Finn rotated again. The gruff guard reached down and swiped. Finn burst into sparks of black-and-white photons like a scattering of fireflies in the backyard.
A fraction of a second later, Finn’s black-and-white shoulder reformed, the sparkling particles coming back together.
He couldn’t wait to tell Philby about this!
The guard reached for Finn a second time. Again, a starburst of sparkling light scattered and reassembled. Finn felt mild pain, but the sensation vanished with the reassembly.
The frustrated guard grabbed repeatedly for Finn. But Finn danced out of the man’s reach each time the guard tried.
“You don’t want to do this,” Finn warned in a high-pitched cartoon voice he didn’t recognize. “Joe will have your badge.”
“It can speak!”
“Don’t know no Joe,” the other guard barked.
“Joe Garlington. Him or the head of the Imagineers. Bruce Vaughn.”
“Nice try, kid. You mean Mr. Irving. He’s the executive in charge.”
“Dagnabit, if I don’t got the willies,” whispered the second guard.
“Because of this?” Finn turned sideways and slipped through the gap separating the two men, silently thanking Mr. MacDonald—his middle school math teacher. Jumping offstage, he fled through the nearest exit.
The boy holding the sign was gone. Outside, Finn passed the Carousel of Progress—and what he saw made his two-dimensional head spin. This place was identical to, and yet unlike the Disneyland he knew. He had little time to reflect on the extra space, the design of the signage. All he knew was that it was Different—with a capital D. Somehow not the Disneyland he knew, while at the same time the park he loved.
As he whirled about, unsure where to go, Finn was struck by it being daytime; typically the Keepers crossed over at night. Also, the park was teeming with people dressed like the audience inside the attraction. Park guests stared; children pointed, their mothers grabbing their arms to correct their impoliteness.
The sky was like a velvet blanket, a beautiful blue. A warm breeze whistled, ruffling his hair in the most pleasant way. There wasn’t a cloud to be seen. He took a tentative sniff. The air was light, and dry, carrying all sorts of scents into his nostrils including roasted peanuts and the strangely comforting smell of people. Hairs rose on the back of his neck, and he glanced around.1
It had to be a movie set, but where were the cameras, the lights, the director? And why were the extras swarming the park with no apparent organization at all?
He looked for a pay phone; if Philby had manually crossed him over, then he needed to signal his friend to bring him back. He spotted a bank of three pay phones not far away and ran over to them. He yanked up the receiver before he looked closely. It had a dial tone, but the phone itself had no push buttons, just a spinning dial with holes at the numbers. Of no use to him, Finn thought; the retro pay phone had to be part of a park display.
As he hung up, Finn spotted the boy with the sign across the park walkway. Despite their being separated by crowds, he was fixated on Finn, his eyes alight with a penetrating glare. He was in the process of hoisting his sign for a second time—showing off the fountain pen—when he flicked his attention off Finn and onto a Dapper Dan, dressed in a red and white jacket, a straw hat, and pressed white pants. Finn knew the Dapper Dans as typically part of a singing quartet that roamed the parks. The Dapper Dan seemed interested in both the guy with the sign and Finn.
The guy with the sign offered Finn a faint shake of the head. No, he was saying. Finn took that to mean don’t go near the Dapper Dan, toward whom he looked a second time. Finn had always thought kindly of Dapper Dans; this warning surprised him. When Finn checked back for the guy with the sign, he was gone again.
In the meantime, the Dapper Dan was closing in on him.
Somewhere in the distance, a train whistle blew. Finn cut around the curving outside of the Carousel of Progress, hoping to catch the Disneyland Railroad, but the train had pulled out of the station. Worse yet, he was beginning to attract a following of the curious. And there, in the distance, still pursuing him, the Dapper Dan.
Finn pulled on a door handle on the exterior of the huge pavilion housing the Carousel of Progress. Locked. Another, also locked. Forced to move in the direction of the approaching Dapper Dan in order to keep testing doors, he hurried now, tendrils of panic choking his nerves. Locked. Locked.
Unexpectedly, a door burst open and swung through the black-and-white Finn, dispersing his pixels like confetti. People wearing the same retro costumes flowed out the door. Finn’s image reassembled, and he hurried inside. Each time a person bumped him, he exploded into the same dustlike pixels. This effect impeded his progress; the pixels had to re-form into his image before Finn could move again.
The Dapper Dan’s striped jacket and white pants moved against the outgoing tide, coming for Finn.
Finn dodged through the human pylons as if in a video game, trying to avoid being delayed by pixelization. Inside the same auditorium as before, he hurried toward the stage.
“You!” The Dapper Dan was close now.
Onstage, Finn panicked. He was life-size; the TV screen, tiny. When he led with his open palm, the picture tube’s glass proved an unbreakable barrier; his hand slapped uselessly against it. He tried his fingertips, like a jab. Now his projected hand went through the glass and shrank to a tenth of its size.
The Dapper Dan charged up the stage stairs.
Finn pulled his hand out. He knew that all things DHI required trust. It had been one of the early lessons Wayne had taught them. Crossing over was as much about one’s belief as it was about photons and high-data projection systems. Fear was a 1.6 DHI’s undoing. Confidence, his mainstay. If a geometric plane, his projection would strike the glass; if a line—the edge of that plane—it would pass through. Thank you, Mr. MacDonald!
He had no choice. With the Dapper Dan nearly upon him, Finn hurried back several steps, took a running start, and raced toward the glowing television. He leaped and dived, hands together like he was diving into a swimming pool. He expected a collision, the sound of breaking glass, sparks, and possibly a fire.
Instead, his vision went oily for the second time. He thought he heard the Dapper Dan screaming, but the man’s words were indecipherable. Somehow, they sounded almost as if they were playing at fast-forward.
FINN BLINKED THROUGH blurred vision. When it cleared, he found himself riding Jingles on King Arthur Carrousel. He confirmed his status as a hologram by running his hand through the brass supporting Jingles.
He didn’t remember anything beyond climbing onto the horse. Though his arm stung and it felt as if he’d lost time, a few minutes perhaps, he was disappointed that nothing had happened. In fact, he felt like a fool for believing something would. He glanced at his watch, feeling drawn to it. It was late, but it was nearly always late when he returned.
Climbing down off Jingles, Finn caught sight of a scar on his right forearm. He leaned in for a closer look.
It wasn’t a scar, but a crude sketch of a missile. No, not a missile, but a…pen. A fountain pen, just like Walt’s.
Unable to remember how the pen got onto his arm, he stood on the carousel, watching the park spin past, perplexed. He felt a little like he had the time he’d slipped while running around the rec center swimming pool and thumping his head on the concrete. Dazed.
Coming out of that daze he recalled the red eyes glowing in the shadows. He ducked behind the horses, and crawled on hands and knees to the outer edge of the carousel. He slipped off onto the asphalt, and started running.
Racing through the dark park and around the castle, his imagination went wild. He could picture whatever creature belonged to those red eyes coming after him. He could envision the wraiths swirling overhead, descending, shrieking with anger.
At last, he reached the Partners statue and, with the Return in hand, pushed the button.
FINN SAT BOLT UPRIGHT IN BED and peeled away
the bedding to reveal he was wearing street clothes. He had a series of red blotches on his left arm, like bee stings.
Taking a deep breath, he yanked his right shirt sleeve to his elbow.
A fountain pen was drawn on his arm.
“Well?”
He jumped, practically levitating off the mattress.
“Mom?” He pulled down his sleeve.
“You were expecting someone else?” she said. She sat on his desk chair in her nightgown and robe.
“I was expecting you to be in your bed sleeping.”
“Sorry to disappoint,” she said.
“You scared me.”
“I don’t think you needed me for that. You looked plenty scared when you came awake.” She crossed the robe tighter at her neck as if chilly. The room was warm. “Are you going to tell me about your arm?”
Finn held out his forearm, hoisted his sleeve once again, and turned on the bedside light. He said nothing.
“So?”
“No big deal.”
“Walt’s pen?” his mother asked. “Looks like that to me.”
Finn withdrew Walt’s pen from his pocket and held it up for comparison. “Pretty close, I’d say.”
“And?”
“And I didn’t draw it, Mom. I’m not much as a lefty.”
She sat on the bed beside him, looked again at his forearm.
“First of all,” Finn said, “the only pen I have on me is Walt’s fountain pen, and this drawing isn’t fountain pen ink. It’s from a ballpoint or some kind of marker.”
“Mmmm,” she said, inspecting the sketch more closely.
“And like I said, it’s on my right arm, meaning I would have drawn it with my left. I can’t draw stick figures with my left hand, much less something as good as this.”
He jumped out of bed. Checked his watch. “I’ve got to call Philby and let him know I returned.”
She sat there, unmoving. “Go ahead.”
“Alone, Mom. In private.”
“Because?”
“I appreciate the concern, really. But I’m back. I’m fine. And I’m not going anywhere. I’ll see you in the morning.” Finn reached out to open his bedroom door. Light from the hallway winked off the face of his wristwatch.
“Mom, what’s the date?”
“Right now?”
“Right now. Today.”
“The eighth.”
“Not the seventh? You’re sure?”
“Positive. Why?”
Finn tapped his wristwatch’s crystal face. “This thing’s busted. It’s saying the seventh. It’s eleven thirty-nine, right?”
“Two thirty. We can get it looked at.”
“Two thirty! Maybe…yeah, whatever.” He looked to the open door. “Please? We should both be asleep.”
Mrs. Whitman swooshed out of the bedroom, her robe wafting behind her like a queen’s cloak.
“IT’S TWO THIRTY, MAN. I’m sleeping. Or I was.” Philby sounded groggy.
“I returned.”
“Yes. Congratulations. And I went to bed the moment I saw the data spike indicating you had.”
“Like five minutes ago,” Finn said. “It’s not as if I’ve cost you a lot of sleep.”
“Whatever.”
“I was on King Arthur Carrousel. On Jingles.”
“I think I knew that.”
“But when I got off, Walt’s pen was drawn on my arm.”
“Drawn by whom?”
“You sound like my mother.”
“Answer the question.”
“Not me. I didn’t see anyone else.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Which is, in part, why I’m calling you.”
“We don’t fall asleep as DHIs. Not ever. It’s not as if you nodded off and someone drew on you while you were sleeping. Text me a photo.”
Finn did. He heard Philby’s phone ding and said, “Check out the ink. The only pen I had on me was the fountain pen. But that pen is drawn in—”
“Ballpoint or marker.”
“Exactly what I told my mother!”
“Your mother?”
“Long story. Later. Look, I didn’t draw it, and I didn’t have a pen to draw it with.”
“What about it being drawn on your other self? Your sleeping self?”
“Impossible. My mother was watching me.”
“You have issues.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Walk me through your time in the park. Tell me what you remember.”
“Zero. I remember climbing onto Jingles and climbing off. Hey! What if this is like Insidious or something?”
“Inception,” Philby corrected. “You mean Inception. Layers of sleep, layers of consciousness, right?”
“Right, yes.”
Philby breathed heavily into the phone. “You seriously think you entered a wormhole and someone drew on your arm?”
“What’s a wormhole? No, I think I blacked out on Jingles. I think someone came along and drew on my arm, maybe as a message. A clue.”
“And you want me to suggest this to the others? They’ve already got one foot out the door, Finn. You know that.”
“So how did it get there?”
“No clue. A software glitch might explain the memory loss, but not the pen. You must remember something.”
“I wish.”
“Climbing on and off Jingles. That’s it?”
“My watch messed up. It’s still running, but it’s a few hours off.”
“When you want to start making sense, I’m listening.”
“You know what?” Finn fished an image from his subconscious; felt dizzy, dazed. “When I was on Jingles…I remember holding on—to his neck, you know? Because I was getting dizzy. I couldn’t see straight. Everything was…blurry. But I remember my watch. I think the hands were moving backward.”
“Say again.”
“It makes no sense, or maybe it does, since the date on my watch never advanced. You know how your phone resets the time to the current time zone? I think my watch did that. All on its own.”
“But it’s just a regular watch, right? Not an Apple Watch or something?”
“Regular old, cheap watch. A Timex. The thing has never once had a problem.”
“Except for moving backward?”
“Obviously that didn’t happen, but that’s what I saw.”
“Slow or fast?”
“What? The hands?”
“The hands were moving slow or fast?” Philby asked.
“I dreamed it, Philby. Obviously! It supports my losing consciousness. They moved fast. I’m telling you, I blacked out. I think an Overtaker drew that pen on my arm.”
“What Overtaker? They’re gone, Finn.”
“Look, I know what you guys think of me, Philby. It doesn’t take a genius to know when you’re being mocked and teased. If you guys weren’t such good friends, it wouldn’t hurt so much, but you are. Good friends, I mean. But I saw what I saw. I have a pen drawn on my arm. Something happened when I was on that horse. I have no idea what. But it happened, and if you had an ounce of kindness in you, you’d cross me back over and let me try it again. Knowing you, though, that won’t happen, so you’re stuck with crazy Finn and his crazy drawing on his arm.”
“Are you quite done?” When Philby’s temper showed, his years in England changed his accent and his phrasing.
“I guess. Yeah.”
“The hands of your watch went backward. Quickly. You’re sure of that?”
“Yes.”
“You felt dizzy.”
“I said so. Yes.”
“You remember nothing until you found yourself back on Jingles, but now you have a drawing on your arm?” Philby paused for a long moment. “Finn, have you ever read Jules Verne?”
“Never.”
“Do you know that Walt Disney loved his work? Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, for one.”
“I think I could have guessed as much.”
“He most l
ikely appreciated H. G. Wells, too.”
“Where are you going with this, Philby?”
“It’s not a question of where I’m going, Finn. It’s a question of where you’ve been.” Philby paused the way he did when his tongue couldn’t catch up with his thoughts. Slowly, as if afraid to speak, he quoted the words Wayne Kresky had spoken before he’d been killed.
“‘It’s about time.’”
“PHILBY CALLED,” AMANDA told Jess across a lunch table bearing two orange trays from the Team Disney commissary. As they spoke, Jess squeezed a piece of packaged California roll between disposable chopsticks; Amanda wolfed down penne pasta with rotisserie chicken and Parmesan.
“And?” Jess asked, knowing by Amanda’s tone that it was something important to the Keepers—and nothing personal. If it were personal, Finn would have been the one to call Amanda.
“He needs our help. It’s for Finn, he said. Research.”
“Spying?”
“I don’t know exactly.” Amanda shook her head, brow furrowed in confusion. “He wants me—us?—to dig into the early work of the Imagineers’ involvement with television. He says it’s not stuff the Archives would have. But he thinks we’ll find it here. White papers, they’re called.”
Here was the Disney School of Imagineering, which operated out of the Team Disney building, located just behind a towering wall separating a backstage area from Disneyland’s Toontown. Few of the Team Disney Cast Members knew of the school’s existence. It had its own entrance, and the college-age students coming and going were easily mistaken for Cast Members. Those familiar with the school called it “DSI.”
Enrollment at DSI hovered around one hundred and fifty. DSI students ate lunch in two shifts in their own commissary.
Amanda Lockhart and Jess Lockhart, two of the newly enrolled students, were sometimes thought to be sisters despite their differing looks. Amanda, olive-skinned and vaguely Asian around the eyes, stood five-foot-eight and was full figured. Jess’s complexion was pale. Her white hair (not blond), made her witch-like and odd. She could have used a few inches and a few pounds. Both pretty in their own right, the two girls carried an air of mystery and beguiling self-confidence. They’d learned the art of survival at an early age. Jessica, who had no clear birth identity, had adopted Amanda’s last name after the two escaped a secure research facility that pretended to be a boarding school. There they’d been used as guinea pigs by a shadowy organization interested in their unusual “gifts.” Barracks 14, as its young residents referred to the research facility, had been the worst and scariest years—ever. Getting out had been the best thing either girl had accomplished. Staying out remained a challenge.
The Return: Disney Lands Page 4