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.

Weft sat surrounded by an assortment of floor cushions, embellishing the collar of Koji’s tunic.

The young angel looked on as needles flashed. Although he couldn’t make sense of the emerging pattern, he felt sure it held meaning. Koji checked the decorative bands edging the Weaver’s collar. There are likenesses. A quick peek at Darda’s raiment revealed more similarities and several differences. The intricacies are unique. And beautiful.

“Show me your skills, bright eyes,” Darda interrupted, holding an open book for Koji to see. “Can you tell me what this says?”

The boy scanned the text. “Indeed.”

“Hey, hey, hey now. Don’t hold back,” Ofir chided. “Strut your stuff!”

Choosing a portion, Koji’s fingertips skimmed living words. “‘God, the blessed and only Ruler, the King of kings and Lord of lords, Who alone is immortal and Who lives in unapproachable light.’”

Darda ruffled his hair. “Approved! You have all your wits. But reading is the easy part. The rest takes a lifetime to learn.”

My life is an eternity. Will I never stop learning? Koji carefully patted his hair back into place. “Will I learn to read my raiment?”

Darda traded a look with Weft. “I cannot teach you Weaver’s patterns. Observers only write in heaven’s language.”

Koji nodded, but his gaze rested longingly on Weft’s cuff. A message is there, hidden in plain sight.

The Weaver smiled broadly. “You know, I wasn’t much bigger than you when I taught a Guardian to read embroidery. Asking opens the door to learning.”

“Cherubim always learn to interpret Weavers’ rows,” Ofir said.

Darda spread his hands wide. “I had no idea. To what end?”

“Princes and captains use our stitching to quickly sort a legion by flight, experience, and weaponry.”

Koji tugged Weft’s sleeve. “May I learn? Please?”

The Weaver smiled indulgently. “We’ll talk to Cherith about adding lessons with me to your schedule. But for now, give your attention to Darda. He is your mentor at the moment.”

“Indeed.” Mimicking the older boy’s own gesture, Koji spread his hands wide and recited what he’d already learned from Cherith. “I am the eyes and ears of heaven. Words are my service. Teach me to set my thoughts upon a page.”

Darda’s mouth twitched with amusement. “Slow down, bright eyes. Newfoundlings have to begin at the beginning.”

“Reading?” Koji guessed.

Darda shoot his head. “Returning.”

Weathered brick. Rusted metal. Hardscrabble ground. Peaceful clucking. Koji noted the twists of wire someone had used to mend the gap demons had made in the fence. Otherwise, the chicken yard looked the same as he remembered. “Why are we here?”

“God placed you here for a reason,” Darda explained. “This is your beginning, and your first task as an Observer is to archive it.”

“My beginning,” Koji murmured, his attention focusing on details he’d missed earlier. Like the dozens of windows facing the alley, each providing a different view—sagging blankets, stacked boxes, torn curtains, yellowed shades, wilting plants, and a sleeping cat.

Darda patted his shoulder. “Put words to what your senses tell you. Trace the hand of God as it appears here. I will require a faithful record.”

“How long do I have?” Koji asked.

“Evening and morning.”

He looked up and down the alley. “Is it safe?”

Ofir pointed to the building opposite the chicken coop. “Darda and I will be on the roof. The view’s excellent. If there’s even a whiff of mischief, I’ll be at your side before you smell it.”

Koji sniffed and wrinkled his nose. Alley smells are not as nice as pollen and honey, but they are interesting.

“Look and listen,” Darda urged. “After sunrise, we will return to the tower, and you shall have pen and paper.”

Long shadows cast the chicken yard into shadow by the time Koji finished his meticulous survey. But it wasn’t enough.Something is lacking. Going up on tiptoe, the boy waved to Ofir.

The cherub wasted no time in swooping to his side. “Need something, friend?”

“I wish to see more. From above.”

“I can change your perspective quick as a wink. What did you have in mind?”

From what Darda had explained, Observers watched Creation from on high. Towers gave them a broader view of the world. Koji crossed to a scraggly tree that had more height than breadth. Hemmed in by blocks of apartment buildings, only its topmost leaves caught the angling sunlight. “That branch?”

“Kind of a puny perch. Then again, you’re a featherweight.” Ofir laced his fingers together, creating a foothold. “Upsy-daisy!”

After a brief scramble, Koji thanked the cherub, who returned to his post in a rush of yellow wings. He tried several positions before settling down. One foot swinging, he sat with his other leg tucked up to his chest. Chin on knee, the young Observer gazed down at the milling chickens. This is good. I can see farther.

Hens were pleasant enough company, but Koji’s heart leapt at the sound of shuffling footsteps. The old woman! She shuffled along the alley, carrying a single plastic bag. Leaning forward, Koji tried to catch the tune she was humming. But then she did something strange.

She walked to a lumpish pile beside a dented garbage can. “Evening, Watchdog. There was a fine sale on tinned hash today. Bring us each an egg and we’ll have an extra nice supper.”

To Koji’s amazement, the heap moved and stretched, transforming into a shaggy man in ragged clothes. I did not notice him. The oversight felt like a mistake, but he liked this turn of events. Watching people is more interesting than watching chickens.

“Yes’m, missus. I’d like that.” His voice was rough, but his words were polite.

While the woman creaked up her porch steps, Watchdog limped to the gate and let himself into the chicken yard. Koji held his breath until the man emerged from the coop with two eggs in one grubby hand. He is the keeper of these chickens?

Koji frowned in concentration as the man presented his offering at the woman’s door then sat on her porch steps. Not long afterward, she came back outside, carrying two plates. The man accepted one and waited until the old woman eased into a white-painted rocker. She said grace, and they shared a meal.

Easy manners. Comfortable silences. One-sided chatting. The longer Koji eavesdropped, the more certain he was that this was their usual routine. The woman read to her guest from grocery store fliers, discussing coupons and sale prices. “We may have to pinch pennies, but at least we have them.” She smiled.

Watchdog ate slowly and listened close. But he didn’t say anything.

Evening fell and lights flicked on in apartment windows. Soon the rooftops were lined with guardian angels. It reminded Koji a little of the chickens who returned to their roosts at night. The agnels lined the rooftops and chose spots on the fire escapes. The hadarim form Hedges. Ever near those they guard.

Gathering the empty plates, the old woman said good night. “Thank you, Watchdog. If any of your friends come lookin’ for a spot, make them welcome. I’ll fry your eggs at breakfast.”

“Yes’m, missus. Thank you for your hospitality. Sleep sweet,” he gruffly replied.

“Always do.”

Her door clicked shut, and the man collected a plaid blanket from a cardboard box on the corner of her porch. Wrapping it around his shoulders, he stretched out right in front of his hostess’s door. Like a watchdog.

Koji watched stars winked their way into the patch of sky overhead, and he listened to the occasional rustle of feathers in the hen house below. But his gaze strayed from the old woman’s empty roof to her porch, where the homeless man dozed on her doormat.

“Asking opens the door to learning,” Koji whispered.

Sliding from his branch to the roof of the chicken coop, he dropped to the ground and padded across the alley, up the steps, and onto the porch. Koji bent over the still figure, waiting. When he didn’t stir, Koji tentatively poked one whiskered cheek.

Under grizzled eyebrows, one eye opened then the other.

Koji fidgeted under Watchdog’s steady gaze. But he had come this far, and his question felt important. Keeping his voice low, Koji asked, “Why are you pretending to be a man?”

Next Month: Angel on High, Part Five: “Pen and Paper”