The Explorers’ Gate (17 page)

“Dad?” I shouted breathlessly as I dashed down the steps to the basement. “Dad?” I fumbled for my keys at our door. “Guess what? I learned the
weirdest
thing tonight—and I saw chess pieces dancing the mambo, so, trust me, this has to be extremely weird!”

When I slipped my key into the lock, the door swung open.

It wasn't locked.

“Dad?”

No answer.

I flicked on the lights.

“Dad?”

He was gone.

I went into the kitchen.

There was a note duct-taped to the refrigerator:

WE HAVE YOUR FATHER.

TELL NO ONE.

IF YOU WANT TO SEE HIM AGAIN,

LISTEN TO LOKI!

I didn't know what to do.

Call the police? Not really an option. I'd have to find extra red caps and convince the NYPD to wear them before they could even see Loki. Besides, the note (undoubtedly scrawled by Slash), said I had to keep my father's kidnapping a secret.

That meant I couldn't tell Grandpa Vanderdonk, Garrett, or Willem, either.

I needed to think.

I headed back to Hernshead—my mom's favorite place to think, probably because it jutted out into the Lake, her longtime home.

Maybe there would be some mist tonight.

Maybe she'd show up and tell me what to do.

I needed help.

I needed my mother.

I tugged on my red cap, hurried through the Explorers' Gate, and followed the trails through the shrubs and flowerbeds to the secluded edge of the Lake.

When I ran past the Ladies Pavilion, I heard a duck quacking.

Odd. Ducks aren't nocturnal creatures so they don't usually waddle along the waterfront at midnight.

I crept around the rocks and tiptoed to the lacquered log bench where I had first encountered Martin, the homeless man. He wasn't there but a duckling came toddling out of the shadows. An ugly duckling.

Made of bronze.

It squawked at me.

“You're really a swan,” I said. “You'll see.”

It was the ugly duckling from the Hans Christian Andersen statue over near Conservatory Water, the model sailboat pond on the east side of the park.

“You're a long way from home,” I said, bending down to stroke the homely little bird's beak.

“She wanted to hear the story,” said a man behind me.

“Mr. Andersen?”

“Good evening, Nikki.”

The bronze Hans Christian Andersen stepped out of the shadows wearing the top hat that usually rests beside him on his storytelling bench. He was a bit of a gangly duckling himself, with a big nose, big feet, and corkscrewy hair.

“Would you like to hear a bedtime story?” he asked.

“Not to be rude, sir, but, well, I really came here hoping to talk to my mom.”

The duckling squawked.

“My feathered friend wants you to know that the Lady of the Lake only appears at the crack of dawn when the water is warm and the air cool.”

“I sort of figured that would be the case, but, well, I really need to talk to her. My dad's in big trouble.”

“I'm sorry to hear it.”

“Loki snatched him away. You know Loki, right?”

“Oh, yes. I am quite familiar with the red-bearded prince.”

“Well, he's holding my dad hostage.”

“Why?”

“The final round of the Crown Quest takes place tomorrow night. We have to follow clues and race through Central Park to find the kabouter king's crown. We've already earned a huge head start, thanks to Willem and Garrett, and now it's my turn. I'm supposed to be our team's expert on Central Park. I have to help Willem find the crown before Loki or Willem won't become king. That's why Loki kidnapped my father—so I'd do a bad job. He'll probably let my dad go once I make Team Willem lose on purpose.”

The duckling clucked.

“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Andersen, patting his creation on the head. “Good point.”

I raised my eyebrows, eager for an interpretation.

“My duckling and I both suspect that you are correct and, therefore, we further suspect that your father will remain unharmed, at least until the crown has been found and the final round has been completed.”

“So,” I said, “I guess there's nothing else I can do tonight?”

“You could hear my tale.” He creaked open his thick bronze storybook. “I promise it will not disappoint. For this story, Nikki, is about your mother.”

“She's a lot like your Little Mermaid, isn't she? The one who gave up her life in the sea to gain a human soul and the love of a human prince?”

“Indeed so,” Mr. Andersen chuckled softly as he gestured toward the log bench where we both sat down.

“My mother always said my dad was the handsomest prince in all the land!”

“Oh, yes. She was quite smitten.”

Hans Christian Andersen turned over a few thick pages until he came to a beautiful illustration of the Bow Bridge. Rowboats filled with romantic couples passed below its elegantly curved arch.

“Once upon a time, in the far-off city of Amsterdam, there lived a very bright young woman. Many said she was the wisest woman ever to have lived in that bustling city full of extremely clever, extraordinarily bright people. You could ask this woman anything …”

“And she would know the answer.”

“That's right. Now, in her twenty-first year, before she had even begun living her life, before she had married or had children or a home of her own, she suddenly passed away.”

“What happened?”

“I'm afraid that is not written down in these pages. However, her story starts in the early 1600s, a time when disease was rampant and medicine crude.”

“So my mother really was born four hundred years ago?”

“Yes. 1609 was when her spirit first took on human form.”

“And when she died, she became a Witte Wief?”

“A woman that wise and wondrous, how could she not?”

I nodded.

“Now, eleven years after her passing, in the year 1640, the Dutch colony of New Amsterdam was well on its way to extinction. To save it, certain merchants and elders decided that they must immediately export kabouters and other magical beings to the New World to assist the struggling settlers. Your mother, a Witte Wief of a peaceful country glen, was selected to make the treacherous journey. She eagerly agreed.”

“She was always brave. Braver than me, that's for sure.”

Mr. Andersen turned another metal page.

“Her ethereal essence was sealed tight inside a wooden rain barrel for the long voyage across the sea. When Manhattan Island was covered with forests, she lived in a swampy bog. When the kabouter sanctuary of Central Park was created, she moved to the Lake. For nearly four centuries, your mother served the Dutch inhabitants of Manhattan Island, offering them her wisdom and advice, settling disputes amongst the bickering kabouters, presiding over their crown quests.”

“So how'd she meet my dad?”

“Ah. That is a very interesting, very beautiful story.”

Hans Christian Andersen continued my mother's story, which was as fantastic and incredible as any
he
had written.

“Your mother first saw your father in a rowboat, here on the Lake that had become her home. He was, at the time, courting another young lady and had invited her out for a romantic row upon the waters. Well, your mother didn't think the young woman sharing the rowboat with your handsome father was good enough for him. So, she quickly cast a spell that churned up the Lake. She made it swell into choppy whitecaps that tossed their tiny boat upside down.”

“My mom dunked my dad and his date?”

Mr. Anderson's eyes twinkled. “Indeed. For though she had seen countless romantics rowing upon her waters, she had never seen a more handsome man than your father. Now when that rowboat capsized and both your father and his date were tossed overboard, the pretty young woman exposed her true nature by screaming at your father, calling him an idiot and other words best not written down in these pages. Suffice it to say, your father never asked that particular young lady out on a second date.”

“Cool. So, then what?”

“Well, after many appeals and much debate, it was decided that your mother, who had done her duty so faithfully for so long, would be allowed to become human once more so she might do the two things she had never had the chance to do.”

“Two things?”

Mr. Andersen closed the book. “Fall in love. And have a child.”

I smiled.

“She was given a ten-year sabbatical from her duties.”

“What?”

“She would be granted her wish but she could only remain human for ten years, at which time, she would return to her former responsibilities.”

“So, she knew she'd break my father's heart and die again? She knew she'd abandon me when I was just a ten-year-old kid?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I'm sorry, but that was incredibly selfish. She got everything she wanted but what about us? Me and my dad?”

“You two have each other.”

I took a deep, calming breath.

Just like my mother taught me.

Okay, it was true. My dad and I had each other. We also had some pretty incredible memories of Mom. We just needed to work a little harder at realizing how good our life actually was.

Another question tickled its way up.

“So am I supposed to become a Witte Wief when I get older?”

Mr. Andersen closed his book. “That page of the story, Nikki, has yet to be written.”

I decided Mr. Andersen was right; there was nothing more I could do until I saw my mother in the morning.

So, still wearing my red ski cap, I headed up Central Park West to the Vanderdonks' apartment at 85
^th
Street.

When Grandpa opened the front door, I didn't mention my missing father.

“I was restless at home,” I lied. “Couldn't sleep.”

“Of course, of course,” said Grandpa Vanderdonk. “Come in, come in. Garrett is already in bed. Has to get up bright and early to hear the ruling on Loki's appeal.”

“I want to go with him!”

“As you should. I'm sorry I could not tell you all that I knew.”

“That's okay. You promised my mother. Will you wake me up an hour before dawn?”

“Of course, of course. We'll set an alarm.”

When he said that, a frazzled kabouter with hangdog eyes stepped out of a closet holding a long brass trumpet.

“What time do yooze people need to wake up?”

“4:44, if you please,” said Grandpa.

“No problem, chief. Sleep tight.”

“Thank you, Harold.”

The little man with the trumpet stepped back into his closet and closed the door.

“Are you hungry?” Grandpa asked.

“A little.”

“Perhaps a snack will help you fall to sleep. I have some excellent new cheeses in the kitchen. Gouda, Edam, Maasdammer—very sweet and nutty.”

I followed him into a kitchen. I figured a cheese sandwich might be just what I needed to help me drift off for a few hours so I could rest up before seeing my mother in the morning mist. I'd save all the questions I wanted answered and concentrate on the most important one: How could I rescue my dad?

The late night cheese was a huge mistake.

I slept horribly and had the strangest nightmare.

I was soaking in a bubble bath when, all of a sudden, the tub stopper shot up through the foam and I heard this tremendous sucking sound. A riptide grabbed hold of my toe, then my foot, dragging me toward the whirlpool swirling over a drain. I braced on the edge of the tub but it was no use. In a flash, I was underwater and my entire body was whisked down a dark tunnel like a covered slide at a water park. There was nothing but darkness and the sound of water rushing downhill fast.

Finally I saw a circle of light: faint at first but growing stronger.

That's when I opened my eyes and realized: Sunlight was streaming through the windows.

It was early morning.

I hadn't heard the alarm trumpet.

I'd missed the sunrise
and
my mother!

I heard voices in the living room.

“Webster's ruling stands,” said Garrett.

“Well,” said Grandpa with a sigh, “at least that's a bit of good news, eh?”

“I guess. Means we still have our eighteen-minute head start tonight …”

I burst into the room.

“You went to the Lake without me?” I screamed at Garrett. “You talked to my mother?”

Garrett dropped his eyes. “No.”

Furious, I turned on Grandpa. “Your stupid trumpet-blower alarm clock didn't work! Why didn't you wake me up? How could you go to the Lake without me?”

“We didn't go to the Lake, Nikki,” he answered gently. “Because your mother is no longer there.”

“The geyser was spotted by the night watchman at the kabouter castle at three a.m.,” said Grandpa Vanderdonk.

“Geyser?” I said.

“In the Reservoir. A fountain of water, six jets, like on a fire boat, spraying up into the sky.”

“I'm sorry, but I don't understand what a geyser has to do with my mother—who is in
the Lake
, not the Reservoir.”

“Nikki, you, of course, know the Lake is a manmade body of water, the level of which can be manually adjusted.”

“Yes,” I said, even though I didn't really think this was the time for another trivia quiz. “They used to lower the level for ice skating back in the olden days.”

“Indeed, indeed,” said Grandpa Vanderdonk, nervously plucking at his mustache. “Unfortunately, the Lake is being drained even as we speak. The water is being sucked out and sent racing north, to the Reservoir. It created the spewing geyser the night watchman spotted.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. The Lake has already receded a full foot along the shoreline. Your mother's home near the rocks has been transformed into a sheet of mud.”