“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
SECOND EARTH
Mark finished reading the journal before 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. He was afraid 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 take all the 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 t
own 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 was Could you be any less articulate? But he wouldn’t dare say 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 raisinsize 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.