by George Hagen
When he awoke in the morning, Gabriel found himself back in his own room. Paladin was at his usual spot on the bed knob. Gabriel’s father must have come home and taken him up to bed.
That next morning, as the household ate breakfast, Gabriel tried to catch his father’s eye. But Mr. Finley seemed to be deep in thought, staring at his coffee.
Eventually, Trudy left the house with Pamela, and Gabriel began to tell his father the details of his struggle with the giant worm.
“Good heavens!” said Mr. Finley. “I’m relieved that you and your friends were able to escape unharmed; you all showed extraordinary bravery.”
“Not me,” admitted Gabriel. “I just got swallowed.”
“Ah, but you thought of using the shovel to free Somes. If friends stand up for each other, they can survive anything.”
“Dad, we think the robin made a wish, and the torc delivered a giant worm.”
“That’s a good theory,” said Mr. Finley.
“Abby and Paladin think Snitcher is getting advice. What if I paravolate with Paladin and get the torc back from him before something worse—”
“Paravolate?” interrupted Mr. Finley. “No, I forbid it, Gabriel. You’ve been in enough danger already.”
Gabriel looked glumly into the milky remains of his cereal. But then he had a hopeful thought. “So what about yesterday? Did you find out anything about how to get Mom back?”
“All last night I pored over the only book I know on the subject of disappeared things, and it’s all—”
“Yes?” said Gabriel anxiously.
Mr. Finley gave a weary sigh. “It’s all written in Gutnish, a language I hardly understand. I could be studying another ten years before I find what I need to know.”
“Ten years before you can bring Mom back?”
Mr. Finley put his hand softly on Gabriel’s shoulder. “I won’t give up, Gabriel. But it may take a long time.”
Gabriel’s heart sank. Just a few days before, the prospect of finding his mother seemed so close. He sat stirring the milk in his bowl, trying to rally his feelings into some hopeful thought, when his eyes strayed to the stove.
“Hey, Dad?” he said. “Pamela got the stove to cook custard for her yesterday.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Mr. Finley. “You know, it’s a mojo-mechanism, just like the desk.”
“A mojo-mechanism?”
“That’s correct—a charmed object with an independent sense of purpose,” said Mr. Finley. “Your aunt never liked using it; she felt it was cheating to cook with magic all the time. It happens to be very good at beef stroganoff and makes a dandy pineapple upside-down cake.”
“Where did it come from?”
“Oh, I bought it years ago from that shady fellow, Pleshette, who has the shop on Union Street.”
Gabriel remembered visiting Pleshette the year before. A snippy, disagreeable man, the shopkeeper grudgingly gave him advice on feeding Paladin—although he had been more interested in buying Paladin so that he could sell him for a lot of money.
“Pleshette runs a very disreputable business,” said Mr. Finley. “The stove could make rash potions, which he sold for high prices.”
“What are rash potions?”
“They’re ill-considered or reckless medicines,” said Mr. Finley. “He sold an elixir that would keep a child looking the same age forever. In one terrible case, a woman ran out of the potion and her five-year-old suddenly turned into a fifty-seven-year-old who still couldn’t tie his shoelaces! It’s a lesson for anyone seeking eternal youth.”
“The thing I don’t understand is why Pamela is so good with magical stuff,” said Gabriel. “She got the stove to cook on the first try.”
Mr. Finley’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Well, these things run in families.”
“But Trudy isn’t…I mean, she doesn’t even believe in magic. So it must have been Pamela’s dad. Who was he, anyway?”
“Look at the time,” replied Mr. Finley. “I’ve a class to teach.” He jumped up with surprising vigor and disappeared up the stairs.
Gabriel stared after him, puzzled. Mr. Finley had many secrets. Every time he revealed one, he would expose another mystery that needed to be solved.
The weather for the rest of the week was normal. That is to say that no odd things fell out of the sky, and nothing gigantic came bursting out of the soil. Still, Gabriel’s father had forbidden him to go into the backyard in case the worm or the robin returned.
Gabriel kept an eye out for Snitcher on his windowsill, but he didn’t see him. Nevertheless, he had the uncomfortable feeling that he was being watched.
Each day, as he and his friends walked home from school, they kept a lookout for the robin. Abby was also on the alert for ravens because she remembered that Gabriel had answered a raven’s riddle around the time of his twelfth birthday, and her birthday was in just a few days.
“I’m practicing riddles, just in case,” she said.
By now it was the middle of February. One morning the icy puddles melted, the skies became clear, and the days grew pleasantly warm, at least at midday. It might have been a wintry lull (or the work of a wishful robin). Gabriel’s friends chose to enjoy it by gathering on his stoop after school.
“Who wants to ask me a riddle?” said Abby.
“Okay,” said Gabriel. “What’s broken whenever it’s spoken?”
Abby frowned. “Broken whenever it’s spoken. Hmm. Most riddles depend on the double meaning of a word. What’s another meaning for break? The dawn breaks when the sun rises. Waves break, but they’re not broken. Ooh! I know!” She turned to Gabriel. “Is it silence, because if you say the word, you break the silence?”
“That’s it!” said Gabriel.
Abby rubbed her glasses. “I’m trying to solve at least five riddles a day,” she said. “It would be a catastrophe to cross paths with a raven and not be ready for it.”
“Aren’t you missing one important fact?” said Somes.
“What?” said Abby.
“Bonding with ravens runs in Gabriel’s family. Your chances of meeting one are really slim.”
“Somes, don’t jinx me!” Abby cried. “What if I told you that the one thing you wanted more than anything else was totally impossible to get?”
Somes shrugged. “Sorry, but you’re not a Finley.”
Gabriel changed the topic. “Pamela, what do you know about your dad?”
“He left when I was a baby, and his name was Ramsey. Ramsey Baskin,” she replied. “Why?”
“Oh, it’s just that my dad wasn’t surprised that you got the oven to cook. When I asked why, he said magic runs in the family.”
“You know, every time I ask about my dad, my mom changes the subject,” Pamela said. “I don’t even have a picture of him.”
Abby turned to her with excitement. “Pamela,” she said, “you’ve got to find out the truth. If your mom hasn’t told you anything, there must be a reason. And what if it’s a really incredible reason?”
—
The holly bush in the yard next to the Finley house had needle-sharp leaves that deterred cats as well as larger birds. It was the perfect hiding place, and Snitcher had been using it as his base since eluding Paladin.
His vicious little black eyes watched the children on the stoop. “Just one wish and I could turn the boys into grubs and the girls into—”
You’ll make no wishes, commanded the voice in his head.
“But, Eminence, they are our enemies! If that worm had succeeded—”
You foolish, obstinate bird, I gave you no order to wish for a worm, snapped Corax. How am I to accomplish my release if you disobey my commands?
“Eminence, we do not need them,” Snitcher persisted. “The older Finley is the only one who matters.”
I have my reasons.
“I know what to wish,” continued Snitcher. “I’ll wish the brown-haired girl would turn into a delicious earwig—”
Of all those children, s
he is the one you must never harm! Do you hear me?
“But why?”
I am tired of your questions. Do my bidding and fly to the graveyard.
The robin was about to argue, but Corax’s order was emphasized by a tightening sensation around his neck. Impelled by fear, he spread his wings and flew into the air.
Within moments, he had forgotten about Corax’s puzzling command never to harm the girl with long brown hair.
It was dusk when the robin arrived at Cemetery Hill. He alighted in the crook of a tree, where he could not be seen. As the sunset faded from pale pink to a deep nocturnal violet, a wailing wind circled the mausoleums and obelisks, and several tatty black birds, their eyes glowing a sickly yellow, alighted on the headstones nearby.
“Greetings, Dreadbeak!”
“Good evening, Clutcher. Is there news?”
“We heard thunder beneath the ground earlier in the week. A monster worm lurks therein. Nobody knows how it came to be.”
“Any word from our lord and master?”
“Alas, not yet,” muttered Clutcher. “Perhaps Hookeye knows.”
The valraven turned toward a particularly large and decrepit valraven with one yellow eye. His craggy beak was tipped white with age, his sparse feathers revealed yellowed bones and ribs, and he was perched upon the stone head of a winged baby, drumming his jagged talons upon the cherub’s forehead.
“It has been months, brothers, since the disappearance of His Eminence,” said Hookeye in a gravelly voice. “We remain determined to find him, and to renew our conquest of the sunlit world.”
“But we have searched everywhere,” replied Clutcher. “Aviopolis is a maze of ruins; it might take a hundred years to visit every chamber.”
“I feel his presence in my bones, he is close, his spirit unites us,” growled Hookeye.
“Piffle!” protested Dreadbeak. “Your bones are falling to bits. The spirit you feel is damp air blowing through dry flesh and tatty feathers. He’s gone. He’s kaput. He’s—”
But Dreadbeak never finished his sentence. Hookeye flew at him with a merciless cry. CAW! CAW! Talons extended, the one-eyed phantom ripped at the other valraven, snapping at his throat and wings with his razor-sharp beak.
When Hookeye was done, Dreadbeak had been scattered in pieces upon the cemetery grass. But because he was immortal, his claws and wings squirmed by themselves, attempting to rejoin with his other parts.
“Let this be a lesson to every one of you!” said Hookeye, looking with disgust at the rest of his flock. “We may live forever, but I can still tear you apart, limb from limb. The next valraven that crosses me will spend the rest of eternity in search of his own head.”
Snitcher watched in absolute horror, his scarlet breast heaving.
It is time for you to speak, robin, said Corax. Tell them I am here. Inside you.
“What?” Snitcher’s little black eyes darted back and forth. “Must I? What if they don’t believe me?”
Do as I say!
The robin fluttered anxiously from the tree and landed upon a tombstone to face the flock of valravens.
“Greetings, valravens!” he chirped. “It is I, Snitcher, lieutenant to the Lord of Air and Darkness, and I bring good news.”
“Indeed, robin.” Hookeye regarded him with a hungry sneer. “What say you?”
“His Eminence speaks to me through this torc I’m wearing. He is inside it, doomed by its mischievous curse to be separated from his body. He desires that you all follow my commands.”
“But you’re just a robin,” muttered another valraven.
“I speak for His Eminence! He desires your help to reunite with his body.”
“You don’t sound like him,” said another.
“If you disobey me,” warned Snitcher, “you’ll suffer the wrath of Corax!”
The shabby ghouls converged on the robin. “Prove it, boastful one!”
“What can I do to make them believe me?” mumbled Snitcher.
Make a wish, of course.
The robin’s black eyes darted from one valraven to the next, relishing the chance to teach them a lesson. I wish, he thought, looking at the valravens. Suddenly, the torc glowed. There was a bright flash of blue light and three valravens flapped their wings in panic. Two of them froze in midair, then fell to the ground, shattering into stone fragments. The third remained attached to a headstone, solid as rock, as if carved by a stonemason.
A valraven hopped upon the headstone and tapped the unfortunate bird with his beak. “Still as stone,” he murmured.
Hookeye turned to the robin. “If His Eminence does speak to you,” he growled, “then tell me how old I am, for I am Corax’s most loyal valraven. I found him in the frosty reaches of the north, after he left his family and ate the flesh of his own raven. He alone knows my age.”
Four hundred and sixty-three.
The robin thrust out his chest and repeated, “Four hundred and sixty-three!”
The old valraven dipped his head, extending one foot in a stately bow. “Very well. Then a thousand valravens await his command.”
It was early Saturday morning when Pamela padded downstairs to find her mother sitting alone at the breakfast table. The house was quiet; everybody else was still asleep. All night, Pamela had been mulling over Abby’s words. You’ve got to find out the truth. So she sat down at the table and fixed her eyes upon her mother with a steady and resolute gaze.
“Mom, I need to know about my dad.”
Trudy Baskin didn’t look up, but her chin began to tremble slightly. “What is it you want to know, dear?”
“Who was he and what happened to him?”
“Well, I’ve been expecting that question,” admitted Trudy. “And I’d like to be able to tell you. But the truth is…”
Excited, Pamela leaned forward. “What?”
“The night you were born, I lost my memory. And your father disappeared.”
“But you always told me he died.”
“Died or vanished—I’m not sure which is worse,” Trudy replied. “All I know is that something terrible happened that night. The last thing I remember was seeing a hideous raven with one yellow eye.”
—
“No way,” said Gabriel when Pamela shared her mother’s explanation. “How could he just disappear? And why was a valraven the last thing she saw?”
It was later that Saturday afternoon, and the four were clustered on Gabriel’s stoop. They were shivering because a cold snap had descended over Brooklyn. Pamela didn’t want to talk inside, where her mother might overhear them.
“A sudden disappearance,” said Somes. “Sounds like someone in your family, Gabriel.”
“Yeah, but I know what my mom looks like,” replied Gabriel. “I have pictures. How could Pamela’s dad be a total mystery?”
“Doesn’t your mom have wedding pictures?” asked Abby.
“Nope,” Pamela replied. “And she said all his stuff vanished into thin air.”
“No uncles, aunts? Other family?” added Gabriel.
“She doesn’t remember.”
Abby threw up her hands. “Totally impossible!”
“Do you think she was lying?” asked Gabriel.
Pamela shook her head. “I think she was very scared and she’s afraid of remembering what happened.”
“Hmm,” said Somes. “So she remembered a raven with one yellow eye?”
“I guess that explains why she doesn’t like ravens,” said Gabriel.
Abby sprang up from the step, delighted. “This is too cool! You have a mysterious father who completely disappeared when you were born, and the only thing your mother remembers is a valraven.”
“It doesn’t feel cool,” Pamela said wistfully. “I have a zillion questions and zero answers.”
“Hey,” said Gabriel, “maybe it’s time to ask the writing desk.”
Gabriel was, of course, referring to the other mojo-mechanism in the Finley house—the small black desk with carved talons
on its front feet and a pair of wings on its sides. This desk could answer questions…if it could be found. Pamela had discovered that when she played a jig on her violin, the desk would come running, eager to dance.
While her mother was busy folding laundry in the kitchen, Pamela led the others upstairs to her bedroom and removed her violin from a case lined with red velvet. She fixed it under her chin, tuned the strings, and rubbed rosin on her bow. While she prepared, the others came up with questions of their own.
“I want to ask if I’m going to be a raven’s amicus,” said Abby.
“I need to know where disappeared things go,” added Gabriel. “And why that robin is after me.”
“I have a question, too,” said Somes. “About my dad.”
Somes rarely talked about his father. Mr. Grindle was a harsh, disagreeable man, and Somes had run away from home several times.
“Somes?” Abby asked gently. “What is it?”
“My dad hurt his hand years ago,” Somes explained. “It never healed properly. The pain keeps coming back, and it makes him angry and mean.” He shivered. “I asked him once what happened, and he said it was too weird to explain, that I would never believe him. Well, I need to know.”
The others nodded in sympathy.
Pamela began playing “Swallowtail Jig.” It was a short piece, and she played it over and over in a spirited style. Presently, a clatter came from the downstairs bathroom—as if something was scrambling out of the bathtub. Moments later, a galloping noise came from the staircase. The bedroom door flew open, and the desk made its entry, draped in a shower curtain printed with little goldfish.
The desk did a wild pirouette in the center of the room, flinging metal shower hooks in every direction as it stamped loudly on its carved wooden talons. Then it shook the curtain off, as if to declare itself ready to dance.
Pamela played vigorously. It took ten minutes of fervid dancing before the desk began to wobble with exhaustion. It ended its jig with a high jump, then landed in a crouch on all fours, panting heavily.
Somes had never seen the desk in action before; he kneeled beside it, laughing. “Awesome!” he gasped.