"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 Mitch.e.l.l. Or Mitch.e.l.l 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 takeallthe journals to Mitch.e.l.l 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 Mitch.e.l.l 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 Sat.u.r.day 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 s.p.a.ce 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 s.p.a.ce into a miniature park with gra.s.s, 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 Mitch.e.l.l 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 Mitch.e.l.l 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."

Mitch.e.l.l unrolled Journal #6 and began to read. Mark sat down on the bench next to Mitch.e.l.l's feet, settling himself in for a long wait. He knew Mitch.e.l.l was about the slowest reader in history.

As with the last journal he read, Mitch.e.l.l 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 Mitch.e.l.l clutch the valuable pages with his greasy, nicotine-stained fingers like a week-old newspaper. It also turned his stomach every time Mitch.e.l.l 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, Mitch.e.l.l was done.

"Jeez," he said with a touch of awe.

Mark's first sarcastic thought wasCould you be any less articulate?But he wouldn't daresay it for fear of getting pummeled.

"You think this is all really happening?" Mitch.e.l.l 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," Mitch.e.l.l said.

Huh? Mark suddenly perked up. Could it be true? Was Mitch.e.l.l actually losing interest? Maybe reading the journals was too hard for him. Maybe all the big words were taxing that raisin-size 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 Mitch.e.l.l 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 Mitch.e.l.l would go away, just went away.

"And I want to read *em all at once," added Mitch.e.l.l.

"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 - "

Mitch.e.l.l 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.

Mitch.e.l.l 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 Mitch.e.l.l. "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 Mitch.e.l.l 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 Mitch.e.l.l 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.

Mitch.e.l.l 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."

Mitch.e.l.l 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."

Mitch.e.l.l 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 Mitch.e.l.l. He went to school late because Mitch.e.l.l 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 Mitch.e.l.l. But the stress was crushing him. His schoolwork was going south, too. Something was going to have to give soon.

On Sat.u.r.day 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 Mitch.e.l.l said as he backed Mark into the house. "What is your problem?"

Mark knew exactly what his problem was. It was Mitch.e.l.l.

"M-My parents have been around all week," stuttered Mark nervously. "There w-wasn't any g-good time."

"Where are they now?" asked Mitch.e.l.l.

Mark considered telling Mitch.e.l.l that they were both upstairs, but he realized he couldn't take another week of dodging Mitch.e.l.l.

"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 Mitch.e.l.l his secret hiding place in the attic. Having him know the journals were in his house was bad enough. So while Mitch.e.l.l sat in front of the TV laughing at Pepe Le Pew, (Who laughed at Pepe Le Pew? n.o.body thought Pepe Le Pew was funny!), Mark went to get the journals.

He tried to be as quiet as possible so Mitch.e.l.l wouldn't know where he was going. Mitch.e.l.l 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. Mitch.e.l.l 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 Mitch.e.l.l. Again.

"What's the matter?" asked Mitch.e.l.l. "You look sick. You gotta use the can too?"

Mark had to think fast. He didn't want Mitch.e.l.l 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 Mitch.e.l.l 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 Mitch.e.l.l.

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 Mitch.e.l.l 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. Mitch.e.l.l 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 Mitch.e.l.l 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 Mitch.e.l.l. 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 Mitch.e.l.l 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 Mitch.e.l.l left. Of course, at the speed that Mitch.e.l.l 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 Mitch.e.l.l. 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 Mitch.e.l.l 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.

Mitch.e.l.l 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 Mitch.e.l.l 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 Mitch.e.l.l was just being Mitch.e.l.l 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. "Mitch.e.l.l!"

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 Mitch.e.l.l had just stolen Bobby's journals.

CLORAL.

It'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 ma.s.sive 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. n.o.body could take their eyes off him.

Uncle Press then gave them the bad news. He told them that a raider had discovered the location of Faar, and was probably headed this way to attack them at this very moment.

This caused a big hubbub.Finally,the council was showing some life.

"How did this happen?" one woman demanded. "How could a raider learn of Faar?"

Uncle Press didn't back away from the truth.