The Explorers’ Gate

by Chris Grabenstein

  “I think these are what they call security bolts,” I said, feeling the nubby bumps at the corners. “My dad says you need a special tool to loosen them.”

  “Hey, you guys,” said Garrett. “This looks like a keyhole!”

  I rubbed my fingers over the angled notch in the door.

  “Okay—we need to find an old-fashioned key with teeth cut into the shape of a hexagon.”

  “We must find the crown!” exclaimed Willem.

  “I know, but we need to find this key, too!”

  “They are one and the same.”

  “What?”

  “Years ago, as a peace offering, my father gave his brother three of the royal crown’s seven diamond-encrusted prongs. Each of the jeweled pieces is topped with a sparkling six-sided star.”

  “A hexagon!”

  “Precisely. All three were, undoubtedly, reclaimed by the Witte Wieven’s emissaries when my father passed away so they might be restored to their original positions inside the band of the crown.”

  “But,” I said, “Loki had already turned one into the key for his prison cell.”

  “Guys,” said Garrett, “we really, really need to find that crown!”

  “It’s in the Grand Army Plaza!” I said. “Fifty-ninth Street and Fifth Avenue—right across from the Plaza Hotel.”

  We climbed back into our pedicab.

  Garrett wrapped Balto’s reins around the handlebars. The intrepid sled dog took off like a shot. Garrett’s knees were pumping up and down like pistons to keep pace.

  Willem, who was bouncing up and down beside me on the bench seat every time the chariot wheels hit a pothole, had an astonished look on his face.

  “Amazing! However did you figure out the crown’s hiding place?”

  Since we had a ways to go, I broke it down.

  “From the soldier’s clue. PAST WHERE PENNIES BECOME ARCTIC FOXES—that’s the Central Park Zoo, where you can put a penny in a machine, crank a handle, and turn it into a squished souvenir stamped with all sorts of zoo animals, including the arctic fox. WHERE SCHOLARS ENTER YOU MUST EXIT—that’s the Scholars’ Gate, at Fifth Avenue and 60th. It’s just beyond the zoo.”

  “So,” said Willem, “one must leave the park to retrieve the crown?”

  “Yeah. A little ways.”

  “Ah! No wonder the Witte Wieven insisted we have human help.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Remember what Sergeant Shaw said? Tonight no kabouter or magical creature can leave the park. Tonight, Balto and I must remain inside the perimeter wall.”

  “No problem. Garrett and I will go get it; you and Balto can wait at the gate.”

  “Excellent. And the ‘street that smells of a barn?’”

  “That’s 59th Street—where all the horse-drawn carriages wait to take people on rides around the park. The horses do their ‘business’ while they wait. The gutters smell extremely, uh, earthy.”

  “The next bit has to do with Simón Bolívar and that bunch, right?” shouted Garrett from his bicycle seat. “The three horsemen of Central Park South!”

  “Right,” I said. “THOUGH THE LARGEST HORSES THERE BE FORGED OF BRONZE is a reference to the three equestrian statues of the Liberators on 59th Street plus the guy on a horse we’re looking for.”

  “Who would that be?” asked Willem.

  “General William Tecumseh Sherman. He was born on February 8, 1820 and died on February 14, 1891 …”

  “He ‘died six days after he was born.’”

  “Yep. Plus, Sherman was the general who led the march to the sea to end the Civil War. ‘Glory, Glory Hallelujah’ comes from “The Battle Hymn of the Republic,” the Union Army’s marching song. Oh, that bit about ‘from Georgia?’”

  “Yes?”

  “If you look at the statue real close—which, you know, is something I do, sometimes—you’ll notice the right rear horse hoof is crushing a Georgia pine branch because Georgia is the state where Sherman and his marchers did the most damage.”

  “What about the running shoes walking?” asked Garrett, puffing out the words between pedal pumps.

  “Yes,” said Willem, “is the horse wearing sneakers?”

  “No. The winged Goddess of Victory is on the statue too, walking in front of Sherman and his horse, pointing the way toward glory, carrying a palm frond. In Greek mythology, her name was Nike.”

  “Like the running shoes!”

  “Exactly!”

  “Wow!” said Garrett. “Nikki Van Wyck, you’re a genius!”

  “To the Grand Army Plaza!” cried Willem.

  Balto barked and, somehow, ran even faster.

  We were tearing down Cat Hill much more swiftly than we had climbed up it. In the distance, I could barely make out the awnings and umbrellas of the Boathouse Café, the spot where we had found the “frozen lake.”

  “THOUGH THE LARGEST HORSES THERE BE FORGED OF BRONZE,” I heard the Screaming Soldier proclaim.

  “They’re getting the final clue right now!” I said. “Hurry, Garrett!”

  He forced his legs to pedal even harder.

  We reached the bottom of Cat Hill.

  A gunshot rang out!

  Metal pinged against metal.

  Balto yelped.

  The cart began to slow.

  I whipped around to my left and saw the statue of the Pilgrim on the north side of 72nd Street Cross Drive. The muzzle of his flintlock musket was billowing smoke.

  Our pedicab was barely moving.

  “Balto’s been hit!” shouted Garrett.

  “Stop!” I said to Garrett. “Pull over!”

  “We can’t,” said Garrett. “If we stop, Loki will win.”

  The mighty sled dog whimpered.

  “Balto is hurt, Garrett. We need to take care of him.”

  “But …”

  “He helped us. Now it’s our turn to help him.”

  We coasted to a stop. I jumped out of the back seat. Willem hopped out after me.

  Balto crumpled to the ground.

  Chapter 49

  “I’ll keep going!” said Garrett. “I’ll ride this thing down to the crown and meet you guys back at Bethesda Terrace!”

  “Great!” I said. “Hurry!”

  Garrett and the passenger-less pedicab sped up the next hill. He would go grab the crown; Willem and I would take care of Balto.

  “He’s dinged up pretty badly,” I said, examining the dent in his hind flank while cradling his head in my lap. Balto was breathing hard. Trying to be brave.

  Willem grew furious. He strode into the road and glared at the Pilgrim (who maybe ought to change his name to the Sniper).

  “Why did you do this, villainous knave?” he shouted at the statue of the haughty, buckle-shoed Puritan. “Would you have Loki be your new king?”

  “Verily! For Loki sweareth he wouldst outlaw sledding upon the snow!”

  “What?”

  “Pilgrim Hill is one of the most popular sledding spots in the park,” I said as I gently raised Balto’s heavy head off my lap so I could examine his wound more closely.

  “Every winter,” the Pilgrim bellowed, “the vile street urchins do slide down the frosted knoll, screaming and giggling whilst I attempt to slumber here upon my pedestal in peace. King Loki hath sworn he shalt deal with the vile jackanapes most sternly!”

  “Indeed I will!” cried Loki as he triumphantly galloped out of the darkness with King Jagiello and his horse. Jonas Blauvelt, looking queasy, was squeezed into the saddle between Jagiello and Loki.

  Loki raised a hand, signaling King Jagiello to slow his steed.

  They cantered closer.

  “Unfortunate move, Miss Van Wyck,” Loki sneered. “Stopping to help a dog when both your parents’ lives are at stake? What a silly little girl you turned out to be.”

  “Can I go home now?” mumbled Blauvelt. “I figured out all your stupid clues.”

  “Mr. Drake shall release your parents once you go fetch me my crown.”<
br />
  Blauvelt heaved a huge sigh. “All right already.”

  “So long, cousin!” Loki kicked the warhorse’s ribs. “Fly like the wind, you Polish fleabag! Giddyup!”

  The giant stallion flew up the road.

  I clamped my hand over Balto’s wound. For half a second, I was really, really mad at my mother for leaving me so much to take care of. Balto. My dad. My mom’s eternal soul. Willem’s royal crown.

  And, I was blowing it all, big time.

  That’s when Balto licked my face to say thanks and to apologize for bringing our quest to its disastrous end.

  “It’s okay, boy,” I told him. “It’s not your fault.”

  “Not to worry,” said Willem. “Garrett still has a considerable lead on them.”

  “Good, because we need to take Balto to that soldier behind the boathouse,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “For one thing, the soldier is probably carrying some kind of World War I medical kit. For another, he has really good hands.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Remember how I said Karl Illava, the sculptor, modeled the soldiers’ hands in the 107th Memorial after his own?”

  “Yes?”

  “Well that means the soldier at the boathouse has the hands of a sculptor. Maybe he can repair Balto.”

  “Ah-hah! An excellent suggestion!” Willem, using his Herculean strength, hoisted the heavy bronze dog off the ground as if he were a fluffy pillow. “Come on, brave Balto. Let’s go see that soldier.”

  “Help! Please! Help me!”

  It was Garrett, but we couldn’t see him.

  “Up here!”

  Willem and I shielded our eyes and looked up.

  Garrett was dangling in the clutches of a giant gray eagle. He had been snatched out of the pedicab by one of those angry old cement birds from the Central Park Zoo.

  “Put me down you stupid hood ornament!”

  Garrett kicked and struggled but the eagle flew off.

  “It’s up to you, now, Nikki,” said Willem.

  “What?”

  “You need to go get the crown. I’ll take care of Balto and arrange for Garrett to be rescued. Don’t forget—we have flying friends, too.”

  “But I’ll never beat them to the statue. Loki and Blauvelt have a horse.”

  Willem smiled. “Apparently, so do you.”

  I turned around and saw what Willem had already seen: a stampede of hand-painted wooden horses, the whole herd from the Central Park Carousel, bobbing up and down, floating across the air as if they were riding pogo sticks, their hooves never touching the ground—which is why we hadn’t heard them approaching.

  Four mice scurried down the pathway in front of the wobbly wooden mounts.

  No. Not mice.

  Chess pieces! The black and white knights.

  “¡Seamos libres, lo demás no importa nada!” they shouted in unison. “¡Liberación!”

  “Your words inspired us, Señorita Van Wyck!” said the black knight in his thick Spanish accent. “And so, we have set all our brothers and sisters free! No more will these noble steeds be forced to spend their nights riding around and around in an endless circle, listening to the oom-pah-pah music. No, Señorita. At night, they will ride free! ¡Viva la revolución!”

  The herd of carved wooden horses, all of them hovering two feet off the ground, let loose a joyous chorus of whinnies and whickers and nostril snorts.

  “Pick one,” urged a white knight. “You have earned the first ride, Miss Van Wyck.”

  I chose a prancing white mare, a jumper with a golden mane, a bright red bridle, and a champion’s glint in its sky-colored eyes. The shiny horse dipped down low enough for me to hop into its saddle then drifted back up to its flying height.

  “Thanks you, guys,” I said to the chess pieces.

  “De nada, Señorita.”

  “I’ll meet you at the finish line,” I shouted to Willem and then called to my horse: “To the Scholars’ Gate! Hiya!”

  Then my brightly colored thoroughbred and I flew like the wind.

  Only faster.

  Chapter 50

  My majestic mare carried me south swiftly.

  “Skip the zoo,” I suggested. “Stick to the main roads and stay off the winding pathways!”

  Goldilocks (well, that’s what I named her anyway) whinnied with gusto.

  We kept bounding up and down, never touching the ground, flying forward while bobbing like a helicopter with a pilot who couldn’t make up his mind whether to land or take off.

  As we neared the Scholars’ Gate, my wooden horse reared up, halted in midair, and let loose a nickering neigh. With a long blow through her nose, Goldilocks let me know we’d reached the park perimeter and this was as far as she could go.

  “Wait here, girl,” I said as I hopped to the ground.

  I looked for Loki. Didn’t see him, Blauvelt, King Jagiello, or their horse.

  Maybe they had taken the route through the zoo.

  And maybe the arch under the Delacorte Clock had been too short and they got stuck because Jagiello liked to ride with his swords up over his head.

  It looked like I still had a chance.

  I dashed out to the sidewalk and saw the traffic of Fifth Avenue streaming around Grand Army Plaza, an island shaped like the heel of a very big boot. When the lights changed and the traffic paused, I darted over to inspect the statue of William Tecumseh Sherman.

  I couldn’t see the crown.

  But I did see Jonas Blauvelt. He was standing in front of the statue, talking on his cell.

  “No! Forget it. You let them go first.”

  While he focused on his phone, I looked up at the statue of Nike. She had a laurel wreath wrapped around her head—laurel wreaths being another symbol of victory dating back to the Roman Empire—and …

  Wait a second.

  It wasn’t a wreath.

  It was a shimmering gold crown with seven starry stems circling it like diamond-encrusted candles on a birthday cake!

  “Mom and Dad?” I heard Blauvelt say into his phone. “Are you okay? Where are you? Good. Stay there. And stay away from Mr. Drake. I’m on my way.”

  He folded up his cell.

  I tried not to make a sound.

  But I could tell: Blauvelt knew I was standing right behind him.

  “You can have it,” he said, without turning around.

  “What?”

  “I got what I wanted. Mr. Drake just set my parents free.”

  “But if you don’t bring Loki the crown, he’ll send his thugs and goons after you again.”

  Jonas finally turned around. He was smiling. “No he won’t. Because King Willem won’t let him.” He paused. Touched his glasses. “Um, Willem’s the good guy, right?”

  I smiled. “Yeah. Definitely.”

  “Cool.” He took off his red cap and handed it to me. “You can keep it. I like my statues to be where my guidebook says they’re supposed to be.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I used to like that, too.”

  “We should write a book together sometime. About the Central Park nobody knows. Of course, nobody would believe us if we did.”

  “They’d think we were crazy.”

  “Yeah. Well, good luck rescuing your mom and dad! I gotta go get mine!”

  The instant the light changed, Jonas Blauvelt dashed across Central Park South and headed west to David Drake’s world-famous luxury hotel. I guess his parents had been held in a way better prison than my dad. They probably even got room service.

  But I couldn’t think about that.

  I had to move fast. I grabbed a chunk of gravel out of the gutter and flung it up at the crown. The heavy thing toppled sideways off Nike’s head and I caught it before it hit the ground.

  Now, to seal the deal, I had to ferry the prize back to Bethesda Terrace and hand it to Willem in the presence of our military monitor, Sergeant Shaw—just like those kids I had seen in the Crown Quest orientation movie.

&nbs
p; I sprinted back into the park through the Scholars’ Gate.

  Goldilocks, my Merry-Go-Round ride, wasn’t waiting where I had left her.

  I figured she’d gone exploring. I couldn’t blame her. After all, it was her first night free from the circular monotony of the carousel.

  That meant I would have to walk all the way back to Bethesda Fountain at 72nd Street. Twelve blocks. A little over a half-mile. This time, I would take the secluded, serpentine pathways instead of the main roads. I headed west.

  And Loki stepped out from underneath a tree.

  “Ah! Well done, Miss Van Wyck. You found my crown.”

  “Ha! This is for Willem.”

  “Give Loki the crown, Ima Gene.”

  Brent Slicktenhorst. He had been hiding in the shadows with Loki.

  “How’d you get here, Brent?”

  He shrugged. “There wasn’t room for all three of us on King Jagiello’s horse, so I called my dad’s limo driver.”

  “That’s cheating!”

  “So?”

  “You’ll be disqualified.”

  “Only if I get caught.”

  “I’ll tell.”

  “No you won’t,” said Loki. “Because you’re a very bright young girl.”

  I hugged the crown closer to my chest.

  That’s when King Jagiello and his horse stepped out of the darkness. Up in the saddle, the King slicked his two swords against each other to sharpen their blades.

  “Honestly, Nikki,” said Loki. “Is Prince Willem worth losing your mother, your father, and your pretty little head?”

  Chapter 51

  “Miss Van Wyck,” said Loki, “I want you to seriously consider all that I can offer you.”

  I didn’t say anything. I more or less froze.

  “First of all, I have, in my position as High Commissioner of Sewers and Drainpipes, already issued a Stop Work order. The Lake is being refilled, even as we speak. Your mother’s spirit is being revived.”

  “Thank you,” I muttered.

  “Oh, it was all a silly misunderstanding. You see Willem’s father, the late King Kroll, had been nagging me about sanitizing the Lake for years. So, after his death, as a tribute to our noble leader, I put his request at the top of my To Do list and ordered the immediate draining of the Lake.”

  “And my father?”