Gabriel Finley and the Raven’s Riddle

by George Hagen

  “Do you really practice for an hour and a half every night?” asked Gabriel.

  Pamela nodded. “My mom says if you want to be any good at anything, you have to practice all the time.”

  “I practice riddles,” Gabriel said, hoping this sounded impressive.

  The girl looked up. “Riddles. How weird.”

  Gabriel tried to explain. “You see, riddles stretch your brain. They force you to look at problems in a completely different way. At least, that’s what my father told me.”

  “I don’t have a father,” she replied. “And you don’t have a mother, isn’t that right?”

  “Yes.” Then he added, “My dad’s coming back.… I just don’t know when.”

  “My father died when I was a baby,” Pamela continued. “Is that what happened to your mother?”

  Gabriel paused. “Not exactly. She disappeared.” When he realized how strange this sounded, he added, “It’s kind of a mystery.”

  “No wonder you like riddles,” replied the girl. “So, tell me one.”

  He tried a simple one:

  “Everyone catches me,

  Strangers share me,

  Yet nobody wants me.”

  Pamela thought for a moment, then shook her head. “I give up.”

  “You have to give it a try,” insisted Gabriel. “What can you catch?”

  “A ball.”

  “What else?”

  “Another ball.”

  “No,” said Gabriel, frowning. “Think of other things people catch.”

  “Smaller balls?” suggested Pamela.

  “Forget about balls. Think of catching as an expression. If you’re sick, for example, what have you caught?”

  “Oh, like a cold?”

  “Exactly!” said Gabriel. “Strangers share me, yet nobody wants me!”

  Pamela smiled faintly. “Yes, I get it, but I don’t see the point.”

  Gabriel tried to explain. “It’s funny. Don’t you see?”

  Pamela gave him an apologetic glance. “I’d better get started or I’ll be up all night.” She removed her violin, her bow, and a small windup timer from the violin case.

  That night as he lay in bed, Gabriel heard the girl practicing her violin. The sound carried clearly through the wall. The music was both jubilant and terribly sad. Gabriel never imagined these two feelings could go together, but they did with a violin. Then he remembered that his birthday had been forgotten with the arrival of these visitors. He wondered again if he would ever solve any of the riddles on his mind: the riddle of his mother’s disappearance, the riddle of his father’s return, and the riddle of the key.

  In the dark, he grasped the key tightly in his hand.

  The First Valraven

  A dark bird was perched on a branch above Paladin’s nest. Its voice was as rough as a rasp on a rusty gate.

  “Everyone looks up to me,

  For I am always true,

  And yet the slightest gust of wind

  Can change my point of view.

  What am I?”

  Paladin squinted at the cold, unkind silhouette. He could see perfectly well now, but he couldn’t fly or defend himself. His mother protected him, wings raised, sharp talons flexing.

  “That is a very hard riddle,” she replied.

  “Do you give up?” said the bird, and its powerful beak opened threateningly.

  “I didn’t say that I couldn’t answer it,” said Endora.

  Paladin trembled, old enough to know how his mother’s voice sounded when danger was near. The strange bird had a chip on its enormous beak, and its feathers were bedraggled and oily, like a city puddle. “What is your answer, then?”

  “A weathervane,” replied Endora.

  The bird looked surprised. It blinked.

  “You’re not laughing,” said Endora. “Only valravens can not laugh at riddles.”

  With a hiss and a screech—hardly a raven sound at all, but something unearthly and ghoulish—the bird sprang toward Endora with talons extended. Terrified, Paladin buried his head in the bottom of the nest. He could hear a furious fight above—beaks snapping, a violent beating of wings, then a taunting cry that chilled him. The nest shuddered as something toppled off and fell to the street.

  Timidly, the baby bird peered through the tight mesh of twigs to look.

  Lying way down on the pavement was a bird twisted so violently by its fall that its head was reversed to face its tail. To Paladin’s horror, the creature suddenly jerked upright, flapped its crooked wings, and did a somersault. No normal creature could have survived such a perilous drop. With a ghastly squawk, it looked up, snapped its beak at Paladin, then waddled on broken wings nearer the tree. It was the creepiest sight to behold, and Paladin wondered what the valraven had done to his mother.

  “Mama?” wept Paladin. “Oh, please! Mama, answer!”

  There was no reply.

  Paladin peered upward. The sky was a dismal gray shroud.

  Then the branch supporting the nest began to shake. Something was climbing up the limb toward Paladin. He felt a shudder of panic. Was it that ghoul, returning for him? He squirmed his way to the edge of the nest, trying to see. How could he defend himself against something that wouldn’t die? Perhaps he should just jump before the hideous bird captured him. Balancing on the rim, he looked out over the dark city and raised his tiny wings.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” said a warm, weary voice.

  Endora appeared at the side of the nest, her collar feathers ruffled and untidy, one eyelid bruised and swollen.

  “Oh, Mama!” cried Paladin. “I thought you were …”

  “I’m fine,” said Endora, climbing inside and gently nuzzling him with her beak.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “That was a valraven. He won’t do us any harm now. I just dropped him down a storm drain to keep him from telling his cronies about you.”

  “Me? Why me?” asked Paladin.

  Endora hesitated. What she had to say was important, but she wasn’t sure Paladin was ready to hear it yet. Still, she felt she had no choice.

  “You remember the story I told you about Muninn?”

  “The bird who won the riddle and took the torc?”

  “Exactly. Well, for over a thousand years the valravens have been looking for that torc. Now they seem to think they are close, and if they can only find a certain raven and his boy amicus, the torc will be theirs.”

  “But I don’t have an amicus or the torc. I can’t even fly!”

  “Yes, my love, that is true. But your grandfather Baldasarre had an amicus named Adam Finley. Finley came into possession of the torc and asked Baldasarre to hide it. Your grandfather did this right before he died. Finley’s boy lives in that house.”

  “I’ve seen a boy come out of there,” murmured Paladin.

  “It is rare for a raven to meet a human worthy of being an amicus, but the Finleys appear to be a rare family. I only wish …”

  “What, Mother?”

  “I wish that your sisters had survived, my love. They were hatched last spring, but—” Endora paused, and a tear glittered in her eye. “Valravens killed them while searching for the torc—which means they are even more determined to find you—”

  “But I don’t know where it is!”

  “Yes, that is true for the time being,” his mother replied. “But Adam Finley, wherever he is, knows where it is hidden. You and his son may be its next defenders.”

  The Wandering Desk

  With the birthday key strung on a ribbon around his neck, Gabriel began his search for the mysterious lock that might reveal his father’s whereabouts. First, he tried a cabinet in the dining room. The key wiggled loosely in the lock; it didn’t fit.

  As Gabriel pulled it out, he became aware of a silhouette in the kitchen doorway. Mrs. Baskin was standing there. She was a cookbook editor, and Aunt Jaz had invited her to test new recipes on the noisy old stove in the kitchen. Her flinty eyes narrowed
at him.

  “What are you poking around with that key for?” she said.

  “Just curious,” Gabriel replied, startled.

  “I remember your father being very nosy, too,” she said. “Always crawling about, getting into things when he was a baby.”

  Gabriel thought for a moment. “Isn’t that what babies do? Crawl around, I mean.”

  “His older brother was so smart, so elegant.” A misty look appeared in Trudy Baskin’s eyes as she said this, and her voice softened. “Such a pity he ran away from home. I was the only one who really understood him.”

  Gabriel felt a cold shiver. He remembered Aunt Jaz saying she had a childhood friend who had had a big crush on Corax. Was it Trudy Baskin? He tried to imagine the gray-haired woman as an eight-year-old girl, but it was difficult. Mrs. Baskin looked as if she had been old forever.

  “That must have been a very long time ago,” he said.

  Trudy’s smile vanished. “Don’t you have homework to do?” she snapped.

  Gabriel trudged up to his bedroom, deciding that he would continue his search if Trudy went out shopping.

  An hour later, he heard the front door shut. Immediately, Gabriel began looking for keyholes in the spare bedroom beside Pamela’s. It was small, with a four-poster bed, a blanket trunk, and a bureau with glittering crystal knobs. There was also a desk in the darkest corner. The bureau’s keyholes were too small, so Gabriel moved on to the trunk. As he pressed the key into its lock, he heard a thump. Looking up, he saw no one. Almost as soon as his eyes dropped, however, he was aware of a shadow on the carpet.

  Perhaps it was a squirrel crossing the skylight. Gabriel wiggled the key, but it was obviously the wrong shape for the trunk.

  He continued around the room, settling on the end table. He tried this lock, but it was too small. He turned to the last item—the writing desk—but the dark corner was empty. This puzzled him.

  Since Pamela attended a music school in Manhattan, and wouldn’t be back for another hour, Gabriel decided to try her room. There was a captain’s bed with three drawers, and a simple mahogany dresser. Oddly, the missing desk was here, sitting in the corner near the window.

  Beginning with the captain’s bed, he tried the key in each drawer, but the locks were much too large. He tried the dresser, but the locks were too small. He turned to the desk.

  It was missing.

  Gabriel surveyed the room. There was no sign of the desk anywhere. Had he imagined it?

  Then he heard footsteps on the stairs. Stepping out of Pamela’s room, Gabriel peered through the balusters at the landing below. He saw nothing unusual. Nothing, except for the same desk standing against the wall.

  Gabriel stared at it for a few moments. It was old and black, with a drop lid that appeared to be locked; small wings were carved into the sides; and the two front legs were shaped like the talons of a bird. Suddenly, one of the legs twitched slightly and scratched the other one.

  Gabriel hurried downstairs, but when he reached the landing he found nothing but a shiny brass wastebasket.

  The desk had disappeared.

  Gabriel tried to make sense of this puzzle. Had the desk moved? How could a desk move? Why would it move? Was it going from room to room to escape being discovered? He fingered the key around his neck thoughtfully.

  A bathroom faced the staircase; there wasn’t space for a desk there. Aunt Jaz’s bedroom came next, a room Gabriel knew very well. He peered inside. Everything was as it should be: a double bed, a rolltop desk, a dresser, and a closet. He didn’t need to check the locks—none of them had keyholes. Anyway, he had a hunch now—a very strong hunch—that the key belonged to that black desk.

  He proceeded to the study, which was now Trudy’s bedroom. The door was shut, but he opened it just a crack and peered in.

  The bizarre portrait stared grimly back at him. Beneath it stood the black wooden writing desk.

  “Gabriel?” said a voice. “What are you doing?”

  Trudy Baskin was at the bottom of the staircase, holding a shopping bag full of groceries.

  “Um. Nothing,” he said.

  “Why are you in my room?”

  “Oh, I just … Nothing, really.”

  He hurried out and trudged back upstairs to his bedroom to finish his homework. One thing was clear, though. He would be back.

  “Trudy, dear?” said Aunt Jaz the next morning. “Is there any salt or sugar in these pancakes?”

  “Not a speck!” replied Trudy. “I’m testing a salt-free, sugar-free cookbook. Aren’t they delicious?”

  “Well,” said Aunt Jaz, after a taste. “They certainly are salt-free and sugar-free.”

  “No salt, no sugar, and very good for you!” said Trudy triumphantly. “These are healthier than any pancake you’ve had in your life.”

  “And they’re disgusting,” murmured Gabriel to himself.

  Aunt Jaz went to the fridge.

  “What are you looking for?” asked Trudy.

  “Just wondering where the maple syrup is,” replied Aunt Jaz.

  “Oh, I cleaned your fridge for you,” said Trudy. “I threw out lots of things. The syrup went with everything else.”

  “You threw it out?” said Aunt Jaz, her penciled eyebrows quivering at the top of her forehead. “All of it?”

  “And the sugar, the honey, and the salt. They’re all terribly unhealthy, dear. You’ll get used to it! Look at Pamela. She never even asks for salt or sugar anymore.”

  Pamela was eating her pancakes the way a reluctant patient takes medicine—in small bites, chewing vigorously to make it seem as if she were eating a lot.

  Gabriel wondered if there was any mu shu pork left.

  Aunt Jaz must have been thinking the same thing, because she asked Trudy what happened to the Chinese food cartons in the fridge.

  “Tossed in the trash,” Trudy replied smugly.

  Later, Gabriel asked Pamela how she felt about not having sugar or salt.

  “You can’t miss what you’ve never had,” she replied.

  It seemed to Gabriel that the least he could do was introduce Pamela to ice cream, chocolate bars, and pretzels.

  The next day, Gabriel returned from school to find Trudy in the kitchen stirring a bubbling gray mixture that smelled like sweaty socks. Gabriel felt a pang of concern that this might be dinner.

  “Hmm. What’s this?” he asked, keeping his fingers crossed that Trudy was just boiling her laundry on the stove.

  “Bouillabaisse,” she replied. “It’s a French dish.”

  “Bouillabaisse?” he repeated. “Is that French for socks?”

  “No,” she snapped. “Fish soup. We’re having it for dinner.”

  As Gabriel retreated upstairs, it occurred to him that with Trudy busy in the kitchen, this was an ideal time to have a look at that desk. He peered into the study, but the place beneath the portrait was vacant.

  “Gabriel, you need to start your homework,” cried Trudy from downstairs.

  “I’m … I’m going to do it on the stoop,” he explained, quickly stepping out of the study.

  Outside, Gabriel began sifting through the papers stuffed in his notebook, when he heard footsteps. It was Somes. A purposeful look appeared on the big boy’s face.

  “Hey!” he said. “You’re going to help me prepare my geography report!”

  Gabriel regarded Somes warily. “How’d you find out where I live?”

  “The class directory, of course,” the boy replied with a grin.

  “No, Somes, I have my own report to do,” said Gabriel. “Ask somebody else.”

  Somes ignored this remark, taking Gabriel’s notebook out of his hands and replacing it with his own geography book. “Concentrate. I have to compare and contrast Paraguay and Argentina.”

  “Did you hear me, Somes?” Gabriel replied, raising his voice. “I said no.”

  “Well, I can’t do it,” insisted Somes, this time in a pleading tone. “Reading drives me crazy. I can’t make sense
of what I’m looking at!”

  “So look at a map,” Gabriel replied, taking back his notebook.

  Somes threw Gabriel’s notebook off the stoop so that the papers scattered in the breeze. Then he flung his arm around Gabriel’s neck and tightened his grip.

  “What’s the difference between Paraguay and Argentina? Tell me,” said Somes through gritted teeth.

  “Get off!” shouted Gabriel helplessly.

  At that moment, a girl’s voice rang out.

  “I’ll tell you the difference.”

  Abigail Chastain was standing at the bottom of the stoop. She was a blizzard of color—hair in an orange band, three colorful bandannas around her neck, one yellow sneaker, one purple.

  “But first you have to let him go,” she said.

  Somes immediately lowered his arm.

  “Okay,” she said. “For starters, they’re both South American countries below the equator.”

  “Below the equator,” repeated Somes.

  “One is landlocked, one is not. Now, Paraguay is like the hat on the head of Argentina, can you remember that?” she said.

  “I think so,” said Somes. “A hat.”

  “While Argentina has a long, long coast.”

  “A long, long coat?” said Somes.

  “Coast,” Abigail replied.

  “Coast,” repeated Somes.

  “Now, this is the tricky part. The capital city of Paraguay begins with an ‘A’—Asunción. But the capital of Argentina begins with ‘B’—Buenos Aires.”

  This seemed to please Somes. He repeated the words to himself, then paused. “A hat and a coat, and A and B.”

  “That’s it,” said Abigail. “Now, Argentina’s natural resources are …”

  “That’s enough.” Somes winced, as if more information might burst his brain. Taking back his book, he walked off, shooting Gabriel one last glance.

  Although he wasn’t too pleased to have been rescued by someone so small, Gabriel felt he owed her some gratitude. “Thank you, Abigail,” he said, gathering his scattered papers.