Raven Rise

by D. J. MacHale

  I waited until Hirsch’s back was turned and quickly threw my legs up over the side and ran stiffly for the dockmaster’s hut. My legs were so cold I could barely bend them. I crouched behind the small building and scanned the area for an escape route. Several policemen were still out on the docks, searching. A few others were helping their fallen friends who’d introduced themselves to Alder. I had to assume that others had taken off into the woods that surrounded the marina, searching for him. That wouldn’t be a smart way for me to go. I didn’t want to end up running into the policemen who were running after Alder. My best choice was to keep to the bank of the river, using as cover the sea of boats that were still in dry dock.

  I crouched and ran. In seconds I was among hundreds of boats. I knew it would be like trying to find me in a hedge maze. They would need incredible luck. Each time I rounded a boat, my confidence grew. I was going to get away. The next challenge would be to reconnect with Alder. The river flowed under a high bridge that was the New England Thruway. The marina continued beneath it. That’s how high the bridge was. It was perfect cover. I was about to run under the bridge when I heard sirens. Looking back, I saw several police cars with lights flashing and sirens blaring turn on the road that led into the marina. One of the cars was an ambulance. I hoped it was for the downed policemen and not for Alder. Either way, they were going in the opposite direction from me. I was free.

  The next trick was to get to the far side of the river. For that I had to climb out onto the road. No way I was going back into the water. The road ran along a dam that was the changeover point of the river between fresh and salt water. The road was wide and well lit. Too well lit. It was a major thoroughfare. I stood on the edge, ready to come out of the bushes, wondering how best to make the crossing. Should I run and risk standing out to cars driving by? Or walk casually? It would take longer, but there would be less chance of being spotted. I decided to jog. Simple as that. People in Stony Brook ran all the time. It wasn’t odd to see somebody running along any road, anytime of the day or night. So I put myself in the mindset of one of those guys who lives to train for the local 10K races, and jogged along the road to the far side.

  Nobody stopped me. I got to the far side and ducked back into the bushes. I was now on the same side of the river as the rope swing where I was to meet Alder. I don’t like to be negative, but I was worried that he had been captured. After he took out those two policemen, I had to believe that the effort to bring him in would intensify. He may have taken the heat away from me and allowed me to escape, but what if they got to him? What would he tell the police? Would they turn him over to the Ravinians? There were too many horrors to consider, so I decided to put them out of my head and hope he showed up.

  I don’t know who first put up the rope swing on the bank of the Signet River, but it was there for as long as I can remember. It was on a steep bank that allowed you to get decent height when you swung out, and a rush of a plummet when you let go. It was a great way to spend a hot summer afternoon. It wasn’t a great way to spend a cold March night, but I had no intention of using it. I pushed my way through the bushes, wondering how long I should wait there before giving up on Alder.

  I shouldn’t have worried.

  “I thought you would never get here,” Alder said as I broke into the clearing near the swing. He sat beneath the tree as casually as if he were kicking back and thinking of taking the plunge. I actually felt dumb for worrying about him.

  “We need to find a warm place to spend the night,” I said. “I’m totally beat.”

  It had been an impossibly long day that started on Denduron. We needed some downtime to recharge our batteries.

  “Your territory is very busy,” Alder commented. “How are you able to live in such confusion?”

  I’d never thought of it that way. He was right. Compared to the simple world of Denduron, Second Earth was like living inside a frantic video game. For all its busyness, it was going to be tough to find a safe place to hide out. There would certainly be a manhunt on for us. Where could we go for the night? We could break into a store, but there might be alarms. We could find a dark house and hope nobody was home, but what if they came back? I thought of stories I’d heard about escaped convicts. Where were they always found? Churches? Their girlfriends’ houses? Hiding in a ditch somewhere? We couldn’t go anywhere that was remotely associated with me or my friends, because they would be searched for sure. I knew this town inside out and couldn’t think of a single place we could go that would be safe.

  Except for one.

  “Where should we go?” Alder asked.

  “To the absolute last place they’ll think of looking for us.”

  We stayed on the far side of the river for nearly two hours, wet and shivering. From that perch we could see through the trees over to the marina. At first there was a flurry of activity as the ambulance took away the policemen that Alder had clocked. Shortly after, we saw the long limousine pull out.

  Alder asked, “I thought the local soldiers were the good guys?”

  “So did I. Things have changed.”

  Finally a long line of police cars drove off. They knew we were gone. The manhunt was on. Alder and I waited another half hour to be sure that they were definitely gone, and quickly made our way back to the marina. Yes, back to the marina. A few minutes later we were resting comfortably, and warm, back in the Chetwyndes’ boat. We even finished our tuna and crackers. Why the heck not? I figured they’d never expect us to go back there. We took off our wet clothes and hung them in the bow to dry. After eating our fill and wrapping ourselves in blankets, Alder and I settled down to get some sleep. We decided on taking two-hour shifts. Somebody had to stay awake in case my idea proved to be idiotic. Alder slept first. He was out and snoring before I had the chance to say good night.

  It was a strange feeling. I was a fugitive on my own territory. In my hometown. Our task of trying to stop Naymeer was already tough enough. Now it seemed we had to watch out not only for Naymeer’s people, but the police as well. As I lay on that bunk, rocking on the waves, I had no idea what we were going to do.

  I spent my two-hour watch writing my journal. I found a pad of paper in a waterproof pouch that I figured Mr. Chetwynde used for, well, for a journal. That’s where I finished my Journal #35. I took the pages and stowed them in a compartment beneath some navigation gear. I figured it was safer there than on me. One more dunk in the water and the journal would be gone. I figured that at some point the Chetwyndes would find it and give it to you, Courtney. Okay, maybe that’s a long shot, but I couldn’t think of anything else. I then began my Journal #36. Why not? There was nothing else to do but worry.

  By the time I was tired of writing, my shift was almost up. I was looking forward to putting my head down and getting some long-overdue rest…

  When my ring came to life.

  My first thought was to wake up Alder. No, I take that back. My first thought was: I can’t believe this is happening now! My second thought was to wake up Alder. I didn’t. Whatever was coming in, there would be time to share it with him later. At least one of us would be well rested. I took off the ring and placed it on the bunk beside me. I wanted to shield the light, so as not to disturb my friend. The ring grew; light flashed from the depths while the sweet musical notes drifted out from the pathway between territories. A moment later the event was over. The ring was back to normal. Lying next to it was a torn piece of paper with writing on it. It looked as if it were smudged with something, but it was too dark to tell. I held the note up to the porthole to allow moonlight to shine on it. As soon as the light hit it, I saw the smudge for what it was.

  Blood. Wet blood.

  THIRD EARTH

  Patrick Mac, the Traveler from Third Earth, returned to his home territory. There was no place like home. Literally. It felt nothing like home. At least not the one he was used to.

  He landed back at the flume that was hidden beneath the ruins of the stone cathedral they had enter
ed on Second Earth. The Ravinian cult may still have been active on Third Earth, but they weren’t using the flume for gatherings anymore. Patrick didn’t want to be there any longer than necessary. Being there reminded him of being shot.

  He climbed up the stairs to the ruined street that was in the Bronx, New York. Having been to Second Earth, the surroundings seemed a bit less alien than when he had left. Looking around at the crumbling buildings, he could imagine what they had looked like centuries before. Not a soul was on the street. It was as good as a ghost town. Patrick stood stunned, taking in the evidence before his eyes. This was what Naymeer’s teachings led to. This is what Saint Dane wanted. The territory was in ruins.

  As much as Patrick dreaded returning, seeing the nightmare that Third Earth had become lit him up…with anger. His world had been as close to perfect as could be. The people of Earth had gotten it right. Naymeer’s cult changed all that. The so-called elite had driven Earth to ruin. The proof was all around him. Patrick had a mission. He had to stop it from happening. He had to help Pendragon change the past. Again.

  The lead Traveler had asked him to dig through history to find whatever he could about the Ravinian cult. Anything that might help stop them from accomplishing their mad plan. If anybody could do that, Patrick could. He decided to go to the source. To the one person who seemed to have a decent grasp on the past. He needed to see Richard, the elderly librarian. Richard had told him that all the records from that time were destroyed, yet he still seemed to know a lot about what had happened. Yes, thought Patrick. Richard would be his first resource. But where would he find the man? Richard had been beaten by the Ravinians. Had he survived? People said they would take him to the hospital. What hospital? Patrick knew nothing about this transformed Third Earth. How long ago had it all happened? When had the flume returned him to Third Earth? Was Richard beaten earlier that day? Or years before?

  Patrick decided to tackle the challenges one at a time. It was the only way to fight off the panic. He had to calm down and act logically. The place to start was obvious. He had to go back to the library.

  It was a long walk downtown. The subways no longer ran and no taxicabs cruised the streets. The farther south he went, the busier the streets became. New York was still alive, though barely. Most people got around on bicycles, but after he crossed a bridge to Manhattan, he saw ancient buses cruising the avenues. He would have loved to catch one, but he didn’t have a penny to his name. He resigned himself to walking the full distance, just as he had made the walk from the library up to the flume before.

  It took several hours, but Patrick finally arrived at the library. When he looked up at the stone facade, his heart sank. The front of the once proud building was marked with ugly black streaks. They were scars from the fire the Ravinians had set. It gave him even less hope that he’d find Richard there. But he didn’t know where else to look, so he willed his aching legs to climb the steps.

  The foyer was badly damaged but not destroyed. Patrick took a few steps toward the corridor that led to the room where Richard had hidden the Ravinia book cover, but he stopped before getting very far. The corridor was impassable. It looked as if this was where the fire was centered. Charred wooden beams had crashed down, closing off the hallway. There was no use trying to go that way. Patrick returned to the foyer and decided to try the other direction. When he turned to head back, Patrick froze. Standing in the center of the burned foyer was Richard. For a moment Patrick actually thought he was looking at a ghost—that’s how thin and pale the man looked.

  “You came back,” Richard said in a thin whisper.

  Patrick went to him quickly. “Are you all right?”

  Richard scoffed. “Depends on your definition of ‘all right.’ I’m alive. Does that count?”

  Patrick was flustered. He hadn’t expected to find Richard so quickly. He had a million questions and couldn’t think of a single one.

  “How long?” he asked. “I mean, how long ago did they, you know, burn the library?”

  Richard gave Patrick a curious look. Patrick realized he had asked a ridiculous question. Richard didn’t know about traveling between time and territories.

  “Why do you ask?” Richard replied. “Did you go somewhere else in Halla?”

  Or maybe he did. Patrick had forgotten that Naymeer pulled the curtain back on Halla many centuries before.

  “What do you know about Halla?” Patrick asked.

  “Enough to know that the promise of living in a world better than our own was never fulfilled” was Richard’s angry answer. “Is there anything else to know?”

  “No,” Patrick said, glum. “I guess not.”

  “Yesterday,” Richard said.

  “Yesterday what?”

  “Yesterday they burned the library and sent me to the hospital.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  “Why did you come back?” Richard asked. “Still looking for answers, Teacher?”

  Patrick perked up. “Now more than ever.”

  Richard gave a tired nod. He reached for his sleeve and pulled it up to reveal an ugly red blotch on his right forearm.

  Patrick gasped.

  It was a scar where there once had been the tattoo of a star. “How’s this for a start?” Richard asked.

  “You’re one of them?” Patrick asked, stunned.

  “I was. Until I learned the truth.”

  “Tell me,” Patrick begged. “I need to know. Everything.”

  “Why?” Richard asked.

  “To try to stop it,” Patrick answered bluntly.

  Richard sniffed skeptically. He looked Patrick right in the eye and asked, “Are you strong enough?”

  “To stop it? I don’t know.”

  “No. I’m asking if you’re strong enough to learn the truth.”

  The ominous question made Patrick flinch. “I have to be.”

  Richard nodded and shuffled off, headed deeper into the library. Patrick followed him down a long corridor with a cracked marble floor. They soon reached a small room with an unmade bed along the far wall. Clothes were strewn everywhere. The place smelled of smoke and dirty laundry. A small hot plate for cooking was on a scarred old desk.

  “You live here?” Patrick asked, incredulous.

  “This is my world now,” Richard said as he dug through mounds of clothing and paper containers. “Homey, don’t you think?”

  “This isn’t your world,” Patrick corrected. “Your world is those books out there.”

  That made Richard stop. He seemed to soften. “Thank you,” he said sincerely. “It’s a dying world. I’m tired of living in it.”

  He found what he was looking for—a set of car keys.

  A few minutes later Richard and Patrick were driving up Broadway in an ancient, gas-powered automobile. Richard was behind the wheel. Patrick was white-knuckling it in the passenger seat. The old car was falling apart. Every time it hit the slightest crack in the road, it bounced and groaned as if about to crumble. Patrick glanced nervously at the old man. He was actually relieved to see that Richard looked better. He had a happy spark in his eye. He obviously enjoyed driving.

  “Haven’t taken this old wreck for a spin in a decade,” Richard explained. “Impossible to get gas. All I do is start it up every so often to keep things working.”

  “Where are we going?” Patrick asked.

  “To get the answers you’ve been looking for.”

  “I thought all the records from the early twenty-first century were destroyed.”

  “They were. Most of ’em, anyway. Things get passed around. And hidden. I’ve read enough to piece some things together. But I’m not taking you to see some old papers. You’re going to see reality.” He reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a pad of paper with a pen attached. He tossed it to Patrick, saying, “Take notes. Let’s start our own documentation of history.”

  Patrick took the pad but didn’t write anything. He was too terrified of Richard’s driving to look at anything oth
er than the road.

  “He was some kind of prophet,” Richard began. “Or so the stories go. He promised a better life. He promised paradise. All his people had to do was buy into his way of thinking.”

  “You’re talking about Naymeer?” Patrick asked.

  “Who else? He gave people a glimpse into other worlds. ‘Halla,’ he called it. People ate it up. Everybody wants to live in a better place. It’s only natural. Halla wasn’t some mystical afterlife you had to die to get to. No, it swirled all around, all the time. All you had to do to get there was prove your worth.”

  “By being perfect,” Patrick added.

  Richard gave him a look. “You know more than you let on, teacher.”

  “I’m learning,” Patrick answered. “How did Naymeer show them these worlds?”

  “He had a ring,” Richard continued. “He said it was made from the stuff that created all existence. Not many doubted him. There was a tunnel in the Bronx. They had big gatherings where he’d use the ring to make that tunnel come alive with visions of Halla.”

  “The flume,” Patrick muttered.

  “Yeah, the flume. I understand it was quite the show.”

  “That was a long time ago,” Patrick said. “How did it all go wrong?”

  “It didn’t at first. Naymeer was all about reward and punishment. Those he considered worthy were given wealth and comfort. Those he thought were a drain on society were given, well, nothing. No, worse than that. They were stripped of everything, including their pride.”

  “What about the sick and the elderly?”

  “No exceptions. Once you were judged to be a burden, your rights were taken away, and you were forced to live in these camps they called Horizon Compounds. There were thousands of ’em, all over the world. That’s where they kept the people who didn’t contribute. They were as good as slaves. Occasionally somebody would prove to be worthy and got sprung to join the elite, but mostly they spent their lives between the compounds and whatever job they were assigned to keep the wheels of the world moving.”