The Lost City of Faar (43 page)

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 Grallion, 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 Dane
wasn'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. Whatever
that
is.

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, HERE I AM
! 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
Uncle Press to rely on. Welcome to Traveler life . . . chapter three.

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
promised
that 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

SECOND EARTH

Mark and Courtney rode
in 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 now
why
they 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 looked
very
familiar. 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.