Gabriel Finley and the Raven’s Riddle (8 page)

“That's too bad,” said Gabriel.

Mrs. Baskin glanced at him sharply.

“I meant, about the fire—” he added.

“Pamela will need her own room,” Mrs. Baskin interrupted.
“She practices violin for ninety minutes a night. She must not be disturbed.”

Pamela held a violin case in her lap, cradling it as a mother might hold a baby.

“Of course she won't be disturbed,” Aunt Jaz assured her friend. “She may have the room beside Gabriel's on the third floor.”

“Can he carry Pamela's bag to her room?” said Mrs. Baskin.

Gabriel lumbered up the stairs with the bag, hoping Mrs. Baskin's apartment could be fixed up in a weekend—the sooner the better.

The bag was so heavy that he needed to pause to catch his breath on the first landing. “What's
in
here?” he asked Pamela, who was following him.

“I don't know,” she replied. “My mom packed it.” She offered to help, but Gabriel refused, and huffed and puffed his way up the next set of stairs.

Meanwhile, Aunt Jaz led Mrs. Baskin along the parlor floor. “Now, Trudy,” she said, “I thought I'd give you the third bedroom on the top floor.”

Mrs. Baskin happened to glance into the study; her eyes immediately settled on the boyhood portrait of Corax. She uttered a sentimental sigh. “This room will do,” she said.

“Oh, you don't want to sleep here,” said Aunt Jaz. “It's gloomy, and it doesn't have a proper bed.”

“Nonsense! I'll be fine on that couch.”

Puzzled, Aunt Jaz nodded. “Very well,” she said. “If you're sure.”

By the time Gabriel got Pamela's suitcase to the top floor, he was dizzy and had to steady himself. He dragged it into the bedroom and let it fall with a colossal thump. Pamela unzipped the suitcase; instead of clothes, a huge pile of music books fell out, reeking of smoke.

“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:

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.

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

W
ith 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.