by George Hagen
“I’m not paying for that one.” Pleshette sniffed. “They shouldn’t explode.”
“Oh, you’re an expert on runes all of a sudden?” said Burbage sarcastically.
“I don’t see the value of these things,” Pleshette argued. “Who would buy a dwarf waving a sword? It’s not something you want in your living room.”
“You’re missing the point,” said Septimus. “Each rune contains the victim of a wish granted by the torc.”
“A torc that grants wishes—now, that’s something I would buy,” Pleshette mused. “But I don’t see any use for a rune.”
“And if I told you that the Lord of Air and Darkness is trapped in one?”
“Corax?” Pleshette turned pale, but then a greedy smile formed on his lips. “Well—that could bring millions. May I see it?”
Septimus received a cautionary glance from the gray raven and drew the bag close to his chest. “I can assure you, he’s here, along with two others,” he replied. “One contains my old raven, Crawfin—Burbage’s brother. The third contains a woman, I think. I don’t know who she is.”
Paladin! said Gabriel. It must be my mother! The owls told us she was in the Chamber of Runes, and these runes hold victims of the torc’s magic. Septimus found her.
The question is, replied Paladin, would he help you release her?
Down below, Septimus had just asked Pleshette to show him the millions he would pay for Corax’s rune.
“Who keeps that much money lying around?” the shopkeeper protested. “I would need to make arrangements.” His expression grew cautious. “But this rune isn’t worth anything unless you can get Corax out of it without it exploding into smithereens.”
Septimus frowned. “Clearly, your hammer was the wrong approach. I happen to know someone who might know. He’s an expert on the torc’s history. Professor Adam Finley.”
In the cage above, Gabriel ached with frustration. If only we could escape now, he said to Paladin. I could free her.
How? replied Paladin.
Don’t you remember? The stork told us that you need to answer a riddle to release a rune’s captive.
Pleshette picked up Adam Finley’s card from the counter. “Interesting,” he murmured. “Finley was just here, looking for a raven called Paladin.”
Septimus glanced up at the cages. “Gabriel Finley’s raven?”
Gabriel decided this was his chance. “Septimus!” he cried. “It’s me, Gabriel!”
“Septimus, Septimus, Septimus!” cried the parrots.
“It’s me! It’s me! It’s me!” cried the cockatoos.
“Gabriel! Gabriel! Gabriel!” cried the mynahs.
Punch swung over and hammered the gavel against the cage until Paladin uttered a gasp of pain.
“Is Gabriel here?” said Septimus.
The noise in the shop was deafening as every bird claimed to be Gabriel.
Pleshette flipped up his green visor and shook his head at Septimus. “No, they’re only repeating words they’ve heard. They’re just stupid birds.” Pleshette stole another glance at the bag of runes. “Why don’t you leave that with me and invite the professor over for a chat?”
“I’ve got a better idea,” replied Septimus. “I’ll keep the bag until you come up with a bundle of cash to buy the runes.”
Pleshette became annoyed. “Now, look here, you didn’t have a clue what Corax’s rune was worth until you came to me. How do I know you won’t strike up some shady deal and sell it to this professor?”
The two men glared back and forth for a moment, neither trusting the other.
But then Burbage winked at Septimus, and a message seemed to pass between the gray raven and his wily companion.
“Calm down, my dear old friend,” Septimus said merrily. “Just give me your word that you’ll keep this bag safe, and neither open it nor touch any of its contents until I return. We don’t want another unpleasant accident, do we?”
“Very well. You have my word,” said Pleshette, accepting the precious bag from Septimus.
—
After Pleshette closed the door on Septimus, he stowed the bag away, and paused to glare at the dozens of cages. “Who spoke?” he said.
The monkey pointed the gavel’s handle at Paladin. “Not a word, not a whimper,” he warned.
Pleshette stamped his foot. “Punch! Where are you? Who have you got up there? Must I bring back the gray raven? I will, you know. If you don’t come clean with me, I’ll clip your tail off and feed it to that mouse thief with salt, pepper, and ketchup!”
The monkey’s eyebrows rose in fear. “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” he murmured. Reluctantly, he unhooked Paladin’s cage from the ceiling and swung down to the counter, dropping it roughly before Pleshette.
“Very good, my little rascal.” Pleshette stroked the monkey’s head and offered him a handful of bright red pistachio nuts. The monkey grabbed them eagerly and began cracking them open with his pointy teeth, then flicking the shells away.
Adjusting his glasses, Pleshette examined the cage.
“Oh,” he said. “I’ve seen one of these before.” He ran an ink-stained finger along the rivets and metalwork. “This is black magic, all right. Fine handiwork from Aviopolis. Steel fastenings. It’s a melody lock, if I recall. An ingenious device that requires the trill of a robin to unlock it.”
So that’s the only way to get out of here, remarked Gabriel.
Pleshette scrutinized the raven. “Haven’t we met before?”
He shook the cage. But Paladin said nothing.
“Answer! Say your name, raven!”
When no reply came, Pleshette nodded to the monkey, who began hammering the cage as hard as he could. When this produced no result, the monkey flipped the gavel and poked it sharply into Paladin’s wing.
“Stop it, please! I’m Paladin!”
The shopkeeper grabbed the monkey’s gavel. A gleam appeared in his eye. “Ah, yes,” he murmured. “So you are the Finley boy’s bird. You’ll be my insurance that Septimus won’t make some private deal with that professor!” He placed the cage on a high shelf behind his counter and covered it with a sheet. “What a good day it’s been. I’m in possession of a talking raven and a rune worth millions.”
Just then the bell rang loudly, and Pleshette saw three children peering through the window.
“Go away!” he cried.
But the children would not leave. A girl with cat’s-eye glasses and hair tightly braided in twelve short blond pigtails held up a shoe box for Pleshette to see. The boy beside her, a tall, gangly fellow with black-framed glasses, pressed the bell again. Another girl holding a violin case peered in hopefully.
Pleshette opened the door a crack. “Holy Harry Houdini, stop ringing my bell!” he snarled. “I don’t want to buy cookies or whatever garbage you’re selling.”
“Hi there, Mr. Pleshette,” said the girl with pigtails. “We found this talking raven, but never mind.” She turned to her friends. “Let’s go, guys!”
“Wait!” cried Pleshette, opening the door wide. “Another talking raven?”
He beckoned for the children to enter.
Pamela removed the lid to reveal Vyka. Pleshette peered at the marvelous blue bird from every angle and nodded. “Excellent condition,” he said. “Where did you find it?”
“Her,” said Pamela, leaning her violin case against the counter. “She landed on my windowsill.”
“And?”
“Asked me a riddle,” said Pamela.
“And?” Pleshette’s eyes widened.
“I couldn’t guess it.”
“Excellent! A raven without an amicus is even more valuable. I can certainly get a good price for it, and, of course, I would give you half of the normal share—”
“Wait,” interrupted Pamela. “Why only half?”
“You’re just children,” said the shopkeeper. “You’re half the size of an adult.”
“But you’re not buying us.”
Pleshette glare
d at them. “I have to pay taxes…foreign tariffs…fees, fines…surcharges!”
“No you don’t,” said Abby calmly. “You’re making it up.”
“But, my dear girl, listen to reason,” continued Pleshette.
During this discussion, Somes had been looking around the shop for Paladin’s cage. He couldn’t see it among the items hanging from the ceiling, so he caught Abby’s eye and shook his head.
“Maybe we should go,” Abby said.
“All right, fine, no problem. You can have the normal share,” said Pleshette hastily. “Let me hear her talk.”
Pamela leaned toward Vyka. “Speak, little bird!”
The blue raven opened her beak and uttered a noise almost like a cork popping from a bottle: “THROK! THROK!”
Immediately, an answer came. “THROK! THROK!”
He is here, Vyka told Pamela, who signaled the good news to Abby and Somes.
“That’s not talking,” protested the shopkeeper. “You said she could talk.”
“C’mon, little bird. Speak!” said Pamela.
Vyka uttered more throkking sounds.
All this time, Paladin and Gabriel had been listening carefully. Gabriel? said Paladin. My friend Vyka just told me we’re about to be released by your friends! You must be ready to jump free of me when the time comes. Do you understand?
I’m ready, said Gabriel.
Pleshette was growing impatient. “You’re not fooling me,” he said. “This bird can’t talk. Get out of my shop.”
“No, honestly!” Pamela insisted. “I promise.” She held up her violin case. “The raven loves music.”
“Oh no.” Pleshette clutched his bald head in despair. “A horrible screeching violin. I used to play one when I was a kid. It’s the worst sound in the world.”
Pamela opened the case, gently took out her violin, and started playing. A joyous melody filled the shop. Dozens of miserable captives peered out from their cages. Even Pleshette lowered his hands and listened, transfixed by the beautiful sound. His eyes settled on Pamela, as if he wished he could put her in a cage and sell her.
Meanwhile, Somes was eyeing a jar full of delicious-looking brown candies on the counter. Without glancing at the label, he reached inside, grabbed one, and popped it into his mouth. “Yum,” he murmured. “Butterscotch!”
As he sucked on the candy, something strange began to happen: the room appeared to shimmer with a golden glow, and Pleshette’s image suddenly split into two. The first Pleshette listened to the music, but the other looked annoyed, raised his hands in alarm, and shouted, “Punch, get the cage!” The lid of a large brass urn popped off and a small monkey with sharp teeth sprang out.
Puzzled, Somes watched the monkey jump onto the counter, swing above Pleshette, and remove a sheet concealing a raven-shaped cage. In another moment, the monkey had taken it through a back window and disappeared.
Somes turned to the urn. The lid was still fastened and there was no sign of a monkey. It was only then that he checked the candy jar label, which read CLAIRVOYANCE CANDIES, SEE THE FUTURE!
When Pamela lowered her violin, Pleshette sneered. “You play very well, but I think you’re a liar,” he said. “That raven hasn’t said boo.”
“Please, can I try one more time?” Pamela begged.
Pleshette shook his head. “Leave! All of you!”
“Just one more time,” interrupted Somes, who tipped his head at the draped cage just over Pleshette’s head. Then he rested his elbow on the lid of the monkey’s brass urn.
Pamela played a trill of notes that sounded almost exactly like the warble of a robin. She looked up at the shelf, hoping to see Paladin spring free.
“Punch, get the cage!” cried Pleshette.
It was exactly what he had shouted in Somes’s premonition. A screech answered from inside the brass urn, but Somes kept his elbow firmly upon it.
“Try again!” Abby told Pamela.
Pamela played another trill. All eyes watched the shelf, but nothing happened.
“Punch, where are you?” demanded Pleshette.
The monkey shrieked from inside the urn. Somes held it shut.
“Again!” shouted Abby.
Pleshette grabbed Somes’s arm. The lid flew open and the monkey scuttled out and scrambled across the counter.
A sharp musical trill cut through the air and the cloth fell from the cage as it snapped open.
Jump, Gabriel! cried Paladin, and Gabriel sprang clear of his friend.
Paladin saw the monkey reach for him, so he spread his wings and grabbed the monkey’s tail with his beak. The monkey screeched and fought to escape.
Meanwhile, Gabriel had fallen on Pleshette. Before he could get his bearings, he felt himself being wrestled to the floor.
“Punch, I’ve got one of them!” yelled Pleshette.
But other hands grabbed Gabriel and wrenched him away. There were screams, shouts, and a door slamming. Footsteps pounded down a street. A monkey uttered a wail of pain.
“Come back!” shouted an angry voice.
Gabriel hobbled at first, stiff from his ordeal in the rigid cage, but Abby gripped his hand tightly and coaxed him to keep up with her. “Run, run, run! Just keep running!”
“You should have known it was a trick!” Pleshette shouted at Punch.
“You shouldn’t have let them in,” countered the monkey, rearranging his tuft.
Pleshette’s face turned crimson. “Tell me, my little rascal, how many other secrets have you kept from me aside from that raven cage? Do you think I’m stupid, stupid, stupid?”
The monkey cowered. “What about the runes?” he replied. “You still have them. And isn’t Corax’s rune worth millions? The valravens need to know you have their master for sale!”
The shopkeeper’s greed swiftly replaced his rage. “Excellent, Punch.” He drummed his fingers. “Now, how best to alert those moth-eaten ghouls?”
“Birds like to chatter,” replied the monkey.
“Yes,” said Pleshette with delight. “They certainly do.”
—
As the sun descended over the rooftops, Leon Pleshette went for a stroll with Punch on his shoulder. He paused to light one of his disgusting Galimpong cigars. Noxious orange smoke began to billow around him; he coughed and spied a pair of starlings on the branch of a nearby maple tree.
“Punch, what a fine day it is!” he remarked in a loud voice.
“Why is that, master?” asked the monkey.
“Well, now that I possess the rune containing the Lord of Air and Darkness, the valravens have only to pay me my fee to gain their leader’s freedom.”
The starlings listened, horrified, but eager to hear every detail. After Pleshette had explained the fortune he expected to be paid for Corax’s rune, the little birds took off to share the shocking news.
They told a party of finches gathered on a billboard, and the finches immediately told a grackle, who told a wren, who told a blue jay, who told some house sparrows, and that, of course, was like telling everybody.
The person most pleased to hear this news was, naturally, Corax, his soul still trapped inside the necklace around the robin’s neck.
It grieves me that the boy escaped, he told Snitcher. But we have no need of him now. The rune lies in Pleshette’s shop, and my valravens will claim it soon enough. I have no doubt that Hookeye can raise any fortune needed to procure it, and bring me back to my former self!
Snitcher called a meeting with Hookeye and the valravens on Cemetery Hill. Amid the solemn statues and mossy headstones, the phantoms converged. Puffing out his scarlet chest, the little robin hopped before a sea of sickly yellow eyes and tried to speak, but the ghouls jeered at him until Hookeye silenced them with a stern glare.
“Fellow valravens,” intoned the one-eyed phantom, “His Eminence is trapped in a rune. We must raise a fortune to free him.”
“Why not just steal it from the shopkeeper?” protested one valraven. “And drop it until it cracks o
pen?”
Hookeye’s mustard eye darkened. “Fool! The stone is delicate—one has been lost already. Would you dare risk the destruction of our leader? The shopkeeper must be paid.”
The phantom pointed toward an immense marble bowl at his feet.
“Bring every jewel you possess, every trinket, every ring, necklace, and pendant. Every ruby, sapphire, emerald, and pearl!”
Hearing Hookeye’s challenge, the valravens soared off to their hiding places and returned a few hours later with their valuables. One by one, each phantom hopped forward and plunked a few items into the bowl. Snitcher kept tally, describing each treasure to Corax.
By dawn, as the sky turned a bloody maroon, Corax sputtered with fury. Tinsel? Bottle caps? Christmas ornaments? This is litter, clutter, scrap, and rubbish!
The robin repeated Corax’s thoughts to Hookeye, who barked a challenge to his rancid followers. “We need real jewels. Who will find me diamonds and rubies?”
A confused silence followed this question.
“No one?” muttered Hookeye. “No one will help bring back the Lord of Air and Darkness?”
When no one replied, Snitcher uttered a valiant chirp, and hopped down to the bowl. He stared intensely at the junk, and suddenly, the torc started to glow. “I shall wish it, Eminence!”
There was a sudden burst of light. The bowl of trinkets began to glow, and soon it glittered with precious stones.
Hookeye chuckled. “Ah, here’s what we need!”
But then the torc stopped glowing and the jewels darkened into dull lumps of coal.
Curse that blasted black magic, moaned Corax. I should have expected some sort of trick. We must go about this the old-fashioned way—by theft and guile.
Somewhere in the flock, a valraven spoke. “There’s a spot I know,” he said. “The finest jewels can be found there. Enough to pay His Eminence’s ransom.”
“Show me this place,” ordered Hookeye.
—
At the Finley house on Fifth Street, Gabriel woke up in his own bed. It was Saturday. Paladin was perched on the bed knob with his eyelids shut, cooing softly in his sleep. Gabriel recalled getting home the evening before and being welcomed with big hugs from his father and Aunt Jaz.
