Gabriel, Archangel of a New Beginning
Gabriel looked out over the hill, and sniffed deeply. The smell of snow was there. Cold, short, sharp. He breathed out, trying to release the painful feeling he got whenever he breathed in too much freezing air too fast. He turned on his heel, the dying grass crackling under his feet, stiff with frost. He rubbed his gloved hands together, and huddled in his jacket, bringing the collar up around his ears. A lock of pale blonde hair flicked over his forehead and his ice blue eyes flicked in a similar fashion over the landscape.
The gray tundra stretched out in front of him for miles, but off on the horizon was a little dip downwards, and at the bottom of this dip, Gabriel knew, was forest. Miles and miles of forest. And beyond that, more forest. And more forest. Forest, it seemed, forever. Could there really be Communities beyond it? It seemed impossible. All that was real was the place of here and now. The home he knew so well, the helicopter, Faith, and his Father and Mother. And Jonas' grave. That was it, forever.
He stumbled down the last bit of the southern hill, and into the yard. The southern hill, the northern hill, the western hill, and the eastern hill were what made it possible to live here. The protected the miniature valley from the winds and cold air of the Tundra, making it the ideal home. One large pine tree stood out front of the little cottage, where Faith was tied up. The dog gave a woof of greeting as Gabriel climbed the steps and opened the door.
"Gabe, honey, your Father needs you in the study," his mother said.
She was a plump woman, with wispy brown hair tied back in a bun. His Father was a tall man with jet-black hair and a straight beaky nose. Neither looked anything like Gabriel, for he himself was pale, with thin blonde hair, and pointed, almost elfish looking features.
He trailed his fingers along the wall of the house as he strolled down the hall, smelling the bread in the oven and the deep, smoky aroma of the fireplace. The whole house, for as long as he could recall, had smelled like this, except for his father's study. His father's study smelled like old books, which wasn't necessarily a bad thing. Paper had that strange quality to look and feel and smell better as it aged. As his Father had often put it, "Like fine wine."
Gabriel entered the study, and sat down on one of the old chairs, in front of his father's desk.
"Dad?"
His Father looked up, his glasses perched on the edge of his nose, his slowly graying black hair disheveled. He was, as always, holding a manila folder with several sheets of paper stuffed in it. A barely unreadable gray scrawl was slashed across the tab, and there were ink smudges all over it. His Father's hands, holding the manila folder loosely, were callused, and some of the veins in his wrist were large, and poked up out of his arm. It was from to many years flying the helicopter back and forth, getting supplies, and meeting strange people all over the world, trying to do his job. To 'erase sameness'.
It was this statement that Gabriel never quite understood. He could not grasp the idea, no matter how many times his father told him about it, of 'sameness'. He had been taught by his Father about racism, and prejudice, and people who hated those who were different, but it didn't seem real for there to be a place with no color, and no hills, and no weather, and no feeling. Nothing could be that the same. It was physically impossible. Wasn't it?
Gabriel often wondered why he could never remember the time when he was in a community, with sameness, before Jonas saved him. Sometimes he would lie awake at night, wondering if perhaps his father was lying to him. Sure, Jonas' grave was there, but there was no certainty that Jonas himself was under there. There may never have even have been a Jonas. What if communities and Jonas' and Givers were all some joke his Father was playing? What if his Mother and Father were his real parents and Jonas was just some fantastical story? It didn't seem possible that anyone could walk thousands of miles with a baby, defeat the harsh cold of the Tundra in winter, only to die at his parents doorstep. That he could transfer memories, ideas, into his very head. It was really quite preposterous.
It was all insane, really, that this could ever happen. And as much as his parents stood by it, Gabriel found himself avoiding thinking about it, because, while he had believed it when he was younger, and played at it, pretending to be Jonas, struggling across the country, it really was no more than a game. He could remember when he was six, taking his sled and Faith, who had been just a puppy at the time, and marching out over the north hill, from over which Jonas was said to have come, and pretending to starve out in the tundra. Just when he had given up all hope of ever surviving, he had called to himself and Faith a 'memory' of great fire and heat, and set the tundra on fire. So he had run back to the hill, and sledded to the bottom, stopping at the grave, and collapsing in front of the grave.
Of course, it hadn't been real, just imaginary. You could never make yourself warm with just a memory. He had lots of memories of heat and fire, and he never could make himself warm when he wanted to stay out on the Tundra longer, and would have, but for the cold. His mother had simply brought him in and made him a big mug of cocoa.
So now, Gabriel looked at his Father, and wondered what he would say. He thought he knew.
"Father, I cleaned the grave this morning, it just looks dirty-"
His Father chuckled.
"That's not what I want to talk to you about, Gabe. Although," he became stern for a moment, "You could stand to be a little more appreciative towards the man who saved your own life, Gabri-"
Gabriel groaned. "Dad, you said he was thirteen! It's not even real!"
His father blinked. And then, in the quietest voice possible, he said, "Not real?"
Gabriel looked his Father straight in the eye.
"No. It's not."
His Father smiled. He leaned back in his chair, and he smiled.
"Gabriel, I received a letter today."
Gabriel looked at his Father. He always got mail. So what was special about today? Getting mail wasn't going to prove any points, as far as he could see.
"From who?"
His Father continued to smile. He folded his hands and placed them on his stomach, and looked at Gabriel in an odd sort of way, half victorious, half… proud.
"Bartholomew wrote me. Jonas' Giver. The community is ready for you."
The End (of the Beginning of the Beginning)
Disclaimer- Gabriel, Jonus, The Community, and The Giver belong to Lois Lowry. Everything else belongs to me.