Raven Rise

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 entered 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.

Afew 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 other 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.

D. J. MacHale

Raven Rise

“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.”

“And they weren’t allowed to see the rest of Halla?”

“They weren’t allowed anything,” Richard snapped. “They were treated like a subspecies. The Horizon Compounds were filthy places full of crime and disease.”

Patrick sat back in his seat, stunned. “That’s incredible.”

“What’s incredible is how so many people allowed it to happen. That’s what Ravinia is all about. It’s the essence of their philosophy. They believe that prosperity comes only from rewarding excellence and crushing weakness.”

Patrick shook his head sadly. “Yet society crumbled.”

“Not according to the Ravinians. They’re still around, you know. Who do you think gave me that beating? They haven’t given up. They consider all this just a transitional phase before the true glory will rise from the ashes, or some such nonsense.”

Patrick looked to Richard. “You were one of them.”

“I took on the symbol,” Richard answered. “I was never one of them. I joined to keep the library open and the memories alive. The truth alive. But I was not one of them.”

“Why do they care so much about burying the truth?” Patrick asked.

Richard gave him a sideways glance. “Look around. Reality hasn’t exactly lived up to the promise. They fear that if enough people learned the truth, it could lead to a revolution.”

“Why did you get rid of the star symbol?”

Richard didn’t answer at first. Patrick saw his eyes fill with tears. Patrick didn’t push him. He would answer when he was ready.

“I’m an old man,” Richard finally said. “I won’t be around much longer, and I’m okay with that. I’ve seen too much as it is. I played the game, to do what I thought was right, but every man has his limits. I’d dance through hell, but I’d never make a pact with the devil. When I learned the truth, I reached my limit. So I burned off the star.”

Patrick stared at Richard, wide eyed. The old man looked back at him through tears. “Now I’m going to show you the truth. Who knows? Maybe you’re the one to start that revolution.”

Richard turned back to his driving. Patrick didn’t ask him anything else. He felt as if he had already pushed the old man too far. Was he stable? Patrick didn’t know. He was upset for sure. Wherever it was they were going, Patrick felt sure he would find answers. Answers he hoped would help Pendragon and Alder stop the growing insanity on Second Earth.

Richard drove them north. They left the island of Manhattan and traveled through what used to be the suburbs. On Patrick’s Third Earth it was beautiful, green countryside. It was now filled with blighted trees, abandoned tracts of homes, and trash. Lots of trash. From derelict cars down to paper wrappers. The thruway hadn’t been repaved in ages. It looked more like a spider web than a solid roadbed.

“People still live out here,” Richard said. “They’re like wild tribes, sticking together for security. This isn’t the kind of place to be spending time if you’re an outsider.”

“Really? What about us?”

“Let’s just say it will be better if this old jalopy doesn’t break down,” Richard answered ominously.

When they had driven for nearly an hour, Patrick noticed changes. They first drove past a series of small, crumbling cement structures that spread out to either side of the thruway.

“Security outposts,” Richard answered, as if he knew what Patrick was wondering. “Back in the day they were filled with armed soldiers.”

“What for?”

“To keep the curious away. If you didn’t have business out here, you’d never get past this perimeter. It circles around for miles.”

“What were they protecting?” Richard didn’t answer and Patrick didn’t press.

Once past the abandoned military-style bunkers, the signs of civilization became fewer and farther between. The trees grew more dense. Green foliage became thicker. It was the first pleasant sight Patrick had viewed on the new Third Earth.

“Pretty,” he commented without thinking.

“That was the idea,” Richard said with a snarl. “If you were brought out here, you first had to travel through this pleasant, green forest. I guess it calmed people down and made them feel like they were going someplace swell.”

“People were brought here? Why? What is this place?”

Richard answered, “They called it Stony Brook.”

Patrick shot Richard a stunned look. “Stony Brook?”

“You heard of it?” Richard asked, surprised.

Patrick wasn’t sure how to answer. “I knew people who came from there.”

Richard gave a skeptical laugh. “Not this place. Nobody comes from Stony Brook.”

Patrick didn’t press Richard any further. He knew he’d get answers soon enough. The forest they passed through bore no resemblance to the hometown of Bobby Pendragon. Patrick couldn’t imagine why people would have been brought to the home of the Traveler from Second Earth. They drove several miles through dense forest, until the trees opened up to reveal a long, stone wall that at one time was probably white, but was now dirty gray. It stretched out before them for several hundred yards before turning at right angles away and continuing on for a distance that Patrick couldn’t see. On either front corner were large round turrets with peaked roofs. At dead center were huge, wrought-iron gates that hung open on rusted hinges.

“It’s like a castle fortress,” Patrick gasped.

“I think that was the idea. Coming up here, you had the feeling you were entering someplace special. To the best of my knowledge, it’s been empty for over a hundred years.”

“How did you find out about it?”

“I told you, there are still records,” Richard answered. “Hidden around. Here and there. People trade bits of information like contraband. I came across an ancient transfer order that sent a huge shipment of ‘relos’ to Stony Brook. I’d never heard of Stony Brook before that. Or relos for that matter. The more I dug, the more I learned.” Richard looked at Patrick with a mischievous gleam in his eye. “Once I started putting things together, I couldn’t resist taking a look for myself.” The gleam turned into a tear. “I wish to all that’s good and decent that I hadn’t.”

Richard hit the gas and drove them past the rusted, hanging gates.

The front half of the compound was nothing more than a large, empty courtyard that was half the size of a football field. It was full of dust and weeds that poked up through the cracked asphalt. Rising up on the far side, opposite the gates, was an elaborate structure, with stone pillars that reminded Patrick of the cathedral-like Ravinian building built over the flume entrance in the Bronx. The structure had seen better days. Large chunks of marble had fallen from the ornate molding that skirted the roof above the columns. Though far past its prime, it was still a majestic site.

“What is it?” Patrick croaked.

“It’s the gate into hell,” Richard answered as he got out of the car.

Patrick followed quickly as the old man shuffled across the cracked courtyard, toward the imposing columns.

“Quite the sight, isn’t it?” Richard asked as they walked. “Who knows what people thought when they came here? Apparently they were told they were going to be shown the wonders of Halla.”

“Isn’t that what the flume in the Bronx was for?” Patrick asked.

Richard stopped and looked at Patrick. “That place in the Bronx was for Ravinians. This place was for everyone else. People would be driven here in buses. I believe they disembarked right here, where we’re standing. They’d be led through these pillars. From what I’ve read, they all went willingly, though they must have wondered why there were armed guards up in those turrets.”

Patrick looked up to the round turrets that were on each corner of the tall wall that surrounded them. It suddenly felt less like a magical castle and more like a prison.

Patrick asked, “Who was brought here?”

Richard began to tremble. “At first they brought the weak. The handicapped. The elderly. Those with debilitating diseases. As time went on, they weren’t as discerning. If you lived in one of the Horizon Compounds, there was always a chance you might end up here.”

Patrick croaked, “I don’t like where this story is going.”

“No?” Richard blurted out. “You said you wanted the truth.”

“I do,” Patrick confirmed adamantly.

“I believe the term they used was…’marginalized,’” Richard said. “That’s what they did with relos. They were marginalized.”

He left Patrick and walked toward the columns. Patrick glanced around the empty compound, a knot of dread twisting his stomach. He wanted to get the heck out of there, but he had to know the whole truth. It’s what his mission was all about. He followed Richard up to a set of massive, steel doors. One was open slightly. Barely enough for a person to squeeze through.

“Had to pry this open,” Richard explained. “I never would have gotten in if the locks hadn’t rusted. Even after they shut it down, they didn’t want people wandering in.”

Richard squeezed through the opening, followed right behind by Patrick. Inside was a grand marble foyer. No electric lights burned. The only illumination came from sunlight that was sneaking in through high windows. Patrick saw that the space was ringed by austere marble columns.

“Feels like a tomb,” he commented softly.

Richard gave Patrick a quick look, an ironic chuckle, then walked to the far side of the room, where a flight of stairs led down into the dark. The librarian continued down without stopping. Patrick didn’t follow right away. As soon as he saw the stairs, it clicked. He felt certain he knew what he would find down below. What he didn’t know was what it meant. To find that answer, he had to follow Richard.

Patrick went for the stairs and had to descend only a few steps to see it, just as he suspected. Sitting on the far side of a plain, cement-walled basement room, recessed in the wall, was the flume.

“It’s the Sherwood house,” he gasped.

“I don’t know anything about a Sherwood house,” Richard said. “Seems to me it was more like a house of horrors.” Richard stepped into the mouth of the flume and continued. “From the accounts I’ve pieced together, Naymeer himself would preside. The poor people they called ‘relos’ were led down here and told to walk inside the tunnel. Naymeer would stand here with his ring and activate this infernal device. The people would walk in and that would be the last anyone ever saw of them. This was how the Ravinians got rid of those they didn’t feel worthy.”

“No!” Patrick blurted out. “That doesn’t make sense.” His mind was working too fast to worry about being discreet. “The flume only works for Travelers. It’s dangerous for anybody else to use it.”

“Dangerous?” Richard scoffed. “Those poor people were executed! Can’t get any more dangerous than that!”

“No,” Patrick blathered. “That’s not how it works. The flume doesn’t kill people.”

“Then what happened to them?” Richard shot back. “They went in and didn’t come back out. By the thousands. If somebody didn’t fit the Ravinian profile, the person was either used as a slave, or categorized as a relo and sent here. That’s what they’re trying to hide, Teacher. Genocide. It lasted for decades. Once Naymeer got too old to continue, he passed the ring on to his acolytes. That’s what he called them. Acolytes. The Ravinians purged the world of anyone they thought was inferior or didn’t agree with their philosophy. It wasn’t about race or religion or even politics. It was all about the individual’s ability to contribute. If you fell on one side of the line and were a productive, intelligent person, you lived comfortably. If you fell on the other side of the line, you could end up a relo and sent here. It was all about reducing the excess population, taking stress off of an overburdened system, and allowing the elite to thrive. That’s how they were able to take control. If you caused trouble, you were gone.”

Patrick paced, shaking his head. “It can’t be.”

“Why not?” Richard asked. “Because you don’t believe people are capable of such evil? That they can flat out exterminate their enemies? History proves you wrong, Teacher. The Ravinians prove you wrong. Heck, what happened up here was nothing compared to the Bronx Massacre.”

Patrick whipped a look at Richard. “Bronx Massacre?”

“You never heard of that either?” Richard snarled. “What kind of a teacher are you?”

Patrick stalked toward Richard. “A confused one. What was the Bronx Massacre?”

Richard sniffed. “Only the event that started it all. It put the Ravinians in power. They showed what they were capable of and took the world hostage.”

Patrick was doing his best to control his voice and his emotions. “Richard, what exactly was the Bronx Massacre?”

Patrick heard a pop. It sounded like a firecracker. The sound reverberated off the stone walls of the flume.

“What was that?” Patrick asked.

He looked to Richard. The old man gazed back with glassy eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but instead collapsed. Patrick caught him. l

“Richard!” he called out.

Patrick pulled his hand away, to find it covered with blood. Richard’s blood. He’d been shot. Patrick looked up quickly. The only place the shots could have come from was deep within the flume. Patrick was in the dead center of its mouth.

“I’m sorry, Richard,” he whispered, and rested the old man down on the rock floor…and ran. He dodged to his right as two more pops were heard. They missed him, slamming into the stairs. Patrick pumped his knees, taking three steps at a time. It wasn’t just about survival. Patrick knew he had to get this information back to Pendragon. He had to let Pendragon know that Naymeer and the Ravinians were using the flume to exile their enemies to other parts of Halla. The flume was being used as the ultimate weapon in Saint Dane’s quest to control Halla. He no longer had to destroy those who didn’t fit in with his plans-all he needed to do was send them elsewhere. But where? There was no way to know.

Then there was the Bronx Massacre. What was it?

Patrick reached the top of the stairs, squeezed through the opening in the steel doors, and sprinted for the car. He stayed low, hoping to make a smaller target. He got to the car without having another shot fired at him, and dove inside. Patrick had never driven an old car. He was used to the quiet, electric vehicles of his Third Earth. He had watched Richard. He twisted the ignition key. The engine turned over.

“Yes!”

He hit the gas and spun the wheel. The car skid across the asphalt, kicking up dirt and gravel. Patrick aimed for the front gates and jammed his foot to the floor. The old vehicle squeaked and complained, but it moved. Fast. With each second he felt more comfortable behind the wheel. He felt sure he was going to make it. All he would have to do was figure out how to drive the car back to the Bronx and the other flume. He didn’t want to leave Richard, but there was no choice. He had to get to the other flume. He had to get to Bobby.

He was ten yards from the front gate when a large truck shot in front of the opening, directly in front of the speeding car. The truck skidded to a stop, blocking the way. Patrick wasn’t an experienced driver. Even if he had reacted quickly, he was still driving too fast. He slammed on the brakes. It was too late. He hit the side of the truck at full speed. The crash was violent. Patrick flew into the windshield, vaguely aware of glass shattering. He bounced back into the front seat, stunned. The world swam around him. He was hurt. Badly. He knew it. He knew he’d never make it to the flume. He forced himself to focus. He had to warn Pendragon.

Gasping for breath, he found the pad of paper Richard had given him. He couldn’t move his right arm. It was broken. The pain told him so. He used his left. Patrick fumbled for the paper and wrote. He coughed, sending a spray of blood splattering across the page. Patrick knew he didn’t have much time left. The pooling blood on the floor was proof of that. He would have to convey all that he knew in a few words. As he wrote, more of his blood dripped onto the page. He fought the dizziness that was quickly overtaking him. He forced himself to think. What words to use? What words?

He finished writing and took off his Traveler ring.

“Second Earth,” he croaked weakly.

The ring came to life. Relief. He fought to stay alert for a few seconds more. The world swirled. He wished the ring would work faster. Light blasted from the circle. The portal was open. Patrick’s last act was to clutch the bloody piece of paper and drop it inside.

He had done it. His mission was complete. The ring returned to normal.

Patrick was alone. There were no Travelers there to help him. No one to heal him. No one to save his life. He had dodged death once. This time he wouldn’t be so lucky.

“Good luck, Pendragon” were the last words spoken by Patrick Mac, the Traveler from Third Earth.

(CONTINUED)