That meeting with Saint Dane happened weeks ago. I think. I’ve tried to put it out of my head, but it hasn’t been easy. I’m not only haunted by his words, but by the fact that he wouldn’t admit the battle was over. He said that the end was almost here. Almost. Did that mean he had one last play I wasn’t aware of? As much as I did my best to put that l idea out of my head, it kept me awake at night.
Before I finish this journal, there’s one more thing I have to write about. I mentioned at the beginning that in spite of how great things have become here on Ibara, there is one serious problem. Besides my disturbing confrontation with Saint Dane, that is. It’s the single worst thing that’s happened to me since the dado battle. Worse than sparring with the demon. Worse than learning of Telleo’s problems with her mother. Worse than the backbreaking work or vicious storms. I don’t know how to set this up, so I’ll just write it.
I’ve lost my Traveler ring.
I don’t know when it happened, or where. My big fear is that it slipped off my finger while I was working, got jumbled up with some dado parts, and is now lying on the bottom of the ocean. I haven’t given up hope of finding it. I’m always on the lookout and have asked everyone to keep an eye out for it. Losing that ring has made my exile here on Ibara all the more final. It’s why I’m not able to send this journal to you, Mark and Courtney. You may never read these words. When I made the decision to seal the flume, I knew that as much as it would trap me here, I would still be able to communicate with you. Now that I can’t, I still don’t regret what I did, but it’s made the experience way more lonely.
Until I find it, and I will find it, I’ll continue to write these journals and hope that one day you will read them. The rest of my life here will continue as it has. Now that the village has been cleared, the next step is to rebuild the homes. I’m looking forward to that. Who knows? Maybe once that’s under way, we’ll begin to construct new ships to send more pilgrims off to repopulate the rest of Veelox, just as Aja envisioned.
Beyond that, I have one other goal, which may be as important as anything else I’ve done here. I want to rid Ibara of anything that came from other territories. Maybe that’s kind of like closing the barn door after the horse has gotten out, but in spite of what we had to do to protect this island, mixing the territories and their destinies was wrong. My hope is now that Saint Dane is out of the picture, the same can happen on all the territories. That is the way it was meant to be. That’s the way Uncle Press said it was meant to be. I’m going to do all I can to make sure Ibara gets back on the right track.
And so we go.
Or maybe I should say, “And so I go.”
END OF JOURNAL #33
SECOND EARTH
Mark, Courtney, and Patrick stepped outof the mouth of the flume into the root cellar beneath the abandoned Sherwood house in Stony Brook.
Connecticut.
Second Earth.
The carpet of light and music quickly receded back into the flume, leaving them alone. At home. In the dark.
Courtney was the first to notice that something was wrong. “There’s nothing here,” she announced.
“Of course not. We’re underground,” Mark replied.
“I mean there are no Second Earth clothes. When Bobby and I left, we brought a bunch of things from home. Shoes, shirts, pants. They’re gone.”
All three scanned the small, dark cellar but found nothing.
“Maybe somebody discovered this place,” Patrick suggested.
“Not likely,” Courtney replied. “We’re in the basement of a mansion that’s been empty for decades. This isn’t right.”
“It’s okay,” Mark said. “If wearing First Earth clothes is the worst thing we have to do, we’re lucky.”
“I don’t like it,” Courtney groused. “It’s not a good way to start.”
“What should we do?” Patrick asked tentatively. He was nervous. Both Mark and Courtney sensed it.
“It’s okay, Patrick,” Mark said calmly. “Relax.”
“Relax?” Patrick echoed. “You didn’t go through what I did.”
Mark and Courtney exchanged looks.
“Yeah, we’ve all been on a picnic,” Courtney said sarcastically.
Patrick immediately realized his mistake. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to suggest that it’s been easy for any of us.”
“We’ll be fine,” Mark interjected. “We’re all a little stressed. Let’s just get out of here and back to my house. We can figure out our next move from there.”
Courtney went first, walking the few steps across the dirt floor to the ancient wooden door that protected the long-abandoned root cellar. She pushed it open slowly. There was a loud creek of rusted hinges that echoed throughout the cellar.
“Gotta oil that,” she said casually, and stepped into a pitch-dark basement.
Mark followed right behind her. “Looks like it’s nighttime,” he observed.
Patrick was right behind him, staying close. When they had all passed through, Courtney closed the creaky old door behind them.
“Check this out,” she said to Patrick while running her hand across the door’s wooden surface. “We watched this being burned into the door by the ring. It was incredible.”
The darkness made it difficult for Patrick to make out detail. He ran his hand across the wood to feel the scar of the five-inch star that marked the gate to the flume.
“What does it mean?” he whispered.
“It means it’s a gate,” Courtney answered. “Duh.”
“No, I mean the book cover. Ravinia. And the tattoos those men had on their arms. What’s the connection?”
Mark stood between the two and answered, “That’s what we’re going to have to find out.”
The three turned to face the empty basement.
“Wait for our eyes to adjust,” Mark suggested. “It won’t take long. Light from the street comes in through the windows over there and-“
The words caught in Mark’s throat. He stared straight ahead into the pitch-black empty basement…that wasn’t empty anymore. “Uh-oh,” Courtney gasped. “What?” Patrick asked nervously.
As their eyes adjusted, they were able to make out the forms of boxes stacked everywhere.
“What’s the problem?” Patrick asked, his panic growing. “What are they?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Mark answered. “They aren’t supposed to be here. The house is empty.”
“Not anymore,” Courtney stated. Grrrrr.
The sound came from upstairs. Mark and Courtney stiffened. “Oh hell,” Courtney muttered.
“Did you hear that?” Patrick asked. “This place doesn’t sound empty.”
Courtney whispered, “Did anybody see a small silver canister back by the flume? About three inches long?”
“No,” Patrick whined. “What is it?” Grrrrrr. The growl was louder. “A weapon,” Courtney answered. “A weapon!” Patrick echoed loudly. “Shhhh!” Mark scolded. “Weapon?” Patrick whispered. “For what?”
Courtney’s answer was simple and direct. “For quigs.”
Bang! The basement door at the top of the stairs flew open, followed by the sounds of vicious barking and claws scrambling on steps.
“The d-door!” Mark yelled.
He took off across the basement, headed for the door he knew led up and outside. He remembered the door from long ago. He had never needed to use it. Until then.
“Owl” Mark screamed as he ran headfirst into a stack of boxes and fell backward. Boxes tumbled over, scattering onto the floor, tripping up Patrick. Courtney grabbed the Traveler before he could fall.
