The Lost City of Faar

  “I will, I promise,” Mark whined.

  The two were silent for a second, then slowly, Courtney smiled a devilish smile. “But it sure was sweet seeing Mitchell squirm!”

  Mark laughed too and they slapped high-fives. Mark then reached around his neck and pulled out the chain that held the key to his secret desk. Dangling next to it was Mark’s ring. He took it off and put it right back on his finger, where it belonged.

  There was nothing left to do now but go home. They walked together until Courtney reached her street.

  “So, you’ll call me?” asked Courtney.

  “Soon as the next journal shows,” answered Mark, as he always did.

  The two then gave each other a hug and separated.

  They wouldn’t get back together for another five months.

  Both went back to their normal lives at home and at school. Since the only friend they had in common was Bobby, that meant neither of them saw much of each other. Occasionally they’d pass in the hallway. Courtney would look at him as if to ask: “Well?” Mark would just shake his head. Nothing yet.

  Courtney played softball for the Stony Brook team. It was fast-pitch and she was the pitcher. The team went undefeated that spring, and Courtney was MVP of course.

  Mark’s big project was to build a battling robot for a county science fair. He had a real knack for mechanics and physics. The robot was killer. It destroyed the competition with a combination hook, buzz saw, sledgehammer package. He took first prize and started to investigate how to get on the TV with his battling robotic baby.

  Courtney had a birthday on March 6. She turned fifteen. Mark sent her a card with the greeting: “Happy Birthday, Hobey-ho!”

  The two did get together once, on March 11. Bobby’s birthday. They went back to Garden Poultry on the Ave, got some fries, and toasted Bobby in the pocket park with Coke and Dew. Both wondered if Bobby had any idea that he had just turned fifteen.

  The next big event was graduation from Stony Brook Junior High in June. Mark was valedictorian and was supposed to give a speech. But he was too nervous and let the runner-up take his place on the podium. He was still the valedictorian, though, and got a huge dictionary as a prize. The next stop for these two was high school—a big, scary step. They would soon be going to Davis Gregory High, the big public high school in Stony Brook. Nobody knew who Davis Gregory was, but they figured he must have been somebody important. Mark wondered if someday there’d be a school called Bobby Pendragon High.

  The summer went along lazily. Courtney played baseball and got her junior lifeguard certification. Mark tinkered with his killer robot, getting ready for the big state competition. He had gotten an invitation and everything. His reputation was getting around.

  Mark always wore the ring, waiting for the day when the next journal would arrive. The truth was, both Mark and Courtney tried not to think about Bobby, because the longer it went without getting a journal, the more they feared that something nasty had happened to him. That was something they didn’t even want to consider, so it was easier to put Bobby out of their minds entirely.

  Then, on August 21, two things happened. First, it was Mark’s fifteenth birthday. He celebrated in his usual way: getting some creepy new clothes from his mother and a gift certificate from his father that would be spent wisely at the local electronics store.

  The other thing that happened was Mark got a strange phone call at home.

  An official-sounding woman’s voice said, “May I speak to a Mr. Mark Dimond, please?”

  “That’s me.”

  “This is Ms. Jane Jansen, vice-president of the National Bank of Stony Brook. Are you familiar with us?”

  The woman sounded like somebody’s idea of a pruny old schoolteacher.

  “Uh . . . sure,” he said. “You’re on the Ave . . . uh . . . Stony Brook Avenue.”

  “Correct,” she answered. “Do you know a Ms. Courtney Chetwynde?”

  “Yes, what’s this about?”

  “Mr. Dimond, would you and Ms. Chetwynde please come down to our branch as soon as possible? With some identification? I believe this may be an issue of some importance.”

  This really threw Mark. He didn’t even have a bank account. What could they possibly want with him and Courtney? He was just about to tell this wacky woman that he wanted to call his parents first, when she dropped the bomb.

  “It has to do with a Mr. Robert Pendragon.”

  Those were the magic words.

  “We’ll be right there,” Mark said, and hung up the phone before she had the chance to say good-bye.

  Mark immediately called Courtney and was relieved to find her home. Half an hour later, the two of them were standing outside the large, gray cement building with the big brass letters that read: NATIONAL BANK OF STONY BROOK.

  Mark never understood how Stony Brook could have a national bank, but it had been around forever so he figured they must know what they were doing. The bank itself was old-fashioned. There was a huge lobby with a high ceiling capped by a glass dome. This was not like the modern banks that Mark had been in with his mother. This looked like the bank from Mary Poppins. There was lots of dark polished wood, brass hardware, and leather furniture. There were a lot of customers, too, and they all whispered when they spoke. It was like a library. Mark thought this bank probably looked exactly the same as it did the year it was built. Based on the cornerstone he saw outside, that year was 1933.

  Mark and Courtney told the receptionist they were there to see a Ms. Jansen. They were asked to have a seat in the waiting area, so the two of them sank into the cushy leather chairs to wait for this mysterious woman who had some news about Bobby.

  “You have any clue what this is about?” Courtney asked Mark.

  “None, zero, nada,” Mark answered.

  A second later they both saw a rail-thin woman walking toward them. She wore a gray suit and had her hair up in a bun. Her glasses were black with perfectly round lenses. Mark knew immediately that this must be Ms. Jane Jansen. She looked exactly like her voice sounded. She was old, too. Mark wondered if she had been working here since the bank opened.

  The woman walked up to the receptionist and asked her a question that Mark couldn’t hear. The receptionist pointed to Mark and Courtney. Ms. Jansen looked at them and frowned.

  “I guess we’re not what she was expecting,” Courtney whispered.

  Ms. Jansen walked over to them quickly. She had perfect posture and a stiff neck that didn’t turn. Whenever she looked in a different direction, she moved her whole body.

  “Mr. Dimond? Ms. Chetwynde?” she asked with a snippy tone.

  “That’s us,” answered Mark.

  “Do you have some form of identification?” she added suspiciously.

  Courtney and Mark gave the woman their student ID cards. Jansen looked at them over her glasses and then frowned again.

  “You two are quite young,” she said.

  “You needed our ID’s to figure that out?” Courtney asked.

  Mark winced. Courtney was being a wise-ass, again.

  Ms. Jansen shot Courtney a sour look and handed them back their ID’s. “Is this the way young people dress today to attend a meeting?” she asked, sounding all superior.

  Mark and Courtney looked at each other. They were both wearing shorts, T-shirts, and hiking boots. What was wrong with that?

  “We’re fifteen, ma’am, what did you expect?” said Courtney. “We don’t have snappy outfits like you’re wearing.”

  Jansen knew this was a cut, but let it go.

  “Please follow me,” she said, then turned and walked toward the back of the bank.

  Courtney rolled her eyes at Mark. Mark shrugged and the two of them followed the stiff, skinny little woman. A minute later they were sitting across from her at a large oak desk.

  “We have been holding an envelope for the two of you,” she explained. “We assume it must be some sort of inheritance from a relative of yours. Are either of you related to Mr
. Robert Pendragon?”

  That was a tough one to answer. Mark was about to say that they were just friends, but Courtney jumped in first saying, “Yeah, he’s a distant relative.”

  Jansen continued, “Well, it doesn’t matter actually. The instructions are quite clear.”

  She then handed the envelope to Mark. It was an old, yellowed letter that had two names written on it: “Mark Dimond” and “Courtney Chetwynde.” It was Bobby’s handwriting. Both Mark and Courtney had to force themselves to keep from smiling.

  Jansen continued, “We were instructed to deliver this envelope to you on this date. We were also instructed to have you open it right away.”

  Mark shrugged and opened the letter. He pulled out a sheet of paper that was folded in half. It was old and yellow too, like the envelope. There was a header engraved on top that read: “National Bank of Stony Brook” in fancy lettering. Below it were the words: “Safety Deposit Box #15-224.”

  There was one other thing in the envelope: a small key.

  Mark and Courtney had no idea what to make of this, so they showed it to Ms. Jansen. She looked at the note and the key, then said quickly, “Follow me, please.”

  She got up and walked off again. They followed her.

  “This is freaky,” whispered Courtney.

  This time Ms. Jansen led them into a place Mark had always wanted to go—the huge bank vault. Since the bank was open for business, so was the vault. There was a giant, round door that looked like something you’d see in Fort Knox. When this baby closed, there was nobody getting in. Or out, for that matter.

  Mark wondered if inside they would see big bags of money with dollar signs on them. Or stacks of clean crisp bills. Or maybe even bars of gold.

  But there was none of that. Ms. Jansen led them to a room full of brass lockers. Some were as big as the lockers at school, others were no larger than a few inches wide. These were the safe deposit boxes of the National Bank of Stony Brook.

  Ms. Jansen walked along one row of doors, scanning the numbers inscribed on each. She finally arrived at the one marked: 15-224. She stopped and handed the key to Mark.

  “You both are now the owners of the contents of safe deposit box number 15-224. I will leave you alone to inspect the contents. When you are finished, please relock the box and return the key to me. Any questions?”

  “I’m kind of confused,” said Mark. “Who set this up?”

  “I told you, a Mr. Robert Pendragon.”

  Courtney asked, “He came in here? Did you see him?”

  The look on Ms. Jansen’s face got even more pinched, if that were possible.

  “I know you consider me to be a fossil, Ms. Chetwynde, but I assure you, this account was opened long before I was employed here at National Bank.”

  “So when was that?” asked Mark.

  “I’ll have to double check the exact date, but I believe it was sometime in May.”

  “He was here three months ago?” shouted Courtney in surprise.

  “Please, Ms. Chetwynde,” said Jansen testily. “I’m not a fool, so do not try to play me for one. This account was opened in May of 1937.”

  Mark and Courtney went into stunned brain lock.

  “Do you have any more questions?”

  Both Mark and Courtney could only shake their heads.

  “Then I’ll be at my desk.”

  Jansen gave them a last annoyed look and hurried off.

  Mark and Courtney couldn’t move. They both tried desperately to get their minds around the incredible information.

  “Is it possible?” Courtney finally asked.

  “There’s one way to find out,” answered Mark.

  He inserted the key into the deposit box marked 15-224. This was one of the larger boxes compared to the others. It looked to be about two feet high. The door hinged outward, revealing a handle attached to a steel box. While Mark held the door open, Courtney pulled on the handle. The steel box slid out easily. It was roughly the size of two shoe boxes.

  “Take it over there,” said Mark.

  Built into one wall was a row of four desks set up with partitions between them, kind of like the study carrels in the library at school. These wooden desks looked ancient, just like everything else at this bank. Courtney put the box down on one of the old desks and they each pulled up a chair. Mark was happy nobody else was here.

  The two looked at the steel box. The lid was still closed so they couldn’t see what was inside. Mark’s heart was racing. He knew Courtney’s was too.

  “I can’t breathe,” Mark said finally.

  “Then open it. This is killing me!”

  Mark reached for the lid, hesitated a moment, then lifted it up.

  They saw that the deep box was mostly empty. But lying on the bottom was a stack of four books, each bound in dark red leather. They were about the size of a piece of computer paper: 8x10 inches. Each looked to be about a half-inch thick. The weird thing was that they didn’t have any titles. There were no markings on the covers whatsoever.

  There was something else in the box too. Sandwiched next to the stack of books was an envelope. Mark’s hands were shaking as he pulled it out. It was a business-size envelope with a printed return address in the upper left corner. It was the name and address of the bank. Whoever wrote this letter wrote it here in the bank. There was something else on the envelope. In Bobby’s handwriting were the words: “Mark and Courtney.”

  “That’s us,” said Courtney with a weak smile.

  Mark nervously opened the envelope and pulled out the single page inside. He unfolded it to reveal a letter written on National Bank of Stony Brook stationery. The words were written in Bobby’s handwriting.

  Dear Mark and Courtney,

  I gotta make this fast. I don’t have much time. Here’s the deal. I lost my ring. I haven’t had it for months now. That’s why you haven’t been getting my journals. I’ve been writing though. Every thing that’s happened I put down on paper, just like always. But it’s been making me crazy. I hate having all the journals together. They’re not safe with me. I can’t believe it took me as long as it did to come up with a solution.

  I came to Stony Brook. I knew the National Bank was around forever and sure enough, here it is. What a rush. The Ave is a totally different place, though. I was kind of hoping Garden Poultry was here to grab a quick box of fries, but no such luck. You know what’s there instead? A barbershop. Same building, different business. Weird.

  I could go on forever about how strange this is, but I don’t have time. If my plan works, and I can’t think of why it won’t, you’ll be sitting in the same spot where I am right now, reading this letter.

  I’ve put all four journals in the safe deposit box. The whole adventure is contained here. Hopefully, the next time you hear from me it will be through the rings. I think I might know where mine is now, and that’s where I’m headed.

  Thank you, guys. I miss you.

  Bobby

  May 31, 1937

  P.S. If they still have these wooden desks in the vault, look under the one to the far right.

  Courtney and Mark both read the letter a few times to make sure they understood. Somehow Bobby got here in 1937 and left his journals. It made sense. Bobby knew the National Bank would still be here in the present, so there was no reason why it wouldn’t work. The bigger question was, how the heck did he get to 1937? It began to raise all sorts of questions about the flumes sending Travelers through time as well as territories.

  They both turned their attention to the desk they were sitting at. They looked pretty old and were probably the same desks that Bobby had sat at. They both got down on their knees to look under the desk on the far right. They had no idea what they should be looking for until—

  “Oh, man, look!” Courtney said.

  She pointed to a spot underneath the desk. Something was carved into the woodwork. The only way you could see it was to be down on the floor, looking straight up. The words said: “Happy Birthday, M
ark.”

  As they lay on their backs, looking up, Mark and Courtney started to laugh. This was so perfectly Bobby. Mark wished he had a camera with him so he could take a shot and keep it with the journals. He planned on coming back and doing just that.

  The two then pulled themselves out from under the desk and stood up. They stared at the open safety deposit box and the four journals inside.

  “I can’t believe there’s a whole story here,” said Courtney.

  “We should bring them home,” Mark said.

  “Yeah,” agreed Courtney, “but this is killing me. Let’s just look at the first page.”

  Mark couldn’t think of a reason not to, so he reached inside and took the first journal off the pile. It was nicely bound, like a book that had never been opened.

  “Not exactly old parchment papers,” Mark said.

  He then carefully opened the cover to the first page.

  Unlike the stories from Denduron and Cloral, Bobby had typed this journal. The pages were the size of regular computer printer paper, but they were heavier and cream colored. Also, the typing looked all messy. This wasn’t like a clean page from a printer. This had actually been typed on an old-fashioned typewriter. Neither of them had ever seen something like this—it was like looking at a piece of history. In a way, that’s exactly what it was.

  “Let’s at least see where he was,” said Courtney.

  “Okay,” agreed Mark.

  The two sat down at the desk and began to read.

  to be continued

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  D. J. MacHale is a writer, director, and producer of several popular television series and movies that include Flight 29 Down; Are You Afraid of the Dark?; Encyclopedia Brown, Boy Detective; Tower of Terror; and Ghostwriter. Pendragon, his first book series, is a New York Times bestselling series. He lives in southern California with his wife, Evangeline; his daughter, Keaton; a golden retriever, Maggie; and a kitten, Kaboodle.

  PENDRAGON

  JOURNAL OF AN ADVENTURE

  THROUGH TIME AND SPACE

  Book One: The Merchant of Death