Kingdom Keepers Boxed Set

by Ridley Pearson

  But instead of thunking down onto the opposite display, Philby landed softly—too softly.

  He lifted his head to see Maybeck’s eyes go impossibly wide. Maybeck grabbed Philby’s feet and pulled.

  “Get out of there!” he said.

  Philby tried, but he couldn’t move. Something was holding him. He rocked his head, not really wanting to see…

  Gnomes!

  There had to be a dozen of them. Tiny things, no taller than a ruler—alive!—with old-man faces and warts, and long, disgusting noses and weird ears. They supported Philby—they had caught him. But now they held onto him, claiming him as a prisoner, while Maybeck fought to keep in the boat.

  Gulliver’s Travels, Philby thought.

  The boat continued moving, leaving Philby behind.

  Philby was wrenched at an inhuman angle, his shoulders held by the intrepid gnomes, his feet by Maybeck.

  He swatted at the gnomes. One of them stabbed his hand with a miniature gnome knife—it was like getting poked by a knitting needle. Thankfully the Imagineers hadn’t armed the gnomes with sharpened weapons. Philby banged the sword over to his right, where it connected with a clank. He knew he must have hit a gnome when he felt his right shoulder jolt free. Philby next slapped the blade over his left shoulder, and now he was clear. But Maybeck had not let go; he’d moved to the back of the boat as it had moved forward and now had nowhere left to go.

  All at once, Philby was being dragged half in, half out of the boat, with six angry gnomes racing on their miniature feet in a flurry to catch up to him.

  The polar bear grew smaller and smaller, framed by the tunnel as the boat continued moving.

  Maybeck finally hauled Philby into the boat just before they entered through the next scene’s gate—where Philby would have been knocked free and left behind.

  There were trees. It was a rocky cave. The narrator said something that Philby couldn’t make out. He was trembling from head to toe.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “You saved us, not me!” said Maybeck, in a rare display of humility.

  Just as Philby thought he’d regained his balance, the boat dropped away, out from under them. It raced down an incline and into yet another scene. It was night. They were on the ocean under the northern lights, with an oil rig to their left.

  “Cold!” Philby said, warning Maybeck, who understood what a drop in temperature meant.

  Maleficent.

  Darkness.

  “We’re almost through,” Maybeck said.

  Thankfully, a sea village appeared, not the green witch. Not this time.

  Standing onshore were Willa, Charlene, Finn, Jess, and Amanda. A ship’s horn sounded.

  “You guys get all the fun!” Willa complained.

  “Yeah, fun!” Maybeck said, pulling his bloody hand away from his wounded shoulder.

  Finn reached out and helped the two to shore.

  THEY HID BEHIND MEXICO’S Mayan temple, where they thought it unlikely they’d be found. Willa proved herself worthy of her Girl Scout merit badge by cleaning up Maybeck’s wound. It looked nastier than it was—the line of deep scratches had stopped bleeding.

  “First, I have some bad news,” Finn said. He told the others about his experience at Lost and Found, how he thought he’d touched the fob inside the locker, but that they’d have to wait until morning before trying for it again.

  A depressing silence settled over the group.

  “My mother is going to freak when she can’t wake me up,” Philby said.

  “Mine too,” said Willa.

  “Jelly can never get me out of bed,” Maybeck said, “but she’ll remember the last time. This won’t be good.”

  “I wish there was something I could tell you,” Finn said.

  “If we’re trapped here,” said Charlene, “shouldn’t we make the most of it?”

  The others looked at her with total surprise. Charlene was usually the whiner of the group.

  “Excuse me?” Willa said.

  “I mean…if there’s nothing we can do about it, if we have to be here anyway…and it seems to me we do…then shouldn’t we try to find Wayne or something? What about the sword? Isn’t that why we came here in the first place?”

  “Somebody pinch me,” Maybeck said.

  “Charlene?” Willa said. “Is that really you?”

  “Get off my case,” Charlene protested. “Listen, we’re all in big trouble, okay? Our parents, our aunt,” she said—“and our guardian,” she added, addressing Jess and Amanda—“they’re all going to lose it when we can’t be woken up. And if we do get back there—tomorrow morning—we’re going to be in big trouble because they’re going to know it has something to do with us crossing over. Who knows what happens after that? Right? I mean they could contact Disney or something, and maybe the program gets shut down again. Maybe we lose our places as Disney Hosts. I don’t know. I’m just saying if we’re going to do something, it probably should be tonight, as in right now, because my mom is going to put handcuffs on me or something. I’m going to be grounded for eternity.”

  “It’s all wrong,” Philby said, tracing his fingers along the blade of the sword, which was lying atop his crossed legs.

  “Well, maybe you have a better idea,” said a disgusted Charlene.

  “Sorry, not you, Charlene,” Philby said. “The sword.” He motioned down at it. “The sword is all wrong.”

  “How can a sword be wrong?” Amanda asked.

  “Wayne gave us the box,” Philby said, “and the box became the sword…or the cross. But if it’s a sword, I think this is the wrong sword. If it’s a cross, maybe the clue is: France.”

  “The only thing we got in France,” said Charlene, “was a lot of hassle.”

  “But if there are Overtakers guarding France, couldn’t that mean something?” Jess asked.

  “Of course it could,” Finn agreed. “We won’t give up on that.”

  “But I’m telling you it’s the wrong sword,” Philby said.

  “There he goes again,” Maybeck said.

  “And that’s got to be significant.”

  “Wrong how?” asked Amanda.

  “The Maelstrom is Norway, so the sword should be Norwegian, right?”

  No one challenged him.

  “But it’s not. It’s an Irish sword.”

  “And you know this, how? Speaks with an Irish accent, does it?” Maybeck said.

  The others chuckled.

  “Norwegian swords have circles of metal, like a doughnut, above the grip, not crosses. And you see this round shape, like a coin, at the center of the cross? It happens that that’s an Irish design. It’s an old Irish sword—very old. And what makes it particularly strange is that there’s a fly in the coin on one side, and a shamrock on the other.” He passed it around.

  “Engraved,” Jess said, handing it to Maybeck.

  “No, not engraved,” Maybeck said. He picked at the coin with his fingernail and caught an edge. “It’s drawn on Scotch tape, clear tape that’s been stuck on.”

  “Wayne,” Finn said.

  “Irish. Fly,” said Philby. He held out his hand to Charlene. “It’s a clue.”

  “Fly Irish?” Willa said. “Isn’t there an Irish airline?”

  “Maybe the airline sponsors one of the World Showcases,” Finn said.

  “We’re getting ahead of ourselves,” Philby cautioned, working Charlene’s phone. “Wouldn’t he have drawn a plane if he wanted us to go searching Irish airlines? But it’s a fly. A housefly. Why?”

  “SWAT?” Maybeck said. “Like a police SWAT team?”

  “You are such a…boy,” Willa said.

  “Better than the alternative,” Maybeck said.

  Philby looked up from the phone. “Wiki lists a bunch of things for The Fly.”

  “This is so Wayne,” Willa said. “I hate to say it, but this just seems so exactly what Wayne would do. You know? I mean, when does he ever just leave a message like: Maleficent is under Pir
ates? He’s always so—”

  “Careful,” Finn said. “He makes sure no one could figure it out but us. It’s too much for one person to process. But the five of us—”

  “Seven now,” said Charlene.

  Philby read from the phone. “Okay…there were a bunch of movie versions—”

  “I love that movie!” said Maybeck, interrupting.

  “Hush!” said Willa. “Let him speak.”

  “A short story. There’s a magazine…a U2 song—”

  “That’s it!” said Charlene. “U2’s an Irish band.”

  “And you would know this because?” Willa questioned her.

  “My parents listen to them all the time. Definitely Irish. And they’ve been around for like forever.”

  “Okay, people,” Finn said. “Are you telling me that Wayne, who is approximately nine thousand years old, would have any idea who U2 are?”

  “I’m just saying: it’s a song,” Charlene said. “And the words are wicked. It’s all about stars falling, and secrets, and human consciousness. It’s heavy stuff. Eclipses and friends and…it could easily be some kind of message.”

  “I can Google the lyrics,” Philby said. “But there’s more here. There’s a Dave Matthews song—”

  “Sweet,” said Charlene. “I know that song too!”

  “—and a poem by a guy named Blake,” Philby continued.

  “William Blake,” said Amanda. “He’s British. Northern Ireland’s part of Great Britain. All of Ireland was part of Great Britain before Irish independence—so we can’t rule out Blake.”

  “And a Simpsons episode.”

  “I love the Simpsons,” Maybeck said. “There’re a couple where Bart is the Fly.”

  “Blake,” Amanda said, “A dead poet. Dead for a long time. Dead as in can’t be changed. That’s Blake.”

  “An old dead poet?” Finn said. “That’s got to be near the top of our list if Wayne’s behind this.”

  “The Dave Matthews song is about being saved,” Charlene repeated. “How much more do you need than that? Wayne needs to be saved.”

  “Wayne wouldn’t have a clue who Dave Matthews is,” Finn insisted.

  “You can’t know that.”

  “I do know that,” Finn said. “And there’s no way he’d know about U2 either.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” Charlene protested. “Everyone knows U2.” Philby angled the phone in the limited light. “Here’s the poem.”

  “Read it,” Finn said.

  Philby looked around. No one objected.

  “Okay….

  ‘Little Fly,

  Thy summer’s play

  My thoughtless hand

  Has brush’d away.

  ‘Am not I

  A fly like thee?

  Or art not thou

  A man like me?

  ‘For I dance,

  And drink, and sing,

  Till some blind hand

  Shall brush my wing.

  ‘If thought is life

  And strength and breath,

  And the want

  Of thought is death;

  ‘Then am I

  A happy fly.

  If I live,

  Or if I die.’”

  For a moment, no one said a thing.

  “Whoa,” Maybeck grunted out. “Heavy.”

  “Note to self,” Charlene said, “the U2 song is about stars falling and secrets being kept. I mean: come on, people!”

  “And this is about life and death,” Finn said.

  “And dancing and drinking and singing,” Amanda added, “all of which happen in Epcot and the other parks.”

  Willa said, “It’s the part about how thinking is the strength of life, that gets me. And about how not thinking is death, and how as long as that’s true, he’s happy. That is so Wayne. And I think he’s telling us something deeper—”

  “Oh, please, give it a rest,” said Maybeck.

  She ignored him. “That it’s not about him. It’s not about whether he lives or dies but that he wants us to figure this out—to think.”

  “Flying,” Philby said.

  He won everyone’s attention.

  “Don’t you see?” he continued. “Willa’s right: it’s about thinking. It doesn’t matter if it’s the poem or a U2 song. It’s a fly. It could be something in The Land, or A Bug’s Life over in Animal Kingdom. But think about it. Fly. Right here in Epcot: Soarin’ is about flying. And…” He pulled out and unfolded a sheet of paper from his back pocket, and read it. “Soarin’ just happens to be on the maintenance list for areas with unexpected temperature drops.”

  “You carry that thing with you?” Maybeck said. “What are you, a Boy Scout?”

  “Finn and I took a big risk collecting this data. I intend to make use of it.”

  “Mission: Space!” Finn added. “It involves flight.”

  Philby checked the sheet. “Also on here.”

  Jess touched her forehead and closed her eyes. Amanda noticed the reaction, though the others were too excited to spot it.

  “And on Test Track you go fast enough to fly,” Willa said.

  Philby nodded. “Ditto,” he said.

  “There’s that Star Wars ride where you’re in a space pod,” Maybeck said. “Over in Hollywood Studios.”

  “I don’t have that data,” Philby said.

  Maybeck scoffed.

  Amanda leaned into Jess. “What’s wrong?”

  “Not sure.” With her eyes closed she reached out in front of her, like a blind person groping in the dark. Then her eyes popped open. “That was strange….” she whispered.

  While the other kids continued talking—arguing, was more like it—Amanda probed Jess’s sudden confusion with an inquisitive look. Jess shook her head. “I saw something—a pattern. Three rectangles. Just for an instant.”

  Finn had the attention of the others. “We keep the sword with us. It has to have something to do with either finding him or finding the Overtakers,” he said. “It’s got to be a clue.”

  “Of course it’s a clue, Whitman,” Maybeck said. “The question is, what are we supposed to do about it?”

  “We have the entire night to check it out,” Charlene said. “We can sit here for six hours, or we can actually do something.”

  “For instance?” Maybeck said.

  Philby spoke up. “Check out any ride, any exhibit, any pavilion, that has to do with flying and that shows up on the maintenance list.”

  “Spaceship Earth,” Willa said.

  “That goes onto the list,” said Philby, confirming its existence on his list. “And Finn, yes, we should keep the sword with us. But it should be you: that’s what Wayne would want. He could have gotten the fly message to us without all the sword stuff, so the sword must be important.”

  “There are seven of us,” Finn said. “Three teams of two and one lookout. The lookout has to get to some place with a view of the—”

  “Fireworks,” Philby said.

  “No,” Finn said, “the whole park.”

  “The control center for the fireworks is at the very top of this temple—the Mayan Temple.”

  No one was going to question Mr. Encyclopedia.

  Finn arched his head back to look nearly straight up at the top of the Mayan temple.

  “How do we get up there?” he asked.

  “There’s a door on the east side,” Philby said. “It leads to a staircase that goes all the way up. This time of night, no one will be in there. As long as we don’t touch anything…. Finn, you could all-clear through the door and let someone inside.”

  “That would be me,” said Amanda, also looking up. “I was the lookout last time, right?” She didn’t wait for anyone to answer. “Okay, I’ll do it. But I’ll need to borrow someone’s phone in order to reach you.”

  AS FINN’S MOTHER DRIFTED off to sleep at a few minutes past eleven her body twitched in a serious convulsion that rocked the bed. She sat bolt upright, throwing the covers off the bed. Her
husband reached down, pulled the covers back up, and went back to snoring.

  The code! Her mind had played tricks on her by replaying as a dream the afternoon spent sorting out the code with Finn and his friends, Willa and Philby.

  “Wayne’s missing,” she recalled Finn telling her—accidentally telling her, if she were any judge of her son.

  How could she have been so stupid? The code had nothing whatsoever to do with any competition, and everything to do with Wayne going missing. It had all made so much sense in her quick dream: she relived the expressions on the faces of the kids as they worked together to solve the code, the exchanged glances. How could she have been so obtuse to miss it all at the time?

  She threw her legs over the edge of the bed, tugged at her nightgown to straighten it, and hurried out of her bedroom and down the hall. Late or not, she had every intention of confronting Finn. The family policy was, no lying. They were not about to change that policy just because Finn was now a teenager—if anything, it was more important than ever.

  She opened the door to his room, moved to the bed, and hesitated a moment as she saw her son’s peaceful face cast in the glow of his various electronics. In that instant, the thought crossed her mind to turn around and leave this for the morning. How could she disturb his peace over some dream she’d had? Why was she so suspicious of her own son? Where had her trust gone?

  She turned and took two steps back toward the door. But then she spun around sharply, her eyes scanning the floor. She’d been working on Finn for five years—More like ten! she thought—to put his clothes away when he took them off. She’d even bought him his own laundry hamper. Yet every morning, there were his clothes from the day before, strewn about the room as if a tornado had hit.

  So where were they?

  No boots. No pants. No shirt.

  The anger she’d felt in the bedroom resurfaced. This seesaw of emotion was exhausting her. While her adrenaline was still charged, she marched to the bed and gently pulled back the covers.

  Fully dressed. No pajamas.

  Could this possibly mean…?

  She shook his shoulder.

  “Finn? Sweetheart?”

  She shook him harder. In the past two years he’d taken to sleeping so soundly she could sometimes have a bear of a time waking him.