Kingdom Keepers VII (49 page)

F
INN SCRAMBLES UP
to the dock as the riverboat founders in the dark water, recalling the times Storey helped the Keepers and fighting to make sense of Ursula’s boasts. He gets to his feet, stumbling onto dry land, and collapses at the base of a huge rock. It sits like a small island, surrounded by blacktop.

Storey and Violet join him. Violet’s hair is wet, but her superwoman suit looks dry. In contrast, Finn and Storey are soaked through. They exchange a volley of partial sentences, coughing and spitting as they try to get the words out. They’re all breathing. Things could be worse.

It’s readily apparent that there is more than just river water on Storey’s face. Tears pour down her cheeks; she’s shaking, as if freezing cold. She’s going into shock, something only Finn understands. As a Disney character, Violet has no idea what it’s actually like to be human, though she plays one on the big screen.

“Are you okay?” Finn asks.

Violet’s kindness surprises Finn; she wraps her arm around the girl and holds her tight.

“Who are you people? Where am I?” Storey pleads.

“This is Disneyland.” Finn is about to explain further when he’s interrupted by Storey.

“What are you talking about?” she says, and nuzzles into Violet’s shoulder like a child.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” Finn asks more gently.

“My mom! Where is she? Where’s my dad? My family? I want my family!” She shudders and starts sobbing. “What was that thing down there?”

Finn wonders if people have been able to come and go from the park since the earthquake. The Keepers talked about a spell being cast. Was it a spell of appearance, or of exclusion?

“Am I dreaming or something?” Storey continues. “What’s going on?”

Finn sees the way out. Together, he and Violet get Storey up and walking. “Dreams have a funny way of never telling you whether or not you’re in one,” he says. “But when you awake, you’ll think that you were talking to Violet from
The Incredibles
. What are the odds of that, seriously? Isn’t it more likely that you boarded the wrong ship by accident in Nassau? That maybe you banged your head or something and finally woke up in Disneyland a long time later? Your family is going to love seeing you again. And aren’t you excited to see them? You’ve got to go back to sleep, so you can wake from this nightmare and start your life again.”

“Ursula…Violet…I see what you mean. But who are you?”

“I’m kind of like your conscience,” Finn says. “The part of you that understands how this all happened. You’re going to wake up in a place called Club 33. It’s nice in there, and there are phones, and you can call home. Everything’s going to be all right again, Storey. I promise.”

It’s several minutes before they have her comfortably laid out on some pillows in Club 33. She falls asleep almost instantly.

“You’re a sweet talker, Finnegan,” Violet says. “I believed every word you said.”

Finn mutters, “Ursula took the chest down with her. The missing Mickey.”

“But we got out alive,” Violet says. “And you saved Storey. That’s got to earn us some points.”

They’re walking past the Golden Horseshoe when Finn notices a towering rock to their left. He’s drawn toward the brass plaque at its base:

Finn skips to the bottom of the inscription:

There’s a long explanation that doesn’t interest him. He can’t look away from the credit at the bottom and the date: Mrs. Walt Disney, 1957.

“There’s a photo in Walt’s apartment,” Finn says, rising to his feet. “Mrs. Disney, Walt, and some others with shovels. Like a—”

“Dedication,” says Violet. “Breaking ground for the installation of something in the park. Something fifty-five to seventy million years old, weighing five tons.”

“The arrows, the map—it wasn’t marking the riverboat. It was this!” Finn says. “In the Osiris myth, the final piece of the god’s body is found inside a
tree
.”

“Locked away where no one can get to it.” Violet studies the massive rock.

“Locked away so it isn’t stumbled upon,” Finn agrees. “It has to be found. Searched for. You need to know what you’re looking for.” He paces back and forth, then blurts out what he’s thinking about Ursula’s reference to the Overtakers as “them.”

“It’s years ago. The Kingdom is threatened by a power struggle within the Disney villains. It fractures and threatens to overpower the park magic. Walt knows the power of the original Mickey illustration. Mickey, too. He knows the true source of the magic that made this place come alive and seem so real. Mickey tells Minnie to tear it up—basically, to kill him, put him into hibernation. She puts the pieces in the bank vault, but not
all
of them. Walt Disney or Wayne hides some. A story is invented for the sake of the Imagineers, saying that the Overtakers are responsible. It emphasizes the importance of protecting the original.

“And then…then Walt hides the final piece inside a gift he gives to his wife. She gives it to Disneyland, and a quest is built around it, a quest involving a myth certain to outsmart the OTs.”

Violet nods excitedly. “The missing Mickey,” she says. “Inside there.”

Finn looks up and down the five-ton petrified tree.

“The insider,” he utters under his breath.

“Y
OU DIDN’T THINK
I was just along for my good looks, did you?” Violet asks Finn, who’s giving her an uncertain look. “Stand back.”

“Violet?” Finn inquires.

“Way behind me. Farther!”

Finn is ten yards behind Violet. “You don’t have to do this! It’s too risky!”

She’s not listening. The slim girl’s fists are tightened at her sides, her head cast downward in concentration. As Finn watches in horror, she starts to shake. He knows what’s coming.

Finn is lifted off his feet and propelled backward, along with an uprooted sapling tree, a trash can, and a number of rocks. Umbrella tables at River Belle Terrace take to the air like kites. Finn crashes to the earth beside them; shaking his head, trying to clear his vision, he sees that the petrified tree has changed. It leans to one side, with dozens of cracks showing.

Violet looks back, her telltale swoosh of hair obscuring one eye, and sees that he’s okay.

Violet emits her force field a second time; this time the result is more like a tornado. The petrified tree explodes into hundreds of flying chunks. Even the largest of the pieces takes to the air; as the force field diminishes, they come raining down on Violet like falling meteorites. The girl collapses to the ground in a limp heap.

Finn rushes to her aid. Violet’s left leg is broken. Finn wrestles a huge rock off her chest, but her breathing remains hoarse and shallow. Her face is the color of sand.

“Can’t…breathe…” she gasps. She forces her bluish lips into an unconvincing smile. “How’d I do?”

Finn looks at the rubble of the destroyed tree. “You nailed it,” he says, trying to smile at her.

“Really?” She coughs. Red stains her teeth. Finn can’t look.

“Yeah. This place is a gravel pit,” Finn says.

“What about the thirt—?” Violet can’t complete the sentence. She breaks off into a horrendous wet cough that chills Finn to the bone.

Beside her, he spots a small box. No bigger than a jewelry case, it’s made of cherrywood and has turquoise-blue panels on both ends.

“I think I see it,” he says.

“Get it!”

But Finn won’t leave her. “I’m about to give you mouth-to-mouth,” he warns, “so you’d better pucker up. I’ve never kissed a superhero before.”

“Oh no you’re not!” She laughs, which is not a good idea.

“Stop talking and get ready!” he says.

“Shut…up!”

Finn’s throat tightens. He doesn’t really know Violet; he has spent only a few hours with her. But their connection runs deep. They share a common cause. She has supported the so-called Children of Light based on little more than faith, stories, and rumor. She’s chasing a legend of which he’s an integral part, which means it’s a fiction: he can’t be considered Disney legend. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

He’d have dived for the box a moment ago, but now it strikes him as petty, insignificant. What good is saving the Kingdom if it costs the lives of the wonderful characters who inhabit it? The good guys aren’t supposed to die trying—like Dillard, Wayne, and now Violet. They’re supposed to
win
.

But this, Finn realizes, is the Disney that’s not Disney. The story behind the stories, the truth behind the legends. And he’s a soldier, an ant in the colony, nothing more.

Finn bends lower, ready to put his mouth on Violet’s to supply the air she’s not getting. As their lips are about to touch, he hears the patter of footsteps, panics, and sits up. Is it Ursula?

No: it’s Rapunzel.

“May I?” she asks Finn.

“But how—”

“You Children of Light seem to forget we’re here to help. We try to help. We want to help.”

Finn stands aside as Rapunzel kneels by the failing Violet. Partially unbraiding her divine locks, she lays her hair on Violet’s chest, covering her waist and broken leg. Then Rapunzel starts to sing.

“Flower gleam and glow…”

It’s her hair that gleams and glows. Radiating out from it is a wave of sparkling light, so intense that it blinds Finn, forcing him to look away.

When he looks back, Violet is herself again and Rapunzel is rebraiding her hair.

“You saved her,” Finn croaks.

“My hair saved her,” Rapunzel says. “You are Finnegan, are you not?”

He nods shyly.

Rapunzel stands—she’s an enchanting beauty—steps close to Finn, and kisses him on the cheek. As her lips brush his skin, the world fades away. There are no fires burning in the park, no rising smoke staining the sky toxic gray, no distant cries of celebrating Overtakers. He’s flooded with warmth, embarrassment, appreciation, and respect. Feeling his face flush, he realizes that more than fear can remove one’s all clear.

“Thank you,” he says, unsure whether his words are for the kiss or for saving Violet’s life.

Rapunzel gives him a squinty-eyed smile, all white teeth and a blush in her cheeks.

With one look in that direction from Violet, Finn moves toward the box, frees it from the rubble, and opens it.

Inside is a single piece of torn paper: Mickey’s eyes.

F
IVE MINUTES BEFORE
the Small World dolls attack the Fairlies, the Dillard warns Maybeck, Jess, and Amanda of the imminent assault.

“How can you possibly know that, Dillard?” Amanda asks.

“I am able to hear their feet.”

“I’m serious,” she says.

“So am I. Maybeck,” he says, “you, Amanda, and Jess need to move the Mandy Blaster and load it with the chemicals you recovered from beneath the Fantasmic stage. It requires an elevation of four degrees, meaning a fulcrum should be placed nineteen inches from the front end.”

“Are we taking orders from a…? Wait, what exactly
are
you, Dillard?” Maybeck asks.

“I am Finn’s friend. A version 1.6.3 Disney Hologram Interactive operating at—”

“Pause!” Amanda gestures for Maybeck to stand down. “Leave it, Terry. Let’s just do this thing.”

“He’s a calculator with legs!” Maybeck complains. “If the Small World dolls are coming, we should be getting out of here.”

“And who told us they were coming?” Jess asks.

“That’s beside the point!”

“Since when?” Amanda reengages the Dillard. “Dillard, fight or flight? Justifications, please.”

“This is the most effective concentration of Small World dolls we have yet seen, second only to the mass grouping in the Skyway Station. The natural restriction of space imposed by the backstage concourse suggests—”

“Okay! Okay!” Maybeck hollers. “Forget the pros and cons. Let’s do this.”

Once decided, the team is a model of efficiency. Maybeck and Jess set up a galvanized section of drainage pipe, loading it with rocks and two vats’ worth of the brooms’ green goo, which Maybeck found just as Finn had said he would. The Dillard stands alongside Amanda, who takes her place at the opposite end of the pipe, practicing dry runs with her telekinetic hand movements.

“I’ve never tried to funnel the push before, Dillard. What if I can’t do it?”

“Failure to engage the Small World dolls will result in a battle during which you—or we, I suppose—will be outnumbered eight to one. We will likely succumb.”

“But
how
do I do it? Do it best, I mean?”

“Processing,” the Dillard says, closing his eyes. “Is the resulting force a product of eyesight or hand gestures?” Without being consulted, he adds, “Two minutes until initial contact.”

“I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it. But the pipe is only two feet in diameter. If I do this wrong, I’ll send the whole pipe and everything in it out there in a gigantic mess.”

“If it is a combination of hand and eye, a prone position will be most efficient.”

“I should lie down?”

“Assume a position with a sight line through your hands as they make an outward motion.”

“Are you accessing the paranormal hand guide or something?” Amanda asks, laughing, as she moves to lie down.

“I am unable to locate any paranormal reference material. I am basing my theory on a description of setting a volleyball or making a chest pass in basketball, both activities my sources confirm should be familiar to a female of your age.”

Amanda feels herself tingle uncomfortably. The Dillard’s explanation is too clinical, too definite. She longs for encouragement, not a paint-by-numbers description of how to behave.

“I think I’ll wing it,” she says. “But I promise to keep the volleyball thing in mind.”

“Is that a question?”

“Shut up, Dillard.” She’s immediately sorry for the outburst, but tells herself she doesn’t need to apologize to a projection. When the Dillard fails to speak, she adds, “Time to initial contact?”

“Forty-three seconds,” the Dillard answers dryly.

“Get behind me!” Amanda calls out to Maybeck and Jess.

“It’s not ready! It’s set too low.”

“Thirty seconds.”

“Get behind me, now!”

While Maybeck holds the pipe up, Jess adjusts the scrap of wood they’re using as a fulcrum point.

“Twenty seconds. Fifteen…”

“Now! Please!” Amanda cries.

Maybeck and Jess abandon their efforts, run, and dive past Amanda as they see her winding up. Maybeck rolls back alongside Amanda, leaning in so he can whisper to her.

“Wait for it!” Maybeck says.

“Seven…six…” the Dillard counts.

The dolls emerge, heading down a backstage path. They rock from side to side as they walk, stiff and puppetlike. Their painted faces are cheerful and eerily immobile; they’re happy little killers. Their jaws open and snap shut mechanically, hungry for whatever portion of the Keepers or Fairlies fails to maintain all clear.

“Five…”

“I hate those things,” Maybeck breathes, his words barely above a whisper.

Two rows of dolls. Three. Four. There are thirty or more dolls in view, and more coming still, their legs marching in time.

“Three…two…”

Maybeck holds his hand over Amanda’s back like the spotter on a shoulder-fired missile team.

“One…”

Maybeck taps Amanda on the back and ducks.

The drainage pipe makes a tremendous sound, an echoing
whoosh
, like a giant toilet flushing. Its contents spray out the far end, moving with such velocity that the fluid looks like a beam of green light. Chunks of goo-covered concrete hit the dolls like steel ball bearings fired at bowling pins, vaporizing everything in their path. The creepy-looking dolls explode and then disintegrate; one moment they’re an army of advancing ghouls, the next, a cloud of plaster dust. Charred pieces of costume float in the air like giant snowflakes.

Maybeck stands up and jumps in celebration, banging his head on the top of the tunnel and winning laughter from all but the Dillard.

“We did it! We did it!” Amanda appears to almost levitate.

Jess smiles, claps. She’s never seen Amanda so giddy and free.