Free Gabriel's Clock by Hilton Pashley Page B

cannot understand why he would do such a thing.
    â€œRaphael ordered me thrown down after Sammael, but I would not submit to such indignity. I threw myself from the gates of Heaven and let my wings burn as I fell. I no longer wanted to be an angel; I just wanted to be Gabriel and to be left alone. So on the second of September 1666 I crash-landed here, in a little hamlet in the middle of a forest. My wings were badly damaged, and I gave most of what power remained in them to the village itself, to give it life, to make a refuge for me and for anyone who wanted somewhere to be safe. Heaven and Hell would know where I was, but I would not be a threat—I would just be a clock maker—and angels and demons would leave me alone. And with the loss of so much power I began to age much faster than my siblings, become frailer. Still, when I look out my window and see the refuge this village has become, I know it was a price worth paying. And so the years passed and here we are.” He shrugged self-consciously and smiled at Jonathan. “Does that answer your question?”
    â€œI . . .” Jonathan stammered, not knowing what to say.
    â€œWhat happened to Sammael, and to Raphael?” asked Cay.
    â€œSammael found her way to Hobbes End and stayed for a time, but she could never forgive herself for killing Michael. I tried to tell her my suspicions about Raphael’s involvement in Michael’s death, but she wouldn’t listen—the very idea was so awful, she didn’t want even to think about it. We argued a lot, and eventually she left to try to find some peace while walking the earth. I haven’t heard from her for many years. As for Raphael, I never heard from him again. The gates of Heaven have been locked shut, and I have no idea what’s going on behind them.” Gabriel pushed his chair back and stood up. “Please forgive me, but I’m rather tired. I’m going to have to skip dessert. I’ll replace the wineglass.” He walked to the door, but as he drew level with Jonathan he paused. “I’m sorry for what you’ve suffered, Jonathan,” said the angel. “And I’m sorry for being so preoccupied since you arrived. I meant to give you this earlier today.”
    Jonathan turned to see Gabriel take off his wristwatch and hold it out to him. “But it’s yours,” he protested.
    â€œTake it,” said Gabriel, quietly insistent. “My gift to you. Every boy needs a good watch, and I made this myself a long time ago. It may be a bit careworn, but I can vouch for the quality.”
    Not wanting to offend the angel, Jonathan held out his hand, and Gabriel placed the watch in his palm. “Thank you very much,” he said.
    Gabriel nodded, shook hands with Ignatius and Grimm, and left quietly.
    â€œWell,” said Ignatius. “That was something. I thought I knew that story, but I’ve never heard Gabriel tell it with so much detail, or so much passion.”
    Jonathan didn’t know what to say—he just stared at the watch in his hand, running his thumb over the worn leather strap and the scuffed sapphire-glass face.
    â€œAnyway, Grimm, where’s that massive Pavlova you’ve been slaving over?” Ignatius added, hurriedly changing the subject.
    Grimm brought out dessert, and they ate in near silence; even Elgar was quiet. There was something about the sadness of Gabriel’s tale that made laughter seem inappropriate.
    â€œRight,” said Ignatius, once they had finished. “Hand me your dishes so Grimm and I can wash up.”
    After clearing the table, Cay thanked Grimm for cooking and said her goodbyes.
    â€œI’ll walk you back,” said Jonathan. “I could do with some fresh air.”
    They left the vicarage and walked out into a chilly and moonlit night.
    â€œDid Gabriel really not tell you that version of the story before?” he asked as they strolled across the