Gabriel's Clock (26 page)

Ignatius patted Jonathan's arm reassuringly. “You'll figure it out, lad, and soon. Don't struggle to find the answer—just let Hobbes End help you. And when your mom arrives she'll be there for you too. You need to rest for a day and gather your strength. You fought an archdemon and won, remember, and you've got the scars to prove it.”

“Yeah,” said Jonathan, looking at the reflection of his battered face in the window. “It's funny knowing that I don't actually look like this. I've got these little horns and some scales like Mom, but now I can choose how I appear. The knowledge of how to mask myself is there in Gabriel's memories.”

“And what do you choose to look like?” asked Ignatius.

“Right now I choose to look like me,” said Jonathan. “I don't want to scare the postman.”

Ignatius grinned.

“Anyway, while I figure out how to find Dad, I'd like to stay here, try to keep out of trouble . . . if that's okay with you?”

Ignatius nodded. “Of course it's okay, Jonathan. You're family. And talking of family, Elgar, we'll try to find out where your parents and brother are too. It's the least we can do after the bravery you've shown.”

“Cheers very much,” said Elgar.

“You know, I'm really going to miss Gabriel,” said Ignatius. “When I go see Angela and David later today, I think I'll say a prayer for Gabriel, too.”

“Thank you,” said Jonathan. “Would you mind if I went with you?”

“Of course not,” smiled Ignatius.

Suddenly an almighty roar erupted from the direction of the village green.

“What's happening?” asked Jonathan.

“Celebratory cricket match,” said Ignatius. “It was Grimm's idea. He even asked Brass if she wanted to be wicketkeeper. Grimm was a bit grumpy when I told him he couldn't use Isobel, though. The number of cricket balls he's lost using that bat is quite extraordinary. He hits them so phenomenally hard. Go on, lad, have some fun—you've earned it.”

“You're right, it does sound like fun,” said Jonathan. “Come on, Cay, Elgar. Let's go join in.”

“Can I be umpire?” asked the cat.

“Better ask Grimm,” said Cay. “Oh, by the way, what's this I hear about you actually being a demon?”

“What was it Ignatius said?” said Elgar, doing his best-ever vicar impression. “‘Whoever heard of a talking cat?'”

“‘Honestly!'” said Jonathan.

Cay laughed.“You're impossible!”

“Yeah,” said Elgar. “But you love me for it. Race you!”

With a thundering of feet and paws, Jonathan, Cay, and the cat ran out of the vicarage just in time to see Grimm hit a well-bowled cricket ball with astonishing power. It arced out over the forest and disappeared from sight.

“There goes another one!” Elgar said, laughing. Together the three friends sprinted off down the drive.

At the edge of the forest a tall woman in a long black dress stood gazing at the entrance to Hobbes End. She was holding a cricket ball that had just plummeted from the sky, narrowly missing her head.

With a wry smile she strode forward until lost from view beneath the trees.

The archangel Sammael Morningstar was coming home . . .

On pages
222
,
267
, and
271
, Gabriel paraphrases from a poem. The poem is called “High Flight” and was written by Pilot Officer John Gillespie Magee Jr. on August 18, 1941. At the time, he was flying with the Royal Canadian Air Force during World War Two.

He was inspired to write the poem after flying his Spitfire at 33,000 feet. After landing he finished the poem and sent it to his parents on the back of a letter. Three months later, in December 1941, he was killed in a tragic midair collision and was buried in Scopwick cemetery, Lincolnshire, England. He was nineteen years old.

Hobbes End is partly inspired by the beautiful Norfolk village of Heydon, one of the few remaining privately owned villages in England. It remains wonderfully unspoiled, with the most recent building being the Queen Victoria commemorative well built in 1887. The only thing missing is a large pond.

Corvidae
is the Latin name for a family of birds containing, among others, rooks, crows, and ravens. Their respective collective nouns are a parliament, a murder, and an unkindness.

 

Hilton Pashley

Norwich, November 2013

 

 

 

 

H
ILTON
P
ASHLEY
lives in Norfolk, England. When he is not working or writing, he flies large kites and drinks enormous amounts of tea.
Gabriel's Clock
is his first novel.