The Hidden Deep

by Christa J. Kinde

  Once the conversation moved on, the young Observer nudged Prissie with his elbow and confided, “Koji is my nickname, too.”

  “Really? What’s your full name?”

  “I cannot tell,” he admitted. “It is a name only known to me and the One who gave it.”

  “Only God knows your real name?” she asked, mystified.

  The angel searched her face, then nodded once. “It will be the same for you one day.”

  Prissie’s brows rose. “Don’t be ridiculous. Everyone already knows my name.”

  With a hint of a smile, Koji replied, “You will be given a new one. It is promised.”

  “Oh,” she replied blankly. After some thought, she had to admit she was looking forward to finding out what her new name might be.

  Later that evening, Prissie stood beside Grandma Nell at the stove, carefully stirring applesauce so it wouldn’t scorch. During harvesttime, this was pretty much a daily chore, and the two of them had the routine down pat. The only difference this year was the addition of a new helper. While Grandma Nell ladled hot, cinnamon-spiked sauce into gleaming jars, Koji added the lids. When they were done, Prissie’s grandmother tallied up the quarts. “Two more batches should do it, so report for duty again tomorrow night.”

  “Isn’t this more than last year?” Prissie ventured as she lugged the big pot over to the sink to wash up.

  “We have an extra mouth to feed this year,” Grandma Nell countered, smiling Koji’s way.

  Once the kitchen was restored to order, Prissie’s mind turned to homework and the reading she needed to do for the week, but Koji tapped her shoulder. “I am going outside to talk with the others for a while,” he said quietly.

  Prissie’s heart sped up. “May I come along?”

  The boy’s face brightened. “I would like that.”

  Since the evenings were growing chilly, she slipped a sweater over her light dress and followed Koji onto the back porch. Stars were already out, and for several moments, the young angel stared up at them. “They will come to us,” Koji announced.

  Prissie often wondered how he knew where his teammates were, what they were doing, and sometimes even what kind of mood they were in. She guessed it was probably the same as her and Grandma making applesauce. He’d learned their routine and knew what to do. Either that, or he’d received a message. It was strange to think that Koji could hear God, and even stranger to think that God would pass along a time and place for a meeting.

  Tansy offered a soft meow from the seat she’d claimed on the porch swing, and Prissie soon had a lapful of purring barn cat. Koji sat on the steps, his dark eyes fixed on a point in the distance. “What do you see?” she whispered, hoping she would get to visit with Omri again.

  “Jedrick is coming!”

  “Is that good or bad?” she asked nervously. Koji didn’t have time to answer before there was a silent explosion of green light just beyond the garden. Though she’d only seen the phenomenon a few times before, Prissie vividly remembered the beautiful shifting patterns of light and color that made up an angel’s wings.

  “He is here,” Koji announced unnecessarily.

  A towering, armor-clad figure strode up the walk, and as he drew nearer, a second angel slipped out of the shadows just beyond the hydrangeas lining the porch. Prissie tried not to stare but failed miserably. Angelic warriors were huge, well-armed, and actually kind of scary, so it was hard to look away, especially once she realized that even without the porch light on, she could see them quite well. It was as if they brought their own light with them into the darkness. Could this be an angel’s halo?

  Rich green fell from Jedrick’s shoulders, flowing almost like a cloak or cape as he strode forward on booted feet. “Are you well, Prissie Pomeroy?” inquired the stern-faced warrior. Jedrick was a Protector, and he was captain of the team of angels that Milo, Koji, and the rest belonged to. His light brown hair was cropped close around his head except for one long braid, which hung over his left shoulder; the jeweled pommel of the sword strapped to his back was visible over his right.

  His inquiry was hard to answer. It felt like a trick question. Up until a few moments ago, Prissie had been just fine, but Jedrick’s arrival brought back unsettling memories and made her wonder if there were invisible enemies prowling around in the dark. She hugged her cat close and shrugged.

  Just behind him stood Tamaes, a Guardian whose long, brown hair only partially covered the jagged scar that marred his otherwise handsome face. He stepped forward. “Do not be afraid, little one,” he said gently. “Jedrick is not here because of danger nearby.”

  Jedrick looked sharply at his companion, then his expression altered subtly. Though his face lost none of its fierce quality, the Protector’s green eyes softened somewhat. “On the contrary, it is a quiet night.”

  Prissie glanced at Tamaes. It was irksome that he had known exactly what was on her mind, but she shouldn’t have been surprised. Tamaes was her guardian angel. Since the moment her life began, he’d been watching over her. It made sense that he would understand how she felt. He looked as though he wanted to say more, but was too bashful to get it out. Instead, Tamaes gazed at her with undisguised fondness, and she was the one who glanced away.

  Koji joined her on the porch swing and touched the back of her hand. When she met his earnest gaze, he said, “Prissie, I would not lead you into danger.”

  “There are things to be afraid of, though.”

  “Indeed,” Koji said.

  A war was being waged, and there were enemies so terrible, she’d been told to be grateful they were hidden from her eyes. But here and now, she was as safe as she could be. If only things could stay this way. “So why are you here?” she asked in a quiet voice.

  “I am often here,” Jedrick replied, looking amused. “My responsibilities keep me close.”

  “What are those?” she asked.

  The captain folded his muscular arms and cocked his head to one side. “I protect those in my Flight, and we each have our role to fill. Some stand guard over that which is ours to keep. Some seek that which has been lost. Some can only watch and wait.”

  Prissie glanced at Koji, whose pensive face was once more turned skyward. “That which has been lost? Do you mean Ephron?” she asked carefully. Ephron was Koji’s predecessor, an apprentice Observer who’d been taken by the enemy.

  “I do,” Jedrick confirmed. “Koji, I need to ask you to tell me more about your dream.”

  “He was somewhere close. Somewhere dark,” the boy replied.

  This was nothing new, but his captain nodded encouragingly. “Go on.”

  “He was hurt. Frightened.” Koji’s voice trembled. “And he said he would keep your trust no matter what else was taken.”

  Jedrick exchanged a long look with Tamaes before saying, “They are questioning him. It is as Abner feared.”

  Tamaes winced. “It is my fault.”

  “Do not think it,” Jedrick said. “None of us can take the blame for those who chose to fall.”

  “What do they mean?” Prissie whispered to Koji.

  He looked at her with sorrowful eyes. “Ephron came to visit Tamaes on the day he was taken. The enemy captured him here, in your family’s orchard.”

  2

  THE

  BUMPER

  CROP

  Kester let himself into his mentor’s apartment and eyed the walls with thinly veiled amusement. Baird’s tastes were as understated as his personality. The red wall had a teal door, and the door on the turquoise wall was orange. Instead of proper furnishings, bright beanbag chairs were piled in one corner of the living area. Baird didn’t bother with anything more since the room was mostly used for band rehearsals. At the moment, he was slouched in a purple beanbag with his guitar across his lap, fingers idly running through chords on the frets.

  Kester noted that the other Worshiper looked more than a little lost. “Is something wrong?”

  “Not sure.”

  “I bro
ught the revised Messiah score,” Kester said. “Would you like to go through it?”

  “I don’t feel like singing,” Baird confessed in a weary voice.

  The tall angel crossed to his mentor and knelt before him. “Sing with me.”

  The redhead lifted old eyes and shook his head. “I’m songed out.”

  “Impossible,” Kester replied calmly. “Sing with me, and you will remember joy.”

  Baird smiled crookedly. “Promise?”

  “Most assuredly.”

  The Pomeroys lived on an apple orchard, but farming wasn’t the only family business. Jayce Pomeroy owned the bakery on Main Street. Loafing Around would be celebrating its twentieth year this coming spring, and Prissie’s dad regularly hinted that he was cooking up something special for the anniversary. He often proposed crazy ideas at the dinner table, but his actual plans were veiled in secrecy.

  “Apron,” Auntie Lou said, handing Prissie one of her father’s crisp white chef’s aprons. While Prissie slipped it on and knotted the ties, the woman pulled open a drawer, counted out four forks, and set them beside the small stack of plates already waiting on the big work table in the center of the room. One of the secrets to the bakery’s success was Louise Cook. She was a tiny woman in her late sixties who favored flowery aprons, and she was probably the only person in the world who could boss around Jayce in his own kitchen.

  The back door swung open, and Prissie’s father strolled through with Ransom close on his heels. Each of them carried a bushel basket of apples, which they added to the lineup on one of the side tables. “This is the last of them,” Jayce announced brightly. “Are you ready to start, Princess?”

  “Dad,” Prissie protested with a sidelong glance at the teenager who slouched over the sink, washing up.

  With an unapologetic grin, Jayce pulled his daughter into a one-armed hug and stage whispered, “Sorry, my girl. Don’t mind me.”

  They’d been up with the chickens and out the door before anyone else in the house was stirring—just the two of them. It was a big deal to have one-on-one time with Dad, and Prissie was beside herself with excitement over his plans for this morning. He’d been so impressed by the recipe she’d developed for the pie baking competition at their county fair that he wanted to add it to the short list of limited edition pies they sold during the fall. Today, Prissie was going to teach her dad and Auntie Lou how to make her Candy Apple Pie. The only downside was the fact that Ransom had horned in on the lesson.

  Ransom Pavlos was in Prissie’s class at school, and he was probably the most annoying person she knew. It had come as a big surprise when her dad announced that Ransom wanted to learn the baking trade. She’d tried to tell her dad what kind of a person the boy was, but all of her warnings had fallen on deaf ears. Jayce hired him anyhow. Prissie cast a mopey glance at her classmate, and he quirked a brow in return as he calmly fitted a hairnet over his bush of brown hair.

  “We have two hours before I need to drive you two over to school,” Jayce said, calling them to order. “Let’s start with a sample, shall we?”

  Prissie lifted her test pie out of its carrier and set it beside the plates and forks. It didn’t look like much on the outside. The plain crust was all lumpy and bumpy from the apples inside, and it was just an ordinary golden-brown. Since Auntie Lou’s pies were real show-stoppers, Prissie was pretty embarrassed that her meager skills were getting so much attention. The woman smiled encouragingly as she handed Prissie a knife.

  “You do the honors, dear.”

  Prissie was very conscious of Ransom’s scrutiny as she lifted out the first piece and placed it on a plate. Mercifully, the pie didn’t fall apart on her. “Pink!” he exclaimed with an odd smile on his face.

  “Such a lovely shade,” cooed Auntie Lou, who passed the slice to Jayce.

  By the time Prissie took a bite, Ransom had already inhaled his piece and was poking through the bushel baskets. “Six kinds of apples?” he asked curiously. “Isn’t that a little much?”

  Jayce shook his head. “This pie is so good because it has depth … complexity. Each variety of apple contributes something the other varieties lack. Sweetness, tartness, flavor, texture.”

  “And color,” Ransom said, eyeing the unusual pink cast.

  The blush of the apples was nothing compared to the color rising in Prissie’s cheeks as she withdrew a folded paper from the pocket of her skirt and clutched it protectively to her heart. This recipe was special to her for a few reasons, and it was hard to give it away. “There’s a secret to the recipe.”

  “One we’ll keep!” her father assured. When Prissie frowned in Ransom’s direction, Jayce patted her shoulder reassuringly. “He’s already agreed to keep trade secrets.”

  “Go on, honey. Tell us how it’s done!” Auntie Lou urged.

  With a tentative smile at her father, Prissie relinquished the recipe. Jayce unfolded the paper and glanced over the instructions with a gleam in his eye. Then, he spread it out on the table so Lou and Ransom could read his daughter’s neatly written instructions.

  The old lady chortled. “I thought the name referred to the color!”

  “How long did it take to figure out the proportions for each kind of apple?” asked her father.

  “Koji and I must have tried it ten different ways,” she admitted. “We didn’t get it just right until a couple days before the fair.”

  Ransom had been reading more slowly than the others because his eyebrows didn’t shoot up until right then. “Are you kidding?” he asked, pointing to the last line in the recipe. “You actually went a little crazy, didn’t you?”

  Prissie moved to the coat hooks by the back door. Fishing out a heavy paper sack from her purse, she returned and carefully spilled the contents onto the worktable. The dark red wrappers of cinnamon penny candy from the corner store gleamed against the dull silver of stainless steel. “We were out of cinnamon, so I used these instead,” she replied defensively.

  “Oh, don’t get me wrong,” he said, giving her father a sheepish look. “It’s good and all. I’m just surprised.”

  Jayce grinned boyishly. “Some of the best recipes have an unexpected twist.”

  “Let’s get started,” Lou said. “Those apples aren’t going to peel themselves!”

  Moments later, Ransom exclaimed, “Whoa! These are pretty cool!” He’d chosen one of Great-grandmother Mae’s favorites apples and discovered the distinctive rose-colored flesh under its pale green skin.

  “Aren’t they, though?” Prissie’s father reached for one and showed off his knife skills, creating a long, unbroken spiral of pink and green. “My grandmother had a real fondness for the color pink, and the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” he said, winking at Prissie. “My grandfather sent for these trees to please her. There’s a whole row in the orchard, and these apples were the key to her signature pink applesauce.”

  Prissie frowned as she worked on one of the other five varieties, an apple as tart as her mood. She didn’t think it was any of Ransom’s business knowing one of their family’s stories, and it bugged her to see how he hung on her father’s every word. After all her excitement about spending time with her dad and making her pie together, Jayce was paying more attention to Ransom. It wasn’t fair!

  Jayce pared a few more apples before leaving the rest of the prep to his able-bodied assistants. Soon, the smell of proofing yeast filled the kitchen, and a batch of poppy seed muffins found its way into the oven. More strong scents filled the air as he chopped rosemary, roasted garlic, and grated nutmeg, and slowly, Prissie began to relax. The bakery was her home away from home, and Ransom couldn’t take that away.

  As they worked, Prissie was pleased to note that she was quicker and neater than her rival. She was mightily peeved that he’d taken all the pink apples for himself, but it looked as though she would be able to finish all the rest before he got through his pile. True, there were smaller quantities of the other varieties, but it was sort of comforting to know s
he was better than him.

  Somewhere along the way, Prissie realized that she missed Koji’s company. If the young angel had been there, he would have asked her a hundred questions about everything from their upcoming group social studies project to the reason why cinnamon candy was red when cinnamon was brown. Busywork was nicer if you had someone to chat with, but there was no way she was going to make small talk with Ransom. She eyed his progress critically. “You’re cutting those pieces wrong.”

  “You think?” he asked, holding up a chunk of pink apple.

  “They’re too fat,” she pronounced, picking up a long, thin wedge from her own board. “This shape is better.”

  “You do realize it all bakes down to mush?” he inquired, a teasing lilt to his tone.

  Prissie’s eyes narrowed. “My pie is not mushy!”

  Ransom just smirked and turned toward her father. “Hey, Mr. Pomeroy.” Holding up the small chunk of fruit, he asked, “Is this okay?”

  Jayce glanced over. “Sure, sure. Keep up the good work,” he replied distractedly.

  The teen quirked a brow at her as he answered, “Yes, sir!”

  “Oh, fine,” she grumbled, returning her attention to her own pile of fruit, which she stubbornly continued to slice the correct way.

  In due course, the apples were reduced to six mounds. “I can manage this part if you two take care of those candies,” she prompted.

  “Sure,” Ransom replied. He nabbed one and popped it out of its red wrapper. “So what are we talking about here? Do you use a food processor?”

  “Mortar and pestle?” Jayce suggested.

  Prissie shook her head and admitted, “Koji and I used a hammer.”

  The teen’s eyes lit up. “Oh, I am all over that!” He rummaged in a drawer and came up with a mallet, then rounded on the small pile of candies. “Let’s do this!”

  With a steely look, Prissie removed the last of the cinnamon candies from its wrapper, and placed them all inside a plastic bag. Holding out her hand for the mallet, she said, “Let me take care of it. I can tell you’re going to get carried away.”