The Lost City of Faar (31 page)

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.

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.

I
t's over.

I guess I don't have to tell you guys that I made it, since I'm writing this journal. I'm back on Grallion now, where I'm feeling safe for the first time in a long time. But the sad truth is that not everybody was as lucky as I was.

As I sit here in my apartment reliving the events of the last few days, I'm feeling a little numb. Maybe this is what they mean when they say somebody is in shock. Everything that happened seems like it was a dream. Maybe that's a good thing. When you feel as horrible as I do, then pretending it was all a dream makes it a little easier to handle.

Many people acted bravely, even in the face of death. I think that's what I'll remember most about the ordeal I've just been through. I have met some special people here on Cloral. I hope they think the same of me.

This is what happened.

Kalaloo led Uncle Press, Spader, and me along a winding path that brought us higher up on the mountain. The path ended at a giant outdoor shelter that was perched on a plateau
near the peak. We walked up several marble steps to a large, round platform that had all sorts of tile work on the floor. We're talking intricate stuff here. There were elaborate scenes of people building ships and swimming with schools of colorful fish, and even one scene that showed the dome being built over Faar mountain. I guessed this incredible mosaic showed the history of Faar. I hated to walk on it. It was like walking on art.

Around the perimeter of this platform were massive round columns that supported a giant, marble dome. It felt like we had just arrived on Mount Olympus! Above the stairs that led to the platform, attached to the dome was a large, marble symbol. It was the familiar symbol of Faar that Spader's father had drawn for him.

In the center of the platform was a circle of bleachers that were also made out of marble. People were sitting there, gibbering with animation. I counted twelve in all. Men and women, all wearing the same tunic-looking outfits that everyone else on Faar wore. Of course, they were all bald, too. Even the women. Weird. I figured this was the Council of Faar that was waiting to meet with us. Kalaloo led us into the circle and everyone immediately fell silent. It was kind of creepy. We stood at the dead center, surrounded by all these bald people who looked at us with sour expressions, as if we were strangers intruding on their perfect world. The fact is, we were.

We stood there like dopes, not sure of what to say. Finally Kalaloo took the lead.

“We have news,” he announced to the group. “Not all of it is good. These brave voyagers are continuing the work of our good friend Spader, who died so tragically.”

He walked behind Spader and put a hand on his shoulder. “In fact,” he continued, “this is the son of Spader. We must welcome them all.”

The twelve members of the council applauded politely, but they didn't have a whole lot of enthusiasm. It was all so stiff and formal. I really wanted to start screaming, “Wake up, people! Saint Dane is coming to kick your teeth in! Hel-lo! You gotta get ready!” But that wouldn't have been cool.

Uncle Press then brought the council up to speed. He told them of the tragic mistake the Clorans made by creating a fertilizer that turned the underwater crops into deadly poison. He told them how thrilled we were to hear that the good people of Faar had the means to undo the harm and make the crops safe again. I have to admit, he was good. He strode around the circle like a lawyer presenting his case. Nobody could take their eyes off him.