The gaps in the floorboards revealed the flickering candlelight.
“The fireworks are ending. We need to get back onto the ship.”
“All the more reason to figure out what was so important.” He patted the journal.
“Make it quick,” she said.
“Yeah.” He waddled in a crouch to the open beach, stopping alongside the stairs and turning to look back.
She mouthed “Thank you” and tapped her wrist, indicating for him to hurry.
Finn climbed the stairs silently. Each cabana was divided in two with separate access. He eased the door open. Empty! The massage tables had been pushed to either wall, creating a space between them. On the floor was a pentagram drawn in chalk. There was a dead frog pinned by its limbs in the center pentagon; each of the triangles contained a small terra-cotta cup. There were dead moths in one; what looked and smelled like fish guts in another; a flower floating on oil in a third. Alongside the star was a sock puppet–like stuffed creature, with elbow macaroni on its head like horns. The doll was stained by green and mustard-colored dust. A red candle had dripped wax onto the floorboards. The whole thing gave Finn the creeps.
He scooted onto the nearest massage table and opened the journal, its pages stained, the writing smeared because of its exposure to the seawater. The parts written in pencil were blurred and sometimes illegible; he could make out the notes written in ink. It mentioned someone named Stravinsky. Finn knew the name—a Soviet general? an athlete? an author? He couldn’t place it.
There were pages of sketches that included shooting stars and brooms, monsters and Mickey’s sorcerer’s hat. Whoever had made the notes had drawn arrows connecting ideas to sketches and ideas to ideas. Some were numbered and circled. Some carried asterisks. It would take someone like Philby a long time of study to begin to piece together the concepts and the intentions. For Finn, it came off as a kind of second language; one that included verse and coded footnotes.
By carefully examining the top corners of the journal’s yellowed pages, Finn identified a section somewhere past the book’s middle that showed added wear. The pages had clearly been read more often than the rest. He turned to the section, heedful of the fragile nature of the paper and its contents. These pages seemed to be dealing with the character of Chernabog. There were some odd notes:
There were references to instruments:
Then came an illustration of some stone steps, followed by a blank page with a doodle in each corner. Or maybe not a doodle, but a pictogram or hieroglyph––if so, not like hieroglyphs Finn had ever seen.
On the last of the thumb-worn pages, a creepy sounding passage:
Finn flipped ahead through the section of worn pages. More notes and arrows and numbers. More musical references. A confusing jumble of gobbledygook.
But his possession of the journal filled him with delirious happiness. Retaking the journal had been the primary assignment. Here they were at the first stop of a half dozen ports—the second day of fifteen—and they’d already retrieved the journal.
Translating its pages would have to wait. He assumed Wayne would want it scanned and emailed to the Imagineers for further analysis. So much to do.
The fireworks finale erupted overhead like he was in the middle of Mortal Warfare about to retake the castle. Explosions and, as he reached the door, showers of falling stars and colors—music echoing across the water from the ship. Cheers rose from the adoring crowd on the beach.
He knew that music. Orchestral. Majestic. Uplifting. Inspiring. Tried to associate it with a particular Disney movie because of its familiarity. Searched the hard drive of his mind for where and when he’d heard it and found the fingers of his right hand dancing against the damp leather of the journal.
Piano! he thought. This particular piece he’d learned for his piano teacher back when he’d still been taking lessons. Back before the Keepers.
Thoughts of the piano lessons recalled images of his mother’s face. Finn recoiled with the memory. He felt physical pain in his gut and wondered where the nearest bathroom was. His mother, the green-eyed traitor. His mother, another of Maleficent’s captive slaves. He should have killed the fairy while he’d had the chance; should have demanded his mother’s release and her return to her former self. He understood that regardless of his DHI assignments or missions, this one calling preoccupied him like no other. He could leave tracking the OT server to Philby. With the journal in hand, his own mission had changed.
Slowly his fingers worked the orchestrated piece’s central melody. Instinctively. Subconsciously. He caught a piece of the sheet music in his mind’s eye and nearly was able to make out the composer’s name at the top of the page.