Gabriel Finley and the Raven’s Riddle Read online

  Let’s fly there! I cried. Into one of those upper floors. Weave in and out, but be careful to avoid the netting!

  Baldasarre did as I said, and we streaked into the skeleton framework of the structure, barely avoiding pillars, wires, and pipes.

  The great horned owl had no problem with these new obstacles. I could sense his merciless eyes upon us, getting nearer and nearer.

  Baldasarre dodged and careered past the beams, then suddenly dropped down a shaft.

  The owl wasn’t fooled for a second. It followed us, claws extended for the kill.

  I screamed—which came out as a raven’s anxious croak.

  Abruptly, Baldasarre spun in a tight circle.

  The owl kept going, struck a curtain of netting, and fell, down and down, to the ground floor, where it tossed like some great fish caught at sea.

  Baldasarre let out a giddy series of throks, gloating at the owl’s mistake. We landed on a heap of bricks and watched the creature flop around in front of us, helplessly snagged.

  “Ho ho ho!” Baldasarre said. “Look who’s in trouble now!”

  I jumped apart from him and caught my breath. I felt exhausted, and my legs trembled.

  Meanwhile, Baldasarre strutted around the owl, his neck feathers spread out in a cocky display of victory.

  “What’s stupider than a sparrow?” he taunted. “Two owls!”

  The owl struggled against the netting, twisting to escape as it wound itself tighter and tighter. It was a magnificent-looking bird with great brown feathers, huge talons, and large hornlike tufts just above its enormous yellow eyes, but it began wheezing now, the netting tightening around its throat.

  “He’ll never get out of there,” chuckled Baldasarre.

  Although I was relieved to be alive, I couldn’t look at this extraordinary bird without feeling some respect for it. To see it struggle this way was heartbreaking. I kneeled beside it.

  Be careful, Adam. He’s a killer, warned Baldasarre.

  “This is an awful way to die,” I replied out loud.

  The owl’s great amber eyes batted at me through the mesh. They seemed desperate and fearful now.

  “If I free you, will you return the favor?” I whispered.

  Adam, don’t ever trust an owl, said Baldasarre. Let’s go!

  “On your honor?” I asked.

  Owls have no honor! cried Baldasarre.

  The owl blinked at me very slowly. I couldn’t tell if this was a signal that it had agreed, or if it was just slowly dying.

  “It doesn’t seem honorable to let it die,” I argued, then reached out and pulled at the mesh around the owl’s neck with my fingers. I had to pull strand by strand because the mesh was so tight. The owl’s breathing improved. Then I unraveled the mesh from its wings. It didn’t stir, but lay on the concrete floor, its feathered chest heaving slowly. It could have pounced on Baldasarre in a split second, but it didn’t. Its enormous eyes flickered at me.

  Baldasarre was furious. Adam, we must go! he cried.

  “Remember,” I whispered to the owl, and then I jumped. Instantly we were flying back toward Brooklyn.

  All the way, Baldasarre ranted. Of all the stupid things to do! An owl! Never help an owl! They’re all fluff, stupidity, and ruthlessness! We’ll never get home! He’s probably following with his gang of friends. They’ll have us for breakfast and lunch and spit our bones into the river!

  The sky was empty, but Baldasarre kept looking back for our assailant. The city dozed quietly as dawn lit up the eastern sky with a faint purple glow.

  By the time we reached my window, I wasn’t sure which would have been worse—being an owl’s breakfast or having to keep listening to Baldasarre complain about what I’d done.

  No sooner had I jumped free of him and dusted myself off than a voice spoke out of the darkness.

  “Adam?”

  My father was seated in a worn green velvet armchair with a blanket pulled up to his neck. His glasses had fallen onto his chest. He had seen us separate, but instead of looking amazed, his eyes were wide with concern.

  The entry stopped there. Gabriel quickly turned to the next entry and found the pages wrinkled, as if they had been wet with water or, perhaps, tears.

  May 23: I was too upset last night, but I have to explain why my father was not surprised by what he saw.

  First, he took me downstairs and cooked us breakfast.

  It was the only meal my father cooked, and he did it very well; he fried eggs so that they were crispy on the edges but runny in the center. He made potato hash in the skillet, browned all over and flavored with pepper and a little cumin and plenty of butter. We ate together while I told him about our adventure, and when I had finished, he folded his hands and looked at me.

  “Adam,” he said. “Your older brother also found a raven. He was twelve when it happened, exactly your age. Like you, he became the raven’s amicus, and like you, he learned to talk to it in his head. Like you, he could …”

  Here, my father looked upward, as if following a bird’s flight.

  “Paravolate?” I said.

  He nodded sadly. “Paravolate. Yes, I remember, that’s what he called it, too.”

  “You make it sound like a bad thing,” I said. “If you could only try it yourself, you’d understand that it’s the most amazing—”

  My father interrupted by raising his hand. “Like you, Adam, Corax was an adventurous and clever boy. He loved to fly, and told his secret to a friend, an unfortunate fellow named Thomas, who did not believe him. To prove it, Corax spied on him as a bird, listened to his arguments with his mother, watched from the sky as Thomas stole an apple from an outdoor grocery and ignored an elderly woman who asked him for help picking up her spectacles. When Corax revealed all he had seen, Thomas still could not believe Corax could fly, but he looked terrified and ashamed. This pleased Corax more than anything, for it was power.

  “This boy’s mother told me he began complaining of hearing voices where there were no people.” My father’s voice became low and grave. “Then, about a week later, he was seen, screaming, as he ran in front of a bus. He was killed. Corax promised me he had nothing to do with it, but I saw no sorrow at the loss of his friend—only a defiant, cruel glint in his eyes.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t want to become—”

  “Let me finish,” he insisted. “In just a few months of doing what you have been doing”—here, he pointed angrily at me, then at Baldasarre—“Corax became a wretched and heartless boy. That picture downstairs? It doesn’t begin to show the terrible transformation. His soul was slipping away, leaving a cruel spirit in its place.

  “One evening I realized I had to protect him from himself, so I took a hammer and nails and sealed Corax’s window so that he couldn’t go out on his flight. I locked his door and told him it was for his own good. In the morning, we planned to take him to see a doctor.

  “Corax wept that night,” said my father. “The most awful sounds came from his room, monstrous cries like an animal in torment. When they stopped very suddenly, your mother and I felt relieved; but then there was a crash, and we ran upstairs to find that his window had been shattered. He was gone. I stayed up many nights waiting for him, as I did for you tonight, but I never saw him again.”

  Although it was late, Gabriel turned the page, desperate to find out what happened next, but the entry stopped there. The pages that followed were entirely blank except for a small note that said See Book 2.

  A Key Without a Lock

  “I don’t know anything about Book Two,” said Aunt Jaz. “How strange. Your father never mentioned a second volume.”

  “But it must be somewhere,” said Gabriel. “Do you know what happened to Corax?”

  She shook her head. “No, Gabriel, I’m afraid not. But to be honest, this was a much happier house after he left. I was eight and your father was only two. We never spoke of him, and Adam was too young to remember him.” Aunt Jaz sighed. “I had one childhood friend who h
ad a big crush on Corax. She was quite heartbroken when he left home, but we … the rest of us were all relieved.”

  It was a dead end. Gabriel had so many unanswered questions. Perhaps that explained the unusual dream he kept having over the next few nights. It was always set in the same place, with the same thing happening. He found himself back in the study, standing before the painting of the eerie-looking boy with the beaklike nose, but then something would change—a small, almost imperceptible movement in the background of the picture. Behind the raven boy’s black velvet suit, an enormous pair of silken wings would appear and flex slightly. Then both eyes would look Gabriel up and down. Gabriel would back away, but the raven boy would step out of the portrait, beckoning to him with one black-taloned claw and repeating a short phrase over and over. Gabriel couldn’t understand the words; they were muddy—it was like hearing someone talk when you’re at the bottom of a full bathtub. But eventually, they became clearer. Two words. Two awful words:

  “You’re next.”

  Jerking awake, Gabriel would catch his breath in the darkness, wondering what it meant. You’re next. Each time, he closed his eyes and clamped his pillow over his head to shut out the nightmare, but Corax would reappear. You’re next. His birdlike eyes became a sickly yellow, and he would transform into a raven with tattered feathers and a jagged beak.

  Next for what?

  After one of these unsettling dreams, Gabriel woke up to find it was a bright November morning and time for school. Relieved, he stumbled downstairs to the kitchen. Aunt Jaz was wearing her coat, and her cheeks were pink from being outside; she removed two steaming muffins from a white paper bag.

  “Good morning, birthday boy!” she said breathlessly.

  Gabriel was momentarily confused. “It’s my birthday?”

  “Yes, did you forget? You’re twelve today.”

  “Twelve?” Gabriel repeated. “How could I forget that?” He recalled the line in his father’s diary:

  He was twelve when it happened, exactly your age.

  A dreadful thought crossed his mind. Could turning twelve be the reason Corax kept repeating “You’re next”?

  “Gabriel?” said Aunt Jaz. “Open your present!”

  “Present?”

  She pointed to a small brown box wrapped in a green bow beside his plate.

  “Before your father left, he asked me to keep this very safe. He said that I was to give it to you on your twelfth birthday if he had not returned.”

  Quickly, Gabriel pulled the bow apart and opened the box, expecting to see another notebook. Instead, there was a small brass key. It was an old-fashioned sort, smaller than a house key or a car key—the sort that might open a tiny chest or a cabinet.

  “What’s it for?” he asked.

  “I have no idea.”

  “A key without a lock?”

  “Yes.” Aunt Jaz’s smile turned mysterious. “I believe you’ll have to solve that riddle yourself. But it must be very important. Your father wouldn’t have asked me to give it to you now unless he had a good reason.”

  “Why is twelve so important?”

  His aunt’s dark boomerang eyebrows trembled slightly. “Well, your father began to notice things he’d never noticed before. Perhaps that will happen to you.”

  Gabriel nodded. “I have noticed some things—”

  Aunt Jaz drew in a breath. “What, exactly?”

  “Just … things you say.”

  Aunt Jaz blushed. “What have I said, exactly?”

  “Actually, it’s not what you say,” Gabriel admitted. “It’s what you don’t say.”

  She sighed. “Gabriel, if there’s anything I haven’t told you, it’s for a very good reason.”

  “Like what?”

  “I can’t say.” Then she looked flustered. “Oh, listen to me, I’ve done it again!”

  “You’re just trying to protect me, I guess.”

  His aunt pressed her lips together and nodded vigorously.

  “Because answers are like fruit—they have to be ripe?” said Gabriel with a faint smile.

  Aunt Jaz raised a finger toward him. “Gabriel, I must tell you one thing: you should be paying attention to other voices besides those of grown-ups.”

  “Other voices? What do you mean?”

  “I think you know, my dear.”

  That morning at school, Ms. Cumacho introduced a new student. Her name was Abigail Chastain. Although the fall weather was still warm, Abigail wore two layers of cardigans; a thick, patchwork corduroy skirt; woolen tights; and rubber boots—one red, one blue. Her eyeglasses were old-fashioned cat’s-eye glasses with blue frames, and her eyes moved quickly around the room, regarding her new classmates with inquisitive confidence. Her hair had been divided in tiny squares across her scalp, tapering into small braids of different colors that rose into the air in all directions.

  Gabriel noticed that Somes stared at Abigail for the longest time. Passing her desk later in the day, he touched one of her braids. Abigail reacted by brushing his hand away, as if shooing a fly.

  This didn’t stop Somes from watching her. In art class, Gabriel grew so irritated on her behalf that he said, “Somes, quit staring. You’re being weird!”

  Mortified, Somes dropped his eyes. Abigail gave Gabriel a fleeting glance but said nothing.

  Later, in gym, Somes slammed Gabriel in the face with a volleyball, giving him a bloody nose.

  “I am not weird!” he shouted, and stalked out of class.

  Gabriel spent the rest of the day with a wad of tissues clamped to his nose. Somes’s desk was empty. He had been sent home early.

  On his walk home, Gabriel saw the new girl marching ahead of him along Fifth Street. He was going to say hello, but he felt his nosebleed start up again. He watched her enter Addison’s old gate. So, Abigail Chastain was his new neighbor.

  It was only when he got to his stoop that he remembered it was his birthday. He recalled the brass key and wondered again about where he could find the lock that belonged to it.

  But this thought swiftly disappeared when he saw what was waiting inside.

  The Visitors

  Two very large suitcases rested on the landing. Battered and smelling of smoke, they appeared to have come a long distance. Gabriel was puzzled. Then a delicious thought struck him—a hopeful, glorious, wonderful thought. His one wish at every birthday, more than anything else in the world, was that his father might come home. Was his loneliness finally at an end?

  He realized he was wasting time staring at the suitcases. His father must be downstairs, catching up on everything with Aunt Jaz. Almost tripping with excitement, Gabriel hurried down to the kitchen.

  The sight that met his eyes was not what he expected. Two figures were seated at the large wooden table with Aunt Jaz: a dour woman and a pale girl.

  “Ah, Gabriel, there you are!” said Aunt Jaz brightly. “This is Mrs. Baskin and her daughter, Pamela. Mrs. Baskin and I were childhood friends.”

  The woman was small, with short-cropped gray hair. Her eyes were blue and flinty; she smiled and nodded at Aunt Jaz. “Yes, I remember those days so well,” she said. “You had such a good-looking brother.…”

  “Well, this is Adam’s son, Gabriel,” explained Aunt Jaz.

  “Hi,” said Gabriel, offering his hand politely.

  “Oh?” Mrs. Baskin’s smile vanished. “Adam?” she repeated. “The baby brother with the runny nose who was always crying? I thought you might have been the son of the handsome one who went away.”

  “Handsome?” murmured Gabriel, thinking of Corax’s strange portrait.

  Mrs. Baskin’s eyes narrowed. Ignoring Gabriel’s hand, which was still extended, she turned to her daughter, a slender girl with long dark hair and an anxious expression. “Pamela is twelve.” She tipped her head at Gabriel. “He must be younger, Jasmine.”

  “I just turned twelve,” interjected Gabriel.

  Mrs. Baskin shrugged. “Anyway, most boys are less mature than girls.”
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  Aunt Jaz ignored this remark. “Gabriel, Mrs. Baskin’s apartment building had a fire yesterday. Almost everything was destroyed. While it’s being renovated, she and her daughter will be staying with us.”

  “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.