Kingdom Keepers: The Return Book Two: Legacy of Secrets (2 page)

As it turned out, so were seven thousand news reporters from around the world, a camera team from ABC TV, hundreds—perhaps thousands—of Disney Cast Members, politicians, VIP dignitaries, and guests. Anaheim, California, had never seen anything like this. Today would change the course of history for the small orange-growing agricultural community. The Kingdom Keepers, being from the twenty-first century, knew all this. They were alone in this knowledge, as they prepared to crash the grand opening. If they failed to retrieve Walt’s fountain pen, and find a way to ensure its discovery (by them!) nearly six decades hence, then years of battling the Disney villains, including the death of two close friends, would all have been for nothing.

“You’ll have about twenty minutes,” Wayne said, joining them at the door. “Mr. Disney’s naps are very short, and he has a terribly busy day today.”

Wayne was a few years older than they were—nineteen or twenty. They knew him better as a man in his eighties; a mentor; their advisor and confidant. Time travel was tricky.

“Napping?” Willa asked. Though Willa lacked the striking looks of Charlene, and the confident brashness of Philby—she was dark-haired, a little wide in the face, and reserved by nature—she had the brains of a wizard, the mind of a mathematician, and the calm of a lab scientist. “We’re going to pick his pocket while he’s napping?”

“It’s the best opportunity you’ll have,” Wayne said. “Mr. Disney keeps his pen in the inside pocket of his sport coat. He won’t sleep in the coat, so unless one of you is an expert at pocket picking…”

“We’ve got this,” Finn said. “No worries.” He had every worry, but wasn’t about to put them on display for all to see.

“That’s way too cheerful, Witless.” Terry Maybeck seldom withheld his opinions. He claimed that, as an African American kid interested in art, he’d always felt sidelined, bullied, or otherwise ignored. His parents had either abandoned him or died; he didn’t talk about it. He’d been raised by a bighearted aunt who ran a pottery shop. She claimed that Terry had been a head taller than any other kid in his class since the third grade, and had been spoiled by all the attention his teachers gave him, and because of this, had never been shy about sharing his thoughts.

“Thanks for that, Maybeck,” Finn said. “Charlene…let’s go!”

Once they were out in the park, everything looked and sounded so different from what they knew. The five holograms moved through a Cast Member entrance leading from backstage into Town Square.

“What’s weird,” Maybeck said, “is how completely different something can look.”

“I hear you,” said Philby.

Sapling trees surrounded Town Square. Grass sod had been laid, but it looked more like green carpet. Flowers had been planted in neatly organized rows in front of stubby bushes. Only a few of the flowers held blossoms, which contributed to the naked look of the place. The park had the feeling of a model of Disneyland, not the real thing. Even the people were strange, in their white shirts, white dresses, and fancy shoes—the hair-sprayed hairdos of the women, the men’s greased haircuts; everything about everyone was so intentional and perfectly in place that it looked more like a wax museum display than a day in Disneyland.

“Listen to them! They speak so differently,” Charlene whispered to the others. “What’s with all the ‘gee whiz’ and ‘gosh’?”

“Don’t look now, but it’s 1955. ‘Heck!’ and ‘Darn it!’ are the closest they get to swearing. And look, they behave so differently!” Willa said. “Did you see that man tip his hat to that woman? So formal and polite.”

A pair of burly men dragging television cables into place each gave Maybeck an unpleasant look.

“I have a feeling,” Finn said, “that they probably believe differently as well!”

Disneyland had more of a weekend carnival feel than that of a theme park.

“This is way cool, by the way!” Maybeck said, ignoring the men. “We get to see the original Disneyland!”

“See?” Professor Philby repeated, questioning him. Philby, always playing the academic. “Maybeck, we’re not just seeing it, we’re living it.”

*  *  *

The five Keepers had once helped to restore the Disney magic in Disney World by using Walt’s pen to draw on an old blueprint of the park. That transformation had reversed the darker magic of the Disney villains—the Overtakers—and had launched a long string of successful battles against their dark forces. Their purpose here in 1955 was to find the correct pen and make sure it would be in the Disney Hollywood Studios attraction One Man’s Dream, so that they could find it again fifty-odd years later, in the future.

As the moment approached, the five began moving in eerie resemblance to a well-rehearsed team of bank robbers or street thieves. Outside of the Disneyland firehouse, alongside the Emporium, while the four teens stood side by side, a fifth, Finn, moved through a solid gate. Finn, whose boyish charm had matured into an intriguing forbearance. He had wildly expressive, almost hooded eyes, a mane of brown hair, and square shoulders that added up to a kind of Knight of the Round Table look of nobility. Now he found himself in backstage Disneyland.

It was nothing like the backstage Disneyland of the future. Carpenters, artists, craftsmen, and people from the television broadcast were so busy they were talking, walking, and banging into each other all at the same time. It looked like the world’s busiest airport on the busiest day of the year. There were other inconsistencies: the sawhorses were wood, not plastic; the workers wore suspenders and heavy leather boots—not a running shoe to be seen. Not a single sports cap, either. These guys wore tams and berets.

Everyone smoked; cigarettes dangled from lips, were pinched between fingers. Unlit cigarettes were tucked behind ears, along with yellow pencils. There was not a bottle of bottled water in sight, nor aluminum cans. Finn saw some Coke bottles—greenish glass—a few glass milk bottles, and metal lunch boxes in the shape of small barns. Finn moved toward a carport that held four shiny new trucks. As he did, his DHI projection sparkled and flared like a flickering TV signal during foul weather. Once at the carport, his image stabilized.

Next through the wall was Willa, followed by Charlene and Maybeck. At last, Philby’s flickering projection came backward through the closed gate like a ghost.

“No matter how many times I see that it still looks so strange,” Maybeck said.

“I hear you,” said Charlene, equally awed by the metaphysical element of the projected holograms in action.

The five quickly split up, taking positions relevant to the scaling of the gray-painted staircase, which rose nearly two stories to an unassuming set of casement windows and a nondescript door. Charlene moved down the backstage lane and took up a guard position. Maybeck stood sentry at the bottom of the staircase, prepared to buy his friends time. Willa, Finn, and Philby moved their ghostlike projections through the metal chain strung across the staircase as a barrier. They climbed the stairs quickly, with as much confidence as they could muster. Moments later, they slipped through the exterior back door that led into Walt Disney’s family apartment.

Each Kingdom Keeper had learned over the years to discipline his or her thoughts and to control his or her emotions. Everything they believed, everything they felt, affected the quality and abilities of their projections. Fear instilled limits; no fear opened up possibility. Entering Walt Disney’s apartment uninvited while he was supposed to be napping felt criminal to each of the three. It took every ounce of confidence and patience they’d learned over the past few years to keep their composure.

Philby, the most analytical of the five, showed little outward reaction. Willa, who in high school had excelled past Philby in some academics, was less courageous. She looked ready to melt into the plush carpeting underfoot. Finn wanted to project confidence while not seeming pushy. He found himself the unofficial leader of the Keepers, but was occasionally challenged by Philby for that role.

The three communicated by hand signal. With everyone “talking” at once, it looked as if they were trying to flap their wings to fly.

When Willa slapped her hand over her mouth and stifled a squeal, Finn spun to see a fully dressed man asleep on the short red couch, his dress shoes indenting the armrest. Finn stared in awe. He’d seen so many videos, photographs, posters, and statues of Walter Elias Disney that seeing him in the flesh seemed so otherworldly he couldn’t move.

Walt Disney snorted and began snoring softly.

Willa relaxed her hand. Philby placed his projected arm around her, and she leaned her head against his projected shoulder. Finn stuck his projected finger down his projected throat, indicating how he felt about the touching moment between the two. Philby stuck out his tongue and then laughed silently.

Finn took in the many items and pieces of furniture in the apartment, noting the differences between the real apartment and the restored version sixty years hence. Foremost was the brass fireman’s pole mounted through a hole in the floor. The artwork on the walls was different as well: more photographs, fewer paintings. A suit valet stood by the end of the couch that wasn’t there in the present.

As planned, Philby and Willa searched the closet. Finn inspected the suit valet and Walt Disney’s sport coat, which hung there. The valet tray held U.S.-minted dimes, quarters, nickels, and pennies unlike any Finn had ever seen. The dollars clasped inside a silver money clip looked fake—in small letters they read “Silver Certificate.” Finn reached to look inside the suit jacket, but his hologram hand passed through the fabric.

The easiest way for him to achieve the materiality that would lend his projection human substance was to allow fear into his thoughts. But that was risky—once mortal, he couldn’t move through walls. Worse, weapons or fists wouldn’t pass through him—they would injure him. Equally important: once fear sank its talons in and took hold, not only was it sometimes impossible for Finn to find his all clear projection again, but any harm that came to him in this condition would linger.

Leaders, Finn thought, didn’t sit around thinking and stewing. Leaders led. He allowed himself to think about trespassing and attempting to steal something from one of his personal heroes. If caught, he’d be mortified. If caught, then fifty-odd years into the future, there would be no pen to save the Magic Kingdom. The Disney villains known as the Overtakers would face one less obstacle in their objective to crush the Disney magic.

Finn’s body tingled. He knew the feeling well: he was losing all clear. He was going mortal. More human than projected light. Allowing it to grow stronger—warmer—he waited for the pins and needles to excite his fingertips. At that point, he fingered the fabric of Walt Disney’s sport jacket, and the jacket came open.

A knock came from somewhere behind him. Finn froze, the fountain pen within reach.

The sleeping giant stopped snoring and startled awake.

*  *  *

Willa and Philby, in the midst of conducting a blind search of the few clothes hanging up in the dark closet, heard a knock. They paused. A second knock. “Maid service!” Another knock.

Philby stepped toward the closet door, but Willa held him back. Anxiety stole most of the all clear from her projection. She placed her ear against the cool door, catching the voices mid-conversation.

“I’m telling you, if Mr. H says there’s something here, then there’s something here.”

“And we’re going to steal it?” said the other, her voice edged with uncertainty. Both voices were female; both sounded young. “Golly, Gina! Doesn’t that seem wrong?”

Mr. H….Hollingsworth? Willa wondered. She knew the name somehow. Her study of Disney history? Hadn’t a man going by that name been fired from Disney and ended up suing the man and the company for unlawful dismissal? Were these women working for the same man?

Trying to focus wasn’t easy. As with the others, Willa had a great deal on her mind. How college was likely to separate her from Philby, whom she liked a lot. How the best years of her life seemed destined to come to an end. How friendship was like some kind of puzzle: just when you thought you understood it, there turned out to be deeper, undiscovered levels.

Willa had kept her excitement to herself when Finn proposed this final effort to recover Walt’s pen. Secretly, she’d been brimming with joy. This would keep the five of them together, even if it was just for a few moments longer. Her thrill at being in Disneyland on Opening Day was like sunshine wanting to burst from behind a cloud. Everything was clean and fresh, like a brand-new house whose front lawn hadn’t grown in yet. She wanted to dance her way down Main Street.

One of the women spoke. “Remember: anything unusual. A wand, in particular.”

Willa heard the instructions, but her mind was back on the name: Hollingsworth. What could a man sixty years in the future have to do with Opening Day at Disneyland?

“You hear that?” Willa whispered to Philby.

“His snoring stop? You betcha I did!”

Willa wanted to correct him, to explain what she’d heard the maid say. But he was right: Walt’s snoring had stopped. Finn!

“Right,” she said, trying to remain calm. “We’d better get out of here.”

*  *  *

Finn had just taken hold of the suit coat’s lapel when the napping Walt Disney rose up on one arm. He looked in the direction of the knocking.

At that moment, Willa and Philby stepped through the closet door and into the narrow hallway behind Finn.

With Walt distracted, Finn focused and directed his prickling fingers to the valet’s tray table. His first effort to pick up one of the pennies failed. But he pushed, gathered his full concentration, and managed to make himself solidly physical enough to manipulate matter. In an instant, Finn had flung the coin toward the small table at the window looking out onto Town Square, which held a replica gas lamp. The coin clinked as it landed.

The groggy man whipped his head toward the sound.

Finn peeled open the sports coat, snatched a fountain pen, which had been clipped inside the chest pocket, and headed for the back door, a step behind Willa and Philby, who moved, ghostlike, through the solid wood. Finn clutched the pen tightly in his hand. As a material object, it wouldn’t pass through the door like his projection. He was reaching for the dead-bolt lock when an eerily familiar voice called out, “Hello?” It was a voice Finn knew from DVDs and YouTube. It was as powerful to him as the Wizard was to Dorothy.