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.

“He is so new!” one of the angels from the tower exclaimed.

“Hello, bright eyes,” another said.

“Is he here for one of us?”

Koji turned in Cherith’s embrace for a better look at the crowd he’d drawn. The gathered Observers were like Ofir—older boys, mostly grown. And they all talked at once.

“When did he arrive?”

“How did he get here?”

“I found him. I brought him,” Ofir said.

“Can we keep him?” an Observer with tiny braids in a soft shade of jade said.

“Why else would he be Sent?” his neighbor said.

Koji didn’t know how to answer, so he leaned back against Cherith.

“Children, you know better than to try to take what must be given.” The Caretaker met each gaze. “By all means, tell me if this young one’s name is under your hand or over your heart.”

Feet shuffled. Shoulders drooped. Smiles turned sheepish.

“He will need a mentor,” one insisted.

“So might you,” Cherith countered. “Who can say what God has in store for those who await His call?”

“Who can say?” several agreed.

More added, “Amen and amen.”

“Well said.” The Caretaker rested his cheek against Koji’s hair. “Can you confirm it, young one? Were you Sent to any of these?”

Focusing on the angel who’d asked to keep him, Koji gave a tiny shake of his head.

Although disappointment flickered across his face, the other Observer smiled. “Not to worry, bright eyes. You are welcome all the same.”

“Thank you.” Glancing up at Ofir, he added, “I am called Koji, and Ofir is my friend.”

“Too right,” the cherub agreed.

“And Koji is in need of a Weaver’s services.” Raising his voice, Cherith called, “Is there a Weaver hereabouts?”

“Near and dear!” came a cheerful reply. “What has everyone buzzing like so many bees?”

The crowd parted, and Koji stared up at the newcomer. Like the others, this angel’s feet were bare, and his ears were pointed. But he wore an intricately woven turban—hair and cloth, ribbons and bells. Even after staring for several moments, Koji wasn’t sure if the Weaver’s hair was black or blue. Maybe hair can come in two colors.

“A newfoundling!” Squatting down, the Weaver offered a brown hand and a bright smile. “We don’t see many of you in the fringes.”

With a measure of amazement, Koji reached back and touched each of the angel’s fingers, softly counting, “One, two, three, four, five … six?”

“Such is the lot of a Weaver!” Clasping Koji’s hand in his, he rubbed the boy’s knuckles with both thumbs.

Second thumbs, peacock stitching—Weaver. With a small start, Koji checked the collars and cuffs of the other members of his order. “Silver and gold?”

“A sure indicator of heaven’s archivists,” the Weaver said and winked. “Shall I embellish your tunic in gold and silver?”

Koji glanced down at his plain raiment then checked Cherith’s face. When the Caretaker inclined his head, the boy eagerly asked, “Can I watch?”

The Weaver looked to Cherith, who answered the unspoken question. “Yes. You and Ofir will tend to Koji’s immediate needs. In the meantime, these good Observers and I will work out a rotation for their new pupil.”

“All of us?” the angel with jade braids said.

“Yes, Darda. All of you.” The Caretaker released the boy. “Koji is a child in need of guidance, and you are middlings in need of confidence. Give this child the benefit of your knowledge. Teach him the skills he needs to excel. Learn what an apprentice might require from you.”

As a murmur of excitement spread through the Observers, Ofir and the Weaver led Koji toward the tower. The boy ventured, “I am a gift?”

“One we accept with all gratitude!” the Weaver replied.

Koji looked back, forward, then up into the faces of his escorts. “My name was a gift from Ofir. My silver and gold will be a gift from . . .?”

“Weft,” the turbaned angel supplied, giving Koji’s hand a friendly squeeze. “Everyone calls me Weft.”

Once he was through the tower’s doors, Koji stopped to stare. Balconies ringed a circular chamber connected by winding staircases. White stone reflected cascading light, scattering fragments of rainbows. And everywhere, books.

The contents of this archive weren’t confined to shelves. Piles on tables. Rows on ledges. Stacks on stairs. Koji tiptoed closer to a book standing open on a pedestal, but Ofir caught him by the back of his tunic.

“Hey, now,” the cherub said, smiling. “Before you stick your nose in a book, there are things you need up top.”

Weft ran lightly up the stairs, calling back, “This way!”

Koji followed more slowly, for with every winding turn, something interesting came into view: Jars bristling with brushes. Crumbling piles of pigment. Pans of vivid paints. Reams of gleaming parchment. And alcoves partially hidden from view by exquisite tapestries and swaths of sheer cloth embroidered with varicolored threads.

Midway through the climb, he and Ofir caught up to Weft. The Weaver peered over the shoulder of an Observer whose pen scratched lightly across the page of an open book.

“Diligent as ever, Prosper!” Ofir greeted.

“As ever,” the angel said, whose black hair made a striking contrast against pale skin. Laying aside his pen, he laced his fingers. “Welcome, Koji.”

“Prosper has already begun an entry about you for the archive,” Weft said.

“Me?”

“Thee!” With a soft laugh, the older boy turned his book so the newfoundling could see. Beautiful penmanship flowed across the page, accompanied by the sketch of a solemn-faced boy reaching for a honey bee.

“Is that what I look like?” Koji said.

“Only for a moment. Already you have changed,” Prosper said, blue eyes alight.

“I did? How?”

Leaning closer, Prosper whispered, “By meeting me.”

Will I change each time I meet a person? If so, I will be a different person many times. Intrigued by the prospect, Koji whispered, “Indeed.”

Weft interrupted by steering the boy toward the stairs. “Let’s leave such mysteries for later discussion. Our newfoundling needs tending.”

“Sending, tending, wending,” Prosper murmured, who waved them off and picked up his pen.

Koji could tell the very top of the tower wasn’t for Observers because the space held no books. Instead, looms of different types and sizes, spools and skeins of vivid thread, and enormous pots in which trees and climbing vines grew were there. His nose twitched at the new smells—sweet flowers, spicy bark, sharp dyes. The various hoops suspended here and there in the greenery further piqued his curiosity.

Stepping closer to a circlet spinning on its fine strand, he stopped short at a change in texture. The rug underfoot had a floral pattern in a pleasing blend of greens and yellows. Like the meadow that is part of this home.Koji wiggled his toes then looked back up into the branches of a potted candle-tree. Spots swam before his eyes.

Bright. Erratic. Confusing. Not bees. Or birds.

“You must be hungry,” Ofir said, holding out a hand to attract one of the fluttering creatures.

“God’s little providers are drawn to your need,” Weft said.

Realization dawned, bringing wonder. Angels! These also belong to God. The boy mimicked Ofir and held out his hand. A small person with faceted eyes and delicate wings darted closer and turned a somersault. When a translucent flake drifted onto his outstretched palm, Koji breathed, “Manna.”

“The bread of angels,” Ofir confirmed. “These little guys keep us from fading.”

“Eat, Koji,” Weft urged, who was already threading needles with gold and silver thread. “Let my flock refresh you.”

Koji murmured thanks to the manna-maker with a fuzz of magenta hair. Then he dropped the wafer onto his tongue. Sweetness spread through his mouth.

“Hey, now!” Ofir grinned broadly. “Another smile. I like this trend.”

From the direction of the stairs, someone called, “Beg your pardon, Weft.”

The Weaver turned. “Did you need something, Darda?”

“Cherith made his decision.” The Observer with jade hair held out both hands. “Are you ready, bright eyes? Your first lesson will be with me.”

Next Month: Angel on High, Part Four: Look and Listen