The Little Wizard Who Borrowed a Raven

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Nibbin had borrowed many things in his life. Three silver spoons from his aunt, of which he returned two. A spellbook from Master Pell, accidentally returned as a cookbook. Once, boots from a troll who had not agreed to the arrangement. But never a raven, especially one large enough to carry him over mountains. “One night,” the old woman said, handing him the reins. “Corvus is yours until sunrise.” Nibbin looked up at the enormous black bird. “Does he bite?” “Only people he dislikes.” “How do I know?” Corvus stared at him. “You’ll know.” The woman adjusted the silver buckle on the raven’s collar. “And never mistake his silence for agreement.” Three hours later Nibbin sat between Corvus’s shoulders, his pointed hat tied beneath his chin, while moonlit mountains passed below. He was bound for Brindlewick, where the baker had enchanted his ovens by mistake. Instead of bread, they produced purple bubbles, singing muffins and occasional thunderstorms. Nibbin had promised to arrive before midnight. The village lights appeared beside the river. “Down there,” he called. Corvus continued north. “The village, please.” The raven climbed higher. “I am the wizard. You are the transportation. This works better if the transportation listens.” Corvus gave him a look suggesting the arrangement was under review. Soon Brindlewick vanished behind them. “Wonderful. I’ve borrowed a stubborn mountain with feathers.” Ahead, the mountains opened around a valley Nibbin had never seen on a map. Something glowed at its centre. Corvus descended. “Whatever mysterious golden thing you discovered, we do not need it.” They landed beside a ruined tower. At its base stood a little golden door marked with a feather. Corvus tapped it. Knock. Knock. Knock. Something knocked back. “Absolutely not,” Nibbin whispered. The door opened onto a night sky filled with thousands of stars and enormous ravens flying between them. Each carried a rider: humans, goblins and creatures Nibbin could not name. One rider wore a crown made of clocks. “Oh.” Corvus nudged him forward. “That ‘oh’ was curiosity, not consent.” A black feather drifted through the doorway. When Nibbin touched it, a voice said, “You are late.” A boy in an oversized grey coat stood beside the tower. His lantern contained a tiny circle of darkness instead of flame. “Late for what?” “Your first flight.” “I’ve been flying for three hours.” “That was travelling.” The boy pointed through the door. “This is flying.” His lantern showed a tiny image of Brindlewick. The village was dark and still. “My appointment!” Nibbin cried. “The ovens!” “They won’t burn until morning.” “How do you know?” “Because morning has stopped.” Nibbin looked up. The moon had not moved. Even a moth hung motionless beside his hat. “Someone stole the road to sunrise,” the boy said. “Roads don’t lead to sunrise.” “Usually.” “Who steals a road?” Beyond the doorway a riderless raven was flying toward them with something pale strapped to its back. Nibbin made out cobblestones: a road rolled like a carpet. “Oh.” “That one was concern,” the boy observed. Corvus crouched. “You want me to chase it?” The raven croaked. The boy handed Nibbin his lantern. “When you reach the road, open this.” “What happens?” “Hopefully morning.” “And if not?” “Something educational.” Nibbin sighed. “Wizards hate educational surprises.” He checked his wand, which had recently developed a habit of becoming a carrot whenever frightened, and climbed into the saddle. Corvus launched through the doorway. They flew among stars that rang softly when brushed by feathers. Below lay silver bridges and islands where forgotten dreams slept. A ship sailed across a sea of clouds. “I withdraw several complaints about your navigation!” Nibbin shouted. Corvus croaked triumphantly. Ahead, the riderless raven struggled toward a region without stars. The rolled road dragged behind it, and its wings beat unevenly. Corvus gained on the bird. Suddenly the road began unrolling, cobblestones falling into place across empty space toward a faint golden horizon. “It isn’t stealing the road!” Nibbin cried. “It’s bringing it back!” The other raven faltered. The road twisted, and stones tumbled into darkness. Corvus swept beneath the heavy roll, lifting one end with his shoulders. Nibbin seized a loose binding rope. “I should mention that I’m better at borrowing things than rescuing them!” More stones fell. He raised his wand. “Holdfast!” It promptly became a carrot. “Not now!” Corvus gave a furious croak. The carrot flashed silver, and the falling stones stopped. Nibbin stared. “Well, that’s new.” They drew alongside the riderless raven. Around its neck hung a broken leather collar with the same silver buckle Corvus wore.