Gabriel Finley and the Lord of Air and Darkness

by George Hagen

  “What if Pleshette doesn’t find him?” asked Abby.

  Mr. Finley shrugged. “Leon Pleshette always regretted selling the stove to me; he’d love to get it back for nothing. I suspect that if he gives up looking for Paladin today, his greed will drive him to resume the search tomorrow.”

  At that moment, Trudy gave a shrill cry from downstairs: “Dinner’s ready!”

  Mr. Finley sighed at the thought of Trudy’s cooking. “Care to join us for turkey gizzard casserole?”

  “Turkey gizzard?” Somes looked horrified.

  Pamela, however, glanced at the door and whispered, “When Mom wasn’t looking, I asked the stove to fix it up. I promise it’ll be delicious.”

  Somes called home and got his dad’s permission. Abby dashed across the street to tell her mothers that she would be eating at the Finleys’.

  When everybody had gathered in the kitchen to help set the table, they were overwhelmed by the wonderful smell coming from the oven.

  Trudy was puzzled. “I smell nutmeg and paprika,” she said. “But I didn’t use nutmeg and paprika.”

  The casserole glowed golden brown, with little puddles of butter and wisps of steam rising from the surface.

  Trudy served helpings to Mr. Finley, Aunt Jaz, and the children, then took her first forkful and gasped. “I’ve never made something so delicious in my life,” she said.

  Pamela shared a secret smile with Somes and Abby.

  Aunt Jaz, however, looked rather upset. Her eyes settled upon the one empty table setting, where Gabriel would have sat.

  “Oh!” said Trudy, following her glance. “I forgot Gabriel! He doesn’t generally enjoy my cooking, but I must take a serving up to him—”

  “I’ll do that,” said Pamela quickly.

  “Don’t go too close, dear. He might be contagious,” said Trudy. “It’s probably something he caught from that dirty raven.”

  Pamela gathered a napkin, silverware, and a plate of food, then hurried upstairs to Gabriel’s bedroom. It was empty, of course. The window sash was still open from his attempt to rescue Abby the night before.

  Pamela decided to eat his serving so that she could take the emptied plate back downstairs. She closed the window and sat on the bed. The casserole was delicious, but when she had finished her last bite, she heard a voice.

  Where is Paladin?

  Who’s that? she wondered, staring at the window. There was no one to be seen.

  Where is Paladin? the voice repeated. Is he safe?

  Pamela hadn’t forgotten about Abby’s terrible encounter with Hookeye. But this voice felt so close, so familiar and friendly, that she drew nearer and raised the window. “My name is Pamela,” she replied. “Paladin is in trouble. He was captured and put in a cage. Who are you?”

  I am Vyka. I’m his friend.

  Pamela suddenly realized that she was hearing the voice in her head. And this, she remembered, was a sure sign of a special encounter with a raven.

  A bird landed upon the windowsill. Her dark satin feathers caught the light and radiated a deep blue sheen. She was the most beautiful raven Pamela had ever seen.

  The two looked at each other for a long moment, and then the raven recited a riddle: “What question can never be answered with yes?”

  Pamela felt a shiver. She had been asked a riddle by a raven!

  Concentrating, she imagined the possible answers. Any question can be answered with yes, though it may not be correct, she thought. This was tricky. So the only question that can’t be answered is one asked of someone who is unable to reply.

  It was then that she guessed the answer. “I know,” she said. “The question that can never be answered with yes is ‘Are you dead?’ ”

  The raven laughed—a silvery giggle so sweet and clear that Pamela almost wept. Then the raven bowed to her.

  Will you be my amicus? asked Vyka.

  —

  Later, when Pamela returned with the empty plate, all eyes turned to her.

  “Goodness, he ate everything!” said Trudy with surprise. “He’s never done that before. Perhaps he’s not as sick as you think. Sit down and have your dinner now, dear.”

  “But I just—” But then Pamela thought better of her reply and drew the full plate toward her.

  After dinner, Pamela led Abby and Somes out of the house. “Guess what?” she said on the stoop. “I answered a raven’s riddle while I was upstairs!”

  Abby’s smile faded. “You did?”

  “I did. She’s beautiful, and her name is Vyka,” Pamela explained.

  Abby’s mouth dropped open. “Pamela,” she said, “I hate you!”

  Without another word, she stood up to leave. Somes caught her by the arm. “Abby, c’mon,” he said. “That’s not nice. This is good news.”

  “Why?” snapped Abby, trembling with fury.

  “Maybe she can help us rescue Gabriel.”

  Abby stopped. She turned and glared bitterly at Pamela. “Pleshette hates children. He’d never even let us into his store.”

  “He will if we offer to sell him a talking raven,” said Somes.

  “But we won’t actually do it,” added Pamela hastily. “That’ll be our way to get in.”

  “Oh, really?” snapped Abby. “And then how do we get Gabriel free? It’s impossible. He’s in a cage with a melody lock. You need a robin to open it. Don’t you see how hopeless it is?”

  At first, Pamela was stunned into silence by Abby’s anger, but then she spoke. “Right, a melody lock! Remember when we went to Aviopolis to rescue Gabriel’s father? And we found a room full of ravens trapped in those bird-shaped cages?”

  “That’s right, I remember,” continued Somes. “Pamela opened them by playing a robin’s song on her violin.”

  Abby’s harsh expression melted and tears rolled down her cheeks. “God, I’m so awful, Pamela.” She licked her glasses and dried them on the hem of her dress. “Look, I don’t hate you, but if you hate me for being such a brat, I’ll understand.”

  “I don’t hate you, stupid,” Pamela replied. “We’ll go rescue Gabriel tomorrow right after school.”

  As Pamela, Abby, and Somes parted ways, they felt a giddy mix of relief and excitement. Abby was glad to have friends who forgave her so quickly. Somes was pleased to have thought of a plan to get into Pleshette’s shop. But Pamela had the most complicated feelings of all: a raven had asked her a riddle. Did it mean she was phenomenally lucky? Or did it mean—and this was something both troubling and puzzling—that her father was a Finley?

  There wasn’t much for Paladin and Gabriel to do but sleep until Punch made his morning rounds. The monkey had artfully concealed the metal cage from Pleshette’s view with hanging carpets. In fact, this little hideaway seemed to contain a number of items Punch reserved for himself—an immense sack of red pistachio nuts, some boiled eggs in a string bag, and a clear plastic purse containing an array of multicolored scrunchies for the tuft on his head. At feeding time, he hammered the cage with his gavel until they awoke, then poked a few gray pellets through the metal beak into Paladin’s mouth. “Eat! Eat!” the monkey screeched.

  The pellets tasted as dull and dry as sawdust. Revolted, Paladin spat them out.

  “Must eat!” Punch leered. “You’re a valuable raven, and only Punch will feed you.”

  I think we’d better do what the monkey says, Paladin, said Gabriel. Anyway, I’m starving.

  I wish I could eat his tail for breakfast.

  So they ate, and then sank back into a gloomy half-sleep, vaguely conscious of the activity in the shop below.

  Visitors to Pleshette’s shop fell into two categories: There were the puzzled browsers who didn’t see anything useful and left after a minute or two. Then came the real customers—sneaky types who entered wearing sunglasses and hats that concealed their faces—who requested all kinds of odd concoctions, from Lucky Lozenges (for gamblers to improve their winnings) to Contagious Cologne (a perfume that compels people to mimic the person
wearing it).

  “Comedians and politicians are my best customers for this product,” said Pleshette. “If you laugh, everybody else who smells the scent will laugh. If you clap, applause will break out. Just don’t run to the bathroom or you’ll cause a stampede.”

  Some customers bought Phone Parrots (who could talk in any voice, for keeping up a phone conversation while you lie down and take a nap) or Quiz Mice (who sit in your top pocket and whisper the answers to test questions).

  Gabriel and Paladin noticed that Pleshette told every customer that his products did marvelous things, but his guarantees sounded slippery. “If it doesn’t work, I’ll give you something else of equal value,” he promised.

  Around noon, a familiar voice woke them out of their daze.

  “Good morning, my good man!” A tall gentleman with white hair and a weather-beaten face had entered. He wore a tweed coat with a stylish maroon silk scarf knotted around his neck. A gray raven perched on his shoulder.

  “Septimus Geiger at your service,” he said. “I have some items that may be of interest to you, Pleshette. But before we begin I shall require a cup of tea with cream and sugar, and my raven, Burbage, would appreciate a small white mouse.”

  Pleshette glanced at the visitor, then at the gray bird. “Didn’t you used to have a white raven?”

  “Yes, old Crawfin,” said Septimus. “He came to an unfortunate end, disappeared by magic, poor fellow. This is his brother, Burbage.”

  The raven dipped his head and said, “Make that two mice, if you please. Fresh, not frozen.”

  “How long has it been, Septimus?” said Pleshette. “Was it last year when I introduced you to that little troublemaker, Gabriel Finley?”

  Gabriel’s ears pricked up. Hey, Paladin, he said. It’s Septimus Geiger! Remember him?

  Of course I do, replied Paladin. How could I forget how that weasel stole the torc from you, but was so tormented by its mischievous black magic that he gave it back? Then he helped us rescue your father from the citadel in Aviopolis. He must be here to sell something to Pleshette. I wonder if it’s bought, borrowed, or stolen.

  Pleshette flipped the sign on his door to read CLOSED and brought out two teacups. “Punch!” he cried. “Fetch me a couple of mice, pronto.”

  The monkey emerged from his brass urn, swung up to a cage, and extracted two live mice by their tails. He teased Septimus’s raven by dangling the first mouse a few inches beyond his reach.

  Burbage snapped at it—but missed.

  “Stupid, stupid, stupid!” cackled the monkey, and he swung the mouse before the raven again.

  The gray raven darted forward, ignoring the mouse, and bit the monkey’s tail.

  “Aaaaeeeiii!” Punch released both mice and the raven swallowed them in two snaps.

  “Good heavens, what an unnecessary fuss!” shouted Septimus.

  The terrified monkey swung up to the rafters and nursed his tail, sobbing to himself, “Stupid, stupid, stupid!”

  Pleshette ignored the monkey’s weeping. “What brings you here, Septimus?”

  “I’ve been underground.”

  The shopkeeper’s eyes narrowed. “Aviopolis?”

  When Septimus nodded, Pleshette darted to the window and drew down the blind. Then he turned to a beautiful blue enamel and silver samovar on the shelf and whispered, “Tea, pozhaluista”—please in Russian.

  The samovar uttered a baritone sigh; then its stubby brass legs quivered to life and trotted over to the cups. The faucet gasped and poured hot water into each cup. Then the elegant little teapot on top of the samovar scuttled down to add tea to the cups and sprang back to its perch.

  Septimus scrutinized his cup. “A little more, please?”

  Muttering “Zhadnaya”—greedy—the teapot dispensed more tea.

  From the rafters, the captives peered down with great interest.

  Paladin? said Gabriel, excited. Should we try to get Septimus’s attention? He might help us.

  Have you forgotten how the parrots drowned me out when your father came? said Paladin.

  Oh, right, said Gabriel.

  “And what did you find underground, Septimus?” continued Pleshette.

  “Well, you may recall that the city of Aviopolis was all but destroyed during the defeat of Corax,” he said. “The citadel collapsed, the great chambers were smashed to rubble, and the Finley boy chased after the robin who stole the torc.”

  “Spare me the history lesson,” said Pleshette. “Did you find anything for me to sell?”

  “Certainly, my dear fellow.” Septimus nodded at a rumpled leather drawstring bag at his feet. Pleshette reached for it, but Burbage snapped at his fingers. The shopkeeper drew back, giving the raven a dirty look.

  “As I was saying,” continued Septimus. “Burbage and I went back there to try to find items of value.”

  “And?”

  “You may recall that Aviopolis was built by dwarfs—masters of the forge—who created mysterious jewels of gold or silver that were charmed with black magic.”

  “Yes, yes?” said Pleshette, his eyes focused on the bag.

  “Well, we wandered to the east for what seemed like miles until we came to a maze. After we made our way through it, we discovered a pair of doors. Naturally, I was curious about what lay beyond them. So I used my extraordinary wits and consummate skill to unlock—”

  “But mostly an ax,” added Burbage.

  Septimus glared at the raven. “It’s my story, Mr. Smarty-Pants. Let me tell it my way. Anyway, I entered to see a chamber with a pedestal rimmed by—”

  “What’s in the bag?” said Pleshette impatiently.

  Annoyed by this second interruption, Septimus stopped talking and slowly dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief. “A pedestal rimmed by fire, which contained…” He paused. “May I have a spot more tea?”

  Pleshette stamped his foot. “In the name of Nellie Bly, Septimus!” he said. “Will you forget the tea and explain what’s in the bag?”

  Septimus widened his eyes. “Amazing things. See for yourself.” He began to loosen the drawstrings on the bag. “Stand back!”

  Overhead, Paladin peered through the eyeholes of his cage. Every creature in the shop seemed in suspense, anxious to know what had been retrieved from the ruins of Aviopolis.

  With a flourish, Septimus revealed his prize.

  Pleshette’s expression dropped, and he sank back in his chair. “Four rocks? Very funny, Septimus.”

  But the light in his guest’s eyes remained bright.

  “These are runes, my friend. They contain unfortunate captives—shrunk down, of course—who disappeared when the torc’s magic was cast upon them.”

  Gabriel felt his heart start galloping. Paladin! Septimus found the Chamber of Runes!

  As Septimus explained the significance of his discovery, Pleshette offered him a cigar. Presently, a billowing cloud of orange smoke filled the shop and the room began to smell like sweaty socks and boiled cabbage mixed together.

  “Galimpong cigars. They’re made from the—hic!—of a yak,” said Pleshette, hiccuping helplessly.

  “What?” replied Septimus. “What part of a yak are they made from?”

  “The—hic!—of a yak.”

  Even though it was impossible to know what part of a yak Pleshette was referring to, Septimus grimaced at the cigar and stubbed it out. “Look here, man, let’s talk about how much these runes are worth.”

  “Very well,” said Pleshette. “I’ll give you twenty bucks for the lot of them.”

  “Nonsense,” said Septimus. “My dear fellow, these runes are worth thousands each.”

  Pleshette laughed. “Thousands for a stone! You’re cracked, crocked, and cockled!”

  “Wait.” Septimus carefully picked out one stone and lit a match behind it. “Take a closer look, my friend.”

  Pleshette folded down one of the thickest lenses from his peculiar spectacles, and peered at the peach-sized rock with the light glowing behind it. “Good
heavens!” he cried.

  There was something inside—and it moved.

  “P. T. Barnum’s holy trousers,” whispered Pleshette. “Perhaps these are runes.”

  “Precisely!” chuckled Septimus. He blew out the match, then glanced at his raven. “Hey there, Burbage. Please stop that.”

  “Stop what?” answered Burbage innocently. He was perched beside a cage marked QUIZ MICE. A mouse tail had just disappeared into his beak. The cage’s little wire door hung open and mice were leaping out to save their lives.

  “Don’t eat the merchandise,” snapped the shopkeeper, waving the raven away from the cage and locking it. He returned to the counter, where he drew a small mineral hammer from a drawer. “Now, how does one release the contents of a rune?”

  As Pleshette began tapping at the unusual stone, the figure inside turned abruptly and peered out.

  “I—I—I wouldn’t do that,” stammered Septimus. “It’s very delicate.”

  “How else do you get it out?” retorted Pleshette, tapping harder.

  He tapped two more times, and a blinding blue light enveloped the room followed by a shattering noise, as if a thousand windowpanes had been smashed at the same moment.

  “Oh dear,” said Septimus.

  A dwarf-sized man stood where the rock had been on the counter. He had a fearsome glare on his face, and an enormous red beard that sprayed out in all directions.

  He shouted at Septimus. “Ske-dig-dig-digga? Ske-dig-dig-digga? Felogghabbad!”

  “Greetings, my, um, friend!” cried Septimus. He offered his cigar.

  The dwarf, however, was glaring at Pleshette, who held up his tiny hammer as if to protect himself.

  The dwarf eyed the hammer and drew an enormous sword from his scabbard, preparing to swing, but then his expression changed. He groaned, lowered his sword, clutched his belly, and stiffened. Then, quite abruptly, he burst into a million brilliant pieces, which fizzled into thin air.

  A smell of rotten eggs filled the room. Cinders fluttered down upon the counter. Burbage shook his feathers. Septimus and Pleshette coughed and patted themselves off.

  “You owe me…thousands!” gasped Septimus.