The Disobedient Torc

Gabriel kept the staff in a corner of his bedroom. It looked like any broom handle—a very old, weathered, and slightly warped one. Sometimes he would wrap his hand around it, just to remind himself that his last adventure hadn’t been a dream. If he kept his grip firm for a minute or two, a wonderfully reassuring warmth would emanate from the wood, and his doubts would disappear. This was how he managed to get through the next few weeks as he planned what to do. He had asked Aunt Jaz about mausoleums, but she told him that most were the size of a small room and led nowhere.

Winter swept very suddenly over the city; puddles began to freeze and there was a harsh bite to the air. Gabriel noticed flocks of birds heading south for warmer weather; in spite of this, some chattering little birds lingered at the windows of the Finley house.

Eavesdroppers, explained Paladin.

What are you talking about? asked Gabriel.

Those birds have been told to spy on you, explained the young raven. I listen to their silly conversations all day long. Most of the time, they’re trading gossip about where the best birdseed spots are, but once in a while, they mention you.

Me?

Yes, they call you “Son of Finley,” like the owls. “Where is Son of Finley?” “What is Son of Finley doing?” mimicked Paladin. Somebody important must want to know.

This explained why Gabriel saw finches and robins on his classroom windowsill. There were spies everywhere.

Watch what you say, Paladin warned him.

In the second week of December, an early snow blanketed the city, transforming it into a softer, whiter, quieter version of itself.

Aunt Jaz sent Gabriel out to shovel the sidewalk; the boy brought his raven with him. He had taken only three steps before he stopped and stared at the elegant perfection of the snowfall. It was the kind of world a demented pastry chef might have created: dollops of snow on every car, every lamppost, gate, staircase, chimney, and rooftop—as pretty as a dessert.

The little birds appeared to have been driven away by the storm. With the daily clamor of sparrows, starlings, swallows, and robins gone, there was just silence. A beautiful silence. Paladin shivered on Gabriel’s shoulder, astonished by the sight of his first snowfall.

How wondrous, he said.

Yes, agreed Gabriel.

Ravens are playful birds; they enjoy snow exactly as children do. Gabriel took Paladin to Prospect Park. They wandered past the hill where most children were sledding and found a clear slope hidden in the woods. Gabriel set Paladin on a plastic sledding saucer and encouraged him to go for a ride. The raven went careering down the hill, bobbing his head excitedly.

Again! cried the bird when Gabriel found him toppled in a drift.

They took a bigger slope and rode together, Paladin nestled in Gabriel’s lap, crashing past bushes and rolling in the deep drift at the bottom.

After one of these tumbles, Gabriel lay in the snow, blinking up at the stark gray sky, when he noticed an awful sight: a man with a tormented face, streaked with filth, staggered toward him.

“Help me! For heaven’s sake, help me!” the man moaned.

Gabriel recognized the voice, but not the blistered, bloody face or the terrified eyes. His snow-white hair was scorched to the scalp, his elegant tweed coat ripped, muddy, and threadbare.

“Septimus?”

“Yes, lad, so it is,” sobbed the man. “Or the little that’s left of him!”

Paladin landed on Gabriel’s shoulder. “Where’s Crawfin?”

Septimus sobbed. “My oldest friend, my dearest friend, poor Crawfin. Gone forever, and it’s all the fault of that cursed necklace!”

“Because of the torc? Why? What happened?” asked Gabriel.

Uttering a groan, the man wrung his hands. “The torc! That awful torc! It all began when Crawfin and I decided to celebrate our good fortune at the finest restaurant in town.”

“Your good fortune?” Paladin snapped. “You mean, after you stole the torc from Gabriel!”

The exhausted man winced. “I wanted the best! Steamed lobster, caviar, shrimp cocktail, and champagne. Didn’t have to ask, I just wished and everything was brought to me. Dishes I had only dreamed of. Waiters attended to my every whim!”

A smile appeared on the man’s face, but then the horror reappeared. “The food wouldn’t stop. I told them I was finished, but waiters brought more until plates were stacked on top of each other! Then the chef came running from the kitchen, offering pastries, truffles, mousse! No sooner did I finish one thing than he pressed something new to my lips. The look on his face, scared, miserable, spellbound, as if doing it all against his will!”

Septimus paused to scratch feverishly at his neck before continuing.

“I staggered into the street with Crawfin on my shoulder; but it didn’t stop.”

“What didn’t stop?” asked Gabriel.

“People offering me things.”

“What kinds of things?”

“Whatever they possessed!” Septimus cried. “An old man offered me his hat, a woman offered me the little dog she held in her arms, a mother offered me her children! Imagine! Her children! And it wasn’t as if she wanted to give them to me—she was compelled.”

“Why didn’t you wish it to stop?”

“I did, but the torc ignored that wish.” Septimus raised his hand to his collar. “Instead, it began to grow hot around my neck.”

“Hot like a sunny day?” said Paladin.

“No—hot like a poker. I tried to remove it, but it was stuck to my skin, burning me like a branding iron!”

“So what did you do?”

“I passed a men’s clothing shop and carelessly wished I could replace my shabby coat. At once, the pain stopped, and I thought, Aha! It just wants me to wish again. How simple! I went in and the shopkeeper was happy to help me, although … he also had that strange expression.”

“Spellbound?” said Paladin.

“Yes.” Septimus nodded. “I chose a handsome new tweed coat. The shopkeeper told me I could have it for free. But while measuring the sleeves, he saw they were too long. ‘I’ll have the tailor fix them,’ he said. Then I heard him on the phone ordering the tailor back to work—the man was at home with a sick child—but the shopkeeper screamed. He, too, was compelled!

“I decided to stop wishing. I left the shop. Outside, I tried to pull the torc off again, but it … vanished. When I felt for it with my hand, I realized it had burrowed under my skin, like a giant splinter.”

“Under your skin?”

“I told Crawfin it had disappeared. He accused me of hiding it. I showed him my neck, but he didn’t believe me. He said I had betrayed him.”

Gabriel remembered a line of the verse about the necklace: I’ll trade the good that lies in you for something vastly worse.

“My best friend attacked me!” sputtered Septimus. “Snapped at me, tore at my clothes to find the torc while I was shouting that I’d never do such a thing. He told me I was a villain and a thief!”

Septimus’s rugged face turned pale.

“So I wished him gone for good.” Raising a trembling hand to his mouth, he whispered, “Right before me, my dear old friend, my constant companion, my amicus, burst into flames. Poor Crawfin. Making the most piteous and wretched sounds. I tried to stop the wish. I wished him back, but it was too late.” Big tears rolling down his cheeks, Septimus drew a filthy gray handkerchief from his ripped coat pocket and dabbed at his face.

“My old friend,” he blubbered. “Lost because of a foolish wish. And you know, it’s impossible not to wish in your head. One can’t help wishing.”

A dark shadow crossed his face. “Then the valravens came. Those deadly, cursed birds. Although they serve the master of Aviopolis, I thought I had the power to send them away.…” He pointed to his charred neck with puzzlement.

“But they ignored my command. Or perhaps the torc ignored my wish.” Here, Septimus looked at Gabriel with a shudder. “They began asking me their riddles. If you don’t answer a valraven’s riddle, it will go for your eyes, and when you are blind, your flesh!”

Septimus described how the birds flocked around him asking riddles he couldn’t answer, and how he ran to escape them, climbing beneath cars, crouching under trash cans, fighting off their attacks with bloody hands. He stared up at the gray sky. “Thank heavens for the snow; it scared them off. I never cared for snow before, but now I appreciate it for bringing you, my boy. Your father, Adam Finley, knows everything about the torc. Only he can help me. I can’t go back to him without the staff and the torc.”

Septimus held out his hand.

“Give the staff to me.”

“Sorry, Septimus,” said Gabriel, shaking his head. “I can’t.”

“Of course you can!” the ravaged scarecrow pleaded. “I helped you find it in the first place. Where would you be without me?”

“If you’d listened to me, this would never have happened,” Gabriel reminded him.

As Gabriel trudged up the slope, the man followed, scratching at the dark scar around his neck and taunting him. “Only I know where your father is! Aviopolis. A cavernous city of birds far under this earth. There’s a maze of passageways to get there. I know the way!” He grabbed Gabriel roughly. “Give me the staff!”

Gabriel shook his head.

“Then I’ll wish for it!”

Septimus raised his head and mumbled his wish. Suddenly, a blue glow appeared under the scorched flesh of his neck.

“Oh, no,” murmured Gabriel.

Paladin uttered a cry as something flew across the clearing.

A large pole hurtled toward Septimus. Its blunt end struck him hard in the chest. Septimus quickly realized it wasn’t the ash wood staff. Then a nearby thicket began to sway and snap as one by one, branches broke off and whizzed toward him. Dodging each missile, Septimus could see that the torc had granted his wish in its own mischievous way. With sticks flying toward him from every direction, he gave up and cowered in one spot as he was buried in a pile of kindling.

Then, as abruptly as it had started, the blue glow vanished from his neck and the forest became silent. Septimus clambered out of the pile and implored Gabriel, “Don’t you see? You must actually give it to me.”

When Gabriel refused, the man bared his teeth and seized him by his shirt collar.

“Give it to me or I’ll wish you gone for good, like Crawfin!”

“Septimus, this isn’t you, it’s the torc!” cried Gabriel.

“Give me the staff!” screamed the man, his fingers tightening around the boy’s neck.

Gabriel struggled to pry off Septimus’s grip, but he couldn’t breathe; he was going to faint.

Jump! cried Paladin.

Releasing his hands, Gabriel spread his arms like wings.

In the next instant, Septimus found himself choking nothing but thin air. He looked up and recognized Paladin circling overhead.

“Please help me! I—I—I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he stammered. “If you change your mind, tell the sparrows, and they’ll tell me!” With that, Septimus scratched his neck furiously, turned, and staggered into the woods.