The Blue Door

by Christa J. Kinde

  “Everybody knows that!” Prissie sighed.

  “Only if they’ve heard it before, sweetheart,” her mother gently chided. She gathered her thoughts, then said, “One verse in the gospels implies that every child has an angel — a guardian angel.”

  There it was again, as if it was common knowledge. Messengers. Guardians. “Are there other kinds of angels?”

  Momma picked up her pail and moved to the next bean tower. “Umm … Isaiah describes some fantastical creatures, and in Revelation the angels sound pretty fierce. Paul talks about ‘powers and principalities’ in conflict, so I’ve always thought some angels must be well-armed, battle-ready types.”

  Prissie’s mind was spinning. “The Bible talks about angels that much?”

  “Didn’t you sign up to read through the Bible in a year?” her mother asked lightly. “We started Isaiah two weeks ago.”

  “I’m a little behind, I guess,” she hedged, quickly changing the subject. “Do angels have wings and halos?”

  Mrs. Pomeroy threw a handful of beans into her pail and answered, “That’s how artists usually portray them, but I don’t know if they’re literal or just a convention that was adopted somewhere along the way. There’s usually some truth behind a legend.” She paused in her work, propping her hands against her lower back for a stretch. “Wings would be nice. Can you imagine what it would be like to fly?”

  Prissie cast a sidelong look in her mother’s direction and noted the familiar, far-away look in the woman’s gray eyes. Naomi was a little on the flighty side, and it was obvious that her mind was off in another world. “So angels are real,” Prissie stated, bringing Momma back to earth. “Do you think there are people who can see them?”

  “There are stories, but it’s hard to know if they’re true. It’s certainly possible, but the instances seem to be rare,” she replied, giving her daughter a teasing glance. “Why have you been visited by winged messengers?”

  Squirming uncomfortably, Prissie gave her full attention to picking beans. “Not exactly,” she said, comforting herself that it wasn’t a lie since Koji, Milo, and Harken lacked feathers. “I was just curious.”

  Momma was summoned back to the house by Jude, who brought news of Zeke’s discovery that he could make taller towers out of building blocks if he used peanut butter between the layers. Prissie stayed behind to finish up in the garden. The beans were done, which only left a long line of green onions, their spiky tops poking out from the midst of thick weeds. With a sigh, she knelt at one end of the row and began the slow task of removing the weeds without uprooting the bulbs.

  Maddie clucked softly from the shallow depression she’d created under the broad leaves of a nearby zucchini plant, and when Prissie looked up, Koji was crouched down beside the hen, watching the bird intently.

  Sitting back on her heels, Prissie asked, “Can she see you?”

  “She knows I am here,” he replied. Maddie cocked her head to one side, as if listening to something, and Koji smiled as he mirrored the action. “And that I bear her no ill will.”

  “Obviously.”

  The young angel stood and wriggled his bare toes in the dirt for a moment before dropping to his knees across from Prissie. “May I help?” he inquired, tentatively touching the tips of an onion.

  “You’ll get your pretty clothing dirty!” Prissie protested.

  “Our raiment cannot become stained,” Koji explained, and he stood back up to show her how the dirt simply fell away from the shimmering fabric. “Without spot or wrinkle.”

  “That’s from the Bible,” Prissie remarked.

  “Indeed.”

  She turned her attention back to weeding, keeping a close eye on Koji to make sure he was doing it right. “So, why are you back today?” she asked.

  “I wanted to see you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you can see me,” he replied simply.

  Prissie squinted at him from under the brim of her straw hat. “Is being invisible lonely?”

  “No … and yes.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” she challenged, scooting a little farther down the row. The job was going much faster with two of them working together.

  “It is part of what I did not explain very well last night,” he replied. “May I try again?”

  “If you must.”

  “Sin taints everything, like this garden.” He held up a weed as proof. “And you as well.”

  Prissie lowered her head to hide her blush. “I do the best I can,” she grumbled. “It’s not fair to criticize.”

  “I speak the truth, nothing more.” She shrugged defensively, and Koji continued, “When a human has been forgiven, they undergo the most beautiful change I have ever seen.” Prissie looked up in surprise, and met the young angel’s steady gaze. His dark eyes glowed with warmth, gladness, even joy. “It is truly lovely.”

  “What is?” she whispered, her heartbeat quickening.

  “The presence of God,” Koji replied in a low, reverent voice. “Those who have been forgiven are touched by His Spirit. I can tell because I have met Him.”

  “You’ve met the Holy Spirit?”

  “Yes.”

  “You mean, you talked to him just like you’re talking to me?” Prissie pressed, disbelief coloring her tone.

  “Yes,” Koji confidently repeated. “When I am close to those who belong to God, I am not lonely, for He is with them. I also like being with the others in my Flight,” he confided. “When Abner sings, it feels like home.”

  “Is Abner an angel, too?” she asked.

  Koji nodded. “We gather in the garden behind the blue door each day.”

  Intrigued in spite of herself, Prissie asked, “What do you do?”

  “Talk … listen … sing.”

  “I’ve heard Milo before, and Harken, too. Do you sing as well?”

  In answer, Koji straightened, threw back his head and, without a trace of embarrassment, sang a simple song of praise to the Creator. As he thanked God for His presence with His people and for the onions they were tending, his sweet treble voice made Prissie’s skin prickle into goose bumps.

  After the last note faded, Maddie’s approving cluck broke the silence that stretched between them. “Did you make that up?” Prissie asked in awe.

  “Yes.”

  “I wish I could do that,” she sighed.

  “Do you want to sing together?” Koji invited.

  Prissie shook her head self-consciously and returned to weeding. “I want to sound like you.”

  When she moved farther down the row, her companion didn’t move with her, and she glanced up to find him studying her closely. The expression on his face was one Prissie was beginning to equate with being observed. “What? Did I say something strange?”

  “No.” He scooted along the line of onions so he was across from her again and set back to work. “Do you covet my voice?”

  “I wouldn’t put it like that,” she muttered unhappily. “You should just take it as a compliment.” Again, Prissie could feel his gaze, but she refused to meet it.

  “I have thanked Abner for his songs,” the boy shared. “At that time, he asked me which was more important: the singer or the song?”

  Prissie thought about it. A poor performance could ruin an otherwise decent song, but the best singer in the world would never be heard if they didn’t perform. “I guess you need both?” she ventured.

  Koji tipped his head to one side and explained, “The singer gives voice to the song in his heart, but its beginning and end belong to God. He is most important.”

  “So it was a trick question?”

  “Among angels, it would be considered a joke.”

  7

  THE BAKERS DAUGHTER

  Can’t we do something about that Messenger?” grumbled Murque. “He’s up to something, going from house to house.”

  “He’s a mailman, idiot,” snapped Dinge. From their hiding place within the shadow of a lilac hedge, the two
demons watched Milo’s car roll to a stop. “If we could get to him, he would be gone.”

  “We pick off Messengers all the time.”

  “Yeah, well this one has a Guardian,” the crouching demon whispered hoarsely. “There! See?”

  Murque swore under his breath, then muttered, “I thought only people had Guardians. He’s just a poser.”

  “Their Flight’s been more cautious since midsummer.”

  An unholy gleam lit his cohort’s eyes. “Lost track of one of their own, didn’t they?”

  “That they did,” Dinge replied with a rusty laugh.

  Prissie didn’t do rough and tumble. She wore dresses, had excellent posture, and strove to attain what she considered the best of feminine beauty. Jayce and Naomi couldn’t really explain where their daughter got all her notions, but they saw no harm in letting her have her way.

  “Where are you off to in such a hurry?” Jayce called as his daughter passed by.

  “Grandma’s,” Prissie replied. “I need to practice.”

  “Sure, sure,” her father replied. “It’s a good thing there are two kitchens on this farm, or Zeke and I would be out of luck.” Her younger brother grinned from his perch on a step stool, proudly wearing one of his father’s aprons. Wednesdays were always their dad’s half days, so he came home early to hang out with them around the house, often making a mess of their kitchen in the process.

  She regularly experimented with new recipes herself, usually with less-than-stellar results, but she was determined to conquer the culinary arts. The only problem was … she wasn’t very good at it. To be perfectly honest, she was terrible at it.

  Jayce had offered to teach his daughter everything he knew, but she was privately frustrated with him for being so comfortable in an area where she struggled. It was much easier to go to Grandma Nell for lessons, so Prissie conveniently ignored the fact that her father and brother were bonding by making candied rose petals.

  A half hour later, she was liberally sprinkled with flour and grimly gripping the handles of a rolling pin. “Gently, sweetie,” urged Grandma Nell. “You need a delicate touch when it comes to pastry.”

  “I know,” she tersely replied.

  “You should accept the advice of those who are wiser than you,” remarked Koji, who’d stationed himself on top of her grandparents’ refrigerator. Prissie shot him a dark look, which he met with an uncertain smile.

  “Lighter, lighter, dear,” urged Grandma Nell, demonstrating again with a deft turn of her round of dough. With sure hands, she rolled out the pastry, transferred it into a waiting pie tin and then crimped the edges.

  Prissie banged at her lump of dough and sighed in dissatisfaction when the crust tore. With a scowl, she folded it over to try again.

  Grandma peered over her shoulder. “You should have just patched it.”

  “But it wasn’t right!” argued Prissie.

  “It’s okay to have a little imperfection,” the older woman tutted.

  “I can’t have any mistakes if I’m going to win a ribbon at the fair!” she protested.

  “People expect a homemade pie to have a few irregularities. Trying to hide them only makes matters worse because overworking the crust toughens it,” Grandma Nell explained. “Don’t worry so much about how it looks; taste is the important thing.”

  “Yours always look perfect,” Prissie pointed out dejectedly.

  “I’ve had a few more years of experience,” her grandmother chuckled. “Speaking of taste, have you decided what kind of pie you’re making for the competition?”

  “Will the apples from Great-grandma’s trees be ready in time?”

  “Oh, I dunno. It’ll be close, but you might find enough ripe apples to work with.”

  “I will ask Abner to help if you want,” offered Koji from overhead.

  Prissie knew she’d heard that name before. “Who?”

  “What, dear?” asked her grandmother, who was mixing up a crumb topping.

  She made a shushing motion at the boy and replied, “Grandpa always brags about those apples and the pies his mother made from them.”

  Nell’s blue eyes sparkled. “That’s the truth, and for good reason. Pete’s mother loved those trees! Their apples were the secret behind her pink applesauce, which was the prettiest color, and without a drop of food coloring to help things along.”

  “I maybe remember it … a little.”

  “You were only five when she passed on, but you loved the color pink even then,” Nell smiled. “I’ll see if I can hunt up her recipe. She was real particular about the blend of apples, and that may translate into a winning pie.”

  “Shouldn’t I make up my own recipe?” Prissie asked.

  Grandma Nell shook a floury finger in her direction. “Those who are smart learn from those who are wise. And it will be your own recipe if you’re adapting Mother Pomeroy’s pink applesauce into a pie.”

  Prissie’s eyes took on the shine of anticipation. “I want to! Can I?”

  “I don’t see why not,” her grandmother said with an indulgent smile. “But first things first, roll out your crust.”

  “Yes, ma’am!” Prissie exclaimed, using her rolling pin to give the dough a zealous thump that made Nell — and Koji — wince.

  “My pie looks pitiful,” Prissie mourned as she slid it into the oven next to her grandmother’s. “Neil is going to make fun of it; I just know it.”

  “I would like to taste your pie,” Koji declared.

  “I could probably sneak you a piece,” Prissie offered. “Momma wouldn’t mind.”

  “Perhaps … perhaps if I …” the boy began, suddenly looking nervous. “Prissie, if Harken and Shimron obtain permission for a change in my status, would you accept it?”

  Prissie couldn’t understand why Koji would need her approval for such a thing, but there was no mistaking the hopefulness shining in his dark eyes. Planting her hands on her hips, she asked, “Is it something you want?”

  “Very much,” he replied seriously.

  “Then, why don’t you?”

  Koji’s smile was truly beautiful.

  Just then, someone rapped smartly on the screen door. No one in the family ever knocked, and most folks who dropped by simply gave a holler, announcing themselves. “Who could that be?” she murmured.

  As if in answer, a cheerful voice hailed, “Special delivery!”

  Koji hopped lightly from the top of the fridge and darted toward the front porch, calling, “Milo, she agreed!”

  Prissie followed much more slowly, wringing a dishtowel between her hands. The mailman waited just beyond the welcome mat in his uniform — a long-sleeved shirt with the postal service’s logo stitched onto the arm. “Hello, Miss Priscilla,” he greeted, nodding pleasantly at Koji. “I had a feeling you would be here. There’s a package for your grandmother.”

  He lifted a parcel about the size of a shoebox, and Koji looked expectantly at Prissie. “Can Milo come in?”

  “I guess,” she allowed. “Grandma’s in the garden.”

  He nodded. “I’ll wait.”

  Koji ignored the uncomfortable silence that snuck into the room and helped things along by interrupting it. “Where is the box from?”

  “Spain,” Milo replied.

  “Do you know someone in Spain?” the young angel inquired of Prissie.

  “My Aunt Ida,” she replied curtly. “It’s where she and Uncle Lo were going next after Portugal.”

  The conversation stalled again, but thankfully, Grandma Nell bustled up the path from the garden, a basket under one arm, and a bunch of hydrangeas in her other hand. Milo quickly moved to open the door for her. “Good afternoon, ma’am!”

  “Oh, Milo! What a nice surprise!” she exclaimed. “Come on through, and I’ll find you a little something. Prissie, fetch me a vase for these. You know where they are.”

  She gladly escaped and took her time choosing from the empty vases lining the shelf over her grandmother’s laundry tub. “Unbelievable,�
� she grumbled, unhappily patting her flour-streaked apron.

  “What do you not believe?” inquired Koji curiously.

  Prissie whirled, startled that the young angel had followed her. “Milo’s timing,” she groused.

  “His delivery was punctual.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” she snapped. “I wasn’t expecting to see him today.”

  Koji’s face took on a look of concentration. “I thought you said you were not avoiding him.”

  “I’m not!” Prissie protested.

  “Are you unhappy to see him?”

  “N-no, but I’m a mess, and I don’t know what to say to him!”

  He considered this for a moment before asking, “What would you speak to Milo about if nothing had changed?”

  She shrugged moodily. “Things.”

  Koji accepted her answer without hesitation. “He would still like to hear about things. I know it.”

  When Prissie returned to the kitchen with a cobalt blue vase, Milo was already seated at the table, a tall glass of iced tea and a plate of lemon bars set before him. Grandma turned from the sink where she was rinsing tomatoes and said, “Lovely, sweetie. Now, go sit with Milo, and we’ll have a look into Ida’s box together.”

  Trying to hide her nervousness, Prissie slid into the chair next to Milo’s. A glance in Koji’s direction showed that the younger angel had returned to his perch on the refrigerator, which offered a decent view of the proceedings while keeping him out from underfoot.

  Grandma Nell bustled over and thumped a red enamel colander and a bowl of freshly picked beans between the two. Without batting an eye, Milo reached for a handful and began snapping the ends off. At Prissie’s startled expression, he smiled. “I’ve been doing this for quite some time. Your grandmother trained me when I first started my route.”

  She couldn’t decide whether she should be annoyed that her grandmother had been quietly hogging so much of Milo’s time over the years … or amused at how much the mailman looked like one of her big brothers. They always looked so awkward when Grandma bossed them into helping snap beans or shell peas. “Does she ask you to hunt duck eggs, too?” she asked before she remembered to hold back.