The Explorers’ Gate (6 page)

“Okay … So why did King Jagiello want to kill us?”

“Sadly, the king and several other statues in the park have allied themselves with the Lorkus faction.”

“And, um, you guys are with the Krolls?”

“That's right,” said Grandpa Vanderdonk. “The rumor is that Loki …”

“The little guy with the red beard?”

“Ah, you met him this evening as well?”

“Yep. His pony, too.”

“Beware of that one, Miss Van Wyck. Loki is a trickster.”

Duly noted.

“We've heard word that Loki has promised King Jagiello a new perch up on Vista Rock, the cliff and castle he now stares at enviously from his location down near the shores of Turtle Pond.”

“They promised him Belvedere Castle?”

Grandpa nodded. “I trust Balto dealt with the Polish king swiftly?”

“Yes. But when I first met Balto, he looked like a real dog.”

“Indeed. For Balto is given that special power by virtue of his position as the most popular statue in the park. I am grievously saddened that some of the others have sided with Loki. Now they must live with the consequences of that choice.”

“But how can they do that?”

“Indeed. Have they no shame, no sense of loyalty?”

“No, I meant, how can they
live
?”

“Ah! Elementary, actually. They are permeated by the irrepressible life force that radiates throughout Central Park after sunset, when the air has cooled and the atmospheric interference from the ozone layer is lessened.”

“Hunh?”

Sorry. This was way above what I remembered from seventh-grade science.

“Nikki, do you ever pick up a.m. radio stations from far-off cities once the sun has gone down?”

“Sure.”

“Well, a similar principle applies. Tell me—are you familiar with the term
kabouter
?”

“No.”

“It's a Dutch word. It's what we call the magical creatures who live in the forests back home in the Netherlands.”

I must've blinked like a billion times. “Magical creatures?”

“Oh, yes. Very magical. Kabouters are wee people, about yea high.” He held his hand about three feet above the floor. “They're quite similar to Ireland's leprechauns and the Scandinavian nisse. They're not exactly elves or dwarves, although they are, of course, related.”

“Of course.”

I didn't know what else to say because I had just learned something about Central Park I guarantee you won't find in any guidebook: It has magical little “wee people.”

“You see,” said Grandpa Vanderdonk, “centuries ago, some very wise Dutch settlers brought kabouters with them when they sailed to these shores, knowing the magical creatures to be very helpful around the home, in the workshop, and on the farm.”

I just nodded. Screaming would have been rude.

“In fact, the colony of New Amsterdam would have failed if not for the aid of the clever kabouters. Why, I'd go so far as to say that without them, there would be no New York City! Incredible creatures, kabouters. Live to be one hundred, one hundred and fifty.”

“Impossible.”

“Oh, no. Not at all. This one fellow—Thor he was called—made it all the way to one hundred and ninety-nine. Anyway, so much excess life force courses through their small bodies that, at night, it overflows and animates inanimate objects, such as statues. Nikki, do you know why Central Park was originally created?”

“Sure: as an urban oasis. To make the crowded city more livable.”

“Indeed, indeed. It was also designed to be a sanctuary.”

“For birds?”

“
And
kabouters. You see, when New Amsterdam was young, this island we now call Manhattan was mostly forest and farmland. As the city grew, serious steps had to be taken to insure that the wee people would be guaranteed a woodsy home for all time. And so it came to pass that, under the influence of some very wealthy Dutch merchants, Central Park was created as a perpetual nature preserve for …”

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.”

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 82
^nd
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 77
^th
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 77
^th
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.”