Gabriel Finley and the Raven’s Riddle (40 page)

“But how did you ever find the tomb?” asked Gabriel.

“It was just after you were born,” said Mr. Finley. “I found an old scroll that suggested that the tomb I was looking for lay in a lower cavern I'd never explored. I'll never forget that day—I left you and your mother, promising to return by nightfall.

“The farther I went, the more I felt a power drawing me in. One can get terribly lost in such caverns. People are always warned to go with a friend in case of an injury. I went alone, and this was part of the torc's mischief. I wandered miles not really knowing where I was going. When I was completely lost and just wanted to go home, I heard voices singing.”

“Voices? What kind of voices?” asked Gabriel.

“Beautiful voices, and music that reminded me of home, of my wife and my baby …”

Mr. Finley paused and shook his head. “No, that's not true,” he said. “It was the kind of music that tricks and confuses, like the siren song that made Ulysses almost go insane on his ship. I followed these voices, tripping, stumbling, until
I fell into a crevasse and gashed my ankle so badly that I could barely walk.”

“It was a trap,” said Gabriel.

Finley nodded. “At the time I thought it was just an accident, but it was much worse than that. There I lay, crippled and helpless. Those strange voices stopped singing. Now I wondered if I had only imagined them. I crawled out of the crevasse and saw an archway and, beyond it, a riddle carved in the rock in an old Norse language:

Gabriel thought for a moment. “Well, the word
feast
has five letters. If you take the ‘e' away, it's a fast. Nobody can eat during a fast.”

“Very good,” said Mr. Finley. “When I answered the riddle, a small chamber appeared that I had not seen before. I limped into the chamber, and what I saw was astounding.”

“What was it?” asked Gabriel.

“A man—no, not a man, a
warrior king
—in his final resting place,” said his father. “Surrounded by his weapons, as a great chieftain might have his possessions laid out for a life in the afterworld. A magnificent leather helmet inlaid with garnets and rubies rested on his chest. There were battle-axes and swords with handles of ivory, gold, and bronze and a large
shield of leather studded with silver. Beside him lay the skeleton of a raven.”

“Muninn?”

Mr. Finley nodded. “I bumped against a cluster of weapons—swords, axes, and javelins—and a stick fell in my way. A dull old stick.”

“The staff?” asked Gabriel.

Mr. Finley raised one eyebrow. “At the time, Gabriel, I thought not. It looked to be the least valuable thing in the tomb. My leg was bleeding, so I decided to use it to limp home and clean my wound. In the dim light I didn't even notice the torc wrapped around the top, covered with centuries of dust.

“One fact about dark magic you must understand: it's cunning. It needed someone who could solve the riddle of the tomb to enter. It needed me to find the tomb. And it needed me to take the staff.”

“And it needed a blood sacrifice,” said Gabriel.

Mr. Finley nodded. “And it made me wish something. As I limped back the way I came, I got lost. My flashlight went dim. Soon I would be trapped in complete darkness. It was that moment when I felt so sorry for myself that I wished simply that I could get home to my family.

“Well, suddenly, the staff trembled in my hand. The next moment, my wound vanished! Then the flashlight started working. So I picked up my stride, sure that I knew my way, and guess what?
I never made a single wrong turn.
Outside the
cave, there wasn't a moon, yet I found my way to my car without even thinking about it. I seemed to be on some amazing lucky streak. I couldn't wait to tell your mother.

“I stepped into the house and I could smell the stew she had cooked for dinner. It sat bubbling on the stove, and the table was set. I found you asleep in your crib, calm and contented; there was a pan upon the stove with a loaf of bread that must have just come out of the oven, because it was still steaming. There was ice in the glasses at the table. Your mother must have heard the car pull up. And yet, the moment I walked in that door, she vanished.”

“Vanished? How?” said Gabriel.

His father replied with a helpless smile. “I searched the house; wherever she went, she took no shoes or coat, for they were by the door. I called the police. For weeks, they searched for her but found nothing. It became clear to me that the torc took her the moment I would have set eyes upon her.”

“Why?”
asked Gabriel.

“This is the awful thing about dark magic, you see. It takes
whatever matters most to you that you'll forever miss.
”

Gabriel lowered his head sadly. “But all you wanted was to go home.”

“Yes. That's the mischief of dark magic.”

“Then she's gone forever?”

“Oh, no. I believe that we'll find her. Somewhere out there, the torc must have the answer,” his father assured him.

Shivering in the wintry night, a robin perched by the window and listened intently to the conversation within. It had been waiting by the Finley house for weeks, huddling over the chimney, keeping its head close to the window glass, hoping to hear more about the torc.

The silver circle around its neck burned terribly.

I thank my wonderful wife, Terri Seligman, for her enthusiastic support and many readings, and Lola Hagen, my muse and first young reader. Sophie and Brooklyn Hagen asked for stories every morning on the walk to school; there is no better way to learn storytelling. Thanks also to Elizabeth Bogner for her comments on the manuscript and to Noa Scheidlower, who gave me a thumbs-up!

My appreciation also goes to Lee Wade, Rachael Cole, Colleen Fellingham, Tim Terhune, Scott Bakal, Jake Parker, Annie Kelley, and Stephanie Pitts for their super contributions.

Finally, a very warm thanks to my fabulous editor, Anne Schwartz, who asked all the wise, tough, and brilliant questions that made this story as much fun to write as I hope it is to read.

George Hagen is the author of two novels for adults:
The Laments
, a
Washington Post
bestseller and recipient of the William Saroyan International Prize for Writing, which
Publishers Weekly
called “a funny, touching novel about the meaning of family”; and
Tom Bedlam
, which was described by
Booklist
as “Dickensian in scope and spirit.… Shot through with humor, and populated with a cast of eccentric charmers.”

George had lived on three continents by the time he was twelve. The father of three children, he now lives in Brooklyn, New York. This is his first book for kids. To learn more about him, visit
georgehagen.com
.