The wooden sides of the barn—or what was left of it—were weathered to a gray that matched the foundation stones. There was a full top story, but because the barn was set into the hill, the ground floor was only about the size of our Minneapolis garage, much to my relief.
A wide door ran across the lower level. I gave it a shove, and the door creaked open on ancient iron hinges. I entered the dark inside, groping for a light switch as I went. I couldn’t find one.
“Swell. How can I clean this place if I can’t see what I’m doing?” I asked, wasting good sarcasm on an empty barn. Moving gingerly along the wall, I touched a large, round, metallic object that felt nothing like a light switch. It clattered to the floor. I slid my foot around until I found it, then carried it across to the door for a closer look. It was a flat metal sieve, covered with cobwebs, red with rust, and bigger than any sieve I’d ever seen.
“’Tis a riddle,” said a voice in my ear.
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