The Explorers’ Gate

by Chris Grabenstein

  The door flew open.

  “Grandpa?” It was Garrett. “There’s an urgent call! In the kitchen!”

  Grandpa Vanderdonk might’ve been huge but he sprang up from his chair and raced out the door.

  I raced after him.

  In the kitchen, I saw a telephone mounted on the wall near a tulip calendar. The handset was firmly nestled in its cradle.

  “The call’s at the sink,” said Garrett.

  Grandpa reached for the dish-rinsing nozzle and aimed the spray gun at his mouth. I flinched, thinking he’d squirt himself in the face. Instead, he started talking into the nozzle as if it were a microphone.

  “Hello? This is Klaas Vanderdonk.” He moved the sprayer to his ear. “Uhm-hmm … Uhm-hmmm …”

  “What’s he doing?” I asked Garrett.

  “Talking to the kabouter king’s royal physician,” said Garrett.

  I glanced over at Willem, to see if he might say something that made sense. He, however, looked heartbroken—bracing both hands against the kitchen counter, staring down at his feet.

  Grandpa Vanderdonk moved the spray gun back to his mouth.

  “My condolences on your loss. Kroll the Second was a wise and magnificent ruler. Know that we are prepared. Nicolette Van Wyck has agreed to become the third member of our team. Let the Crown Quest commence. Garrett shall attend the reading of the rules to be given by the Witte Wief of the Pond at dawn. Goedenacht.”

  Grandpa returned the sink hose to its resting place.

  For about a minute, nobody said a word.

  Grandpa made his way over to the kitchen table and lowered himself down into one of the spindly chairs.

  Finally, he spoke. “King Kroll’s royal physician advises me that his highness, who had been on his deathbed for weeks, passed away peacefully—moments after witnessing the celestial sign heralding the news that our Crown Quest team was complete.”

  “The shooting star?” I gulped.

  “Indeed.”

  This was terrible.

  Now I had accidentally killed a king?

  “Garrett?”

  “Yes, Grandpa?”

  “You will be our emissary. The Wise Woman of the Pond will act as High Commissioner of the Quest. You and a representative of the other side must visit her at dawn to learn the full details of the coming competition.”

  I raised my hand.

  “Yes, Nikki?”

  “What exactly is a Crown Quest?”

  “It is how the kabouters will determine who will next rule the empire you call Central Park.”

  “Unh-huh. So, the ‘wee people’ do the Quest. Right?”

  “Oh, no. Tradition holds that, when determining a matter of such significance, the kabouters must enlist the willing assistance of Dutch families whose lives they have made easier.”

  “Okay. But if the Crown Quest is so super important, shouldn’t you recruit adults for the teams?”

  He shook his head. “The teams must include only children who will grow up under the new king’s rule.”

  This was way too much, even for a Central Park freak like me.

  Statues that come alive at night?

  Wee people?

  A quest for a crown to choose a new king of Central Park?

  Children only, no adults allowed?

  I felt like somebody had just dropped me into the middle of a Disney movie.

  “Look,” I finally said, “I’m honored you guys want me on your team but, to tell the truth, I think this is all a weird dream. I don’t really believe in kabouters or statues coming to life or magical red caps or anything.”

  “Really?” said Grandpa, arching an eyebrow. “Your mother certainly did.”

  “What?”

  He reached into his nightshirt and pulled out a faded photograph.

  It was my mother and father. On their wedding day. Posing inside the Ladies Pavilion near the Lake.

  My dad was smiling and handsome and wearing a tuxedo.

  My mother looked happy. She was dressed in a white gown, of course, but her gauzy veil trailed off the tip of a pointed red hat so she looked like a princess in a storybook.

  “Why don’t you put your red cap back on?” Grandpa suggested.

  When I did, new images faded into view on the photograph: wedding guests I hadn’t seen before. In the flowering shrubs behind the pavilion stood two-dozen three-foot-tall kabouters, some in white ties and tails, others in bridesmaid dresses, all wearing different styles of floppy red hats.

  “That’s King Kroll,” said Grandpa. “In the second row, with the boutonniere. I was there, too, of course. But, well, someone had to take the picture.”

  Chapter 14

  Garrett offered to walk me the eight blocks home.

  “No, thanks,” I said. “I need to do some serious thinking.”

  So, alone, I walked down the bumpy sidewalk butting up against Central Park’s western wall. The stone barrier is only about three feet tall so I could peek into the park wherever there was a break in the tree. When I reached 82nd Street, I heard the creak of swing-set chains.

  And voices.

  Two women. Grumbling. Both with thick Brooklyn accents.

  I was carrying my red stocking cap and decided to tug it back on.

  I stepped up on a bench and peered over the wall into a playground. I saw two little women with yarny, yellow pigtails sitting inside the doughnut holes of tires suspended from wooden crossbeams: swings designed for first graders, not kabouters.

  Both women wore peasant blouses and long skirts. Both were also wearing red stocking caps—one as pointy as a snow-cone cup, the other resembling a Sherpa hat with earflaps, the kind skateboarders wear all the time.

  “So, how come you’re wearin’ your hat like dat?” said the one in the pointier cap. “And what’s up with da ear flaps?”

  “I dunno. Looks cool.”

  “It’s not how we wore ’em in Amsterdam.”

  “Yo, guess what? This ain’t Amsterdam.”

  “Should be.”

  “Ah, get over yourself,” the floppy-hatted one said, swinging sideways to kick at the other one.

  The pointy peak kicked back. “You got no respect for traditional kabouter values!”

  “I do, too! Kroll’s kid’s gonna make a better king than Lord Lorkus’s sleazy son.”

  “Kroll cheated Lorkus out of the crown!”

  “He did not. He won it fairsy-squaresy!”

  “Lorkus was the older brother!”

  “So? He was the dumber brother, too!”

  I pulled off my red ski cap. The two female kabouters disappeared.

  The two tires, however, kept swinging back and forth, straining at their chains, trying to bump into each other.

  And I could still hear their voices—mostly grunts and groans as they tried to knock each other off the tire swings.

  Okay. I was starting to believe in kabouters.

  Trust me, I didn’t want to, but after seeing and hearing everything I had seen and heard, I more or less had to. In fact, I was starting to think there had been a kabouter or two working that garbage can near the museum, making sure I got the message to go join Garrett and Willem.

  “You’re hanging out with the wrong individuals, kid.”

  I slowly turned around. There, standing on the sidewalk, was one of the most menacing men I have ever seen. His scalp was shaved down to stubble on both sides of a spiky mohawk dyed green. A long, jagged scar worked its way from his eye socket down to his chin.

  “W-w-who are you?” I stammered.

  “Someone you don’t never want to meet again. Word to the wise, Nikki?”

  My legs trembled. “How do you know my name?”

  “Your name ain’t all I know, kiddo. But don’t worry. Keep away from the Vanderdonks, keep out of Central Park for a few days, and maybe I won’t have to cut yooze.”

  He slid his hand into the pocket of his baggy leather coat and pulled out a knife—the kind that could give you a
scar from your eye socket down to your chin.

  “Sir,” I said as bravely as I could, “There’s a police station only two blocks away. If I scream …”

  “You ain’t gonna scream, Nikki. You’re gonna go home and forget all about little Willem and Garrett and old man Vanderdonk and this whole stupid Crown Quest dealio. I’m gonna go home and maybe forget that you live at 14 West 77th in the basement apartment. Capice?”

  I nodded to let him know I understood.

  “Good girl.” He tucked the blade back into his coat. “Nice bumping into you, Nikki.” Chuckling menacingly, he strolled up the sidewalk.

  I, on the other hand, ran as fast as I could in the opposite direction.

  When I neared West 77th Street, my legs had turned to rubber. So I sat down on the bench behind Mr. Humboldt’s bust and pedestal and let the fear of almost being slashed tremble though my body.

  Oh, how I missed my mom.

  See, she never, ever freaked out. There was always this aura of serenity surrounding her. She was probably what they call an old soul—wise beyond her years.

  I took a deep breath and tried to be as tranquil as my mother would’ve been, even after staring at the serrated edge of a hunting knife.

  My big dream? To sit in the park with my mom again. To talk about anything and everything. To hear her calm answers to my scariest questions. To be together. Forever.

  My heart finally slowed.

  Thanks, mom, I thought. She was the one who taught me how to instantly chill when my instinct is to totally freak.

  I looked up, took another breath, and realized something: The bronze bust of Humboldt sitting on its pedestal directly in front of me was positioned in such a way that his big green head was staring straight across the street at the awning outside my apartment building.

  Humboldt was a statue! Just like King Jagiello. My heart started racing again.

  I stood up, walked around to the front of the bronze bust, and slipped on my red cap again.

  “Uh, hello, Mr. Humboldt.”

  “Good evening, Nikki. Been off exploring?”

  So much for calm, breathing, and serenity.

  When a bronze bust starts talking to you—trust me—it’s extremely freaky. Especially since I didn’t know whose side he was on—the Krolls or the Lorkuses.

  I didn’t stick around to chitchat.

  I whipped off my magic hat and flew from the curb. Then I jay-walked like crazy across Central Park West, raced past the New York Historical Society building, made it to the service entrance for 14 West 77th, pushed open the gateway, and hurried down the steps to the narrow concrete corridor to our apartment.

  When I unlocked the door and stepped inside, I expected to find my father fast asleep on the couch, his final can of beer resting on his stomach.

  Instead, I saw him sitting on the floor. Sobbing. His cheeks were streaked with tears.

  Chapter 15

  “Where were you?”

  “At a friend’s house. Up at 85th Street.”

  My father looked down to his lap where he had an old photo album freckled with the brown edges of ancient tape.

  Dozens of photographs were strewn across the floor. The TV was glowing behind him. The eleven o’clock news gave his head a quivering halo.

  “They fell out,” he said, pointing at the scattered pictures. “I opened the book and they all fell out.” His fingers fluttered through the air.

  He sounded so sad.

  I leaned over and picked up some pictures off the floor.

  My mom and dad in Central Park in a rowboat. Mom and Dad on Bow Bridge. Mom posing next to the obelisk called Cleopatra’s Needle. Mom riding a horse along the bridle path. Mom sniffing flowers in the Conservatory Garden.

  Dozens of pictures had tumbled across the living room floor.

  All of them showed my mom, happy in Central Park.

  “This is the day we met,” said my father, holding a picture in his trembling hand. “I was playing softball down near the Sheep Meadow. The Heckscher Ballfields. It was like a dream. Your mother walked out of the forest, all dressed in white. She flashed me a smile, made me miss an easy pitch.” Now a smile made its way across my father’s face. He swiped it away with the back of his hand. “Don’t ever fall in love, Nikki. It’s not worth it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He hauled himself up off the floor, found his balance and a beer can. He swirled it around. Heard some liquid swish. Took a swig.

  “There’s only one way to make sure your heart doesn’t get broken, Nikki. Keep it locked up tight.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He shambled out of the room.

  Something on the TV screen caught my eye.

  “A wave of violence rocks Central Park,” said the female reporter. “At least three dozen people were arrested tonight as they attempted to topple the statue of a Civil War soldier off its pedestal near West 68th Street.”

  The TV cut to a shot of a heroic bronze sculpture with thick ropes looped around its green neck.

  Then David Drake’s famous bald head filled the frame.

  “This is what happens when we, the people, lose control of our public spaces,” he said. “The government has clearly shown it cannot manage the park as well as a private entrepreneur could!”

  The reporter came back on screen. “As you know, David Drake has recently proposed building a luxury hotel inside Central Park. As a precedent, he cites the visionary parks commissioner who, in 1934, allowed the famous Tavern on the Green restaurant, a private enterprise, to take over the building originally constructed to be a barn for the sheep grazing across the street in the Sheep Meadow. If Mr. Drake’s luxury hotel in the heart of Central Park becomes a reality, perhaps we’ll see more late-night security and less of this.”

  The scene shifted to a blaze raging in a trash barrel while wild-eyed guys danced around it like the stars of a History Channel special about cavemen discovering fire.

  As the camera swished across the faces, I recognized one.

  It was hard not to.

  He had a spiky mohawk hairdo and an angry scar running down the side of his face.

  And even though I couldn’t see it, I was pretty sure he had an extremely nasty knife hidden in the pocket of his baggy leather coat.

  Chapter 16

  I couldn’t sleep, so I Googled.

  I didn’t understand a phrase Grandpa Vanderdonk had used when talking to his vegetable sprayer: “Garrett shall attend the reading of the rules to be given by the Witte Wief of the Pond at dawn.”

  Witte Wief.

  Who the heck was she?

  I was pretty sure it was a she because, later, Grandpa had told Garrett, “The Wise Woman of the Pond will act as High Commissioner of the Quest.”

  So whom exactly was Garrett supposed to meet at 5:46 a.m.? (I had already Googled the sunrise time.)

  Well, in Dutch mythology, Witte Wieven were spirits of deceased “wise women.” While alive, these Witte Wieven were herbalists and healers. After death, their spirits lingered on earth to help mankind and kabouters, appearing as a hazy mist near burial mounds and swamps.

  I was so confused by all I had seen, I could totally use a wise woman. And, if I couldn’t communicate with the wisest woman I have ever known (my mom who, come to think of it, loved herbal tea), I’d settle for a Witte Wief since, so far, all the other so-called mythological creatures in Central Park had turned out to be pretty real.

  The Pond is a body of water tucked into the southeast corner of the park, right near the entrance at Fifth Avenue and 59th Street. It’s sunk a couple stories below street level and walled in by thick shrubbery and trees that shield it from the city less than one block away.

  Before the park landscapers had worked their magic, the manmade “lake of irregular shape” was a swamp—the kind of damp, misty place where wispy Witte Wieven would definitely love to hang out.

  The Pond was also about a mile and a half from my apartment, so it would take me
about half an hour to walk it. That meant I’d have to leave home long before the sun came up.

  I set an alarm for 5 a.m. and forced myself to sleep.

  I woke up five minutes before the alarm went off. I always do that when I have to get up super early.

  My father was, as usual, fast asleep. Some Sundays, he doesn’t crawl out of bed until the middle of the afternoon. Sunday is his day off. No tenants are allowed to bug him about burnt-out light bulbs or clogged toilets.

  I tugged on my red knit cap and headed out the door. The sky was inky black but alive with sparkling stars.

  I decided not to go into the park via the Explorers’ Gate. That talking statue of Humboldt was still there, probably keeping one bronze eye aimed in my direction. So I stayed on the far side of Central Park West all the way down to 69th Street. Garrett wouldn’t know I’d be spying on him, so I thought it’d be smart to cut across the Heckscher Ballfields, work my way through Driprock Arch, circle around the Wollman Skating Rink, and take up a secluded listening post on Gapstow Bridge.

  As I made my way past Umpire Rock, I thought I heard something metal clunking in the darkness behind me. When I whipped around to see if someone (or something) was following me, the clanking stopped. When I moved forward, the creaky clinking started up again.

  So I decided to run the rest of the way and hoped the statue tailing me was one of the slower ones, like the bust of Humboldt.

  Somebody without legs.

  The arching Gapstow Bridge, with its stone sidewalls to hide behind, was a perfect surveillance post.

  To the south, I could see the skyscrapers of Midtown. To the west, a rugged, wooded bluff, part of the Hallett Nature Sanctuary.

  In the faint light creeping across the lawn, I could also see Garrett Vanderdonk down near the lakeshore. Yawning. He was scratching his ears (and other things people scratch when they’re sleepy and don’t think anybody’s watching).

  Soon, Brent Slicktenhorst strolled down a pathway and joined Garrett.

  Both boys were wearing red hats. Brent’s was pointier. Made him look like a preppy garden gnome.

  The sky to the east, behind the stacks of apartment buildings lining Fifth Avenue, started turning orange. Dawn had arrived, right on schedule.