The Explorers’ Gate by Chris Grabenstein Page B

room.
    Something on the TV screen caught my eye.
    â€œA wave of violence rocks Central Park,” said the female reporter. “At least three dozen people were arrested tonight as they attempted to topple the statue of a Civil War soldier off its pedestal near West 68 th Street.”
    The TV cut to a shot of a heroic bronze sculpture with thick ropes looped around its green neck.
    Then David Drake’s famous bald head filled the frame.
    â€œThis is what happens when we, the people, lose control of our public spaces,” he said. “The government has clearly shown it cannot manage the park as well as a private entrepreneur could!”
    The reporter came back on screen. “As you know, David Drake has recently proposed building a luxury hotel inside Central Park. As a precedent, he cites the visionary parks commissioner who, in 1934, allowed the famous Tavern on the Green restaurant, a private enterprise, to take over the building originally constructed to be a barn for the sheep grazing across the street in the Sheep Meadow. If Mr. Drake’s luxury hotel in the heart of Central Park becomes a reality, perhaps we’ll see more late-night security and less of this.”
    The scene shifted to a blaze raging in a trash barrel while wild-eyed guys danced around it like the stars of a History Channel special about cavemen discovering fire.
    As the camera swished across the faces, I recognized one.
    It was hard not to.
    He had a spiky mohawk hairdo and an angry scar running down the side of his face.
    And even though I couldn’t see it, I was pretty sure he had an extremely nasty knife hidden in the pocket of his baggy leather coat.

Chapter 16
    I couldn’t sleep, so I Googled.
    I didn’t understand a phrase Grandpa Vanderdonk had used when talking to his vegetable sprayer: “Garrett shall attend the reading of the rules to be given by the Witte Wief of the Pond at dawn.”
    Witte Wief .
    Who the heck was she?
    I was pretty sure it was a she because, later, Grandpa had told Garrett, “The Wise Woman of the Pond will act as High Commissioner of the Quest.”
    So whom exactly was Garrett supposed to meet at 5:46 a.m.? (I had already Googled the sunrise time.)
    Well, in Dutch mythology, Witte Wieven were spirits of deceased “wise women.” While alive, these Witte Wieven were herbalists and healers. After death, their spirits lingered on earth to help mankind and kabouters, appearing as a hazy mist near burial mounds and swamps.
    I was so confused by all I had seen, I could totally use a wise woman. And, if I couldn’t communicate with the wisest woman I have ever known (my mom who, come to think of it, loved herbal tea), I’d settle for a Witte Wief since, so far, all the other so-called mythological creatures in Central Park had turned out to be pretty real.
    The Pond is a body of water tucked into the southeast corner of the park, right near the entrance at Fifth Avenue and 59 th Street. It’s sunk a couple stories below street level and walled in by thick shrubbery and trees that shield it from the city less than one block away.
    Before the park landscapers had worked their magic, the manmade “lake of irregular shape” was a swamp—the kind of damp, misty place where wispy Witte Wieven would definitely love to hang out.
    The Pond was also about a mile and a half from my apartment, so it would take me about half an hour to walk it. That meant I’d have to leave home long before the sun came up.
    I set an alarm for 5 a.m. and forced myself to sleep.
    I woke up five minutes before the alarm went off. I always do that when I have to get up super early.
    My father was, as usual, fast asleep. Some Sundays, he doesn’t crawl out of bed until the middle of the afternoon. Sunday is his day off. No tenants are allowed to bug him about burnt-out light bulbs or clogged toilets.
    I tugged on my red knit cap and headed out the door. The sky was inky