by Jane Lebak
Gabriel looked back again at the empty spot, but Uriel raised a hand to his cheek and guided his gaze away.
- + -
Uriel brought Gabriel back home, restoring Gabriel to human form with a blessing. The children had finished up the work he'd left, so he dismissed them to their chores, then wandered into the kitchen. Angela and some of the young women were working.
Gabriel looked in the cooking pot where one of the girls had just dumped a chicken carcass.
"What's that for?" he asked.
The girl, a year older than Raguel, looked at Gabriel uncertainly. "Making broth."
Gabriel looked back into the pot. Water and chicken bones. It made sense that broth came from somewhere, but he never considered how the remains of one meal could make the base of the next.
The girl said, "I have to chop up the vegetables, and then I'll be finished."
Gabriel followed her to the table and took another knife.
"What are you doing?" asked the girl.
"I can help," said Gabriel.
She hesitated and then got a glint in her eye. "Sure. Why don't you help?" She patted the table top. "You can sit right next to me."
Vegetables got chopped and herbs got chopped. Dirty looks got exchanged between the young women. Tobias's granddaughter who'd invited Gabriel to sit chatted with him about the things he'd done since arriving at the farm, although there wasn't really a lot of room because she kept being close enough to brush his arm. Frequently he didn't need to answer her questions because the other women would talk over her.
This year had given Gabriel a different perspective on eating. Food and meals and hunger had all been new with a tremulous uncertainty at the beginning of the year, but within days they became the most predictable. He had never experienced hunger, and so he'd understood the manna in the desert as something of a staple without recognizing the neediness of a person being fed. He had encouraged Hagar to eat because her body needed it, not comprehending that someone's concern for whether you eat equates to someone's care that you're alive at all.
It hadn't been until his arrival here that he understood a "meal" as a concept rather than a set time with a single purpose. The shepherds had prepared and consumed food, but it was just business. Here he would work from sunup until mid-day, break for food with the other men in the fields, and then continue until nightfall. Then they'd return spent to the house, muscles aching. At the door they'd be greeted by scents that instantly reminded the body of how much work it had done, the motion and the standing and the walking, and how much it longed for something. Hunger meant lacking, and Gabriel had never lacked anything, so every night it was a revelation to feel the reminder that he could be filled, that others shared the same emptiness, and that they all would meet that need together.
More than the food, there would be laughter, stories, company, Rafaela's touch as she slipped her hateful mushrooms onto his plate or sneaked away one of his barley cakes (and then Angela would see Gabriel's plate empty and give him another—Rafaela profited immensely from sitting beside him). The family would share a sense of purpose along with sharing a victory against the cold, against hunger, against interior emptiness.
The whole day revolved around food: Gabriel fed animals that would become food, harvested or tended plants that would become food, and then returned to the house and was given food so he could do it again the next day.
He'd cooked with the other shepherds, a task Gabriel had understood at its most pragmatic as heating comestibles until a respectable portion of the bacteria perished, making some adjustments for flavor. What took place in Tobias's kitchen involved talk, connection, transformation, beauty, and teamwork. Gabriel did his portion while absorbing the sense of togetherness. Community. Was this how it felt to an outsider watching the angels, or at least, should it feel that way? Everyone with his own job, the fire of God alight in the background, and in the end something that fed them all? And would he ever partake of that again?
When the cutting and chopping ended, Gabriel looked into the pot. Wonder of wonders, the water had a familiar scent, and it was tinged with a brothy color.
"You never made broth before?" Angela said, coming in behind him.
"It's like a miracle," Gabriel said.
"It's the miracle of hot water," Angela said. "It draws all the good stuff out of what you'd otherwise have to throw away. Now get out of the kitchen before you distract the girls."
Rafaela had followed Angela holding onto her tunic. Gabriel said, "One of my jobs is to distract the children."
Angela sighed, and over the protests of the older girls she said, "Yes, that's a good idea. Take Rafaela outside, and distract her."
Tammuz 4
Gabriel's arm came out of the splint, and yes, it was crooked. Crooked and weak.
Unable to work in the field, Gabriel clocked long hours with the children. He toured the house and taught them the names of every object. Their Hebrew chattering grew in speed and fluency.
Because Angela insisted less work got done with him than without him, Gabriel avoided the meal preparation. Instead he ended up outside most afternoons processing fleeces with the younger boys and some of the girls. In the courtyard the children spun while Gabriel combed wool (and, coincidentally, continued language lessons). The family had a table with a comb fixed to the far end. Gabriel would force the wool through to make it smooth and strain out bits of straw. This also aligned the fibers for spinning.
He found it peaceful, mindless work during which he could set his thoughts or prayers free while the sun warmed him and while the family members spoke among themselves. He forgot himself once and started singing, much to the others' amusement. He wasn't sure how seriously to take their requests afterward that he sing while they worked.
He couldn't spin because he couldn't raise his left arm for that long, but it looked soothing. Combing didn't hurt because his right arm did all the work, with the left hand only resting on the wool to guide it. These were long afternoons made shorter with the labor, with the scent of the wool both sheepish and linty, the prayers in his heart and the songs in his soul.
Watching one of the girls spin one afternoon while he combed, Gabriel internalized the action in his mind. The girl had a suspended spindle with a whorl at the top and a groove for casting on the yarn. She used her hands to twirl the spindle, to make sure it had the correct twist, and to feed the fleece into it. The spinning motion twisted the fibers into a thin, strong yarn.
Gabriel let the different parts fall together in his mind, and he felt through the rotation, felt the fibers joining, stretching, twisting. He watched the spindle, wondered how else she could keep it spinning, if maybe she could use the yarn itself to keep the rotation going, if maybe she could suspend the spindle from something else in order to free her hands, wondered if there was a way to use her unoccupied feet to provide power for the spindle, if maybe there could be another way of keeping tension on the yarn.
Gabriel said, "I wonder if you could use a—"
Don't!
The girl looked up at Gabriel even as he reeled from the force of God's warning. "Use what?" she said.
For a moment, Gabriel considered finishing the sentence just to hear God's voice again, but no matter how badly he wanted to hear Him, he also wasn't stupid. "Never mind. I was just thinking out loud."
In his head, to God: They could use a wheel for this! Then, Why can't I tell them my idea? It wouldn't take much to put it together. More silence. It would help them beyond measure to have an easier method of spinning. I could repay them.
Gabriel felt it in his heart: this wasn't about repayment.
I know they didn't take me in for material gain, Gabriel replied, but what else do I have to offer?
God didn't reply again.
Why were you even talking to me in the first place? Gabriel thought darkly. I thought that was forbidden.
The girl said, "Are you mad?" and one of the boys said, "You look upset."
"I
'm frustrated," Gabriel said, a little startled that they'd identified a feeling of which he was barely aware, "but it's nothing to do with you."
Because by now he could visualize a spinning wheel in his mind—the wheel to turn the spindle, powered by treadles, the ratio of the wheel to the spindle determining the number of twists per inch, the tension on the yarn determined by a drive band between the two—and he knew how much faster it would be than what they were stuck doing now. He could feel the proportions, the power in this simple design, and only by adding into the equation one thing: a wheel.
He could give back everything to them, everything they'd given him and incalculably more, and it wouldn't take much time. He could work on it at night after the rest of his work was done. He could predict without calculating the savings in the effort, in time, and the way he wouldn't have to feel as if he were living off their good nature and taking advantage of everyone's prayers, everyone's generosity, and everyone else's hard work.
This isn't about repayment, God had told his heart, and Gabriel thought back to him now, Then what can it be about? Aren't I here to repay you for disobeying? Why mustn't I repay them for obeying you?
No answer. Gabriel watched the girl twirling the drop spindle, and in his mind he let the wheels turn.
Tammuz 18
When Angela asked one of the girls to fetch water, Gabriel volunteered instead. In the noon heat, he hefted the jug and headed out to the well.
Sitting on the well was Raphael.
Gabriel dropped the jug, wide-eyed. Raphael leaped to a stand with a compulsive smile. "Gabriel! You're here! You've been here all along!"
Thoughts raced through his head: confusion, sadness, tentative happiness, loneliness—and then deception.
"Damn you further." He picked up the jug and continued toward the well.
The figure moved closer. Those were Raphael's fluid movements, but no way was it the same soul. "But—Gabriel?"
The charge of Seraph fire flurried through the air like snow. That wasn't Raphael's fire. Gabriel would know Raphael's anywhere. This was just…fire. Thrilling to have, but not the one he missed.
Gabriel said, "No."
"It's been such a long time."
He started hauling up water. "Leave."
"Satan told me where you were. I had to come."
The spiritual fire dissipated in the air when it should be flickering in his heart. Gabriel stared at the rope. "Go away."
"You're being unfair." Oh, the light in his eyes—it was a perfect imitation. "Why won't you believe God could be merciful to us?"
Gabriel poured the water into the jug but he could only think of pouring fire into himself. He felt like a candle with no wick.
The Seraph leaned closer. "Gabriel—"
"No. In God's holy name, leave me alone."
Gabriel took the filled jug and returned to the kitchen. Walked away from the fire. Somehow. As he set down the jug in the kitchen, he sighed.
"Are you all right?" asked Angela. "You're pale. I shouldn't have sent you out for the water."
"I'm fine," said Gabriel. "My convalescence doesn't preclude light housework."
"You only speak formally when you know I'm right," Angela said.
Gabriel looked down. "My speech pattern bears no relation to my physical condition."
Angela leaned forward. "If you don't go inside and rest until dinner, I'll send Rafaela in for Tobias, and then he'll make you rest. What do you say?"
Gabriel met her eyes with some relief—after walking away from the fire outside, his heart connected with the Seraphic soul in this woman. She felt nothing like Raphael, far too rough, but she still carried that charge. "I'll go back to combing wool," Gabriel said. "Surely you agree that isn't too taxing."
Angela walked away, leaving Gabriel feeling again like a smothered candle.
At the wool comb, Gabriel managed to kindle up a little fire in himself, but although it eased some of the craving, it didn't remove the loneliness. From where he worked, he saw Rafaela trot through the corridor away from the kitchen. Moments later, Rafaela trotted back, and Tobias entered the courtyard.
"Gabriel," said the head of the house with an amused smile, "you're paler than the wool."
Gabriel avoided Tobias's eyes.
Tobias said, "And you're shaking. You do realize the wool comb can rip the skin off your hands if you're not paying attention, don't you?"
Gabriel squinted. "Is it hard to wash blood out of a fleece?"
"I'd rather not find out." Tobias shook his head. "You're in a cold sweat, too. You're rather intelligent, so I'd think you could figure out you aren't expected to work when you're feeling this bad. Come with me please."
Inside the house, Gabriel said, "I'm not sick." He took a deep breath. "After Sarah died, did you ever grieve so much it physically hurt?"
Tobias nodded. "I told myself I'd see her again," and then when Gabriel asked if that helped, Tobias said, "Not really. I wanted to see her now." And Gabriel only walked with his eyes downcast.
Tobias led him into his library and invited him to take a seat.
"I'm glad you've been using the library to teach the children. My father-in-law collected scrolls," said Tobias, "and I inherited all these. Most are religious texts and some are myth, but sometimes the myth is hard to tease out from the real stories. Have you read much myth?"
"My Father has scrolls from many places," Gabriel said. "I read as many as I can," he added, meaning in his Cherubic way, "All of them. Twice."
"Have you ever seen this one?" Tobias pulled a scroll from a cubby. "It has mention of the demon who tormented Sarah."
Gabriel looked closer. "Asmodeus gets around a lot even though you expelled him."
"Azariah chased it all the way into upper Egypt and then bound it hand and foot, but I guess it worked itself loose." Tobias laughed. "Do you know, Azariah never interfered. He gave me instructions, and I followed them. Even with the fish, he only told me how to catch it and didn't leap in and grab it himself."
Gabriel chuckled. "Maybe he didn't want to get wet."
Tobias's eyes crinkled. "That's very funny."
Gabriel looked down, but he smiled.
"When the grape harvest begins," Tobias ventured, "we'll be celebrating Tu B'av. There's a bonfire and a feast, and we sing, and the girls dance."
Gabriel nodded.
"I'd like you to teach the children to sing in Hebrew," said Tobias. "One or two songs."
Gabriel nodded again. "Is there anything else?"
"No, but you might want to begin right away. I'm not certain, but I think my grandchildren aren't a Heavenly choir."
Both men laughed. "I'll do my best," said Gabriel.
Gabriel began work that night. The children were not the heavenly chorus, and his perfect pitch took a beating.
Tammuz 27
Satan hasn't come again as Raphael, if it was Satan in the first place. I've begun wondering if I made a mistake, if Raphael really did come for me . . . and I turned him away.
More than that, though, a new worry crept in today: because none of my friends mentioned the incident, if Raphael showed up, it means Raphael deliberately disobeyed God. Bluntly, that would mean damnation. That terrifies me. What will I do if I can't ever see Raphael again? How would I forgive God for taking me away when He knew how it would affect him?
That's what damnation would mean. No matter what the pain, total separation would have to be the consequence. That's my worst fear, and it's not unjustified, although I ought to think logically: if Raphael fell, Michael or Remiel would say something, if only to protect me.
They would, but can they? God won't permit me to know anything about Raphael, maybe up to and including rebellion, so I can't even ask about Raphael's state of soul because no one should answer.
How does that make me feel? It scares the life out of me.
In the grand scheme that divides the world into Fact and Lie, I don't lie to myself. But I don't know how much of this scenar
io I've imagined. Without debate partners, I come too close to believing every strange idea I conceive. And during this, Satan (if it's him) or Raphael (likewise) leaves me on my own to thrash over the question. Raphael would stay away if I asked him to. Satan would stay away just to leave me wondering what happened.
Another thing. Michael came to me yesterday. He looked so inordinately happy. "You've got less than two months to go!"
I cringed and said, "Please don't tell me that."
"You aren't keeping track?" asked Michael.
Michael doesn't understand this apparent laxity. After all, the punishment will end in exactly one year. Anyone should mark off the days and grow excited when the days remaining hit the two-digits and then wait with a rapidly-beating heart through all the last month, like a woman anticipating the birth of a baby.
I say this: this is not a pregnancy with a baby at the end of the term. Even one day out of the Lord's love passes with wretched slowness, and every sight becomes a torture. Flowers, sunsets, people, rocks, houses, mud, grass, stars: they all make me flinch because once I saw the hand of God in all these, and now I can't. The knot of emptiness rings in the silence of my ears, speaks to me in the tastes of everything I eat, and reeks whenever I inhale because that other, that flicker of God in all, doesn't saturate me. No matter how I distract myself or how hard I work or how much I study or teach, my heart knows that absence. Every time I encounter a new object, I feel the pluck as another way I might have discovered God hurls itself into the twisting of time.
I'm getting emotional, I know, but this is my journal, and I'm allowed to now. I have to. If never again, if never for anything else, now is the time.
To do what Michael expected, to say "Only fifty-nine days left!" would hurt as much as saying "Only fifty-nine million years left!" or even "Only 5.9 seconds left!" A moment without God has no value.
God will take me back when the time expires. Until then, why count days or label hours? God keeps His promises without outside countdowns.
