Magical Princess Harriet: Chessed, World of Compassion

Tidings

Harris unlocks the front door of his house and goes inside. On the way past he touches his fingers to the old mezuzah¹ hanging on the doorpost and brings them to his lips to kiss them, just as he has always done. His mother isn’t home from work yet. He goes upstairs to his room to wait for her, but the room is completely empty except for a towering stack of cardboard boxes piled up in the middle of the floor. Harris and his mother have been living here for months now, but somehow he has never gotten around to unpacking his things. He feels like he ought to get started, but he doesn’t even know where to begin. None of the boxes is even labeled. The huge, unsteady pile looms over him, creaking and wobbling under its own massive weight. Harris begins to get nervous. The pile is looking more and more unstable. At any moment now it could fall and bury him alive, and there is no one to whom he could call out for help. He decides to go for a walk instead.

Outside, the street is empty and perfectly quiet. He begins to walk, but soon becomes disoriented because all the houses look exactly the same. The rows and rows of identical buildings are oppressive. They seem to lean out over him like the boxes in his room, their dark windows staring straight ahead with vacant unconcern. He turns around to go back home, but soon realizes he must have taken a wrong turn somewhere because now he is lost. Nothing is familiar; everything is the same. He turns down onto a street that he thinks might be his own, but finds instead that he has wandered into a cul-de-sac that circles endlessly around on itself with no way out. He wants to ask someone for directions, but there is no one to ask.

Harris begins to sweat. His heart is pounding in his chest. Increasingly frightened, he begins to walk faster, then to jog, then to run, faster and faster, looking in vain for a way out. He picks a house at random and runs up to the door, ringing the doorbell frantically, begging to be let in. At last the door opens, answered by a girl his own age. She seems to recognize him and smiles. Why don’t you come inside, she says. Her voice is warm and kind, but he is already backing away, stumbling backwards down the steps, the blood rising to his cheeks, because he has seen her face before and it is

...

6:27 in the morning and the alarm has not yet gone off. He wakes with a start to a room suffused with the pale blue not-quite-light of early morning. It takes a moment to remember that this is his room, everything unpacked and put in its place weeks ago. His heart is still racing from a dream he can almost, but not quite, remember. He has a feeling it had something to do with houses — they’ve been on his mind a lot recently. Even as the memory fades, the tightness in his stomach remains, and although he is still a little drowsy he slips out of bed and stumbles down the hall into the bathroom.

Avoiding looking at himself in the mirror, he turns on the tap, holding his hands for a moment under the water before bringing them to his face, massaging his closed eyelids. The water is uncomfortably cold but it seems to purify him, washing away some of the unpleasant feelings left over from the dream. Still only half-awake, the memory comes to him of a blessing his mother taught him once when he was having trouble getting to sleep at night. She said that long ago people used to believe that when someone is sleeping their soul leaves their body and goes wandering in the night. Because of this belief they would go to sleep with a prayer on their lips for God to watch over their soul on its journey, and awaken with a blessing thanking God for its safe return. As he dries his hands, Harris tries to remember how the blessing went, his lips fumbling a little over the words:

Modah ani lefanecha

Melech chai v’kayam

Sh’hechezarta bi nishmati b’chemlah

Rabah emunatecha²

¹ A small container holding a piece of parchment inscribed with a series of biblical verses, the mezuzah is hung on the doorpost of Jewish homes in accordance with the biblical commandment to write these teachings upon the doorpost of your house and upon your gates.

² I thank you, living and eternal Sovereign, for graciously returning my soul to me. Great is your faithfulness.

Chapter One

And Moses said, I must turn aside to look at this marvelous sight. Why doesn’t the bush burn up? - Exodus 3:3

To put it simply, Harris Baumgartner was late to school on the first day of the seventh grade because something he saw in the abandoned lot at the end of his street changed his life forever.

…

The neighborhood where Harris lived was a soulless maze of new construction — the kind of place that seems to pop up overnight when no one is looking, like mushrooms after an autumn rain. He and his mother lived in a little rented townhouse on a long street that twisted and turned so confusingly that in places it seemed to actually double back on itself. They had moved there earlier that summer after it had become clear that his father wasn’t coming back and that his mother was going to have to support the two of them all by herself from now on, and Harris still hadn’t gotten used to the new surroundings.

Their old home had been in a quiet neighborhood in an older part of town where the streets were shaded by enormous old trees, some of which had been growing there since before the town’s founding. They had all been beautiful, but the one in front of their house, an ancient sycamore with a trunk nearly twenty feet around, had been Harris’s favorite. As a young child he loved to play in the shady part of their front lawn where its great boughs were spread out overhead like a pair of sheltering wings. Sometimes he would just lie on his back in the soft grass for hours, looking up at the leafy canopy spreading above him and imagining that strange and fantastical worlds hung there among its branches.

The neighborhood where they lived now had been built too recently to have any trees much taller than Harris himself, and the stark, geometrical precision of the houses, each exactly like all the others, made him deeply uneasy. The pervasive sameness of this alien world haunted him, and although he had over time learned to find his way around he was still troubled on occasion by nightmares of getting lost, and the uncomfortable feeling of being both home and not at home at the same time had never completely left him. It gave him the creeps sometimes when he was out walking by himself, which was often.

The developers who had built all the houses in Harris’s neighborhood had run into some kind of legal problem not too long after he and his mother had moved in, and as a consequence of this a little cluster of houses down at the end of their street had been left unfinished while the company tried to get its own house in order. In the end they had gone bankrupt and now it was unclear whether the construction would ever get finished. This made a lot of the adults who lived in the neighborhood very unhappy, and there had been some talk of filing a lawsuit on behalf of the homeowners, if only they could find anybody with enough money to sue.

For his part, Harris thought all the fuss was overblown. He thought the uncompleted houses huddled together at the end of the street like a congress of grinning jack o’ lanterns gave the place a certain charm that it wouldn’t otherwise have had. He had come to feel a kind of camaraderie with those houses, as if he and they were allies in a common conspiracy against whatever mysterious power had decreed that all places must be exactly like any other.

On this particular autumn morning Harris was walking past this group of half-completed houses, his new canvas backpack (a pretty shade of heather green — he’d picked it out himself) slung over one shoulder, when a flicker of motion glimpsed out of the corner of his eye drew his attention. Intrigued, he stopped and drew closer to the boundary of tattered warning tape that marked the edge of the vacant lot, wondering if it had been one of the raccoons old Mrs. Reynolds next door was always complaining about.

And so he stood there in the silence of the morning, peering into the gloomy depths of the incomplete house’s bare plywood skeleton, trying to figure out what it was that he’d seen. He was just about to turn back to the sidewalk and continue on his walk to school when something odd happened to his vision — a sudden flicker like that of a television set whose signal has been interrupted. It lasted for only the barest fraction of a second and then it was gone, followed by a terrific flash of light so intense that it seemed to bleach the color and dimension out of everything around him, so that for a brief instant the world seemed to shimmer in a ghostly haze of silver and gray.

Harris cried out, his voice sounding thin and washed-out as if the light were somehow bright enough to bleach away sound as well as color. Disoriented, he took a step back, throwing an arm up instinctively to protect his eyes, but the light was already fading, leaving in its wake only a swirling afterimage like a field of purple-green flowers dancing in his sight. He blinked hard, tears welling up in his eyes, and as his vision began to return he saw that the scene had abruptly changed.

The unfinished house was still there, looking as dilapidated as ever, but now floating in the dim hollow of its interior among the castoff bricks and piles of warped and weathered lumber was something new and strange. It was a living creature — that at least was plain to see. In general outline its shape was that of a human being, more or less. Slender and delicate, in place of arms it had three pairs of enormous, birdlike wings covered in gleaming white feathers. Of these, one pair was beating constantly in a complicated pattern, buzzing so rapidly that the sunlight reflecting off of them created a hazy iridescent nimbus like a rainbow in the air all around it. Another pair was folded modestly over the creature’s body, hiding it from prying eyes. The third pair it held up in front of its face like a mask so that the only part of it that Harris could really see with any clarity was a pair of burning red eyes which stared directly into his with such intensity that Harris was quickly forced to look away.

His first thought might have been to run away as fast as his sneakers would carry him, but in fact he was so flabbergasted at what he beheld that all he could do was stand there and stare, awestruck by the presence of something so beautiful and terrible in such an ordinary place. For its part, for a while the creature simply floated there, bobbing up and down a little in the air, staring fixedly at Harris. Then at last, as if making its mind up about something, it emerged from out of the shadow of the building frame and flitted over to where Harris was standing. Coughing gently to clear its throat, it began to speak, and when it spoke its voice was every bit as alien as its appearance, as if the rushing of the wind or the sound of falling rain or radio static had somehow been shaped into perfectly comprehensible human speech.

Behold, creature, the creature exclaimed, For I have come bearing tidings!

Tidings? Harris asked, taken aback.

Yes, tidings, the creature responded with a firm nod of its head.

Um, what kind of…

Great tidings, the like of which your mortal ears have never heard!

I’m pretty sure you’re right, said Harris, whose mortal ears had to the best of his knowledge never heard tidings of any kind, whether great or small. But could you please be a little more specific about what you mean by—

Silence! The creature thundered, so loudly that Harris was forced to clap his hands over his ears. Then in a more ordinary tone of voice it said, Will you quit interrupting me, child? Otherwise I’ll never get to the tidings.

Oh yeah, sorry. Feeling a little stupid, Harris looked down at his shoes and waited politely for it to speak.

Thank you very much. The creature cleared its throat again. Puffing itself up self-importantly, it continued, I have come to give you … a gift! At this point it paused for a moment and looked at him expectantly as though waiting for him to say something.

Oh, um…thanks, Harris managed to stammer and then, because he didn’t want to appear ungrateful for whatever this bizarre creature had come to give him, he added: Wow that’s really … really nice of you.

The creature rolled its eyes and heaved a little sigh of exasperation. Look, I have been sent to give you a new title and a mission in life. You’re a princess now. Mazal tov! Peace be unto thee, Princess Harris!

Oh yeah, well peace be unto you too, mister … uh, whatever you are. Now if you don’t mind I’ve really got to… Harris trailed off mid-sentence as the creature’s words sunk in. An icy feeling took hold in the pit of his stomach and his cheeks began to burn. Wait, did you just call me a—

A princess, yes. Isn’t it exciting? And while we are on the subject of titles, I would thank you not call me ‘mister.’ It seems disrespectful to say the least and not entirely accurate. I think it’s always important to be accurate in matters of gender, don’t you?

Yes, I do, Harris said emphatically, hoping the creature would take the point. It didn’t.

I’m so glad! Therefore, in the absence of a word in your language able to suitably encompass my gender identity, I think you’ll agree it would be much more appropriate to call me by my proper name and title.

But you haven’t told me what that is, Harris pointed out reasonably enough.

I didn’t? It looked surprised.

Nope.

For a moment the creature actually seemed embarrassed. My apologies, Princess! How unbelievably rude of me to deliver an annunciation without properly announcing myself first! I don’t know what’s gotten into me. The thing fluttered in agitation. I am Nuriel, the Flame of the Eternal, and I am a Messenger.

A messenger? Harris asked, confused. You mean like one of those people who go around on bicycles in the city?

I do not, Nuriel replied a little frostily, require a bicycle. I am not a courier or a town crier, nor am I an employee of the United States Postal Service! I am a Messenger, a member of the Heavenly Hosts, servant of the Most High, bearer of the Yoke of Heaven! I-

The most high? Do you mean God? Are you some kind of angel?

Indeed, Nuriel said, sounding as if it expected Harris to be quite impressed. A seraph, in fact.

Unsure how to respond to this piece of information, Harris held his tongue. In fact, he was impressed, although he couldn’t help but feel a little bit reluctant to acknowledge this fact to a creature so obviously full of itself.

Well? Nuriel said after a moment when Harris didn’t respond.

Harris looked it over skeptically. You sure don’t look like an angel, he said at last.

Oh, and you’ve seen a lot of us, have you?

Harris shook his head. The creature had him there. "Okay, let’s say for the sake of the argument that you are an angel and that I’m not going crazy. What are you doing … here?" He gestured around to indicate the shabby construction site strewn with bent nails and ancient discarded food wrappers.

I told you already — to give you your new title, Nuriel replied, and then because it seemed that something else needed to be said it went on. As a Messenger it is my function to deliver important things in a timely manner to those who are in desperate need of them or simply too dense to find them on their own.

Which of those am I? asked Harris.

Both, the angel replied.

Oh. The unpleasant knot of tension that had been lurking in Harris’s stomach since he woke up that morning had returned in full force. He felt dizzy, caught up in a rush of feelings he couldn’t identify and didn’t want to understand. Somewhere in the midst of it all was the face of a girl who smiled at him and said, Why don’t you come inside?

He closed his eyes and forced himself to take a deep breath. You said you had something else for me. What is it?

A mission. Everyone needs one of those.

And what is my mission?

This.

Nuriel spoke a word, but the word was not simply audible. It had shape and weight. The word unfurled from the Messenger’s mouth like a speech balloon in a comic book and took the shape of a shimmering silver ribbon. It hung there between them humming faintly until Nuriel plucked it adroitly out of the air with one of the delicate claws at the ends of its wings and began to fold it up. It folded the word this way and that with practiced precision until it had taken on the shape of a paper rose, which it presented to Harris with a flourish.

For you, Princess.

What is it? Harris asked, fascinated despite himself.

"It is a segulah."

A what?

A charm, a talisman, a treasure, a… The Messenger paused for a moment as if searching for the right word. It is a vessel containing the fragment of a divine name, which serves as a specific manifestation of one of the higher truths which govern reality and bind it together. There are many such names, but this is a fairly powerful one. It suggests the tendency of all things to turn themselves inside-out as they grow out of the darkness and into the light.

"Is it going to turn me inside-out?" Harris asked, eyeing the thing warily.

It will if you let it.

Both entranced and repelled, Harris reached out hesitantly to take it from Nuriel’s outstretched claw. As his fingers touched it a shiver ran up his arm and throughout his entire body. The paper rose was warm and seemed to pulsate gently as though breathing. It shone with an inner radiance that seemed to flow into him, calling out to the hidden parts of himself that he usually tried to avoid thinking about at any cost. When it called, he could feel those parts of himself tremble ever so slightly in response.

It feels…

Why don’t you come inside?

… like it’s alive.

Nearly everything is, when you look at it the right way.

Harris held the rose in his hand, feeling its warmth flow through him. Why are you giving this to me, though? I mean, are you seriously telling me that God called you up and told you to wait for me in an abandoned lot just so you can give me a paper rose?

In a manner of speaking, Nuriel replied, looking a little uncomfortable. As a Messenger it is not my role to question the purpose of my mission, only to deliver things where they are urgently needed. Your life is about to get a great deal more complicated, Princess, and it is likely that you will need this in order to make it through to the other side.

Stop calling me that! Harris’s shout echoed off the walls of the silent houses all around. His cheeks were wet, he suddenly realized. How long had he been crying?

I’m not a princess, he went on, more quietly. "I’m not even a girl, you get it? I’m a boy. You may not have noticed because you’re a … a serif or whatever, but I’m a boy."

"A seraph. Nuriel pronounced the word with a long A, like father. And you can call yourself whatever you like — it will not change what you are. It reached out sympathetically to brush a tear from Harris’s cheek with the edge of its wing. I really must be going. Remember what I told you about the segulah. Keep it close. When you need help, ask for it. You won’t be ignored."

No wait, you’re not listening! I’m—

Farewell, Princess Harris! Until we meet again!

There was another blinding flash of light and Nuriel disappeared, leaving Harris standing alone at the border of the abandoned lot, the paper rose clutched in his hand.

Princess Harris, he muttered to himself. It sounded so utterly stupid that he didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. Shaking his head, hoping desperately that none of the neighbors had been watching, he stooped to retrieve his backpack from where he’d dropped it and continued on his way to school, the paper rose thrumming quietly in the pocket of his jeans.

Chapter Two

In a baraita it was taught: Abba Binyamin says, "If the eye was granted permission to see, no creature could remain standing on account of the demons [all around them]. - Babylonian Talmud, Berachot 6a

The bell was already ringing as Harris pushed open the heavy metal front doors of Arbory Middle School. Fearful of being spotted by a passing teacher and reprimanded for arriving late on the first day of school, he crept as unobtrusively as he could past the front office and across the large, deserted entrance hall, its white cinderblock walls festooned with brightly-colored posters welcoming students and faculty alike back to school. Most of the seventh grade classes were on the second floor, down the hallway to the left as you came up the wide flight of stairs that led up from the front hall. Or rather, that was more or less where they were; the actual route was a bit more convoluted.

Arbory Middle School had been constructed in a very peculiar way. It was huge and rambling, easily one of the biggest buildings in town despite the fact that the student body had never been particularly large. Parts of it were nearly as old as the town itself, constructed back in the early 1900’s. Other parts were brand new. Only three years ago the school board had inexplicably approved funding for the construction of a new media center that now branched off awkwardly from the eastern wing in a manner that made little or no architectural sense. The overall impression was much like that of a person with a third leg sprouting out of their left shoulder.

Indeed, although no one could say exactly why, the school had been almost continuously undergoing renovations ever since it had been built. Some parts of the building looked as if a construction crew had started working at some point only to forget what they were doing halfway through and wander away. There were halls and corridors that intersected at strange angles or curved so gradually that before you knew what was happening you found yourself headed off in a completely different direction from the one you thought you’d been going. In short, it was an enormous mess.

The week before school began there had been an orientation day for all the incoming seventh graders to get acquainted with how things were done in middle school. A major part of the day had been spent rehearsing the complicated path one needed to take in order to get from the upper story landing to the seventh grade common area where most of their classrooms were located.

There are maps posted in all of the more commonly-used hallways, the teacher in charge of that part of orientation, a pale, nervous-looking man named Mr. Fresby, had told them. "These should help you get where you need to go, but they are by no means comprehensive. Let me remind you that under no circumstances should you go wandering off by yourselves! This building is very large and very old. It’s had a lot of work done on it over the years and