The Explorers’ Gate

by Chris Grabenstein

  King Jagiello was hot on our trail, galloping up the staircase back at Bethesda Terrace.

  “Nikki?” said Garrett. “We need to hurry.”

  “Just a moment, young man,” insisted Halleck, puffing up his chest. “Do go on, dear girl. Tell me more about me.”

  “Well …”

  “Aha! You children! You are my prisoners!” King Jagiello was at the northern end of the Mall, maybe three hundred yards away, spurring his stallion’s flanks.

  “Um, I don’t mean to be rude,” I said, “but we really need to run.”

  “Of course,” said Mr. Halleck. “But do not despair. My fellow writers and I shall deal with the megalomaniacal Polish king.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Halleck. Come on, Garrett.”

  “Burns?” Halleck called out.

  “Yes, Fitz?”

  “Put down your quill and put up your dukes, man. We have a horse and rider to contend with.”

  “Oh,” moaned Burns, “man’s inhumanity to man makes countless thousands mourn!”

  “He’s not a man,” said Halleck. “He’s a statue. And, he sides with that liar Loki.”

  “Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive,” said Sir Walter Scott, climbing off his block to join them.

  “And where the offense is,” said Shakespeare, striding up the walkway, “let the great axe fall!”

  Linking arms, Shakespeare, Burns, Scott, and Halleck marched to the middle of the Mall to form a bronze blockade.

  Meanwhile, Garrett and I started running again, down a side path leading to Willowdell Arch. Balto’s statue was perched on the other side.

  “Four poets against a battle-hardened King?” said Garrett gloomily.

  “Well, remember what they say: ‘The pen is mightier than the sword.’”

  “What about two swords?”

  Behind us, we heard the clanking of bronze on bronze and Shakespeare screaming, “A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse!”

  “At least they slowed him down,” I said as we scurried under the arch.

  “Hide,” said Garrett. We ducked into two recessed vestibules on either side of the archway and tried to disappear into the water-stained bricks.

  King Jagiello clip-clopped slowly down the path we had just taken. The narrow strip of asphalt split. His horse snorted and pranced. Reins clinked. They couldn’t make up their mind which way to head next. The poets had, indeed, slowed them down long enough for the king to lose sight of us.

  “Leetle boy and leetle girl?” he called out. “I mean you no harm.”

  I heard the SLICK-THWICK-SWICK sound of steel sliding against steel as he sharpened his swords over his head.

  “Leetle boy and leetle girl …”

  That’s when the intrepid Balto went streaking through Willowdell Arch like a lightning bolt with bared fangs to defend us!

  The king’s stallion let loose such a horror-stricken cry I thought he might be having a horse-sized heart attack.

  Chapter 30

  “Dedicated to the indomitable spirit of the sled dogs that relayed antitoxin six hundred miles over rough ice, across treacherous waters, through Arctic blizzards from Nenana to the relief of stricken Nome in the winter of 1925. Endurance. Fidelity. Intelligence.”

  Truer words were never chiseled on a plaque.

  Balto was up on his rocky perch above his inscribed tribute, tail curled proudly, tongue lolling up and down as he panted.

  “Thank you!” I said, nestling his head in my hands so I could rub behind his ears. He licked me with his cold metal tongue: a slobbery, wet kiss that felt like rolling a frosty soda can across my cheeks.

  “You saved us again, faithful friend,” said Garrett. “Thanks! Come on, Nikki—we need to get out of the park.”

  “Okay, but let’s not go back the way we came,” I suggested. “Columbus’s statue is standing guard at the southern tip of the Mall. It’d be smarter to circle around the Dairy, cross under the Playmates Arch, go past the carousel, cut across the Heckscher Ballfields, and work our way up the bridle path to Central Park West.”

  “Whatever you say, Nikki,” said Garrett. “You know this park better than anybody I’ve ever met.”

  “Come on. We need to hurry.”

  We walked up a set of terraced steps and crossed over the 65th Street Transverse. Up ahead, I could see the slanting silhouette of the Dairy. It’s another cuckoo clock of a building. One half looks like a quaint country church, the other half like a picnic pavilion painted all sorts of jolly colors.

  The Dairy actually used to give out milk back when thousands of kids were getting sick drinking milk from unsanitary cows kept in the city. Fresh, wholesome milk from approved country farms was hauled there and sold—at very low prices—to moms and kids who sat at tables under the picnic shed sipping cool, refreshing moo-juice that wouldn’t curdle in their stomachs.

  “We’ll cut through the breezeway,” I said, leading the way.

  Suddenly, a homeless man pushing a rattling shopping cart loaded down with ballooning plastic bags filled with nickel deposit bottles and cans came careening up the roadway.

  “I hear a pony, Nikki!” he screamed. “The no-see-ums have a pony! Run away!”

  It was Martin, the same homeless man I had met near the Lake. He practically mowed us down with his wobbly wire wagon as he barreled across the veranda.

  “It’s Loki,” I said. “His cave is right over there in those rocks!”

  “Quick,” said Garrett. “Over the wall. We’ll hide in the bushes.”

  We vaulted over the wooden railing.

  Moments later, prancing pony hooves echoed under the terrace’s steeply sloped roof. Car tires crunched down the pedestrian pathway. Highly illegal, unless it was a park ranger, which, at this hour, I doubted.

  Two car doors clunked open.

  “Good evening, Mr. Drake,” I heard Loki say.

  “Loki.”

  It was David Drake! The billionaire who wanted Loki’s team to find the kabouter crown so he could build a luxury hotel in the middle of Central Park.

  “Who, may I ask, is your friend?” said Loki.

  “I call him Slash,” said Mr. Drake.

  “Really? Tell me, Mr. Slash—who does your hair? One of the park gardeners with hedge clippers?”

  Slash had to be Mohawk. At least he wasn’t at my apartment torturing my father. Instead, he was riding around Central Park with Mr. Drake, which meant Mr. Drake was probably the mastermind behind the gangs tearing around at night trying to topple statues because they were really trying to scare people into letting Mr. Drake tear down the tennis courts and build his five-star hotel.

  “So why’d you want to meet tonight, Loki?” Drake asked.

  “Because, David, I’m concerned.”

  “About what?”

  “This genius you say you found for round three. Does he know as much about Central Park as Miss Van Wyck?”

  “More.”

  “But does he have Miss Van Wyck’s pedigree? Who were his ancestors?”

  “They came over on the boat with your ancestors, my people, and the Vanderdonks—only this kid’s family settled up the Hudson River at Fort Orange instead of down here in New Amsterdam.”

  Loki sighed. “Frankly, David, I would feel much, much better if the Van Wyck girl were eliminated from the equation.”

  “Then why’d you let her go?”

  “I did not, as you say, let her go. She escaped. She has friends. Friends can be such nuisances.”

  I glanced over at Garrett. He wiggled his eyebrows.

  Wow. I actually had friends. Good ones, too. The kind who would swim through zoo sewers to rescue you.

  The kind you don’t want to let down.

  “Look, Loki,” said Drake, “our two families have worked together for centuries. We’re a team. I promised you I’d make you king, didn’t I?”

  “Yes. But, currently, I am behind in the competition.”

  “Well, no of
fense, but if you were a better bowler …”

  “We shall win the next round,” Loki declared. “I guarantee it!”

  Garrett covered his mouth so he wouldn’t laugh out loud. No way was Brent Slicktenhorst beating Garrett in any contest of physical strength.

  “You’ll win the next two rounds,” said Drake. “Tuesday night, you will be crowned king! It’s a done deal.”

  Why was Drake so confident?

  Just exactly who had he found to beat me in the treasure hunt for the kabouter crown?

  Chapter 31

  While I worried about my looming defeat, Drake pressed on.

  “So cheer up, Loki. You’re going to win. It’s time to concentrate on the future. Our future.”

  “Do go on,” purred Loki.

  “Wednesday, your first day as King Loki, Slash and his goons will ratchet up the violence around the tennis courts north of the kabouter castle.”

  “Which will be mine! All mine!”

  “Right. Anyway, in a week, maybe a month, the city will be begging me to buy up that property, take it off their hands. In six months, we’ll move south, terrorize the Mall, suggest turning it into a high-end shopping center. Call it a Collection instead of a mall …”

  “And we will, as we discussed, split all the profits.”

  “That’s right. Fifty-fifty. You’ll be so stinking rich, you can buy up one of those Caribbean islands you’ve always had your eye on.”

  “The Netherlands Antilles!” sighed Loki. “Curaçao. Aruba. It never snows in Aruba, David. Oh, to live on the hot sandy beach instead of in a cold cave!”

  “Don’t worry, pal. We’re going to make all our dreams come true! And if Miss Van Wyck ventures into the park before her father grounds her, we’ll nab her. I just signed up the three horsemen of Central Park South. Told them they could use my hotel across the street on 59th if they saddled up, formed a posse, tracked down Miss Van Wyck, and took her out of the game.”

  Loki chuckled. “And the dolts believed you?”

  “That’s why I like strapping on the red cap and cutting deals with statuary. Their heads are mostly hollow. They’ll believe anything you tell them.”

  “I also had a word with the girl’s father,” said the raspy voice I recognized as belonging to Slash.

  “Did you kill him?” asked Loki.

  “No,” said Slash, sounding slightly embarrassed. “But I offered him fifty thousand dollars and a lifetime supply of free beer to keep little Miss Smarty Pants locked in her room Tuesday night.”

  “You should have killed the worthless bum,” said Loki, stomping his feet. “Then Miss Van Wyck would be too busy making funeral arrangements to even think about assisting Prince Willem in the Crown Quest!”

  “She has a dog.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I heard this dog snarling. It was in her bedroom. And then something stung me. Like an invisible bee. It bit me in the butt.”

  “An invisible bee?” jeered Loki. “It ‘bit’ you?”

  “I dunno. It was something sharp and pointy …”

  Like an arrow!

  The Indian Hunter.

  Slash hadn’t been wearing his red cap when he visited our apartment so he couldn’t have seen the hunter with his bow and arrow or his hunting dog. They saved my dad’s life. Mine, too! I might have to carve that pooch a new plaque to match Balto’s.

  “So we’re buying off the father,” said Drake, “and we’ve sent out a mounted posse. Miss Van Wyck won’t even show up for the treasure hunt. So, come on, Loki—quit worrying about her and concentrate on round two. You win, you can erase their head start.”

  “Yes. You’re quite right. I have work to do. The beatings must continue!”

  “See you Tuesday night for the crown hunt,” said Drake. “And Loki?”

  “Yes?”

  “Pack your suntan lotion! You’re gonna be king!”

  Car doors slammed shut.

  Drake and Slash drove away.

  Loki and his pony trotted off to his castle cave.

  Garrett and I gave them a minute to make sure they were really gone. I also needed a little time to think about all the threats being made against me.

  “Hey, Nikki?” said Garrett. “If those three horse goons come after you, don’t worry. They’ll have to come through me first.”

  “Thanks,” I said with a smile. “We better keep moving.”

  “Yeah.”

  We headed west.

  “So,” I said as we walked, “Mr. Drake’s ancestors came over with yours?”

  “Yep,” said Garrett. “Only, back then, they called themselves Van Draaken. After Kroll the First died, the Van Draakens did everything they could to make sure Loki’s great-great-great grandfather, a goofus named Lorki, became the second king.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, from what I’ve heard, Lorki was easy to manipulate. Liked to drink ale, puff his pipe, and gamble. Grandpa says the Van Draaken clan was always one of the greediest. All they wanted was to use Lorki to make money, drain him and the little people dry. Fortunately, the third king was Kroll’s grandson. But it goes back and forth. When the park is dark and dangerous, you can guarantee a descendant of Lorki is the kabouter in charge.”

  I had been working up to the big question: “So, what was all that stuff about my ancestors? Their noble heritage and all?”

  “I don’t know. Grandpa never told me much about you or your parents. Just that one of your ancestors was on that first boat from the Netherlands, too.”

  Our walk-and-talk brought us past the carousel to the red-and-cream brick building known as the Ballfields Café, where you can buy a hotdog and watch the softball games on the six diamonds spread across the Heckscher Ballfields.

  I realized, of course, that this is where my mom and dad had first met. I wondered which one of them was descended from one of the first Dutch settlers in New Amsterdam. Probably my dad, since Van Wyck is an extremely Dutch name.

  Suddenly, I heard the rattling clank of aluminum cans bouncing against each other.

  “Horses, Nikki! I hear horses! Run, Nikki, run!”

  Martin and his cart full of empties went barreling past us again.

  Then I heard why.

  Horse hooves. Lots and lots of heavy horse hooves.

  Three bronze beasts trotted up the pathway toward Garrett and me, a trio of warhorses ridden by José de San Martín, José Martí, and Simón Bolívar.

  The mighty equestrian statues from the Artists’ Gate.

  The three horsemen of Central Park South whom David Drake had just bribed with freebies at his world-famous hotel across the street from their pedestals.

  José de San Martín, the man they called the Great Liberator, was riding in the middle of the pack. He saw us first.

  “¡Liberación!” he cried, raising a sword.

  “¡Liberación!” echoed his two compatriots.

  Then, hooves thundering and sabers rattling, the three horsemen charged straight at Garrett and me!

  Chapter 32

  “Run!” shouted Garrett.

  “Look out!” I shouted back.

  José Martí—the Cuban essayist, poet and patriot—and his horse were reeling around the outfields, attempting to cut us off from the rock and our escape route.

  Furious, his panicked horse reared up on its hind legs. Martí struggled with the reins and clutched at his wounded chest. I guess he had to do that every night because the sculptor who made his statue had decided to depict him gasping his last breath in the Battle of Dos Rios in 1895.

  In any case, the mortally wounded patriot and his hysterical horse had cut us off to the south.

  “West!” shouted Garrett.

  We changed direction and bolted for Dalehead Arch.

  Simón Bolívar, one of South America’s greatest military heroes, was way ahead of us. Cape fluttering in the breeze, even though there wasn’t one (he was just molded that way), he had already blocked that getaway, too.r />
  We skidded to a stop.

  Pulling up on the reins, Simón Bolívar advanced bravely toward us.

  Garrett and I backed up.

  The three horsemen of our personal apocalypse had us trapped.

  We stumbled up a pitcher’s mound on Ballfield #5, still facing Bolívar, hearing the prancing San Martín and the wheezing Martí closing in behind us.

  “I can’t fight all three of these guys,” said Garrett. “So, I’ll go for this dude, Bolívar. He doesn’t look as crazed as the other two. When I distract him, you run away as fast as you can. Ready?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. Sure. Take a moment. But, Nikki, seriously, you need to run.”

  “No. I won’t abandon you.”

  “It’s our only choice!”

  “Maybe not.”

  “Nikki?”

  “Hang on. Let me try this.”

  I stepped forward.

  “Hola,” I said to Simón Bolívar, whose snorting horse was pawing the dirt in front of us. “¿Cómo está usted, Simón José Antonio de la Santísima Trinidad Bolívar y Palacios Ponte y Blanco?”

  Bolivar sat up in his saddle. “You know my full name?” he said in impeccable English.

  “Of course! Everybody knows the name of one of the most important leaders in the South American struggle for independence against the Spanish monarchy. Why, you helped liberate Venezuela, Colombia, Ecuador, Panama, Peru, and Bolivia.” I turned around. “And you, Señor Martí, your words helped liberate Cuba from Spain.”

  Marti clutched the chest of his coat a little tighter and, grimacing in pain, said proudly, “Sí.”

  “Would you like an aspirin, sir?”

  He held up the hand holding the reins. “No, gracias, señorita. It only hurts when I breathe.”

  I turned to face José de San Martín. “And you, Señor. Has there ever been a more brilliant military commander?”

  San Martín adjusted his cocked hat, made sure the angle was perfect. “I do not know the answer to this question. However, Señorita, it is doubtful. Muy, muy doubtful.”

  “Sí, Señor San Martín,” I said. “For you are the great father of the Argentine people. Beneath your shadow, the fatherland grows in virtue, in work, and in peace!”