Gabriel Finley and the Raven’s Riddle

by George Hagen

  When he alighted at the window of Adam Finley’s chamber, he was furious to find its occupant missing. Tearing at the stone window with his talons, he uttered another unearthly cry. The flocks of birds circling aimlessly in the chasm careered in panic, gabbling and shrieking as the furious overlord of Aviopolis calculated his next step.

  Meanwhile, Gabriel and his friends had begun a search for Adam Finley. They came to a room filled with dozens of metallic cages swaying from the ceiling, birds weeping and wailing in tight wire mesh, their beaks clipped by tin-plated jaws, eyes peering wildly from small eyeholes. Septimus had seen all this before, so he walked in ahead of the children.

  “These chaps have refused to join Corax’s side,” he explained. Raising his voice, Septimus addressed the ravens. “Look here! Have any of you seen Adam Finley? Anyone?”

  The ravens fell silent, save for the squeak of rusty metal.

  “Speak up! Are you all stupid? Somebody must know something!” shouted Septimus.

  “Maybe the poor things aren’t sure whether to trust us,” suggested Abby. “I have an idea.” She removed her glasses for a second, then recited:

  “Wherever I swim,

  I leave a stain

  That people drink.

  Do you know my name?”

  In spite of their fear, the ravens couldn’t resist a riddle. A round of chatter began to break out among the cages. They were all conferring with each other excitedly. Finally, one raven at the very back spoke up.

  “Is it … a tea bag?”

  “Yes!” Abby laughed.

  A chorus of delighted throks broke out, followed by giddy raven laughter.

  A second raven spoke. “May we know who seeks Adam Finley?”

  “His son,” said Gabriel, stepping forward.

  After a round of whispers, a third raven spoke. “The starlings have told us that Paladin has found him.”

  “He has?” Gabriel said, his face brightening into joy. “Can you tell me if he’s all right?”

  “Adam Finley has escaped!” cheered another raven.

  “Beware!” cried another. “The linnets are saying Corax is looking for him all over the citadel!”

  “Leave while you’re still free!” advised another.

  “But do any of you know where he is?” asked Gabriel.

  “The swallows say he comes this way with Paladin and a friendly owl,” said another.

  “Very good. Now let’s go!” Septimus marched to the door and beckoned to the others.

  Gabriel cast a worried glance at the caged ravens. “Wait, Septimus,” he said. “There must be something we can do for these poor birds.”

  “There isn’t,” said Septimus.

  “I think we owe them,” added Abby.

  Septimus rubbed his scar feverishly. “Look, we don’t have much time!”

  Pamela nodded. “Corax will be looking for Gabriel’s father so he can find out how to get the staff and necklace!”

  Somes had tried to pry one of the cages open, but the wire was rigid and strong, and his fingers began to bleed. “They have some strange kind of lock,” he said. “There’s no keyhole.”

  “Precisely,” Septimus replied. “That’s because the locks are sealed with a robin’s song.”

  “A song?” said Pamela curiously. She slung the violin case off her shoulder and took out her violin and bow.

  “My dear, this is hardly the time for a recital,” sputtered Septimus.

  “I’m thinking about the robins,” she replied. “D’you know that sound they make—it’s a trill.”

  “Try it!” said Gabriel.

  Pamela drew her bow across the strings, playing a series of trills, but nothing happened.

  “Try higher notes,” suggested Somes.

  Pamela slid her fingers down the fingerboard and drew the bow again. The trills became piercingly high.

  Suddenly, a cage sprang open; its raven fluttered free, uttering a delighted throk!

  Another cage snapped open. The raven jumped to the floor and cackled triumphantly.

  Cages popped open all across the room. Ravens jumped from their bindings and flapped their wings, unshackled and ecstatic. In a giddy chorus, the freed birds whistled and throkked with relief.

  A raven with speckled markings landed on Pamela’s shoulder. It cocked its head at her curiously, eyes dancing with delight. “What rises when the rain comes down?”

  Lowering her violin, Pamela paused to think. “Well … you raise your umbrella when it rains.”

  The raven throkked gleefully. “Very good! An umbrella! My name is Specklewing!”

  Another raven landed on Abby’s shoulder. He had a white streak on his wing and spoke with a wizened voice. “How does the moon smile?”

  Abby folded her arms and thought. “Hmm, how does the moon smile? It can only smile one way: that’s by beaming!” This raven, named Snowtip, uttered a gleeful whistle.

  A scruffy bird with a spray of black feathers around his neck landed on Somes’s arm. He scrutinized the boy for a moment before speaking.

  “I satisfy a hunger, but I am not food. I will not fill your belly, but I will nourish your curiosity. What am I?”

  A worried look came over Somes’s face, but then he relaxed. “Oh,” he said. “The answer is an answer!”

  The bird, named Hotspur, began a hearty laugh—CAW! CAW! CAW!—almost losing his balance on Somes’s arm.

  “How touching, how sweet! We’re all making friends just before we die!” Septimus cried with impatient sarcasm. At that moment a raven with powdery gray feathers landed on his shoulder.

  “Greetings, Septimus,” he said in a raspy baritone. “I am Burbage, brother of Crawfin.”

  The mention of Crawfin startled Septimus. “Burbage? The name rings a bell. Yes, I remember the stories about you,” he said, raising an eyebrow curiously. “Weren’t you a gem thief? A decent one, as I recall.”

  Blinking with indignation, the gray raven drew himself up. “Why, how dare you! A ‘decent’ gem thief? I’m the best gem thief there ever was. Even Crawfin would have agreed with that!”

  “Of course, of course.” A cunning glint appeared in Septimus’s eyes. “Listen, my good friend, perhaps we can be of assistance to each other. I happen to be something of a connoisseur of lost objects of great value. It seems to me that we might make an exceptional team if we just put our minds together. Why, with my business talents and your unique skill, we could—”

  “Septimus? Time to go!” interrupted Gabriel.

  With a wink, Septimus beckoned to the raven. “Come,” he said.

  Mutiny of the Robins

  The citadel’s winding corridor reminded Gabriel of a magic carpet ride at an amusement park; if the stone floor had been smoother, they might have sat down and slid in a spiral all the way to the bottom of the tower. Instead, they walked while birds scrambled, flew, swooped, and squawked ahead of them. Pamela was disappointed when her riddling raven (as well as Abby’s and Somes’s) took flight to find Adam Finley.

  “You can’t blame them,” Abby reminded her. “This is a big day.”

  Only Burbage remained with Septimus—it seemed that the two had developed an instant bond and begun conspiring together.

  As news of the escape spread through the tower, Gabriel sensed a great surge of joy in the air. It was clear from the squawks, shrieks, and chirps that the Lord of Air and Darkness was losing his grip.

  From the bottom of the tower, another group of celebrants wound their way upward—Adam Finley, Paladin, and Caruso. Lapwings and terns darted along the corridors, spreading the news to bobwhites, bluebirds, cardinals, and chickadees.

  Only Corax’s red-breasted lieutenants—the robins—were upset by the news. These small birds cherished power; they were the jailers; they controlled the locks and rode the backs of larger birds like the dodoes and geese. If there was a chance they might be on the losing side, they were quick to panic.

  But when one timid robin began unlocking cages, hop
ing to win favor with Adam Finley, his friends quickly joined in. As more ravens escaped from their cages, more robins turned against Corax. In a panic, they began trilling at every lock they could find. It wasn’t long before hundreds of ravens were celebrating their escapes with gloating throks, filling the passageways with chattering, rejoicing, and, of course, riddles.

  Soon, the two groups were only a few footsteps apart in the winding corridor. Gabriel heard a tremendous chirping and babbling coming near. A flock of birds fluttered around a man who walked toward Gabriel waving his arms in welcome. There was no mistaking his eager grin and forthright stride.

  “Dad?” said Gabriel.

  “Gabriel! At last!”

  Gabriel quickly fell into Adam Finley’s tight embrace. A great chorus of tweeting, squawking, and honking swirled in joyful eddies around father and son, applauding their reunion.

  “I knew you would succeed,” Mr. Finley said. “You always had a gift for riddles, Gabriel.”

  Gabriel felt a flood of memories come back as his father spoke—his deep, warm voice, his boundless enthusiasm.

  “I was afraid I’d never find you,” Gabriel admitted.

  Mr. Finley’s eyebrows rose abruptly, as if he had heard an important message in the squawking around him. “We are still in very great danger, Gabriel. You see, the torc—”

  They were interrupted by Septimus. “Adam! Old friend!” he cried. “Please, you must help me remove this wretched thing from around my neck at once! Look at this scar.”

  For the first time, Gabriel’s father became stern. “Ah, Septimus,” he said. “After leaving me here in prison, you return without an apology, demanding my help?”

  Wilting, Septimus dropped to his knees. “My dear fellow, do I get no thanks for bringing your son to you? For saving him from the valravens? To say nothing of coming to free you from the citadel?”

  “You old thief, you haven’t changed a bit,” Adam said. “Well, at least a rapscallion like you knows when luck is on his side.”

  Septimus assumed a dignified frown. “Rapscallion? Thief? I kept my word. I brought you the torc.”

  “All right, let’s have a look,” said Mr. Finley.

  Septimus unbuttoned his shirt to reveal the awful burn mark around his neck.

  Finley recognized the mark immediately. “Hmm. Well, there’s a simple remedy, my friend. To remove the torc, you must make an unselfish wish.”

  Septimus cocked his head. “Pardon?”

  “Ask for something that doesn’t serve only your desire. Be generous. Selfless.”

  Septimus agonized for a moment, as if Mr. Finley had asked him to speak a forgotten language. “Must I give up such an extraordinary treasure?” he said.

  “Freedom has a price, Septimus,” said Mr. Finley.

  “In that case, I suppose the correct wish,” Septimus concluded, “is simply to wish that the torc returns to its place upon the staff.”

  Instantly, the scar faded from his neck, leaving only a faint blue glow. Then the necklace reappeared upon Gabriel’s staff. Its glow vanished as it folded around the wood, resembling a dull trinket again.

  “A pity,” Septimus muttered. “My brush with the power of gods!” He sighed, wiped his forehead, and buttoned his shirt. “Well, I must be on my way. Business awaits.”

  “What business is that, Septimus?” asked Mr. Finley.

  “Burbage tells me that deep in these caverns there are some rare and valuable …” Septimus paused, a secretive look on his face. “Well, it’s nothing you need know about. Farewell, lad. Goodbye, Adam!”

  “Goodbye!” they answered. And with that, Septimus hurried down the corridor.

  “Now, where was I before our interruption?” said Mr. Finley, turning to his son.

  “You said I was in very grave danger,” replied Gabriel.

  “Yes,” said Mr. Finley. “Let me explain.”

  Up and down the citadel corridors, locks were springing open and cages emptying. The robins showed no joy or delight in this task; they were simply determined to be on the winning side. The little jailers were worried about their future. Who would be their leader now? What about their rank, their privileges? Would they still be permitted to ride the dodoes through the corridors? Who would their prisoners be? They wouldn’t have minded jailing the valravens, if it came to that; it was all the same to them.

  One bold robin, named Snitcher, was still in the grip of the great horned owl, Caruso.

  “Oh, mighty victor!” he pleaded. “I have done what you asked. Set me free, as you promised!”

  Savoring the thought of a victory snack, Caruso gripped the robin like a precious candy bar. Reminded of his promise, he reluctantly released the bird. Snitcher, however, didn’t fly away. He fluttered a short distance from the owl with an expectant stare.

  “What are you waiting for?” asked the owl.

  “Now that you have conquered Aviopolis,” said Snitcher, “I would like to be your lieutenant.”

  “My what?” Caruso scratched his ear in disbelief.

  “I wish to be lieutenant in your army,” said the robin. “I will spy for you, lock your prisoners up, and ride your dodoes.”

  “Ride my dodoes indeed,” coughed the owl. “There will be no army, no cages. No dodoes! You are free. Go about your business.”

  “No army?” gasped Snitcher. “What about my rank? I’m a lieutenant to Corax!”

  “Fly away, little bird,” said the owl with a sniff. “Feast on worms, and watch that I don’t catch you or I will swallow you whole and spit out your bones!”

  Snitcher stared at the owl bitterly, then flew off quickly before he was eaten.

  The Dwarfs’ Secret

  Mr. Finley turned the staff slowly in his hand and looked at Gabriel, Abby, Pamela, and Somes. They were sitting in a small room in the citadel, Paladin perched on Gabriel’s shoulder. Outside, the joyous chirping and chatter and the exalted throks of freed ravens swooping through the corridors continued.

  “Together you have ended Corax’s dreams of ruling the world above, and his stranglehold on the world below, by bringing me the torc,” Mr. Finley said. “Bravo!”

  “Shouldn’t we be leaving before Corax finds us?” Paladin replied.

  “Yes, my friend,” said Mr. Finley. “But first Gabriel must be prepared to defend the torc—something only he can do.”

  “Defend it?” said Gabriel. “What does that mean?”

  “Let me explain,” said Mr. Finley. “You see, Gabriel, when the owls gave the torc to you, you may not have realized that you were part of a ceremony. A ritual was being enacted, one that gave you a unique power over the torc.”

  “What power is that?” asked Gabriel.

  “Let me demonstrate.” Rising from his seat, Mr. Finley crossed the small room and gripped the staff with both hands, then nodded at Gabriel.

  “Now, from where you sit, take the staff from me.”

  “I can’t reach.”

  “You don’t need to,” said Mr. Finley. “It will come.”

  Confused, Gabriel extended his arm toward the staff.

  The staff quivered in Mr. Finley’s hands, then began to shake, then zigzag wildly like a trout on a line. Finally, it broke free and zoomed across the room into Gabriel’s hand.

  “Wow!” Gabriel said. “If I’d known about this, I could have gotten it back from Septimus!”

  “Not exactly,” said Mr. Finley. “Only when the torc is on the staff can it be summoned by its owner.”

  “Oh, right; now I remember Ulyssa saying that,” said Gabriel.

  “But I thought Septimus was its owner,” said Somes. “It hung around his neck.”

  “No, Septimus stole it, which is why he was so mistreated by it,” said Mr. Finley. “The torc became Gabriel’s because of a blood sacrifice.”

  At this moment, the little robin, Snitcher, flew into the room unnoticed through the narrow window. It had been circling the citadel, hoping to find Adam Finley to pledge its loyalty to
him and ensure a better rank than the other robins.

  “Blood was shed when the owls gave the torc to Gabriel,” said Mr. Finley.

  “Oh!” said Gabriel. “You mean when Septimus’s ear was bitten?”

  “Precisely. According to tradition, the torc changes owners when blood is shed and a riddle is asked that the previous owner cannot answer.”

  The curious black eyes of the robin widened at this piece of information. It turned its head from Mr. Finley to Gabriel, trying to remember every detail.

  “Gabriel made a pun, remember?” Paladin reminded them. “Why is there always something to eat in the desert? Because of the sandwiches there. The owls couldn’t answer it.”

  “So that’s how Gabriel became the torc’s owner?” said Pamela.

  Mr. Finley was about to reply when he noticed the robin.

  “Gabriel,” he said calmly. “Turn slowly and grab the little fellow behind you.”

  Gabriel had no sooner turned than the little bird sprang through the narrow window.

  “It’s only a robin,” said Somes. “What does it matter?”

  Mr. Finley peered out through the window. “It matters a lot, Somes. Robins are notorious gossips. If Corax learns about the blood sacrifice and the riddle, he can challenge Gabriel for the torc.”

  “I’ll find him!” Paladin promised, and disappeared after the bird.

  “I hope so,” said Pamela.

  “So if Corax wants the torc to serve him,” continued Gabriel, “he has to make a blood sacrifice and challenge me with a riddle that I can’t answer. It seems too easy.”

  Finley dusted his hands and sat down. “Easy, yes, but you must understand that the dwarfs who made the torc knew that a granted wish was more often a curse than a blessing.”

  “How can that be?” asked Pamela.

  “People rarely wish wisely,” said Mr. Finley. “Instead of asking for good health or a peaceful heart, most usually wish for money, objects, or power, and find misery in return. The dwarfs thought it best if no one could hold on to the torc for very long. So they created this simple way for others to win it.”