The Explorers’ Gate by Chris Grabenstein

walk me the eight blocks home.
    â€œNo, 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.
    â€œSo, how come you’re wearin’ your hat like dat?” said the one in the pointier cap. “And what’s up with da ear flaps?”
    â€œI dunno. Looks cool.”
    â€œIt’s not how we wore ’em in Amsterdam.”
    â€œYo, guess what? This ain’t Amsterdam.”
    â€œShould be.”
    â€œAh, 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!”
    â€œI do, too! Kroll’s kid’s gonna make a better king than Lord Lorkus’s sleazy son.”
    â€œKroll cheated Lorkus out of the crown!”
    â€œHe did not. He won it fairsy-squaresy!”
    â€œLorkus was the older brother!”
    â€œSo? 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.
    â€œYou’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.
    â€œW-w-who are you?” I stammered.
    â€œSomeone you don’t never want to meet again. Word to the wise, Nikki?”
    My legs trembled. “How do you know my name?”
    â€œYour 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.
    â€œSir,” I said as bravely as I could, “There’s a police station only two blocks away. If I scream …”
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œGood 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