The Rivers of Zadaa (9 page)

The words of Bobby's Journal #20
brought no relief for Mark. The drought problem on Zadaa was bad enough, but Mark was frightened by the fact that Saint Dane tried to flat out kill Bobby. It pained him to hear how his best friend had been hurt so badly, and it put a knot in his stomach to know that Loor was going to teach Bobby how to become a warrior.

As bad as all that was, the idea that Bobby was falling in love with Loor made Mark wince. After learning about what a hard time Courtney was having, he couldn't imagine how she would react to hearing that the guy she had a crush on since they were in the fourth grade was now turning his affections toward somebody else. Nothing that Bobby wrote in his journal was good news. A whole boatload of worry had been dumped on Mark.

The kicker was, he had nobody to share it with.

The only consolation was that Courtney didn't want to know about the journal, which meant he didn't have to tell her that Bobby was falling in love with Loor. He hoped that by the time Courtney returned from summer school, she would be strong enough to handle the news—or at least he'd have time to think of a way to tell her without sending her back off the deep end. No, there was no good news in Bobby's latest journal.

Mark rolled it up, along with Courtney's letter. He brought them both to the National Bank of Stony Brook, where Bobby had opened up and paid for a safe-deposit box in 1937. First Earth. It was the place where Mark kept all of Bobby's journals, holding them for the day that Bobby would need them again, for whatever reason.

He left the bank, ready to explode. There was too much bouncing around in his head. He fought the urge to run to Courtney's house. He needed to talk with somebody, but there was nobody around…

Except for Andy Mitchell.

“Hey, Dimond,” Andy Mitchell called as Mark walked out of the bank. Mark jumped in surprise. “What are you, some kinda business guy going to the bank?”

“Yeah, that's it,” Mark said quickly, keeping his head down. He kept walking. Andy went with him.

“What's your hurry?” Mitchell asked.

“I, uh, I got homework,” Mark lied.

“Ahh, homework!” Mitchell scoffed. “The school year's almost over. Take a break. I'll buy you fries at Garden Poultry.”

This made Mark stop short. He looked at Mitchell. The thug looked the same, with the greasy spill of blond hair falling in his eyes and the ever-present redness from acne. Still, something was different. Mitchell had never, ever been nice to Mark.

“Why?” Mark asked. “What do you want?”

“Nothing!” Mitchell answered defensively. “Jeez.”

Mark stared square at Mitchell, not accepting the answer.

Mitchell buckled. “Okay, maybe something. I want to ask you about that robot you made last year. You know, the one that won the state contest?”

“Yeah, I know which one. What about it?”

“Don't be so twitchy. I was just interested is all. I mean, we're both in Sci-Clops, right?”

Mark had more strange information thrown at him in the last few hours than his brain could accept. First there was Courtney's letter, then Bobby's journal, then here was Andy Mitchell, the hated Andy Mitchell, wanting to talk shop with him. It was almost more than Mark could take. Normally he would blow Andy off and keep walking. But he needed to get his mind off Courtney, and the journal.

“All right,” Mark said. “Fries at Garden Poultry.”

“Now you're talkin'!”

They started to walk off together, but Mark suddenly stopped and said, “Wait, where did you get the money for fries? Did you steal it?”

“Gimme a break,” Mitchell said. “I got a job.”

“What job?” Mark asked suspiciously. “Is it legal?”

“You're a piece of work, you know that? I make deliveries for my uncle,” Mitchell answered. “He's got a flower store. Is that legal enough for you?”

“You have your driver's license?” Mark asked, surprised.

“Sure, don't you?” Mitchell asked.

Mark didn't. He hadn't even thought about asking his parents for his learner's permit. Could he be any more of a loser?

“Sorry,” Mark finally said. “I've got a lot on my mind.”

The odd couple walked up Stony Brook Avenue to the Garden Poultry Deli where they picked up a couple of boxes of golden-delicious fries and some sodas. They sat in the pocket park nearby, and Mitchell listened to Mark tell him all about the killer robot he designed that won both the local and state science fairs. It was the project that earned him his invitation to join Sci-Clops. Mitchell listened with interest, which was amazing to Mark. He didn't interrupt. He didn't make fun. He didn't snort and spit. Not once. Mark actually enjoyed telling him about his robot. With all that had been going on, talking about something real like his robot calmed him down. He even forgot for a second who he was talking to…that's how desperate he was to get his mind off his problems.

When Mark was finally talked out, Mitchell nodded and said, “I gotta hand it to you, Dimond. You're a freak, but you've got talent.”

“Thanks…I think,” Mark said.

Andy stood up and said, “Maybe someday we'll work together on something. That is, if you don't mind working with somebody you think is a turd.”

This threw Mark. It was the first time Mitchell had shown any sign of humility whatsoever.

“Uh, yeah, maybe” was all Mark could get out. “I mean, I don't think you're a turd.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Thanks for the fries,” Mark said.

“Thanks for the story,” Mitchell said. “I gotta get to work. See ya.”

With that, Mitchell turned and walked out of the park. Mark was left there stunned. It seemed too surreal to be true, but Andy Mitchell had actually just helped him get through a panic attack. Mark chuckled and shook his head and thought, “Life just keeps on getting stranger.”

The next few weeks flew by. Mark visited the bank a few times to reread Bobby's latest journal. He tried not to think about Courtney. He figured she'd contact him when she was ready. All Mark could do was hope that Bobby was fully recovered, and that he would avoid Saint Dane.

Mark started a summer job where he assembled and engraved sports trophies. It was better than most dumb summer jobs. At least there was a little bit of creativity involved, and it helped him get his mind off everything else. Mark actually hated summers. He didn't like to do all the things that everybody else did. He didn't like swimming. His family didn't take many fun trips. He didn't like sitting in the sun because his fair skin went from blue-white to raging red with no stopover at tan. But mostly it was because he liked school. Odd as that would seem to most kids, Mark longed for September because for him, summers were boring.

On the weekend of July Fourth, his summer got less boring.

He was working late at the trophy shop, but he didn't mind because they were having a fireworks display in the park at the bottom of Stony Brook Avenue. Mark worked until nearly eight thirty, then stopped off at Garden Poultry for his obligatory box of fries and can of Mountain Dew. With his nutritious dinner in hand, he walked down the Ave to catch the fireworks. Families poured in from everywhere, carrying blankets to stake out their piece of grass and see the show. Mark sat down in the middle of one of the town tennis courts. He didn't like sitting on the grass much, especially with food. He hated battling ants for his fries.

With two huge explosions the fireworks began. Everyone's eyes went skyward to watch the display. Soon after, the traditional “Oohs” and “Aahs” began as each rocket exploded with spectacular sprays of multicolored light. Mark liked fireworks. They were like magic to him. He had no idea how the ancient Chinese could have figured out how to put the right chemicals and explosives together that would erupt in such amazing colors and patterns. He knew it would be easy enough to research and find out how they worked, but he chose not to. He preferred to think of it as magic.

“Excuse me, son,” came a voice next to him. “No sparklers in the crowd.”

Mark saw a cop standing in front of him. He looked around, wondering who the cop was talking to, but nobody around him was playing with sparklers.

“Did you hear me?” asked the cop, a bit more gruff.

Mark realized the cop was staring right at him.

“Are you talking to me?” Mark asked, confused.

“Don't be smart,” the cop snapped. “Kill the sparkler. There are little kids around.”

Mark truly didn't know what the guy was talking about. That is, until he felt his ring twitch. He didn't notice it at first because he had been so focused up at fireworks in the sky, but there was a small pyrotechnic display going on right in Mark's hand.

His ring had activated.

It was already growing larger, with shimmering light spewing from the opening, very sparklerlike. The fireworks had been so loud he didn't even hear the music. Mark instantly clamped his hand over the ring.

“S-Sorry, Officer,” he stammered. “I'll—uh—I'll get rid of it.”

Mark awkwardly got to his feet, but he was in the middle of a crowd on the tennis court. He tried to run off, but ended up either stepping on people, or tripping over their picnic baskets, or generally making a nuisance of himself.

“Excuse me, pardon me, sorry, I'm sorry, oops, sorry,” he kept saying as he fought his way through the crowd and off the court. After annoying pretty much everybody along the way, he jumped off the tennis court and ran into the woods. He didn't have to run far. Nobody cared about him. They were all watching the sky. Mark ran behind a tree, dropped his ring to the ground and watched his own personal pyrotechnic display. Unlike the fireworks exploding in the sky, this one actually did have a touch of magic to it.

This display was there to deliver Bobby's next journal.

ZADAA

T
here's been a tragedy.

There was no warning. No build up. No way we could have been prepared. With everything I've seen, you'd think I'd be used to horrible things happening. Not so. I'm as stunned as ever. Now we've got to pick up the pieces and move on. The only good thing I can say about this, is that it has made our next step pretty clear.

Mark, Courtney, I'm once again writing this journal from Loor's home. We won't be here much longer. Tomorrow we begin a journey. Hopefully, I'm ready for it. Or at least more ready than I was when I wrote to you last.

It's weird. I'm beginning to feel like two different people. I'm still Bobby Pendragon, the guy you know and who wants more than anything to be home and get his real life back. But in many ways, I've changed. I've seen so many things, both horrible and wondrous, that I can't help but think I'm not the same person. I don't like that. I want to be me. But with all that's been going on, the old me wouldn't survive for long. That's why I needed to force myself to change even more. It's all about staying alive. The ironic part is that by forcing myself to be a new person, it feels like I'm killing off the old Bobby. I hate it, but I don't have a choice. Not if I want to be around long enough to stop Saint Dane.

But right now I need to get my head back to a few weeks ago, so that I can get all that's happened down here in my journal.

 

Three of us stood facing the flume, deep in Rokador territory beneath the city of Xhaxhu. The rocky tunnel into the territories was quiet now, but wouldn't be for long.

“This is not necessary,” Saangi said, annoyed. “I am capable of the job. We do not need more help.”

“One day you will be a fine warrior,” Loor said to her patiently. “But we need help now. Today.”

Without warning, Saangi grabbed the wooden stave she had strapped to her back. She spun it like a baton, dropped to her knee, and expertly whacked me on the back of the legs.

“Ow!” I shouted. “What was that for?”

“My reflexes are far better than his,” Saangi said to Loor. “He can learn from me.”

I rubbed the back of my stinging legs, then quickly yanked the weapon out of her hands before she could react.

“Gimme that,” I scolded. “Sheesh.”

Loor gently took the weapon from me. I could see she was smiling slightly.

“You think this is funny?” I asked. “This is tough enough without getting smacked by the good guys. That hurt!”

Loor said, “If you do not wish to be hit, you do not wish to train. Do you wish to train?”

Ouch. Loaded question. To be honest, the idea of getting battered around while training didn't appeal to me. I had finally recovered from most of my injuries. My strength was still low and I was stiff, but most of the injury pain was gone. The idea of voluntarily getting physically punished didn't exactly appeal to me. I had gotten a lifetime worth of pain from Saint Dane. But you didn't play football without getting knocked around in practice, or box without sparring and taking some punches. If I wanted to learn how to fight, part of that was getting used to being hit. I stopped rubbing my leg.

“I can handle it,” I said to Loor defiantly. I looked to Saangi. She had a smug look on her face.

“You will play a part in this, Saangi,” Loor said to her squire while giving her back the weapon. “Please be patient.”

Saangi took the stave and jammed it into its harness. She stood there with her arms folded, looking all sorts of pouty. Note to self: Watch out for the brat.

That's when the flume came to life.

I heard it before seeing anything. The rock walls shifted every so slightly, groaning like an old man's joints as he worked out stiff kinks. Kind of like how I felt lately. I looked into the tunnel to see a pinpoint of light far in the distance. Someone was headed toward us. The light quickly grew larger as it came closer. I heard the faint jumble of sweet musical notes that always announced a voyage through the flume. A moment later the rocky walls of the round tunnel melted into crystal. Before the incoming light grew so bright that I had to shield my eyes, I could see the star field beyond the clear walls. Though traveling through the flumes had become a common thing, I still had no clue as to how they worked, or who created them. I trusted that one day I would find out, but I usually tried not to think about it too much. There was usually too much going on to stress over the grand cosmic issues I had no control over.

Loor, Saangi, and I stood together, shielding our eyes from the brilliant light show. The music grew loud. The passenger had arrived. A second later the light disappeared, the crystal walls returned to solid rock, and the flume was once again quiet.

Standing before us was a tall, dangerous-looking guy with a sword on his hip. He was wearing heavy leather armor that was much beefier than Loor's. No skin showed on this guy because the territory he had come from wasn't burning hot like Zadaa. I knew, because I had been there. For him to have gotten to the gate, he had to climb a craggy mountain and traverse a vast snowfield to find the hidden cave that held the flume. He was around my age, but much taller than me. He looked every bit like the professional knight that he was.

He also happened to be the Traveler from Denduron.

“Hello, Alder,” I said. “Welcome to Zadaa.”

“The flume was not at all what I expected,” Alder said, sounding a bit shaken. He took a step forward, tripped, and stumbled. Luckily we caught him before he fell at our feet.

“Sorry,” Alder said, embarrassed. “I am still shaky from the journey.”

“This is the fierce knight you want to help train Pendragon?” Saangi asked with dismay. “He is an oaf.”

“He is a Traveler,” Loor said sharply. “And you will treat him with respect.”

“She is correct, I am an oaf,” Alder said sheepishly. “But I am an oaf who can fight.” He looked at me and broke out in a warm grin. “Hello, Pendragon. You have changed.”

We hugged. It was like getting a bear hug from a, well, from a bear. He was a strong guy. His hair was longish and brown. He wasn't a handsome guy, his features were too…big. Big nose, big mouth. Wide-spaced eyes. No, he wasn't a looker. What you saw when you looked into Alder's eyes was sincerity. And honesty. There wasn't a devious bone in his body. What he said, he meant. He was actually more like a big kid than a trained Bedoowan knight. I would trust this guy with my life. Come to think of it, I had trusted this guy with my life. I was about to do it again.

“We've both grown up a little,” I said.

Alder let go of me and held his arms out for Loor, ready to give her a hug. “Hello, Loor!”

Loor stood stock-still with her arms at her sides. She wasn't the huggy type.

“I am happy to see you, Alder,” she said with no emotion.

Alder stood there with his arms out, hugless, looking dumb. “Ummm, right,” he said, dropping his arms. “And who is this?” he asked, looking at Saangi.

“My name is Saangi. I am Loor's acolyte. I wrote the note to your acolyte to request that you come here.”

“Who is your acolyte?” I asked Alder.

“A Milago,” Alder answered. “Her husband was killed by Saint Dane during a Transfer ceremony.”

I knew exactly who Alder was talking about. On Denduron the Milago farmers were forced to slave in the mines, digging up a precious, blue mineral called glaze for the ruling class. The Bedoowan. When Saint Dane went to Denduron, he started a brutal practice of choosing a Milago and forcing the miners to dig up his weight in glaze. The Transfer ceremony was where they weighed the poor miner against that day's haul. If they didn't dig up enough, the miner would be killed. I saw a Transfer ceremony where they didn't make quota. The miner was killed. His wife had to watch. I am happy to say that Loor and Alder and I put the mines out of business. We had beaten Saint Dane on Denduron. We were now together again, ready to stop him on Zadaa.

“I hear you have been busy, Pendragon,” Alder said. “It seems as if our adventure on Denduron was only the beginning.”

“Pretty much,” I answered. “I want to hear about what's happening on your territory. I could use some good news.”

“You will be pleased,” Alder assured me. “The Bedoowan are working with the Milago to rebuild their village that was destroyed when the tak mine exploded.”

“Where do the Bedoowan live now that their castle is destroyed?” Loor asked.

Alder laughed and said, “They live in the Milago village! You would not recognize the place, it has grown so!”

“So it's all one big happy family?” I asked.

“It is not perfect,” Alder answered. “But it is peaceful. And the Milago are no longer in the mines. The future is bright.”

Hearing all this couldn't have made me happier. Denduron had reached its turning point, and we pushed it the right way. But it also made me a little sad, because it reminded me of Uncle Press. I can still picture him standing up on the back of that crude, medieval sled, flying over the snow, heaving spears at the charging quig-bears.

I said, “I want to hear about Rellin, and Queen Kagan and—”

Alder suddenly took a step backward and reached for his leg. With one quick move he grabbed a vicious-looking knife that was strapped to his calf and threw it between Loor and me. We both ducked out of the way in surprise. I spun around to see what he was throwing at and saw something that made my legs go weak.

As I've described before, the huge underground cavern that held the flume was dug from the same light brown sandstone that all of the buildings of Xhaxhu were made from. The way in and out was by climbing up using small holes that were dug into one craggy wall. These handholds led up through a dark cleft in the rock that was barely wide enough for one person to squeeze through. It was a treacherous climb that ended at a trapdoor leading to a storage room used by the Rokador. Alder had thrown his knife toward the wall with the handholds.

His throw was dead solid perfect. Now skewered into the soft sandstone was a snake. A big snake. It must have dropped down, head first, from the cleft in the rock that led to the trapdoor. Alder's knife had drilled through its head. I turned in time to see the rest of its body falling down from above. Dead. It must have been six feet long. Its head stayed in place, pegged to the soft sandstone by Alder's knife.

“Wha—?” Saangi said in stunned awe. She looked to Alder with new respect. “I apologize for doubting you, sir.”

Alder shrugged modestly. “I may be a clumsy oaf, but I am also a knight.”

I don't like snakes. There's nothing good about snakes. They're quiet, they're sneaky, and they can kill you. Not a whole lot to like there. But this snake was especially nasty. I had run into one on a previous visit to Zadaa.

“Quigs,” I said.

“Quigs?” Alder echoed.

“That's what they are on Zadaa,” I answered. “On Denduron they're bears. Second Earth, dogs. On Cloral they're sharks. Here they're snakes. Big, nasty snakes.”

“Why would they appear now?” Saangi asked, stunned. Gone was the cocky young warrior. She suddenly seemed like a nervous little girl.

“Quigs only show up when Saint Dane doesn't want us using the flumes,” I said. “You know what that tells me?”

“What?” Alder asked.

“It means we're doing the right thing,” I answered. “Saint Dane is beginning to feel the heat. It's time to get started.”