That’s exactly what was happening. As the music reached its peak, and the glowing flumes grew so bright they nearly caused a complete whiteout in the heavens, a flume exploded. Chunks of crystal material erupted, blasting every which way. It was followed by another explosion. And another. With each new eruption, the sound was released from inside, filling the universe with chaotic debris and discordant music. When a flume exploded, its light went out. Crystal pieces of all sizes scattered through space. Some looked like mile-long chunks, others were tiny, twinkling shards. Pieces flew past me, though I didn’t feel them, which added to the impression that I wasn’t really there. At least not physically.
I watched in horror as the explosions continued. One after another. Three at a time. A chunk of one flume crashed into another tunnel that was still intact, breaking it in two. It was a dreadful, violent display. I was witnessing the destruction of the highways through Halla. As a final insult, I saw a large chunk of crystal heading directly for me. I didn’t know what to do. Was I in danger? Would it blow past me? Or through me? After all, I was a ghost. When the crystal wall was nearly on me, I did the only thing that felt right.
I closed my eyes.
SECOND EARTH
The Conclave of Ravinia was jammed with people. More so than ever before. Every seat was filled with a true believer. Many more had to be turned away at the door. There simply wasn’t enough room. Those who arrived late had to be content to sit on the stairs outside the marble structure, and wait for news to come from those who were lucky enough to be allowed inside.
The atmosphere outside the conclave was very different from the last gathering. Though security was provided by red-shirt Ravinian guardians and the New York City police, it wasn’t necessary. There were no protesters. Quite the opposite. The streets were empty, except for Ravinians who came for the conclave. Nobody else dared to come within three blocks of the building. The demonstration at Yankee Stadium had served its purpose. The Ravinians had power. The Ravinians were feared.
Yet the mood of the Ravinians wasn’t one of celebration. There was tension, both inside and outside the conclave building. Rumors of what had transpired at Yankee Stadium flew across the world. What exactly had happened to the people inside? The only solid fact was that over seventy thousand people entered Yankee Stadium on the evening of March 12, and nobody came out. The television cameras showed helicopters arriving over the stadium, and Alexander Naymeer striding onto the stage. He thrust his hand into the air…and that was it. The cameras failed. Every last one. There was no record of what occurred after Naymeer thrust his fist into the air. The broadcast ended. The tapes were clean.
Most Ravinians had their suspicions. Many had witnessed the earlier event at the conclave where twelve nonbelievers were exiled into the flume. Did something similar happen at Yankee Stadium? It was the only logical explanation, save for one minor detail: There was no flume at Yankee Stadium. Not anymore. The earth around the pitcher’s mound at the ballpark was scorched. The grass destroyed. It looked as though there had been a fire. That was all. Any sign that a flume had once been there was gone. There were no witnesses. Nobody to describe how an infernal tunnel was blasted into the earth and made to swallow up tens of thousands of people.
The very next month, baseball would return. Soon after, Yankee Stadium would be vacated and turned into a museum. A newer, modern stadium would rise next door, replacing the hallowed site. Eventually the old stadium would be bulldozed, covered up, and forgotten. The mystery would never be solved, because there were no witnesses. What remained was the fear. Fear of Ravinia. It was part fact, part mystique. As horrifying as the unexplained disappearance of seventy thousand people was, it was nothing compared to the fear of what Ravinia was capable of. They would not be challenged again.
It was the turning point. Second Earth was theirs.
There were plenty of rumors about what had happened that spread across the globe. Besides the horrifying mystery that would come to be known as the Bronx Massacre, people wanted to know what had happened to Alexander Naymeer. He hadn’t been seen or heard from since those final, dramatic images were broadcast from the stadium. People expected him to make some sort of appearance or announcement, especially in light of the historic vote of confidence given to Ravinia by the United Nations. Yet Naymeer was nowhere to be found. It was with that feeling of uncertainty that the Conclave of Ravinia met. The atmosphere in the room that night was a mixture of relief and dread. Hope and horror. All had gone according to Naymeer’s vision. Ravinia was on the threshold of becoming a major force that would dictate the future of the world.
Yet its leader was missing. The Ravinians came to the conclave needing answers.
The room went dark. The Ravinians became quiet. A spotlight hit a podium next to the mouth of the flume. Every last person in that room hoped to see Alexander Naymeer step up to the microphone and speak to them. They desperately hoped to see him. They needed him.
They wouldn’t get him. Instead, another man stepped into the light. It was someone the Ravinians were familiar with. Or thought they were. He always seemed to be at Naymeer’s side, offering him advice, helping their leader with the challenges of creating a new world. His name was Eugene.
His name was Saint Dane.
His open, kind face served to both calm them and fill them with dread. Why wasn’t Naymeer there? This evening Eugene wore a dark suit instead of his trademark Ravinia-red golf shirt. It was another sign that something was wrong. Eugene always had a bright smile. Not tonight. Eugene looked sober. It caused a buzz to ripple through the room. Eugene raised his hand. The crowd quieted in anticipation.
“My friends,” Eugene began somberly. “Alexander Naymeer is dead.”
A collective gasp and cry went up from the crowd as their worst fear was confirmed.
“Please,” he said, his voice amplified through speakers. “Please. Shhh…”
He was soon able to quiet the crowd and continue. The only distraction was the occasional sound of someone’s uncontrolled weeping.
“Alexander Naymeer was not a young man. We always knew his time with us would not last forever. He was mortal, as are we all. The excitement of recent events proved too much for his all-too-human body. He passed away quietly, painlessly, his lion’s heart beating its last on a life well spent.”
The weeping continued as reality settled in. People nodded and smiled to one another in support. The idea that the god-who-was-Naymeer was actually human somehow made the man even more accessible. More beloved. In spite of his awe-inspiring greatness, he was one of them. His death catapulted him from leader to legend.
“As disturbing and sad as this news may be,” Eugene continued, adding resolve to his voice, “now is not the time for grief. Certainly we should mourn the passing of such a great man, but we should also realize that his passing came at the moment of his greatest triumph.”
People nodded. They agreed. They wanted something positive to grab on to.
Saint Dane was all too willing to give it to them.
“Which raises the question, what are we to do now? Should we lick our wounds and stumble in the dark, after all we have achieved? All that he has achieved?”
There was a general murmuring. The crowd didn’t like that idea.
“Should we forget what brought us here, and lament that without our leader to tell us what to do, we are nothing?”
A few “nos” were called out.
“To turn back now would mean we are no better than the people we disdain. Our future will not be determined by any one person. Our strength is in our common vision. That is what Naymeer taught us. That is what the world expects from us. That is what Halla expects from us.”
Excitement was growing. The people were getting worked up. The wailing cries were heard no more.
“To turn back now would be an insult to the memory of Alexander Naymeer, and to our own beliefs and values. His mortal body may be gone, but his spirit lives on in each and every one of us.
”
Applause broke out.
Eugene smiled. Saint Dane smiled.
“Even now, Ravinians from Second Earth have been sent to Denduron to aid the Bedoowans in their battle against the Lowsee. Military strategists have arrived on Zadaa to help the Rokador plan an insurgency against the powerful yet primitive Batu. The island of Ibara will soon be under siege. Right here at home, the dramatic events that occurred not far from this spot have cemented our power. The people of Second Earth fall into two camps. They either embrace our philosophy, or they fear us and will be marginalized. We are at the forefront of a new world. A new Halla. That is the legacy of Alexander Naymeer. We must not fail him.”
The crowd cheered. The promises were all coming true. Their cult of excellence had taken hold and would grow, even without Naymeer.
Eugene held up his hand to quiet the enthusiastic crowd.
“Naymeer foresaw all of this. He anticipated many things, including his own demise. He knew his body would not live forever. That is why he had the foresight to groom an heir to take his place.”
The crowd once again gasped in dismay. Eugene pressed on, not wanting the momentum to slow.
“As great as our ship is, we must have direction. Guidance. Experience. We must have youth. There is an individual whom Alexander Naymeer has tutored in the ways of Halla. Together they traveled to other territories, learning of the customs and idiosyncrasies that make up many different worlds. They have broken bread with leaders from all territories, forging alliances and laying the groundwork for the common good we all so desperately want. This is the person Naymeer put his trust in. This is the person who will guide us. This is the face of a new Second Earth. A new Halla. Fellow Ravinians, I present to you…our future.”
A spotlight flashed into the flume. Standing there, wearing the dark red robe that was once worn by Alexander Naymeer, was Nevva Winter.
The crowd didn’t know how to react. There were confused murmurings rather than cheers. Gasps rather than applause. It didn’t bother Nevva. She looked to Eugene.
To Saint Dane.
He gave her a reassuring nod.
Nevva raised her arms as if to embrace the conclave. In an assured voice she announced, “This is not about me. This is not about any one of us. This is about us all. We are the elite. We are the strong. We are the enlightened. We are Ravinia!”
She held up her right hand—the hand with her ring. Light blasted from the stone, activating the flume. The tunnel sparkled, turning instantly to crystal. As Nevva stepped aside, light grew from within, coming forward like a ball of charged energy.
The crowd watched in awe.
The light drew right to the mouth of the flume and formed an image. It was the face of Alexander Naymeer.
People fainted. They fell to their knees. Some cried. Others simply stood in awe, holding their hands out, trying to touch the ghostly image. Naymeer had gone from leader, to legend…to god.
“My friends,” the disembodied image bellowed with a voice that echoed eerily through the conclave building. “The first territory of Halla is now under your control. You alone will decide its future. Do not mourn my passing. Embrace my spirit. Through Nevva, I will be there for you. I will be there for you all. This is not an end, but a glorious beginning. For you. For Halla. For Ravinia.”
The image of Naymeer erupted with light, turning into a three-dimensional star. Nobody flinched. They stood staring, as if the light were the very essence of Naymeer that was sent to embrace them.
Nevva looked to Eugene.
“This is it, isn’t it?” she said. “After all this time. It’s finally over.”
“It is over,” Saint Dane replied with confidence. “And now we can begin.”
JOURNAL #36
(CONTINUED)
SECOND EARTH
I didn’t feel an impact. I felt something else. Gravity. My body suddenly felt heavy. I was no longer floating, or whatever it was I was doing. It felt like lying down. Other sensations returned. I felt a chill. Air moved over me. Sound returned too. I heard the moan of a far-off, hollow wind. I didn’t think I was hurt. There was no pain. I wondered whether I was dead. Not knowing what being dead felt like, I had no opinion.
Wherever I was, I was lying facedown. I cracked an eye open to see that I was stretched out on bare ground that was covered with a fine, light brown dirt. Or sand. I couldn’t tell. I brought my hand to my face and touched it. It was just that. Dirt. I guess that sounds like no big deal, but it was to me. It meant I was someplace solid. Some place real. The question was, where?
I sat up to see…nothing. Or almost nothing. A quick three-sixty showed me a whole lot more of nothing. Still, the place felt real. I had the thought that I was in the middle of a desert, with nothing around me for miles. The air was hazy and full of dust particles that hung like fog. I had no depth perception. Could I see for ten miles or ten inches? There was no perspective. I didn’t know where I was. I didn’t know when I was.
It was a lonely place to be.
That’s exactly how I felt. Lonely. I was totally, miserably alone. I had lost the battle for Halla. For Second Earth. I had become a killer. Most of the people who meant anything to me were gone. I had failed them all. Saint Dane had done exactly what he said he would do. What he predicted he would do. He had torn the territories of Halla down, so that he could rebuild them and rule the way he saw fit. Halla was now controlled by a dictator.
I sat alone in that grit, not able to move. Not wanting to move. I wouldn’t know where to go anyway. I wanted to lie down, close my eyes, and let the swirling sand bury me. I was done. I had no future. There was no future worth having. If I wasn’t dead, I wanted to be.
That’s when I heard a voice.
At first I thought I was imagining it. It could have been a trick of the wind. It wasn’t loud, or distinct in any way. I thought maybe it was someone speaking far away, and the words were being carried to me on the breeze like a whispered memory.
I heard it again. Closer. More distinct. One single word cut through the howl.
“Bobby.”
I knew that voice. It was so familiar, but I couldn’t grab on to it. It was like the answer drifted on the edge of my consciousness, waiting for me to reach out and grasp it. I looked around and saw nothing but dusty haze. I felt sure I was hearing a ghost.
My eye caught movement. A shadow. Something was out there. I focused on it, desperate to see anything that would tell me I wasn’t trapped in an endless limbo. The shadow moved closer. It was a person. Someone was walking toward me. I couldn’t find the energy to stand. The shadow walked boldly, confidently, as if it knew exactly where it was going. Whoever it was, whatever it was, it didn’t seem like a ghost. It seemed to be wearing some kind of long, open coat that flapped in the breeze.
My heart stopped. I swear. I couldn’t breathe. I had finally reached out to the edges of my very being and grabbed hold of the truth. It was impossible. It was beyond reason. The ghost was a man. Or the man was a ghost. He stepped out of the dusty haze and stood over me.
I saw his face. A face I hadn’t seen in years. A face I thought for sure I would never see again. But he had made a promise. He said we’d be together again. That was a long time ago. So much had happened. I’d given up hope.
I shouldn’t have.
He kept his promise.
Uncle Press always kept his promises.
“Hi, guy,” he said casually. “Havin’ a rough day?”
He looked exactly as he did the day we left home so long ago. His hair was still longish and a little messy. He still needed a shave. He still wore a brown work shirt and jeans. It really was his long, tan coat I saw flapping around as he walked. He stood over me, looking down with the smile I had missed for so long. There were a million things I wanted to say. Only one came out.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
“Stand up, Bobby.”
I slowly got to my feet and faced my uncle.
“Hey,” he s
aid with a crooked smile. “When did you get taller than me?”
I jumped forward and hugged the guy. I couldn’t help myself. There was something else I couldn’t help doing. I cried. Yeah, I cried. I felt as if I were six again. I think what put me over the edge was touching him. He was real. He wasn’t a shadow or an illusion created by my wishful imagination. It really was Uncle Press. We stood that way for I don’t know how long. He let me cry. He patted my back. He let me enjoy the feeling of having at least one part of my family back. It felt safe. I think I would have stayed like that forever, if I hadn’t heard another voice call to me.
“All right! Enough!” a girl’s voice said sarcastically. “You’re going to get me crying too, and you do not want to go there.”
I turned quickly to see a blond girl in blue coveralls and yellow-tinted glasses. She stood with her legs apart and her arms folded across her chest, looking at me like a disapproving parent.
“Hello, Pendragon,” Aja Killian said. “What took you so long?”
I stood there, stunned. My mouth opened, but no words came out. A shadow moved toward her from behind, coming forward out of the haze. It was a big guy, who lumbered up behind Aja to give me a small wave. He once again wore the armor of a Bedoowan knight.
“I know you tried to help me,” Alder said.
I stood there with my mouth open, unable to think or make sense of what I was seeing.
“A-Are you all right?” I asked my friend. It seemed like such a lame question.
“I am now” was his definite answer.
I turned to Uncle Press and asked, “Is this real?”
Uncle Press shrugged, as if to say, “Yeah, why wouldn’t it be?”
My eye caught more movement. There were shadows everywhere. We were surrounded by a ring of phantoms.
“Hello, Bobby,” said an elderly woman with long gray hair. “Remember me?”
Raven Rise Page 47