The Explorers’ Gate (16 page)

Our king stood up in his dusty carrying-case slot and peered over at the angry black army assembled on the tabletop chessboard. “Heavens! Is that my brother Ferdinand?”

“Indeed,” said Willem.

“My goodness. Ferdy never used to be so belligerent. In olden times, our chess games were invigorating—a keen battle of wits. Now he looks absolutely miserable.”

“Slaves usually do,” I said.

“He has them all shackled in chains? Zounds! We must set them free! We must do that which we were created to do!” Our king paused. “Can someone kindly remind me what that might be?”

“As soon as you're in your opening positions,” I whispered, “tell the pawn standing directly in front of you to step forward.”

“One or two squares?”

“It doesn't matter. Then tell your bishop and queen to stand by.”

“Yes! Of course! It's all coming back to me. The Scholar's Mate opening, eh? But surely, m'lady, our opponent will see what we're about.”

“Maybe. If he does, we'll adjust accordingly.”

“TAKE THE QUEEN!” Brent's pieces growled again. “KILL THE KING!”

Garrett picked up our box.

“Put us down, young man!” proclaimed our king. “We have no need for a carrying case. My queen, clerics, knights, and pawns, yea, verily, even our rooks, would rather
walk
to the battlefield!”

Good.

They all looked like they needed the exercise.

All our pieces took their positions on the tabletop.

Most were still scratching or belching. The two castle towers coughed and lost a couple bricks.

“Look sharp!” ordered our king.

Several of our white pawns rubbed sleep out of their eyes.

“Would you like to concede defeat now?” Brent asked snidely.

“No way,” said Garrett.

He and Brent were seated at the concrete table. Willem and I stood behind Garrett's bench, Loki behind Brent's. The statue of Daniel Webster stood beside the table with his hand tucked inside his vest, Napoleon-style.

“Gentlemen,” said Webster, “are you prepared to wage war?”

Brent wiggled the sixteen necklace chains tied off to his fingers.

“We are ready!” pronounced Loki.

“We are ready as well!” announced Willem.

“Let the game commence! White moves first.”

Nothing happened.

“That's you, Lame Brain,” Brent said to Garrett.

“Uh, the pawn in front of the king, move forward one, no, two spaces.”

The pawn did as it was told, knees knocking together in fear because the black pawns on the other side of the board were rattling their rakes.

“Pawn to e5!” declared Brent, snapping the leash linked to the piece in front of his king. His half-crazed peasant charged forward and the two pawns were face to face. Brent's brandished its rusty rake. I think ours wet his burlap pants.

“Uh,” said Garrett, since he didn't know what to do next.

Fortunately, our king did!

“Bishop?” he said to the piece on his right. “Kindly glide up to c4, old bean.”

Our chubby bishop made the sign of the cross, kissed his rosary beads, and slid diagonally three spaces.

“Bishop to c5,” commanded Brent, matching Garrett move for move, just like I hoped he would.

“You've never played this game before have you, dummy?” he taunted Garrett.

Brent thought he was being clever, playing symmetrically, putting his pieces directly in front of Garrett's. However, he was also falling into the Scholar's Mate trap, like I did every time my mom used it on me!

“The queen?” I mumbled.

“Silence, Miss Van Wyck!” said Webster. “Coaching from behind the bench is strictly prohibited once play has begun.”

“Sorry,” I said.

Garrett rubbed his face with his big meaty paw and tried to figure out what move to make, which is pretty hard to do when you don't know the rules of the game.

“Uh, Queen … uh, queen … the queen should …”

“Yes, of course, dear,” said our queen, helping Garrett out. “Since the pawn is no longer boxing us in, we shall move diagonally up to h5!”

Our queen slid across four spaces until it was at the edge of the chessboard, parallel with Brent's black pawn.

Loki gripped the top rail of Brent's bench.

He could see what we were up to.

“I say, Brent, you might want to be on the lookout for scholars and mates!”

Webster creaked down to glare sternly at Loki. “Prince Loki, you heard what I told Miss Van Wyck. There is to be no coaching from the back benchers.”

“Coaching?” Loki protested, putting an innocent hand to his heart. “Oh, is that what you thought I was doing? Hardly. I was simply advising my young friend to keep an eye out for his scholars and mates.”

“What?” demanded Webster.

“Well, some of Brent's mates, chums from school, scholars you might call them, often frequent this area of the park, so he might want to be on the lookout for scholars and mates. …”

“He should do no such thing! He should simply play chess!”

If Brent understood what Loki was telling him, we were toast.

If not, we would checkmate their king on the next move.

Brent leaned back in his bench.

He twiddled his fingers to jingle his puppet chains. A horse eked out a choked and sickly whinny.

“What a cheap, cheesy opening,” he snickered. “The old Scholar's Mate ploy, Garrett? Oh, perhaps I'll send my knight into the fray, eh? No. Wait. That's what you want me to do. Queen Isabella the Short?”

“¿Sí, Señor?”

“Scoot your butt over to e7 and protect the f7 pawn!”

“Sí, Señor.”

She blocked our play.

Our four-move checkmate gambit was ruined.

“My goodness, Isabella,” huffed our queen. “What is that hideous
thing
wrapped around your neck? A new necklace?”

“This? No. This is the shackles.”

“Shut up,” shouted Brent.

“We are not amused,” our queen continued. “How dare your chess master slap you, a member of our extremely noble royal family, in chains! I am mortified, sister. Mortified!”

“Make your next move, Garrett!” Brent demanded. “And tell your queen to quit talking to mine.”

Our queen would not be silenced. “Isabella, you are a slave to this brutish boy?”

“Mr. Webster?” Brent whined. “Would you please make their stupid queen shut up!”

“Actually,” said Webster, “a vigorous debate can be quite healthy, especially over an issue as divisive as slavery.”

“Play on!” demanded Loki. “Enough table talk. Take his queen! Kill his king!”

Well, if Loki could shout out cheers from behind the bench, so could I.

“¡Seamos libres, lo demás no importa nada!”
I went with the liberator José de San Martín's famous battle cry.

Queen Isabella the Short gasped. Probably because, being of Spanish ancestry, she knew what I had just said.

“The little girl with too much of the hair in her face speaks most true! ‘Let us be free, the rest matters not!'”

“Come on, dumdum!” Brent shouted at Garrett. “It's your move! Do something!”

“Uh, horse-man-knight-thing! Charge!”

Our knight, which was supposed to move two squares horizontally and one square vertically (or two squares vertically and one square horizontally), galloped straight across the board, leapt over a pawn as if it were a bale of hay, and sidled up beside the black knight in the open space on the back row between the bishop and the rook.

“Brother! Allow me to set you free!”

“¡Gracias, mi amigo!”
The black knight pulled his choke chain taut with both hands so the white knight, with one fell swoop of his sword, could cut him loose.

“¡Liberación!”
shouted the freed knight, who started using his sword to cut free the bishop, then the rook.

Meanwhile, Garrett's other knight barreled across the board to free Brent's other knight.

“Stop that!” shouted Brent. “Black knights return to b8 and g8, immediately!”

“¡Liberación!”
all four knights shouted in unison.

Brent pounded his fists on the concrete table. “Fight, you idiots! Fight!”

It was too late. The long-separated chess pieces, black and white, all now free, were engaged in a group hug at the center of the board. A bishop opened a jug of wine. A white pawn pulled out an accordion. Kings and queens were smooching all over the place. The fight became a fiesta.

“I declare this match a draw,” proclaimed Webster. “Neither side will be awarded any additional bonus time.”

“What?” hissed Loki. “Miss Van Wyck incited a riot!”

“I did not! I simply cheered our team on!”

“Cheering is against the rules!”

“Really? Well,
you
did it first!”

“Silence!” bellowed Webster.

“No!” Loki was furious. “I demand an appeal!”

“The judge has ruled,” said Willem. “There is no appeal!”

“There is always an appeal, dear cousin. I demand to consult with the highest-ranking Witte Wief in the park! Not the Wise Woman of the Pond, the Harlem Meer, or even the Conservatory Water. I am taking this matter all the way to the top! The Lady of the Lake!”

“No,” said Willem, slamming a fist down on the table, which jostled a few of the pieces who were now ballroom dancing. “The Witte Wief of
the Pond
has been appointed high commissioner of this Crown Quest. If you would appeal, you must visit her at dawn tomorrow.”

“Why, Willem, you selfish, egotistical little twit! Is your hunger for the throne so intense that you would hide the truth from young Miss Van Wyck?”

“What's he talking about?” I asked.

“Nothing,” said Willem.

“Nothing?” scoffed Loki. “You think learning her mother's true identity is
nothing
to Miss Van Wyck?”

“What?”

Willem sighed. “It was for your own good that I did not tell you, Nikki.”

“Tell me what?”

“Your mother is the Lady of the Lake!” blurted Loki. “She was the first Witte Wief ever brought from the old world to these shores.”

I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

My mother was a Witte Wief? I was too stunned to speak.

“It's true,” said Willem. “Your mother was the first Witte Wief in New Amsterdam. She travelled with our forefathers on their storm-tossed ship.”

Now I remembered the orientation video. “She came over in a rain barrel … with Kroll and Adrian Vanderdonk …”

“That's right, Nikki,” said Willem. “I wanted to tell you but your mother made us swear we never would.”

“My mother was four hundred years old when I was born?”

“Yes—in the way mortals measure such things.”

“Was she human? Am I?”

“Of course you are.”

“Did Grandpa Vanderdonk know?”

“Yes, but your mother swore him to secrecy, as well.”

“That doesn't matter. He should've told me.”

“Well,” said Loki, “
I
was going to tell you everything yesterday. Unfortunately, you took off before I had the chance.”

I didn't even listen to Loki's lies.

My mother was some sort of mystical creature and her spirit was still here in the park?

I wondered if I could talk to her as easily as Garrett and Brent had spoken to the Witte Wief of the Pond. All I had to do was go back to Hernshead, early in the morning, when the mist was wispy on the water.

And then I realized why the Lake had always been my mother's favorite place to visit in the whole park.

It was her home
.

“Very well,” decreed Webster. “You may appeal my decision tomorrow morning when the Wise Woman of the Lake shall appear amidst the mist.”

“My mother will be here?” I could barely utter the words. “Tomorrow?”

“Yes,” said Webster. “Look for her at dawn.”

“Come along, Brent,” said Loki smugly. “Our work here is done.”

“Should I pack up the chess pieces?”

“Why?” said Loki. “They have lost their bloodlust. They are no longer of any use to me.”

“I would've won if Nikki Van Wyckie hadn't cheated like that,” Brent whined.

“And so we will inform Miss Van Wyck's mother. First thing tomorrow.”

“Her mom's not going to vote for us!”

“Let me worry about the Witte Wief, Brent. You prepare for round three.”

They left.

My mother. She would appear in the Lake at sunrise!

“I need to see her!” I said to Willem.

“And so you shall.”

“I'll see you guys tomorrow morning! I need to run home and tell my dad.”

I bolted out of the Chess and Checkers House and followed the asphalt paths past the carousel and the softball fields, the place where my mother, who was really an ethereal spirit, did the same thing gods and goddesses were always doing in the Greek myths my mother used to read to me instead of
Goodnight, Moon
: she became human to marry the man of her dreams.

“My mom's the Lady of the Lake!” I shouted to the bust of Humboldt perched on his pedestal outside the Explorers' Gate. “Can you believe it? She's a Witte Wief!”

“I know,” said Humboldt with a laugh. “She asked me to keep an eye on you when she returned to the mists.”

I was giddy with joy. “Why didn't somebody tell me?”

“She …”

“…told you not to.”

“That's right.”

I jumped up as high as I could and kissed Humboldt on his chin. “All is forgiven. I'm seeing my mother, first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Look both ways before you cross the street.”

“Don't worry. I will.”

I waited for the light to change, looked both ways, and then dashed across Central Park West to tell my dad the good news: We could still talk to Mom! We'd just have to get up really, really,
really
early every day.