The Explorers’ Gate Page 14

  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.”

  Chapter 42

  “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.”

  “She’s gone?”

  “No, no. Her spirit is still one with the water. But she, like the Lake, is being exhausted, her life force sapped. Your mother will not have the strength to appear in the mist until the waterline is brought back to its normal level.”

  I remembered my nightmare. Being sucked down a drain.

  It was happening to my mother!

  “Loki,” I muttered.

  “So we suspect,” said Grandpa. “Long before dawn, I received an odd call at the kitchen sink informing me that the verdict on the chess kerfuffle would be rendered at dawn not by your mother but by the second-highest-ranking Witte Wief in the park, the Mistress of the Harlem Meer.”

  “That’s why Grandpa didn’t wake you up,” said Garrett. “Honest.”

  “When that call came in, I sensed something was amiss,” added Grandpa. “So, I immediately called Loki’s cave and confronted him on this matter.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “Well, first, of course, he chided me for waking him at such an ‘indecent’ hour.”

  “Too bad,” I muttered.

  “Oh, yes—my feelings exactly,” said Grandpa. “After some hemming and hawing, Loki stated that, yes, in his role as High Commissioner of Sewers and Drainpipes, he had decreed, at midnight last night, that the Lake be emptied for ‘sanitary purposes.’ He claimed the water had grown ‘stagnant and foul. Said it was ‘brimming with disease and mosquito larvae.’”

  “First they kidnapped my father, now they’re trying to kill my mother’s eternal soul?”

  Grandpa nodded solemnly.

  “I can’t believe this. How badly does Loki want me to quit the Crown Quest?”

  “Wait,” said Grandpa. “It gets worse.”

  He strode over to his framed print of the Central Park drainage pipe system.

  “Loki is employing every drainpipe, every sewer line, every possible channel buried beneath the park—including ancient water mains the size of train tunnels—to shuttle the Lake’s water north to the Reservoir and sideways to the Hudson and East Rivers. Your mother’s life force is being drawn off at an extremely rapid and frighteningly dangerous pace!”

  “Do we know who opened all the floodgates?” I asked.

  “The superintendent of the Water Works,” said Grandpa Vanderdonk. “A kabouter named Dieter.”

  “Because he wants Loki to become king?”

  “No. Unfortunately, all Dieter wants is to follow orders and do his job so he can collect his pension after ninety years of dutiful service. He is, perhaps, the most logical, methodical, unemotional, and stubborn creature I have ever met!”

  “Where is he?”

  “The south gatehouse.” Grandpa pulled out his pocket watch. “Willem will meet you and Garrett there. His hope is that you, Nikki, might be able to make an emotional appeal to Dieter, compelling him to pump water back into the Lake—before it is too late!”

  Chapter 43

  It was early on a weekday morning so the bridle path around the Reservoir was jammed with joggers.

  Garrett and I ascended the steps leading up to the south gatehouse, another fortress-like stone building matching the one to the north where King Kroll kept his castle. To the west, I could see the water fountain spraying skyward.

  We waited for a break in the runners and pushed open the gatehouse’s steel doors. Thankfully, no one saw us sneak in.

  I heard a match strike and flare.

  Willem. He was lighting a miner’s lantern.

  “Thank you for coming on such short notice, Nikki,” he said, calm and courteous as ever.

  “Where is this Dieter character? I’ll rip his beard out, one whisker at a time!”

  I guess it was finally time for me to be rude.

  Willem stroked his own beard. “While rage is indeed an emotion, and, at times, a very valid one, I’m wondering if, in this instance, it would be wiser to try a different sort of emotional appeal? Might I suggest you aim for his heart, not his beard?”

  Willem was probably right. Yelling at people seldom gets them to do what you want them to do—unless you’re a gym teacher. Getting mad at someone just makes him get mad at you.

  “This way,” said Willem, leading us down a spiral staircase.

  We must have descended fifty feet, circling around and around in a silo where water plinked and the brick reeked of mildew.

  Finally, we came down into a control room. Shiny brass dials, knobs, and meters lined the walls. Turn valves filled the floor like a sea of rusty ship wheels.

  A skinny kabouter with a crisply pressed tunic, neatly combed beard, sharply creased tights, and a stiffly starched cap sat at an immaculately organized rolltop desk making impossibly miniscule marks in a ledger.

  “Dieter?” said Willem.

  “Just a moment,” he said without looking up from his thick register. “I must log the 8 a.m. water levels by precisely 8:02 a.m. Otherwise they are meaningless!”

  “Of course,” said Willem. “Take your time.”

  Take your time? I wanted to scream.

  But screaming wouldn’t tug at Dieter’s heartstrings.

  “What is it then?” said Dieter, spinning around in his chair. The thick magnifying lenses on his glasses made his eyes look like a pair of tennis balls.

  “If you don’t mind sir, we’d like you to stop draining the Lake,” I said very politely.

  “What? Stop draining? Why?”

  “Well, sir, the first Witte Wief to come to America, the one who helped establish the kabouter kingdom nearly four centuries ago, lives in those waters. If you dry up the Lake, she’ll evaporate and die.”

  “Is that so?” said Dieter.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Sorry to hear it. But I have an official work order.” He tapped a single sheet of onion skin–thin paper. “Officially signed by Prince Loki, High Commissioner of Sewers and Drainpipes.” An embossed waxy red circle was stamped in the lower left-hand corner of the document. “As you see, the appropriate seal is affixed in the stipulated location. A fully executed official work order may not be closed without a superseding work stoppage order.”

  “But there are extenuating circumstances,” I pleaded.

  “Is that so?” Dieter peered at me over the top of his googly glasses. “And what might these circumstances be?”

  “I already told you. The Lady of the Lake!
Her spirit is in grave danger. She needs the water to live. If you don’t close these valves, she’ll vanish into thin air!”

  Dieter nodded. “I believe your hypothesis is correct.”

  “So stop draining the Lake!” blurted Garrett.

  “Sorry. No can do.”

  I finally played the pity card: “The Lady of the Lake is my mother, Mr. Dieter! If you bleed the Lake dry, you’ll destroy her eternal soul.”

  “Really? Interesting. Never been much for metaphysical matters. Souls and such. Now, if you will excuse me, I need to take the 8:03 readings before 8:05.”

  Willem boldly stepped forward. “Kabouter Dieter, I hereby order you to cease this reprehensible act, immediately!”

  “And by whose authority do you make this order?”

  “My own! For I am Prince Willem, King Kroll the Second’s son!”

  “I would, of course, need some sort of verification of that fact: birth certificate, government-issued photo I.D., sworn affidavit duly notarized. However, even if you are ‘Prince Willem,’ only the king can overrule a work order from a duly appointed High Commissioner. And since we are currently between kings …”

  “I am a prince! I order you to stop draining the Lake!”

  “Yes, sir. Heard you the first time. However, as I noted earlier, you need to be a king, not a prince, before I can countermand this work order with a work stoppage order. The form, of course, must be properly filled out. Pink and yellow pages to me. Blue to the files. You, as king, would keep the white.”

  “Willem’s going to be king!” said Garrett. “Tonight. As soon as Nikki finds the hidden crown!”

  “Fine. Then we shouldn’t have a problem. After your coronation, simply fill out the paperwork, affix the royal seal, and I will rescind and nullify the earlier edict.”

  “It might be too late!” I said.

  “Doubtful, Miss. You have twenty-four hours. According to my calculations, the Lake will not be fully drained until this time tomorrow morning.”

  So there really was only one solution: Willem had to become king.

  If I wanted to speak to my mother again, I had to help him find the kabouter crown.

  Chapter 44

  The day passed slowly.

  I did not go to school. Again. Call it a sick day because I was worried sick about my mother and my father.

  I also wondered whether I really knew enough about Central Park to decipher a bunch of clever clues and track down the kabouter crown for Willem.

  One thing I knew for certain: This was why my mother had told me to learn as much as I could about Central Park, why she said “one day it will be very, very important.”

  This was that day.

  The sun was supposed to set at 8 p.m. Garret and I needed to be at Bethesda Terrace, the starting line for the Crown Quest, by 8:15.

  “You’ll still have your full eighteen-minute head start,” Grandpa Vanderdonk said to Garrett and me. “That is a good thing, children. A very good thing.”

  We sat at his kitchen table, trying to eat some supper. Both of us were far too nervous to do much more than nibble. A carrot for me. A sausage for Garrett.

  “Have we found out who their third player is?” asked Garrett. “Who their clue cracker is?”

  Grandpa shuffled through some official-looking documents.

  “Not much information here in the line-up card Loki’s people just delivered. Let’s see. An unnamed boy of Dutch descent. Sixteen years old. Lives up near Albany.”

  “Well,” I said, channeling my mother, “let’s just stay where our feet are. Their clue cracker is their clue cracker. There’s nothing we can do to change their choice, now.”

  “Well said, Nikki,” said Grandpa. “Well, said, indeed. Oh, by the by—as soon as Willem becomes king, his first official act will, of course, be to countermand Loki’s orders up at the Reservoir. His second official act will be to initiate a manhunt to find out where Loki and his hooligans are holding your father hostage.”

  “What? I didn’t tell you about that.”

  “No, no. Of course not—as, no doubt, you were instructed. However, you would not have spent last night here, no matter how much you enjoy my cheese toast tips, if your father were home. The two of you, I feel quite certain, would have spent the night down by the shore of the Lake, eagerly awaiting sunrise and your mother’s appearance in the wispy mist.”

  I looked down at my shoes.

  “Be of good cheer, Nikki! Tonight, you have the rare opportunity to save your mother and your father simply by doing what you do best—knowing and loving Central Park!”

  But that’s what I was worried about.

  What if the boy from Albany knew and loved it even more than me?

  At 7:59 p.m., Willem, Garret, and I were already standing in front of Bethesda Fountain.

  “Knock ’em dead, kid!” cheered the Angel of the Waters.

  “Thank you,” I said to the statue just as Loki and Brent came strolling out from under the darkened arches of the arcade, a pedestrian passageway decorated with tile work that looks like a cavern underneath the 72nd Street roadway.

  “Good evening, all,” said Loki, turning to Garrett. “Congratulations on your victory this morning up at the Harlem Meer. You argued your case masterfully.”

  “But I didn’t say a word.”

  “Precisely! It was you at your best. Ah, Miss Van Wyck! My, what a pleasure it is to see you again. Sorry to hear that your mother is feeling a mite parched. I hope you understand why the Lake must be drained. Public health concerns and all.”

  I didn’t answer.

  “And how fares your father?”

  I didn’t rise to the bait.

  Instead, I smiled confidently and let my eyes tell him that he was about to lose the crown he coveted, big time.

  Loki read my eyes and smirked.

  “Well, Miss Van Wyck, just in case you are interested, I heard a rumor this afternoon that your father is somewhere very close to the only statue in Central Park that has been known to move from place to place during the day. Perhaps you’d like to work on that riddle instead of all these silly clues about where to find the kabouter crown?”

  “Where’s your clue cracker?” said Garrett, propping his hands on his hips. “Or do you plan on forfeiting this round, too?”

  “What? Forfeit the actual Crown Quest? Heavens no, silly boy. Our final team member should arrive momentarily.”

  “Mr. Drake is bringing him,” added Brent. “In his limo.”

  “This should be fun, don’t you think, Willem?” said Loki, clapping his dainty hands together in mock glee. “A treasure hunt through the park, our ancestral home!”

  “Whether it is ‘fun,’ dear cousin, remains to be seen.”

  “Yes, yes. I suppose you’re right. Personally, I’m much better at giving clues than deciphering them. By the way, Miss Van Wyck, did I mention that your father’s hiding spot is situated between a sit-down and a leg-up?”

  We all knew Loki was trying to distract me. He wanted me to concentrate on his clues instead of the ones about to come in the Crown Quest.

  And you know what? It was working.

  I was pretty sure I had already figured out that “statue that moves by day” bit. Of course, it would take me about a mile north, back to the bridle path and the Reservoir. Even with our eighteen-minute head start, there may not be enough time to find my father and King Kroll’s crown.

  Tires crunched gravel up on the overpass. I could see the top of a long stretch limousine as it pulled to a stop.

  “Ah!” said Loki. “Right on time. My esteemed tour guide has arrived.”

  “This kid’s awesome!” said Brent.

  David Drake was the first to bound down the staircase.

  But I immediately recognized the shaggy-haired boy slumping down the steps behind him.

  Jonas Blauvelt.

  The winner of the Park Smarts trivia contest.

  The sixteen-year-old kid who wrote the book on
Central Park.

  Literally.

  Chapter 45

  Suddenly, it all made sense.

  This was why Mr. Drake had sponsored the Park Smarts trivia contest. He wanted to find the perfect kid to lead his team to a perfect victory in the final leg of the Crown Quest. He wanted somebody with Dutch ancestors who knew Central Park better than the back or front of his own hand.

  “Come on, Jonas,” said Drake. “Hustle. You want to see your mom and dad for breakfast tomorrow, right?”

  “Yes, sir,” Blauvelt mumbled.

  It sounded to me like Loki and company had kidnapped his parents, too.

  Blauvelt looked sad—and not just because he was wearing a plaid green shirt or because his red cone cap was anchored under his chin birthday-party style with a tight elastic strap.

  I think he missed his mom and dad. I could relate.

  “That short fellow there is Loki,” Mr. Drake told Blauvelt. “You’re playing for his team.”

  “Fine,” said Blauvelt. “Whatever.”

  Loki stepped forward, shot out his hand. “Welcome to my team, Jonas.”

  “Yeah,” added Brent, shooting out his hand, too. “You’re playing with winners tonight!”

  Blauvelt flopped out his hand like a limp fish and shook both their hands.

  I got the feeling that Jonas Blauvelt wasn’t used to being picked when any kind of team was choosing up sides. I could relate to that, too.

  All at once, I heard the stomp of booted feet accompanied by the jangle of buckles, helmet straps, and backpacks.

  “107th Infantry, halt!”

  Seven bronze doughboys from World War I had just marched onto the plaza. Three of the soldiers carried rifles with bayonets. One heroic-looking guy carried the slumped body of a wounded comrade. Another injured man had his head wrapped in bandages but still held a hand grenade in his fist.

  The leader at the center of the wall of soldiers was helmetless with thick, swept-back hair and looked as fearless as any ruggedly handsome Hollywood movie star charging up a hill to single-handedly take out the enemy’s whole army.

  “Sergeant Billy Shaw reporting for duty!” he called out, his voice as strong and heroic as his chiseled face. “Because the outcome of this final round will determine Central Park’s next kabouter king, the Witte Wieven have decreed that it shall be conducted under strict military supervision.”