step or not, but if it was, I didn’t want to go alone. Loor was gone. After spending a few days on GralUon, she returned to Zadaa. Tensions there were growing worse, and she feared that something nasty could happen anytime. She wanted to be there and I didn’t blame her.

That left Spader. He would be a great partner. We had become friends before things went south and now that things were calm again, we rekindled our friendship. I knew he would go with me, but I was still nervous about how he would handle Saint Dane. I didn’t want him getting all out-of-control crazy again. I figured the best way to deal with my worries was to put them on the table. So one evening after dinner, Spader and I took a walk through the farm.

“I have to leave,” I said. “Cloral is past the turning point. There’s no reason to stay here.”

“Even for the great fishing?” asked Spader with a laugh. He was kidding. I knew it. He then said, “Where will you go?”

“Veelox, I guess,” was my answer. “That’s where Saint Dane went.” Of course, I’d rather go someplace where Saint Danewasn’t, but that’s not how it works.

“Ever been there?” he asked.

“Nope. Don’t have a clue about the place. Uncle Press was always my tour guide but now, well…” I didn’t have to finish my sentence. We walked along in silence for a while. I wasn’t sure how to ask him if he wanted to go with me. More important, I didn’t know how to ask him if he was going to be a loose cannon and get us both killed.

“I want to go with you,” Spader said. That took care of that problem. “I’m a Traveler, right? That’s what Travelers do. If Cloral is safe now, there’s no reason for me to be here either.”

“Spader, I — “

“You don’t have to worry about me, Pendragon,” he said sincerely. “I’m with the program. I meant what I said before. It’s not about getting revenge on Saint Dane. It’s about stopping him from hurting the territories. Look, mate, it was a rough time. I was out of my head. But I’m back now, and I want to go with you.”

That pretty much covered all the points I didn’t know how to bring up with him. That was easy. The question was, did I believe him?

“You need me, Pendragon,” Spader added.

That brings me to where I am right now, sitting in my quarters on Grallion, writing this journal. Tomorrow, Spader and I are going to leave. Our destination: Veelox. Whateverthatis.

Writing this all down was hard, but believe it or not, it’s made me feel a little better. Looking back on the events that led to the salvation of Cloral made me realize how important our mission is. Uncle Press always told me this, but it took seeing it for myself, again, to understand. I have no idea what we’ll find on Veelox, or how we should begin hunting for Saint Dane. I guarantee he won’t be walking around with a sign saying: hi, bobby, hereiam! I’m sure he’ll take on some disguise and be working his evil magic just as he did with Denduron and Cloral. The biggest difference will be that I won’t have As I finish writing this journal, I have to say how Uncle Press’s last words are really helping keep my head together. He said, no, he promisedthat we would be together again. I’m not sure how that’s possible, besides meeting up in heaven or something. But I don’t think that’s what he meant. The more I think about it, the more I realize he was talking about actually being together again. For real. In this lifetime.

Of course, that raises the biggest question of all. Where exactly is here? For that matter, when is now? That all depends on what territory you happen to be on. For the first time I’m beginning to see some amazing possibilities. I wonder how many territories there are? Are they all like the ones we’ve been on so far, or is it possible to flume into a whole ‘nother plane of existence? The potential is incredibly exciting, and makes my head hurt.

This is where I will end it, guys. I’ll send this off to you and then get some sleep. Please know that I miss you both. I hope I can get back there soon. Thank you again for reading my journals and keeping them safe. You are the light of reality in my otherwise dark and confused new life.

Hobey-ho.

Bobby.

END OF JOURNAL #8

Mark and Courtney rodein the back of a black-and-white police cruiser on their way to the Stony Brook Police Station. They had been picked up at Mark’s house by a nice cop named Officer Wilson. When he showed up at the door, Mark half expected him to say: “You’re under arrest, slimeball!” and slap the cuffs on him. But that didn’t happen. He was all friendly and as they rode along he even offered to put the siren on for them. Mark had to fight back the urge to say: “Yeah, go for it!” The kid in him thought it would be cool, but this was serious business, not time for fun. It also didn’t help that Courtney gave him a sharp look that said: “If you say yes to the siren, I’ll clock you.” They rode in silence.

Both were a little bit stunned. They had finished reading Bobby’s last journal and had just learned that Press was dead. They had met Press a few times and gotten to know him better through Bobby’s journals. Hearing about his tragic death was a shock. Of course it helped that Bobby and company had kicked some serious butt on Cloral. It took some of the sting away. They were already anticipating what they would hear from the territory of Veelox. But riding above these thoughts was the reality they faced in their own world, here and now.

Mark had a pretty good idea why Captain Hirsch had called them. It was about the journals Andy Mitchell had stolen. He was sure that Mitchell had turned them in to the police to get the reward. Why else would Captain Hirsch want them to come in?

Mark and Courtney had met the captain months before. They were the first ones to alert the police that Bobby and his family were missing. But since that meeting, they learned the truth about what had happened to Bobby through his journals. Though they didn’t have any idea where the Pendragons had gone, they knew nowwhythey had disappeared. They were here to raise Bobby to become a Traveler, and their job was complete. That’s why they left to go… somewhere.

Mark and Courtney never told the police what they knew. It was just too unbelievable. They were afraid they would be locked up in some hospital for the mentally deranged, or become suspects in the investigation they started themselves. Worse, they were afraid if people found out about the truth, it would make it harder for the Travelers to complete their mission — especially when it brought them here to Second Earth. So after lots of discussion and thought, Mark and Courtney decided to keep the truth a secret.

But now, with Andy Mitchell bringing the journals to the police, it was possible this whole thing could blow up in their faces.

Those were the worries going through Mark’s mind as Officer Wilson pulled into the parking lot of the Stony Brook Police Station. Both he and Courtney tried to act all casual, as if nothing were wrong. They had to be very careful about what they said to the police, or they could find themselves in deep trouble.

Officer Wilson led them through the precinct and had them wait in the same conference room where they first met with Captain Hirsch months before.

The room was empty except for two thick file folders sitting on the end of the long conference table. Both Mark and Courtney had a pretty good idea of what was in those folders. It was the reason they were here. They gave each other a look, but didn’t say a word. There was no way to know if they were being watched and listened to from behind the two-way mirror that ran the length of one wall. Mark wondered what was going through Courtney’s mind. She looked pretty calm. That was good. She would have to be calm for both of them, because Mark wanted to hurl.

“Hi, guys. Thanks for coming in,” said Captain Hirsch as he walked quickly into the room. “Sit down, please.”

Mark and Courtney took seats next to each other on one side of the conference table. Captain Hirsch sat down at the far end, in front of the two file folders. He was dressed in his usual gray business suit, with his tie loose around his neck. Mark wondered if he slept in that suit. Hirsch looked to Mark, then to Courtney, as if he wanted them to say something. They didn’t.

“So, you both know Andy Mitchell?”

“Yes,” they both said.

“What do you think of him?”

Mark wanted to say he thought Mitchell was an obnoxious slug, but he didn’t want Hirsch to think he had a negative attitude.

Courtney said, “He’s an obnoxious slug.”

Obviously, Courtney couldn’t care less about what other people thought of her attitude.

Hirsch nodded. He then reached for one of the file folders.

“This look familiar?” he asked, as he pulled something out and held it up for them to see. It was the first page of Bobby’s first journal. It lookedveryfamiliar. Courtney shot a look to Mark. Mark had to stay cool, even though his worst fear had come true. It was official. Mitchell had turned the journals in. Mark had kept the journals rolled up and tied with a cord, the way Bobby had sent them. Mitchell must’ve flattened them out and stacked them up so they could fit in a folder. Mark hated Mitchell all the more for being so disrespectful.

“Yeah, it’s familiar,” said Mark, trying not to appear angry.

“It sure is,” added Courtney, sounding a little bit more upset than Mark would have liked. He was afraid Courtney would go ballistic when she saw the journals, but thankfully, she didn’t.

Captain Hirsch put the page back in the folder.

“Andy Mitchell brought this in about an hour ago,” he said. “He’s still here. I’d like to have him join us.”

“He’s here?” said Mark with surprise. “Now?”

“Yeah. Is it okay?” Hirsch asked.

“Sure,” said Courtney. “Bring the slime in.”

Captain Hirsch nodded to the mirror, which meant they were being watched. That was a totally creepy feeling. A few seconds later the door opened and Andy Mitchell strode in looking like a guy who had just won the lottery. He walked all cocky and had a smug smile on his face. When he saw Mark and Courtney, the smile fell off. But he got his act back together quickly.

“Man, that was fast,” he said with a sneer. He then said to Mark and Courtney, “You guys feeling the heat yet?” He snorted and gave an obnoxious laugh.

“Sit down please, Andy,” said Hirsch.

Mitchell threw one leg over a chair and sat on the far end of the table. Mark half expected him to spit on the floor.

“Why’s this taking so long?” Mitchell asked. “You guys gonna buy me lunch or what?”

Hirsch didn’t respond. He turned to Mark and Courtney, saying, “Andy brought these pages to our attention. He tells us they’re proof of what happened to Bobby Pendragon. If it’s true, he’s going to get a large reward.”

“You got that right!” snorted Mitchell. “Twenty-five big ones.”

Mark saw Courtney’s hand clench. He knew she was fighting the urge to jump over the table and pummel this weasel. Or maybe she wanted to pummel Mark. He wasn’t sure which.

“Andy,” Hirsch said with a friendly smile. “Could you tell me how you gained possession of these papers?”

“I told you,” Mitchell answered, pointing to Mark. “He had ‘em! The two of ‘em were keeping them secret so nobody would know what was really going on. I figured it was my civic duty to bring ‘em in.”

Mark closed his eyes. This was horrible. Civic duty, yeah right.

“That’s not what I asked you, Mr. Mitchell,” said Hirsch politely. “I asked how you gained possession of these pages.”

“You mean… how did I get ‘em?” Mitchell asked. Clearly he wasn’t sure of the meaning of the word “gained.”What a tool.

“Yes,” answered Hirsch patiently.

Mitchell began to squirm. He started to answer a few times, but stopped himself as if he wasn’t sure he was saying the right thing. Finally, he just blurted out:

“I took ‘em, okay? I just took ‘em. But so what, man? You would have done the same thing! This kinda stuff shouldn’t be secret! People gotta know!”

Hirsch continued calmly, “So you’re telling me you stole them from Mark Dimond?”

It was clear that Mitchell didn’t like where this was going. “Yeah, I stole ‘em. But that’s not the point!”

Hirsch nodded. He then reached for the second file folder on the table. Mark and Courtney watched without saying a word or showing any emotion. Hirsch opened the second folder to reveal a thick stack of white paper with lines of typing on it. The lines were single spaced and traveled neatly from margin to margin.

“I’m going to read something to you, Mr. Mitchell,” said Hirsch. “I want you to tell me if it sounds familiar.”

“Knock yourself out,” responded Mitchell.

The police officer looked down at the top page, and began to read aloud.

‘“I hope you’re reading this, Mark.

“‘Heck, I hopeanybody’sreading this because the only thing that’s keeping me from going totally off my nut right now is getting this all down on paper so that- ‘”

“That’s from the journal,” said Mitchell, a little confused. “The first one. That’s how it starts. What are you reading that from?”

Hirsch held the thick stack of clean printed pages up for Mitchell to see. “Mark and Courtney brought me this story last week,” he said.

“What?” gasped Mitchell, stunned. “I don’t get it.”

Hirsch put the pages down and chuckled. “Yeah, that’s pretty obvious.”

“What’s goin’ on?” demanded Mitchell in confusion.

“This is a story they wrote,” said Hirsch, trying to hold back a smile. “A story. It’s fiction. Do you know what that means? They made it up.”

Mitchell shot a stunned look at Mark and Courtney. The two sat there looking like innocent angels.

“No. No they didn’t!” shouted Mitchell. “Pendragon wrote it! It’s all true!”

Courtney shook her head and spoke to Hirsch, saying, “Like we told you, it may be childish, but it was our way of dealing with Bobby’s disappearance.”

“Yeah,” added Mark quickly. “I even wrote it out in long hand on those brown pages, as if Bobby wrote it himself. It makes the whole thing seem more real that way.”

“But we also typed it on the computer, so it was easier to work on,” said Courtney. “It’s just a fantasy, but it felt good to pretend that Bobby was on some big adventure instead of, well, instead of being wherever he really is. Now that we’re sitting here talking about it, it’s kind of… embarrassing.”

“Don’t be embarrassed,” said Hirsch kindly. “People deal with loss in a lot of ways. You two were very creative about it.”

“You gotta be kidding me!” screamed Mitchell as he jumped up from his chair. “They are lying! Ly-ing! I… I saw pages appear from nowhere in a big flash of light through… through his ring. Look at his ring!”

Mark shrugged and held up his fingers. He had no rings.

Mitchell was in full-on panic mode. Mark could see that he had gone from thinking he had twenty-five thousand dollars in his pocket to being treated like an idiot thief who believes in fairy tales. He desperately tried to turn it around.

“Okay, okay,” he stammered. “Answer me this: Why did they bring you those printed-out pages? Huh? I’ll tell you. They were trying to beat me here and get themselves off the hook, that’s why.”

“No,” said Hirsch patiently. “They came here to report their handwritten pages had been stolen. They brought the typed pages to prove the story was theirs. Quite frankly, I never thought the stolen pages would turn up, but then you walked in out of the blue. How very convenient!”

“No!” shouted Mitchell in anguish. He was losing badly.

Hirsch looked at Mark and Courtney and said, “Do you want to press charges against Mr. Mitchell?”

Mark and Courtney looked at each other, then Courtney said, “No, just getting the pages back is enough.” ”Yeah, in a way we feel kind of bad for him,” said Mark sympathetically. “We never thought somebody would believe our story was good enough to be true!”

“Really!” added Courtney with a laugh.

“But itistrue!” shouted Mitchell, on the verge of tears. “Isn’t it?”

“You’re free to go, Mr. Mitchell,” said Hirsch. “But I first want you to apologize to these two for what you did.”

Mitchell flashed a look of anger and hatred at Mark that rocked him back in his chair. It didn’t seem to bother Courtney, though. Mitchell didn’t scare her. Mitchell got all red in the face, like he was in horrible pain, then he squeezed out a weak, “I’m… sorry.”

“It’s okay, Andy,” Courtney said sympathetically. “Let’s forget this ever happened.”

“Yeah,” added Mark.

“Thank you, Mr. Mitchell. Now go away,” ordered Hirsch.

Mitchell stood there for a second, desperately thinking of something he could say to turn this around. But he wasn’t smart enough to do that. He looked at Courtney. Courtney gave him a tiny little smile and a wink. That was it. Mitchell couldn’t take it anymore.

“Ahhhh!” he shouted, and stormed out of the conference room.

Hirsch said, “You’re right. Heisan obnoxious slug.”

“Thank you, Captain,” said Courtney in her most polite voice. “I knew you would be the right person to come to for help.”

“No problem, that’s my job. I do have a favor to ask though.”

“Anything,” said Courtney quickly.

“Would you let me read this story? It’s really pretty good!”

Mark and Courtney exchanged glances, then Mark said, “Sure, but could you read the printed pages? We’d like to hold on to the handwritten ones.”

Hirsch quickly slid the folder with Bobby’s journals over to Mark.

“Of course, here you go,” he said. “That Mitchell guy’s a piece of work. Did he really think this story was true?”

All Mark and Courtney could do was shrug innocently.

A few minutes later Mark and Courtney were out of the police station and walking down the Ave. Bobby’s first journals were safely tucked into Mark’s backpack. They had politely turned down a ride home from Officer Wilson, saying they’d like to walk. They said the whole ordeal was pretty stressful and they needed to cool down.

They went right to Garden Poultry and bought two boxes of French fries, along with a Coke and a Mountain Dew. Mark did the Dew. They brought the food to the pocket park and sat on a bench to enjoy their feast. Neither one had said anything from the time they left the police station. They just kind of drifted toward Garden Poultry without even discussing it.

Finally, as he finished his last crispy golden fry, Mark said, “I’m sorry, Courtney.”

Courtney gulped down the rest of her Coke, then said, “Losing that page from the journal was an accident. It was as much my fault as yours. But not telling me right away that Mitchell found out about the journals… Mark, that was bad.”

“I know, I know,” was all Mark could say. “I thought I could handle the guy. I… I was embarrassed to tell you how bad I screwed up. But man, when he wanted to see all the journals and started talking about how we were going to be famous when we showed the whole world what we had — I didn’t know what to do.”

“You should have come to me before it got that bad,” said Courtney. Mark could tell she was angry.

“Yeah,” said Mark guiltily. “But your plan was awesome.” He thought back to the moment when he finally fessed up to Courtney about what had happened. It was right after Mitchell demanded to see all of the journals. Courtney didn’t get angry. Instead she came up with the idea to turn the tables on Mitchell. She knew he would tell the police about the journals to claim the reward. That was a no-brainer. But they figured they could beat him to the punch by pretending they wrote the story themselves. It took Courtney three late nights of grueling typing to get Bobby’s first journals into her computer. Then they printed out the pages and took them right to Captain Hirsch. That’s when they told him the bogus story about their handwritten version being stolen. The key to the whole thing was showing the story to the policebeforeMitchell did. Neither of them liked to lie, but the situation was desperate. Mitchell had to be stopped from exposing Bobby’s story to the world.

As it turned out, it became only half a lie when Mitchell came to Mark’s house and ended up stealing the journals after all. Still, if Mitchell had just read the journals and returned them, that would have been the end. But they knew Mitchell wouldn’t do that. He was too greedy. They knew he’d take the journals to the police — and walk right into their trap. The sting worked beautifully. They got Bobby’s journals back and Mitchell couldn’t demand to see them anymore by threatening to go to the police.

It was a beautiful thing, but Mark still felt bad for not having been totally honest with Courtney.

“You brought me into this when you showed me the first journal,” Courtney said. “If you want me to stay in, you’ve got to be honest with me, always.”

“I will, I promise,” Mark whined.

The two were silent for a second, then slowly, Courtney smiled a devilish smile. “But it sure was sweet seeing Mitchell squirm!”

Mark laughed too and they slapped high-fives. Mark then reached around his neck and pulled out the chain that held the key to his secret desk. Dangling next to it was Mark’s ring. He took it off and put it right back on his finger, where it belonged.

There was nothing left to do now but go home. They walked together until Courtney reached her street.

“So, you’ll call me?” asked Courtney.

“Soon as the next journal shows,” answered Mark, as he always did.

The two then gave each other a hug and separated.

They wouldn’t get back together for another five months.

Both went back to their normal lives at home and at school. Since the only friend they had in common was Bobby, that meant neither of them saw much of each other. Occasionally they’d pass in the hallway. Courtney would look at him as if to ask: “Well?” Mark would just shake his head. Nothing yet.

Courtney played softball for the Stony Brook team. It was fast-pitch and she was the pitcher. The team went undefeated that spring, and Courtney was MVP of course.

Mark’s big project was to build a battling robot for a county science fair. He had a real knack for mechanics and physics. The robot was killer. It destroyed the competition with a combination hook, buzz saw, sledgehammer package. He took first prize and started to investigate how to get on the TV with his battling robotic baby.

Courtney had a birthday on March 6. She turned fifteen. Mark sent her a card with the greeting: “Happy Birthday, Hobey-ho!”

The two did get together once, on March 11. Bobby’s birthday. They went back to Garden Poultry on the Ave, got some fries, and toasted Bobby in the pocket park with Coke and Dew.

Both wondered if Bobby had any idea that he had just turned fifteen.

The next big event was graduation from Stony Brook Junior High in June. Mark was valedictorian and was supposed to give a speech. But he was too nervous and let the runner-up take his place on the podium. He was still the valedictorian, though, and got a huge dictionary as a prize. The next stop for these two was high school — a big, scary step. They would soon be going to Davis Gregory High, the big public high school in Stony Brook. Nobody knew who Davis Gregory was, but they figured he must have been somebody important. Mark wondered if someday there’d be a school called Bobby Pendragon High.

The summer went along lazily. Courtney played baseball and got her junior lifeguard certification. Mark tinkered with his killer robot, getting ready for the big state competition. He had gotten an invitation and everything. His reputation was getting around.

Mark always wore the ring, waiting for the day when the next journal would arrive. The truth was, both Mark and Courtney tried not to think about Bobby, because the longer it went without getting a journal, the more they feared that something nasty had happened to him. That was something they didn’t even want to consider, so it was easier to put Bobby out of their minds entirely.

Then, on August 21, two things happened. First, it was Mark’s fifteenth birthday. He celebrated in his usual way: getting some creepy new clothes from his mother and a gift certificate from his father that would be spent wisely at the local electronics store.

The other thing that happened was Mark got a strange phone call at home.

An official-sounding woman’s voice said, “May I speak to a Mr. Mark Dimond, please?”

“That’s me.”

“This is Ms. Jane Jansen, vice-president of the National Bank of Stony Brook. Are you familiar with us?”

The woman sounded like somebody’s idea of a pruny old schoolteacher.

“Uh… sure,” he said. “You’re on the Ave… uh… Stony Brook Avenue.”

“Correct,” she answered. “Do you know a Ms. Courtney Chetwynde?”

“Yes, what’s this about?”

“Mr. Dimond, would you and Ms. Chetwynde please come down to our branch as soon as possible? With some identification? I believe this may be an issue of some importance.”

This really threw Mark. He didn’t even have a bank account. What could they possibly want with him and Courtney? He was just about to tell this wacky woman that he wanted to call his parents first, when she dropped the bomb.

“It has to do with a Mr. Robert Pendragon.”

Those were the magic words.

“We’ll be right there,” Mark said, and hung up the phone before she had the chance to say good-bye.

Mark immediately called Courtney and was relieved to find her home. Half an hour later, the two of them were standing outside the large, gray cement building with the big brass letters that read: national bank of stony brook.

Mark never understood how Stony Brook could have a national bank, but it had been around forever so he figured they must know what they were doing. The bank itself was old-fashioned. There was a huge lobby with a high ceiling capped by a glass dome. This was not like the modern banks that Mark had been in with his mother. This looked like the bank from Mary Poppins. There was lots of dark polished wood, brass hardware, and leather furniture. There were a lot of customers, too, and they all whispered when they spoke. It was like a library. Mark thought this bank probably looked exactly the same as it did the year it was built. Based on the cornerstone he saw outside, that year was 1933.

Mark and Courtney told the receptionist they were there to see a Ms. Jansen. They were asked to have a seat in the waiting area, so the two of them sank into the cushy leather chairs to wait for this mysterious woman who had some news about Bobby.

“You have any clue what this is about?” Courtney asked Mark.

“None, zero, nada,” Mark answered.

A second later they both saw a rail-thin woman walking toward them. She wore a gray suit and had her hair up in a bun. Her glasses were black with perfectly round lenses. Mark knew immediately that this must be Ms. Jane Jansen. She looked exactly like her voice sounded. She was old, too. Mark wondered if she had been working here since the bank opened.

The woman walked up to the receptionist and asked her a question that Mark couldn’t hear. The receptionist pointed to Mark and Courtney. Ms. Jansen looked at them and frowned.

“I guess we’re not what she was expecting,” Courtney whispered.

Ms. Jansen walked over to them quickly. She had perfect posture and a stiff neck that didn’t turn. Whenever she looked in a different direction, she moved her whole body.

“Mr. Dimond? Ms. Chetwynde?” she asked with a snippy tone.

“That’s us,” answered Mark.

“Do you have some form of identification?” she added suspiciously. Courtney and Mark gave the woman their student ID cards. Jansen looked at them over her glasses and then frowned again.

“You two are quite young,” she said.

“You needed our ID’s to figure that out?” Courtney asked.

Mark winced. Courtney was being a wise-ass, again.

Ms. Jansen shot Courtney a sour look and handed them back their ID’s. “Is this the way young people dress today to attend a meeting?” she asked, sounding all superior.

Mark and Courtney looked at each other. They were both wearing shorts, T-shirts, and hiking boots. What was wrong with that?

“We’re fifteen, ma’am, what did you expect?” said Courtney. “We don’t have snappy outfits like you’re wearing.”

Jansen knew this was a cut, but let it go.

“Please follow me,” she said, then turned and walked toward the back of the bank.

Courtney rolled her eyes at Mark. Mark shrugged and the two of them followed the stiff, skinny little woman. A minute later they were sitting across from her at a large oak desk.

“We have been holding an envelope for the two of you,” she explained. “We assume it must be some sort of inheritance from a relative of yours. Are either of you related to Mr. Robert Pendragon?”

That was a tough one to answer. Mark was about to say that they were just friends, but Courtney jumped in first saying, “Yeah, he’s a distant relative.”

Jansen continued, “Well, it doesn’t matter actually. The instructions are quite clear.”

She then handed the envelope to Mark. It was an old, yellowed letter that had two names written on it: “Mark Dimond” and “Courtney Chetwynde.” It was Bobby’s handwriting. Both Mark and Courtney had to force themselves to keep from smiling.

Jansen continued, “We were instructed to deliver this envelope to you on this date. We were also instructed to have you open it right away.”

Mark shrugged and opened the letter. He pulled out a sheet of paper that was folded in half. It was old and yellow too, like the envelope. There was a header engraved on top that read: “National Bank of Stony Brook” in fancy lettering. Below it were the words: “Safety Deposit Box #15-224.”

There was one other thing in the envelope: a small key.

Mark and Courtney had no idea what to make of this, so they showed it to Ms. Jansen. She looked at the note and the key, then said quickly, “Follow me, please.”

She got up and walked off again. They followed her.

“This is freaky,” whispered Courtney.

This time Ms. Jansen led them into a place Mark had always wanted to go — the huge bank vault. Since the bank was open for business, so was the vault. There was a giant, round door that looked like something you’d see in Fort Knox. When this baby closed, there was nobody getting in. Or out, for that matter.

Mark wondered if inside they would see big bags of money with dollar signs on them. Or stacks of clean crisp bills. Or maybe even bars of gold.

But there was none of that. Ms. Jansen led them to a room full of brass lockers. Some were as big as the lockers at school, others were no larger than a few inches wide. These were the safe deposit boxes of the National Bank of Stony Brook.

Ms. Jansen walked along one row of doors, scanning the numbers inscribed on each. She finally arrived at the one marked: 15-224. She stopped and handed the key to Mark.

“You both are now the owners of the contents of safe deposit box number 15-224. I will leave you alone to inspect the contents. When you are finished, please relock the box and return the key to me. Any questions?” ”I’m kind of confused,” said Mark. “Who set this up?”

“I told you, a Mr. Robert Pendragon.”

Courtney asked, “He came in here? Did you see him?”

The look on Ms. Jansen’s face got even more pinched, if that were possible.

“I know you consider me to be a fossil, Ms. Chetwynde, but I assure you, this account was opened long before I was employed here at National Bank.”

“So when was that?” asked Mark.

“I’ll have to double check the exact date, but I believe it was sometime in May.”

“He was here three months ago?” shouted Courtney in surprise.

“Please, Ms. Chetwynde,” said Jansen testily. “I’m not a fool, so do not try to play me for one. This account was opened in May of 1937.”

Mark and Courtney went into stunned brain lock.

“Do you have any more questions?”

Both Mark and Courtney could only shake their heads.

“Then I’ll be at my desk.”

Jansen gave them a last annoyed look and hurried off.

Mark and Courtney couldn’t move. They both tried desperately to get their minds around the incredible information.

“Is it possible?” Courtney finally asked.

“There’s one way to find out,” answered Mark.

He inserted the key into the deposit box marked 15-224. This was one of the larger boxes compared to the others. It looked to be about two feet high. The door hinged outward, revealing a handle attached to a steel box. While Mark held the door open, Courtney pulled on the handle. The steel box slid out easily. It was roughly the size of two shoe boxes. ”Take it over there,” said Mark.

Built into one wall was a row of four desks set up with partitions between them, kind of like the study carrels in the library at school. These wooden desks looked ancient, just like everything else at this bank. Courtney put the box down on one of the old desks and they each pulled up a chair. Mark was happy nobody else was here.

The two looked at the steel box. The lid was still closed so they couldn’t see what was inside. Mark’s heart was racing. He knew Courtney’s was too.

“I can’t breathe,” Mark said finally.

“Then open it. This is killing me!”

Mark reached for the lid, hesitated a moment, then lifted it up.

They saw that the deep box was mostly empty. But lying on the bottom was a stack of four books, each bound in dark red leather. They were about the size of a piece of computer paper: 8x10 inches. Each looked to be about a half-inch thick. The weird thing was that they didn’t have any titles. There were no markings on the covers whatsoever.

There was something else in the box too. Sandwiched next to the stack of books was an envelope. Mark’s hands were shaking as he pulled it out. It was a business-size envelope with a printed return address in the upper left corner. It was the name and address of the bank. Whoever wrote this letter wrote it here in the bank. There was something else on the envelope. In Bobby’s handwriting were the words: “Mark and Courtney.”

“That’s us,” said Courtney with a weak smile.

Mark nervously opened the envelope and pulled out the single page inside. He unfolded it to reveal a letter written on National Bank of Stony Brook stationery. The words were written in Bobby’s handwriting. Dear Mark and Courtney,

I gotta make this fast. I don’t have much time. Here’s the deal. I lost my ring. I haven’t had it for months now. That’s why you haven’t been getting my journals. I’ve been writing though. Every thing that’s happened I put down on paper, just like always. But it’s been making me crazy. I hate having all the journals together. They’re not safe with me. I can’t believe it took me as long as it did to come up with a solution.

I came to Stony Brook. I knew the National Bank was around forever and sure enough, here it is. What a rush. The Ave is a totally different place, though. I was kind of hoping Garden Poultry was here to grab a quick box of fries, but no such luck. You know what’s there instead? A barbershop. Same building, different business. Weird.

I could go on forever about how strange this is, but I don’t have time. If my plan works, and I can’t think of why it won’t, you’ll be sitting in the same spot where I am right now, reading this letter.

I’ve put all four journals in the safe deposit box. The whole adventure is contained here. Hopefully, the next time you hear from me it will be through the rings. I think I might know where mine is now, and that’s where I’m headed.

Thank you, guys. I miss you.

Bobby

May 31, 1937

P.S. If they still have these wooden desks in the vault, look under the one to the far right. Courtney and Mark both read the letter a few times to make sure they understood. Somehow Bobby got here in 1937 and left his journals. It made sense. Bobby knew the National Bank would still be here in the present, so there was no reason why it wouldn’t work. The bigger question was, how the heck did he get to 1937? It began to raise all sorts of questions about the flumes sending Travelers through time as well as territories.

They both turned their attention to the desk they were sitting at. They looked pretty old and were probably the same desks that Bobby had sat at. They both got down on their knees to look under the desk on the far right. They had no idea what they should be looking for until

“Oh, man, look!” Courtney said.

She pointed to a spot underneath the desk. Something was carved into the woodwork. The only way you could see it was to be down on the floor, looking straight up. The words said: “Happy Birthday, Mark.”

As they lay on their backs, looking up, Mark and Courtney started to laugh. This was so perfectly Bobby. Mark wished he had a camera with him so he could take a shot and keep it with the journals. He planned on coming back and doing just that.

The two then pulled themselves out from under the desk and stood up. They stared at the open safety deposit box and the four journals inside.

“I can’t believe there’s a whole story here,” said Courtney.

“We should bring them home,” Mark said.

“Yeah,” agreed Courtney, “but this is killing me. Let’s just look at the first page.”

Mark couldn’t think of a reason not to, so he reached inside and took the first journal off the pile. It was nicely bound, like a book that had never been opened.

“Not exactly old parchment papers,” Mark said. He then carefully opened the cover to the first page.

Unlike the stories from Denduron and Cloral, Bobby had typed this journal. The pages were the size of regular computer printer paper, but they were heavier and cream colored. Also, the typing looked all messy. This wasn’t like a clean page from a printer. This had actually been typed on an old-fashioned typewriter. Neither of them had ever seen something like this — it was like looking at a piece of history. In a way, that’s exactly what it was.

“Let’s at least see where he was,” said Courtney.

“Okay,” agreed Mark.

The two sat down at the desk and began to read. to be continued