Gabriel and the Wind

Gabriel stood in the field. Eyes closed. A zephyr gently caressed his face and moved through his hair. He was startled. 

 Who touched me? No one touches me. 

Gabriel was a child of heaven, at least that is what his family had said. The wind passed through his thin cotton smock. A slight chill on his back and legs. A cold empty hand moving across his body. He shifted uneasily, refusing to move or open his eyes. Another sensation, a warm glow on his face and neck, his closed eyes saw white. 

Who touches me? Who bathes me in soft heat? Who touches me with bloodless hands? 

His feet were weighed down by his father’s work boots, anchoring him to the wet ground. The white cotton smock he knew to be his sister’s, as it was thrown at him that morning. 

Gabriel was a child of heaven, no one spoke to him. His eyes looked in different directions, giving him a distant, abstracted, and confused visage. His hair was jet black and cut into a page boy bob. He didn’t know why. He didn’t know anything. His father had told him so. 

He remembered Columbine, Columbine had loved him. He had loved her. But they took her away. She had not known how to worship or venerate. So, he showed her. On a moody, threatening, overcast afternoon he had instructed her. They took a plaster garden gnome into the dark shed that smelled of grass cuttings, a makeshift altar of boards and blackout candles. The gnome stood on the altar looking sheepish and aloof. 

We shall call him Thot. 

What? 

Thot. We shall call him Thot and bring him tokens. He is higher than us, look, and he is lit by flame. He is a god, and we shall know him to be so. 

Columbine said that she didn’t like the smell of the place. She wanted to go, but she said that she was grateful. 

Later that stormy afternoon they had made a den of willow branches, sat within and Gabriel had asked Columbine if she preferred the smell. Columbine said yes, and they were happy. For a time. They both forgot Thot. There was a small round patch of dead grass in the lawn where he had previously stood, and it seemed like a curse. 

Gabriel was still in the field. Still. Unmoved. The wind had grown stronger, seeming to push him. 

You want me to go that way? I don’t mind.  

So, he walked slowly towards the river. He stopped on the bridge and looked down into the clear, shallow water. Splinters of light and reflections moved with the wind. Gabriel smiled. 

I like that, thank you. Is that what you wanted to show me? Ooh no, look, red. Red in the water, what’s that? 

He stumbled down the wet and reedy bank, splashed into the water and retrieved the small piece of jasper. 

It is jasper. I know it is, I’ve seen it in a book. 

He looked at it, glistening in his palm. 

I’d like a friend called Jasper. It’s a nice name, but it’s better not to have friends. Although you are my friend, you brought me here and I found the pretty stone. 

He stood still, as if to feel the wind again. It gently moved his hair, touched his neck, and seemed to take him by the hand. 

Where are we going now? I like today. I am not just with myself. 

It is Tuesday. Tuesdays are alright. Do you like Tuesdays? 

Gabriel was now talking fluently to the wind. 

Can we go up to the lightening tree? I want to show you something. 

The wind seemed to agree and pushed the child of heaven up the sodden hill. 

Earlier that day Gabriel had scared himself. As was his wont. He was transfixed in the mirror, he had done this many times and each time it was worse, or better, he did not know. Staring straight at his good eye, he considered the other, which looked at the wall. Concentrating, hypnotised, he stared. Slowly, without will, the wall eye started to drift in. Pulled by some unknown force it would drift in and centre. As soon as Gabriel was able to see himself looking straight ahead with both eyes it would happen. All at once, the knowledge of a terrible void, a chasm, a tear in the fabric of reality and Gabriel would forget who he was. A dreadful feeling of depersonalisation. An emptiness. A husk. A vessel to be filled, with what? Lack of breath, body, heart, mind, gravity. A floating sensation. A desperate flailing thought of what he was about to do next, a tiny strand of himself like a fishing line escaping his grasp. He would wrench himself away and collapse to the floor, shaking. 

Gabriel reached the top of the hill. 

See, the lightening tree, it makes a seat for me, a burnt throne. 

The wind brushed his face and there was a dread quiet, difficult to break. 

I like it here, my seat of power, but I’m not usually allowed to talk, in case I disturb the dead king, but you are now my friend, beautiful, gentle wind. So, I will speak softly unto you; there once was a king who stood here, this was his realm, he owned all that he could see in each direction. He was valiant and proud. Once, the spirits had said to him; look up king, do you own the vault of the sky? Do you own the firmament, the clouds, where we reside? You do not. Know your place earth king, you cannot have dominion over the divine. The king was angry. So, he made war with the sky. He ordered his archers to fire their arrows. As he watched, arrows returned and killed all his troops and, for once, he knew defeat. 

The wind suddenly abated. Gabriel was bereft. 

Wind! Wind, come back, did you not like my story? 

There was stillness; and hunched, charcoal clouds gathered. Gabriel started to cry. All at once, there was a sudden gust that nearly knocked Gabriel from his seat. 

Oh! Wind! You are back, you are playing, were you hiding from me? 

The gale increased, pushing Gabriel hurriedly onward, towards the edge of the gypsy encampment. 

No! No, wind, I mustn't go down there. I’ve been told before. I don’t know why, I used to go down with my sister, but that all stopped. 

The wind eventually pushed Gabriel up against the iron railings, rusty and green paint peeling. 

There is no one there, they’ve all gone, where are the gypsy horses? I used to stroke their manes. They told me their names. Fiddle music under a full moon, acorns, and heather in withered hands. Kind words. Firelight and fortunes told. Where wind, where? Oh! Wind! Why did you bring me here, where there is nothing but loss and regret? 

The rain started, heavy and sudden, the wind increased, and Gabriel retreated into the woods. He headed for the tramp’s den, seeking shelter. He approached carefully, not trusting the abandonment and....the wind was blowing against him. Greasy tarpaulins and broken branches, a dead, wet firepit. 

It’s ok wind, he’s not here, hasn’t been here for a long time, I think. 

He entered the den and sat on the plastic chair. Empty cans of Special Brew and needles strewn on the ground, a distinct, acrid smell of urine. 

I don’t like it here, wind, don’t try to come in. Stop pushing against the sides like that. 

Rain danced on the tarps. Darkness fell. 

I don’t want to go home, either, but I'll get in trouble if I stay out all night again, like before. I don’t like being in trouble, they lock me in. Telling me to mind my magic, mind my business, stay quiet. 

The wind started whipping at the tarps and one of the supporting branches fell. The filthy, oily material touching Gabriel on the shoulder. 

No! Wind! No, don’t do that. 

He ran out into the driving rain, crying again. 

I know that you didn’t want me to go in there, but your friend, the rain, is cold and unforgiving. Take me to the source, wind, take me there. 

So, in the gloom, the wind at his back, the rain soaking his smock, Gabriel trudged across the damp meadow. Arriving at the source of the river, he stood on the culvert and looked down, a thin, muddy trickle oozed its way towards the marsh.  

It’s not much, is it wind? But this ends up in London; they used to take vegetables to the market in barges. This is the beginning and the end, wind. Always the same, over, and over. I am old, wind. I may not look it, but I am old, I have lived many times. That’s why I know so many stories. It always ends here, at the source, the river is older than I. It ends here, then starts again, always the same, over, and over. Cruel and senseless. Never getting past this point. I am my own ancestor, my own lineage, never growing, a boy witch, persecuted and woebegone. Why, wind, why? I hate it. I hate them. Shutting me in just in case it happens again. Taking my books away when books are all that I have. I did not ask for this. A mistrusted and scapegoated shaman. Doing penance. Burdened by the sins of the fold. The wind was still and silent, listening, perhaps. A suspended moment, then beech leaves started to rustle drily in the huge trees and very faintly the wind spoke his name. 

Gabriel. Gabriel! 

Oh, wind, you are calling me! How lovely. You are calling my name, my dear friend. 

Gabriel! 

 His sister appeared at the edge of the clearing. 

Gabriel! What are you doing? It is so late. Foolish boy. I knew that you would be here. Errant child. You jackanapes. Come home. Come home, where at least the is a fire to dry yourself. They are cross, but I will protect you. Silly, broken boy, come home.