Head in the clouds. Feet on the ground. Heart in the story. Christa Kinde is a cheerful homebody whose imagination takes her new places with every passing day. Making her home between misty mornings and brimming bookshelves in Southern California, she’s been writing for more than a decade, but the Threshold Series is her first foray into fiction. Learn about Christa’s books, Bible studies, short stories, weekdaily serials, and more at ChristaKinde.com.

You can find Part 1, HERE.
You can find Part 2, HERE.
You can find Part 3, HERE.
You can find Part 4, HERE.
You can find Part 5, HERE.

Prosper left off pacing to inspect Koji’s rows. He touched his pupil’s shoulder. “While your mind is muddling, your ink is puddling.”

Koji jerked to attention and dropped his pen, scattering more blots across his practice sheet. “Sorry,” he mumbled, trying to brush aside his mistake. The spots only smeared, further ruining the page.

“Haste and waste.” Prosper rescued Koji’s roll-away pen and capped the pot of indigo ink. Bumping the boy over, he joined Koji on the bench. “Where have you been wandering? The path must have been pleasant to have beguiled you so completely.”

Scooting over to make more room, Koji offered a meek shrug. “I do not think I could retrace the course. One question brings three more.” Prosper didn’t seem upset by his lapse, and that made it easier to admit, “There is still so much I do not know.”

“Do not bottle up ignorance like ink. Spill out your questions, and I will turn them into answers.”

Koji searched the older boy’s bright blue eyes and found a playful sparkle that stirred his curiosity. So he asked the question that was foremost in his mind. “What is a First One?”

Prosper chose a brush and opened a small paint pan. He loaded its bristles with luminous color. “The First are angels who bore witness to Creation. They are older than Time. And from among their number, God set apart princes.”

“Princes?”

“The archangels.” Prosper turned Koji’s parchment sideways and connected several ink spots. A smear became part of a prince’s crisscrossing sash.

“Is Shimron an archangel?” Koji asked.

“No.” Trading his brush for the pen, Prosper chose the same ink Koji had been using. “But Shimron is treated with unusual deference by the cherub who arrived with him.”

“Perhaps they are friends.”

Prosper shook his head. “Unless Weft is teasing, that Protector is his captain.”

Koji had noticed the angel in question, a stern-faced cherub with green wings. “That is as it should be. Flights are given to the cherubim.”

“But the adahim are not given to Flights. Not usually.”

“We serve in towers.”

“Ever on high.” Prosper lapsed into silence as he worked a pair of cherubim into his design.

Koji watched with increasing admiration as calligraphy framed a glorious throne. Colors blended softly, and a poem spiraled outward.

In one corner of the transformed page, Prosper drew a little boy kneeling at the base of a white tower. Ink-stained hands folded over his heart as he opened his mouth. This is the me that Prosper sees. “I like to sing,” Koji whispered.

“Your songs are sweet.”

When Prosper finally set aside his tools, Koji’s mess was a masterpiece.

“Can I learn to make beautiful things like you?” the boy asked.

“No.”

Koji pouted.

Prosper smiled. “No, for your record will have a beauty only you can add. One as beguiling as the faraway stars in your eyes.”

Words failed the little wordsmith, so Koji swallowed hard and flung his arms around Prosper.

The older boy laughed then sighed. Prosper sifted his fingers through Koji’s hair. “Sweet as honey, innocent as flowers. Was I ever as new as you?”

Holding tight, Koji dared to ask another question. “Will you go with Shimron if he chooses you?”

“If choice was truly mine, I would rather be bound to you.”

Koji looked up and wondered what it would be like having Prosper for his own. With a regretful headshake, he said, “I was not Sent to you.”

“Yet here you are.” Prosper kissed his forehead. “And here you shall stay until you fill a fresh page with rows.”

As Cherith’s rotation sent Koji from one mentor to the next, he learned more about the life he’d been created for. Student. Historian. Illustrator. Shelver. He pushed one last chronicle into its place. “I am finished,” he reported.

His latest mentor released him with a grateful nod. “Weft has you next.”

Finally! Although Koji appreciated each of his many teachers, he loved coming full circle. Running until his feet met the plush carpet that marked Weft’s tower-top domain, he called, “I am here!”

Yahavim whirled down from the potted candle-trees, humming excitedly, and their shepherd welcomed him warmly. “Prompt as ever. Are you still eluding the First One?”

“Somehow.” The boy accepted manna from Weft’s flock then hurried to sit with him. “Even at evensong I have not come close enough to see the color of his eyes.”

“And no wonder, with eager prospects pressing in on all sides. The whole tower conspires to keep you from meeting Shimron.”

“I do not mind so much. You have made it a game.”

“One you are enjoying?”

“Indeed.”

The Weaver spread a six-fingered hand wide. “Then by all means begin. What have you learned about our elusive guest?”

“Shimron has mastered every form of artistry known to heaven, but he favors painting with the light of rainbows,” Koji solemnly reported.

“Is such a thing even possible?”

“I do not see how, but it is a pleasing thought.”

“Granted. What else?”

“Shimron has a tower all to himself.”

“True!”

Koji blinked. He’d expected that to be another exaggeration. Would having a tower to yourself be lonely? It almost sounds like a prison. “Shimron carries an inkhorn, the mark of a traveler. But no one seems to know where he has been or where he is going.”

“True! And truly mysterious.” Weft’s smile grew wider as he made his own contribution. “Shimron is fond of yahavim and often stops by to visit my flock.”

“I had not heard th–”

“True.” A soft voice said.

Koji’s eyes widened as an angel with snow-white hair stepped out from behind one of the chamber’s many embroidered curtains. Darda was with him, all smiles as he escorted their guest forward.

“Surprised?” Weft asked.

“Indeed.”

“Everywhere I hear rumors of a newfoundling, and every evensong his voice soars high and sweet. Yet I have not come close enough to see the color of his eyes,” Shimron said.

Koji quickly stood and took the hand Shimron offered. Without meaning to, the boy began to catalog the person before him. Confirming some rumors, casting out others. And making up his own mind on several points. His smile is kind. His touch is light. His voice is gentle. And one lingering mystery was finally solved. “Your eyes are blue.”

Shimron replied with equal gravity. “And yours are brown.”

“Shimron and I have business to discuss, so we’ll postpone your lesson. I trust you won’t mind skipping straight to Darda?” Weft explained.

Koji nodded distractedly, for his attention was caught by hints of unseen things.

“Lessons with a Weaver?” Shimron asked.

“I’m one of Koji’s many mentors,” Weft said. “He’s been learning to read stitching.”

“Mind your cuffs if you want to keep any secrets from Bright Eyes,” Darda teased.

A cherub dropped into the room with a rush of green wings. He folded powerful arms over his chest. “Who else has learned the Weavers’ rows?”

“Only Koji.” Weft stepped up behind the boy and clapped a hand over his eyes. “And he’s not looking.”

“I looked,” Koji said. And not just at his cuffs. It is just as Ravel said. Every person is more than they seem.

The cherub sighed. “And what did you see, little Observer?”

“You are Jedrick, captain of the Flight to which Shimron belongs. The names of his current teammates are Abner, Padgett, Harken, Milo, Myr–”

“Stop,” Jedrick snapped. “How much of Shimron’s history did you read?”

“Only what is here.”

“Only,” Weft muttered, removing his hand.

Koji looked way, way up into the Protector’s unhappy face. “But something is missing.”

Jedrick grumbled something about precautions.

Tipping his head to one side, Koji searched Shimron’s startled face. It is there. Down deep. He hides the same things as Ravel. Regret. Sorrow. Pain. Ignoring the narrowed gaze of the looming cherub, Koji slipped his arms around Shimron’s neck and held on until the ancient angel returned his embrace. A catch. A tremor. And Koji knew he was right. But he didn’t know why. So he asked. “Why are you so sad?”

Next Month: Angel on High, Part Seven: “High and Mighty”