Gabriel Finley and the Raven’s Riddle (32 page)

Abby couldn't explain this to her sister. It was just the way she felt. She had noticed that Etta's friends all looked alike. Once Abby followed Etta when she walked with friends and realized that she couldn't tell them apart from behind. They looked identical. Right then, Abby vowed that she would do her best to look different.
I never want to disappear in a crowd
, she decided.

Freak!
mocked the wind.

Alone on this solitary pathway, Abby froze with doubt. People were always pulling her pigtails, or laughing at her different-colored boots and shoes. Why couldn't she fit in with everybody else, dress like everyone else,
be
like everyone else? Even grown-ups tilted their heads curiously at her, as if she was a …

Freak!

As the wind repeated its mocking refrain, Abby realized that she had almost stepped off the bridge. She tottered, hands raised in caution, feeling the most awful dread.

“Oh, stop it, Abby!” she cried. “Stop wishing to be Etta!”

The sound of her own advice surprised her. It was strong and sensible. “You can't trade yourself in for somebody else,” she told herself. “There's only one Abby, and you're an original, one-of-a-kind, no-return deal!”

Suddenly, she had an idea. A brilliant idea. She would recite riddles—every riddle she knew—and drown out that teasing, merciless wind.

“What's black and white and red all over?” she shouted. “
A newspaper!
What has six wheels and flies?” she said, raising her arms to keep her balance.
“A garbage truck!”

She peered around, looking for the citadel. There it was, with its thousands of beckoning lights. She started marching down the incline, first the yellow boot, then the purple.

“What goes
squeak, bump, squeak, bump? A mouse with a wooden leg!
What do you get when you mix nuts with gravel?
A toothache!”

It was working. Abby was taking solid steps, arms swinging at her sides.

Somes grinned when he heard Abby reciting riddles across the chasm.

“What's big when you're empty and small when you're full?” she shouted.

He laughed.
“Your appetite!”

The Power of Music

T
he next figure that tiptoed over the bridge had a violin case over her shoulder.

“Everybody's made it just fine,” Gabriel reminded Pamela beforehand. “Don't worry.”

The chasm roared as she set out. First, there was the banshee cry of the wind, then a hollow roar emanating from the depths—a hungry, bitter sound, like some vast creature in torment at the bottom of the world.

Pamela tried to think good thoughts. She thought of Somes, who had saved her from the fury of the valraven; she thought of the hug she had given him, and the way he'd carefully hugged her back, as if he'd never been hugged before by anyone.
Poor Somes
, she thought. Then she thought of salty taffy and delicious buttery caramel.

The hollow roar returned, echoing from the depths, deeper and more doubtful.

She remembered her mother yelling at Gabriel:
A few of these and Pamela's beautiful teeth will be ruined. Utterly ruined, thanks to you!
She hadn't brushed her teeth since eating the taffy on
the dark staircase. What if they started rotting and falling out? Suddenly, a fragment of rock broke from the slender pathway—leaving a gap in the middle. It looked a little bit like a molar.

Pamela slowed down. “This is ridiculous,” she told herself. “I can't be seeing teeth.”

She stopped and studied the hole in the path. It seemed to be growing.

“I have to get past this,” she told herself.

The wind wailed, and the hollow roar answered from below.

Wait a second. How long has it been since I've practiced violin?
she wondered. She felt ashamed. She was supposed to be learning Allegro Appassionato, but she couldn't recall a note of it.
Does it begin with a G or an A?
she wondered.

“Have I forgotten everything I've ever learned?” she said, wiggling her toes doubtfully over the edge of the bridge.

She imagined her mother's reaction—the tears and weeping. Her mother was so proud of her musical talent. All those lessons, the sheet music she saved from the fire, and her constant reminders about practicing. It was all for nothing. Suddenly, the view of the citadel turned glittery and liquid and Pamela realized she was weeping for herself.

Her left foot slipped off the crumbling path. She fell to her knees. “Oh, help!” she cried, throwing her arms out to steady herself.

Far away, an echo repeated her words. “Oh, help … Oh, help … Oh, help!”

How can I keep going if I've forgotten every song I ever learned?
she wondered.

The citadel was two hundred steps away, but Pamela remained crouched in the middle of the bridge.
Look at me, sitting here on all fours, like a piece of furniture
, she fretted.
Just like that poor writing desk!

That reminded her of the writing desk's favorite jig.

How did that tune go?
she wondered.

The rhythm came first, then the melody.
De dum, de de dee, da da dum, dee dee dee!

Concentrating on the music, Pamela tapped the rhythm on the path with her fingers, then raised her hands and clambered to her feet.

“De dum, de de dee …,” she sang, taking a step, then another, keeping time with each step. A distant echo picked up her voice and repeated it, until it seemed that a hundred voices were singing along with her.

The deep, mournful drone from below was no match for her.

Pamela began striding quickly to the jig, and the path started sloping downward as she saw figures waving to her from the citadel.

The Last One

T
he dodo had fallen asleep. Her absurdly shaped bill sank into her chest and she snored while standing. When a cheery whistle echoed across the Chasm of Doubt, she jerked awake, flapped her wings, squinted at Gabriel, and sputtered a fresh welcome. Gabriel had to remind her that he was already signed in.

“That's my friend signaling that it's my turn to cross,” he explained.

“Oh, dear,” the dodo said. “Be careful!”

After several steps up the incline, Gabriel felt a rush of uncertainty. Would he get across? He focused on the citadel's many windows, hoping to spot his father's silhouette, but saw nothing. Then he noticed a figure at the very top, standing by the parapet. The figure raised his arm; Gabriel was about to wave back when he saw a flock of black birds come swooping from the battlements, as if they had just been released.

Were they ravens or valravens? He slowed down, wondering what to do if they attacked. Within a few seconds,
their eyes—glowing unpleasantly—became visible, piercing the darkness.

Should he go forward or retreat? He couldn't decide. “Wait! Think!” he told himself. “If they're flying from the citadel, they obviously don't want me to go that way, so that's the way I should go!”

He broke into a careful jog as the birds came ever nearer.

Coark! Coark! Coark!
they shrieked, swooping at him.

Gabriel fell, belly to the path, just before they reached him. An awful odor of rotting meat filled the air.

The ghouls flew up and around, returning for another attack.

Caaawwwk!
Gabriel ducked, but a valraven ripped at his ear.

A second valraven attacked from the other direction. Its talons grazed his scalp and a streak of blood rolled down his forehead.

Dazed, bleeding, Gabriel came to a halt at the midpoint of the bridge.
Why did I give Septimus the staff?
he wondered.
It's the one thing I could use right now. What a mistake! Am I going to die because I helped him?

A large valraven was bearing in, jaundiced eyes glowing, its craggy beak set in a malicious smile.

There was nowhere for Gabriel to go but forward, so he ran forward, arms raised for balance, along the bridge's jagged path. The bird's talons would meet his eyes in moments.

Pop!

He was running through a cloud of black feathers; the valraven had disappeared.

Amazed, Gabriel looked ahead and saw Septimus pointing the staff forward with a raised fist. “That'll teach him!” the man cackled.

The children began cheering.

So
, thought Gabriel,
Septimus has finally chosen a side.

When he reached the far side, everybody looked giddy and relieved, but no one looked as pleased as Septimus, who grinned with jubilation.

“The pain is gone! Do you know what that means? I can't hear his voice anymore. You were right, my boy. I'm no longer a slave to the Lord of Air and Darkness!”

He pressed the staff into the boy's hands. “Here, lad! A promise is a promise.”

At that very moment, there was a cry from the top of the citadel: an unearthly scream of dismay that sent a flock of valravens tumbling and scattering in panic from the battlements.

The Strange Reunion