The Lost City of Faar (30 page)

“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 saying
we
like 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

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 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?