The book is an adventure. It’s a book that can change your life. You’ll change and the world will change around you. A little bit. Maybe these changes will be enough.
A charming baby girl Efania (Fanyasha) is born in a regular family of angels.
Her happy and carefree childhood ends when she finds out that a human is going to be born for her soon, and she is supposed to devote all her life to this person.
She’ll go to an elementary school for angels and learn how the world of people works, what they live for and why they die, what the secret of female and male nature is, what a child needs in order to be happy, and many other things.
This unusual story of a small, inquisitive angel girl and her family will help you learn not only about the life of heaven’s creatures, but also about the rules of life on Earth and the laws of the Universe.
After traveling a difficult path, full of serious tests and exciting discoveries, Fanyasha will be able to understand what love and friendship are, and what the meaning of her own life is. She’ll be able to understand human nature and answer the main question: Why do angels need people?
“This book changed my life. It made me realize how fragile our own human existence is, and how much help we need to get through life’s big challenges. This story got me thinking about the mistakes and troubles I’ve had in life, and how lucky I’ve been to have an angel like Fanyasha looking over me. Hooray for angels!” — Christopher Pascone, teacher.
“This book is probably not for everyone. However, it’s definitely for those women who want to have it all — be happy spouses and mothers as well as accomplished professionals and creators. It’s for dreamers and thinkers. It will give you encouragement and food for thought wherever you are — at a crossroads with a difficult decision to make or in your nursery putting your baby to sleep.” — Ksenia Jackson, entrepreneur.
About the Author
Marianna Rosset, a happy woman, a loved and loving wife, and the mother of two children, graduated from the Russian State University for the Humanities. She has worked in the education, real estate, marketing and restaurant fields. Before becoming an accomplished writer, she overcame many challenges in her difficult life path, and never lost her belief in kindness and miracles. She has visited over 44 countries in her search for the purpose of life, and has attended multiple workshops and training sessions. Marianna’s life experience, along with her internal freedom and harmony, has brought a whole kaleidoscope of precise observations, good pieces of advice and philosophical parables to her book. The book has united inspired readers into the FanyaClub, which helps thousands of people from all over the world to hear their angels, to learn, and uncap their internal potential.
— I still don’t understand how an angel can let a person know that he exists.
— There are many ways. For example, through a book.
— A book? How?
— Well, see, if a person starts reading a book about angels, it means his angel wants to talk to him.
— It’s a great idea, granny. Where can I get this book?
— Where? You can write it yourself!
— How can I write a book for people? It’s impossible. We live in different dimensions. People can’t read our books.
— We can solve that. Just choose the right person on Earth, talk that person’s angel, and dictate your book to him. You just need to want it!
From Fanyasha’s conversation with grandmother Nokomis
Love is Stronger Than Fear
It was one of those sweltering summer days when life in the courtyard of building number 8 became filled with the sounds and smells of the weekend.
As always, at noon, all of the building’s residents of were busy with their usual chores. You could hear the jabbering of the Sunday news coming from the open windows, knives hammering on the cutting boards, the clattering of ladles and grease splattering in the frying pans.
Oh, the smell of the approaching Sunday lunch, when the whole family gets together to savor some truly delicious food! It takes some time to herd the kids inside. Then a chorus starts up, “Vi-i-i-tya, Nata-a-sha — come ho-o-o-me! Ta-a-nya! Let’s go eat!” Without a doubt, “Mo-o-o-m, can I play some more? I’m not hungry!” is heard in response.
Usually, in these moments, it’s as if time has stopped — after a huge family feast, the sounds slowly die down, and the courtyard becomes shrouded in a quiet afternoon nap.
But for now, the buildings and the courtyard were abuzz with activity. Swings were screeching incessantly around the corner of the building. A neighbor from the second floor was beating a rug loudly. The sound of a tiny voice and timid keystrokes could be heard from another window on the floor above. From the top floor came the sound of a horrible rattling — apparently someone had decided to drill a hole in the wall to hang a new painting. Somewhere behind the building, a motor started up and then shut down repeatedly, the car clearly refusing to cooperate with its owner, who ultimately swung a muffled kick into the tire.
Two elderly women were flapping their hands by the second entrance to the building, presumably discussing something awfully important.
“Hey! No drawing here! I am talking to you! Go draw on the asphalt over there!” one of the old women yelled to a girl who started drawing a sun on the brick wall of the building with colored chalk. The girl shoved the crayons into her dress pocket and ran to the playground.
An apple-cheeked boy was running around the slide, laughing happily, because his small, ruffled-up puppy could not catch him. All of the benches were occupied, except for the one further away at the end of the yard. The benches were surrounded by a few trees that created wonderful and necessary shade on this hot summer day.
A few kids were playing ball, yelling out the names of different cities. Close by, a few girls were laughing loudly and jumping over an elastic band tied between two tree trunks. Neighborhood boys swung by on their bikes, screaming happily, then left a cloud of dust. On the playground, the littlest ones got distracted for a brief moment following the boys with their eyes, then returned to restlessly banging their shovels.
Had the residents not been so busy with their things, they would surely have noticed that an unusual man appeared in the yard. Despite the hot weather, he was wearing a long dark purple raincoat that fell to the ground, with a large hood over his head. He was extremely tall, thin, and old, judging by his long grey beard.
The man walked softly through the yard, peering into the faces of its inhabitants. Everyone was actively engrossed in something and no one paid any attention to him.
Needless to say, people tend not to notice all of the strange things that happen nearby, even if this strange thing is as big as our silver-haired guest.
Meanwhile, the strange man walked slowly around the whole yard. Only the ginger cat, which was lying not far from the sand box, moved his tail, lazily turned his head, and with an attentive gaze followed the guest to the bench at the end of the yard. When the man quietly sat down and closed his eyes, the satisfied cat continued to lie in the sun with a feeling of accomplishment, and dozed off.
Suddenly, the sky turned dark, a strong wind started to blow, and clouds rushed in. Large raindrops fell loudly on the ground. The yard emptied in a matter of moments. It was hard to predict this sudden change in the weather, especially since the forecast did not mention even a possibility of rain. But in the meantime, the rain was coming down in buckets. It was so strong that not one of the residents of building number 8 could have made out the tall strange man in the dark purple raincoat sitting quietly at the end of the yard. He sat motionless, and, surprisingly, the rain did not bother him at all, as if there had been a huge open umbrella over him, and the water just flowed away from him on all sides.
The rain stopped toward evening, and right away a tear-streaked girl, about seven years old, ran into the yard. Splashing in puddles in her unclasped sandals, she ran all over the yard, searching for something that seemed to be very important to her. She peeked into the sandbox, circled the swings and the slide, checked under one bench and then another.
“It’s not here or anywhere,” she muttered through tears, totally exhausted.
The girl’s eyes filled with tears again, she leaned on the bench, covered her little face with her hands, and started sobbing.
“Why are you crying, dearest creature?” The girl heard an unfamiliar, but very pleasant voice.
This was the first time in her life that she was addressed with a formal “you” and was called a “dearest creature.” The girl turned around, and through her tears and the rays of the setting sun, she saw a large purple silhouette standing in the shade.
“It seems you have lost something, my dear?” the silhouette spoke again, approaching the girl, and she could make out a beautiful luminous face, framed by silver hair and beard with large blue sparkling eyes, and a soft, kind smile.
She had been taught never to talk to strangers, of course, but she had also been taught to be polite to older people.
“I wonder whose grandfather this is,” thought the girl, sorting in her mind through all of the boys and girls that she knew, but could not remember anyone who could be distinguished by such height, elongated facial features and big blue eyes.
This was because the girl knew for sure that relatives must resemble each other. That was what her mother always told her, showing her black and white photographs of her grandmother and grandfather, noting that they were also redheads and had green eyes.
The eyes of this unfamiliar old man were so clear and transparent that they glowed like two blue mirrors. In them, the girl saw her own tearful reflection and, having remembered her misfortune, uttered:
“I…I lost my doll here.”
“A doll? And what is its name?”
“I don’t know! I haven’t had a chance to give it a name. It was still brand new. It was given to me only yesterday and it was so beautiful and so, so new,” she chattered guiltily and started sobbing yet again.
“And where did you leave it, dearest creature?”
“I don’t remember. Somewhere here, in the yard,” she replied, irritated, spreading her arms.
“How did this happen?” asked the old man in a gentle voice.
“I just got scared of the rain and ran home,” said the girl defensively.
“Is the rain really that scary?”
“It’s not scary, but I…I was worried that my mom would scold me for getting my clothes wet,” she continued, while sniffling, “and I ran home, and now my doll is lost, and I don’t even know what happened to it… Maybe someone took it, maybe it will live in someone else’s house and I will never ever see it again!”
At this point, the girl’s imagination painted a horrible picture in which her obnoxious neighbor with braids played with her doll, fed it and put it down to sleep. The girl could not bear that and started crying again bitterly. She understood how hopelessly and foolishly she had lost her brand new doll, which she didn’t even get a chance to name.
“Allow me to tell you, dearest creature, that I understand very well how difficult this is for you — it is always painful and sad to lose something precious. And today, I want to help you, my dear,” spoke the old man again, and started rummaging through the folds of his raincoat.
Wiping her tears, the girl thought that no speeches, no advice and no gifts would ever replace her doll, yet she observed with interest how this strange and kind old man was searching for something in his endless dark purple raincoat.
“When your heart is full of love, and when you take care of someone, nothing in the world can scare you. Where there is love and care, there is no place for fear. For love is stronger than fear. If you love something or someone, then, despite any obstacles, always remember and cherish that,” the old man continued, and all of a sudden, the girl saw the familiar face of her wonderful beloved doll in his hands.
“This is it! My darling, my dearest!” the girl twittered, nestling the doll close to her. She laughed, stroked the doll’s hair, and kissed its freckled cheeks again and again.
And it did not matter that the doll’s pink dress was wet, or that its small ponytails — the same ponytails that its owner had — were disheveled. What a mercy it was to see her again, safe and sound!
The girl was so happy, so overjoyed by this meeting, that she didn’t notice the disappearance of her doll’s rescuer.
The sleepy ginger cat emerged slowly and lazily from the building entrance to take a walk before retiring for the night. He snorted in discontent when the redheaded girl nearly knocked him off his feet, hopping up the stairs.
“I will name you Alisa! And I will always take care of you!” she said proudly and firmly, tucking the doll in next to her. Then she got under the covers herself and whispered, “I will never ever leave you under the rain, even if there is hail or a snow storm. Nothing will ever scare me again!”
With a blissful smile on her face, the girl fell asleep hugging her Alisa. But of course, she could not imagine that at the same time something wondrous was happening, and that the strange person in the dark purple raincoat was rushing to some new place, carefully pressing a golden parcel against his chest.
Love Always Makes Wings Grow
“Very good morning to you, Madame Aros!” said a tall man in a dark purple raincoat with a big smile on his face while giving a golden parcel to a beautiful young woman. “I heartily congratulate you on the birth of your daughter!”
“How wonderful! A daughter! I am so happy! Thank you! Thank you, dear Oshoria,” said the woman quietly, then gently pressed the parcel against her body, peeked inside, and her big brown eyes filled with tears of happiness.
A fresh teardrop fell on the baby’s face, and trickled down her cheek, tickling her. The baby wrinkled her nose, smiled and opened her eyes slightly.
Everything around them was glistening and illuminated with a wonderful radiant light, and in the center of this light shined two mirrors, which reflected the smiling baby girl, wrapped in a golden cloth.
Suddenly, the two mirrors seemingly filled with water, and the girl again felt the drops falling on her face and running down her cheeks. She rubbed her face with her fists, opened her eyes wide and saw an unusually beautiful woman leaning over her.
“Ma-ma-ma,” syllabified the girl and laughed.
“Fanyasha! My dear child! My darling, I…I am so happy… so happy you are here,” whispered her mother and stroked Fanyasha’s soft chestnut brown curls.
There was a rustling sound, and suddenly a beautiful man leaned over Fanyasha’s head. His big brown eyes emanated both strictness and gentleness.
“Great job, my dear! Already started talking! You take after your father! You will be very intelligent!”
Newborn Fanyasha stopped laughing right away, pouted her lips and proudly flung up her nose as if wanting to make an impression of a well-mannered and serious girl. The man stared at her for moment, and then shifted his glance to his delighted wife and triumphantly announced:
“Borisey, please meet your sister Efania!”
Behind him appeared the head of a handsome curly-haired boy. After seeing Fanyasha, the boy’s eyes popped out in amazement, and he hid behind his father’s back again.
“Bosya, why are you so afraid? Look at your beautiful little sister!” said his mother lovingly and picked up Fanyasha.
The golden cloth slipped off the girl and flew away, swirling in the gentle playful wind until it got tangled in a snow-white cloud-chair.
Everything was made out of clouds here, as it should be in a typical house of a typical angel family: above and below and on all sides — clouds were everywhere!
The walls were made out of light grey dense cumulus clouds; the windows of light transparent milky white clouds; the doors, tables, and chairs of thin and hard white clouds; the couches and pillows of soft and fluffy clouds, which gleamed with all the colors of the rainbow because everything around was filled with warm sunlight. Fanyasha was examining her house with unabashed enthusiasm. With a mouth open with delight, she turned her head back and forth making her unruly curls bounce playfully on the lacy collar of her purple dress.
“Oh, oh!” said Bosya, cautiously examining his sister. “She is a girl. What am I going to do with her? We haven’t gone over that yet…”
“Don’t worry, my dear, you will do great,” encouraged his mother. “I remember that you recently had a lesson on the five languages of love, and you aced that topic. The most essential thing that the child needs is love.”
“And not just a child,” noted father while looking at mother playfully, catching her affectionate look and kissing her shoulder.
“But, mom!” Bosya became concerned again. “How will I… how will we… she cannot even fly! Look how small her wings are!”
“Borisey, you couldn’t fly either when you were born, but thanks to me, your mother, your grandmother and your grandfather, you learned very fast,” said father strictly, then patted his son on the back, and pointed up. “Why don’t you bring your love languages notebook, and we will distribute the duties among all of us.”
Despite the fact that Bosya was an angel, he was nonetheless a boy, and, of course, as a boy of about twelve, he was not too excited about this new responsibility in the shape of a small girl in a purple dress who could not fly or speak properly. But Bosya understood that it was useless to argue with his father, and slowly flew to his room.
“We all lived in peace and then — bam! — a sister appears for some reason,” he mumbled, flying up the corridor. “And now what? Does everyone need to drop what they are doing? Maybe I had different plans! Maybe I did not want a sister at this point. What is the good of it anyway? If I had a brother, I would understand that. We would have things to do together: common interests, man talk… Eh,” Bosya sighed helplessly and entered his room.
Of course Bosya heard that children are, perhaps, one of the biggest miracles of the world. Moreover, neither people nor angels could know for certain who would be born and when. Still, it was unclear to him why things were the way they were, and why one could not choose the desired time of birth and the gender of the child. Bosya was sure that order could be established in life this way. And he really loved order.
Bosya was not in a hurry to return, and therefore decided it was the right time to tidy up the table and the bookshelves. He started flying across the room and rearranging books from place to place, pondering how challenging his life would be from now on. After all, in a couple of years his sister would be flying on her own, and poking her nose everywhere.
Bosya remembered how his classmate complained about his annoying younger sister who constantly got in the way of him doing his homework, flew into his room, and asked a whole lot of questions. And how hard it was for him since, according to the “Rules of Protection of Happy Lives of Small Angels and The Preservation of Information,” one must safeguard angel-children of under school age against everything that they do not need to know. And the most forbidden information was everything that concerned people.
“And how does one do that? I want to know,” mumbled Bosya, and hid the books and pictures with the images of people and life on earth.
Then Bosya flew up to the window and started examining the neighbors’ houses.
Unlike the people’s houses, whose outside appearance doesn’t give away how many people live inside and what ages and gender they are, houses for angels are built according to strict standards. For this reason, one could easily determine how many adults and children live in that house by simply looking at it.
All of the angels’ houses were constructed out of thick cumulus clouds. They hung in the air at a short distance from each other, and were like long column-corridors, going up so high that it was impossible to make out where they ended. Below were large spherical living rooms with multiple windows and a front door. Vertically, along the corridor, there were rooms hanging atop one another from the littlest ones to the largest — in order of seniority. All members of the family from the youngest to the oldest had their own room. On the left side were the women’s rooms with round windows, and on the right were the men’s rooms with square windows.
Bosya saw very few houses nearby where parents lived with only one child. Three or four children’s rooms hung on the majority of the houses. The house across the street actually had eleven rooms: two large ones at the top, and nine down the corridor.
“The Zorge’s have nine children! How do they manage? It’s incomprehensible!” he muttered, irritated. “There is no logic to this! None! Since they created strict standards for the preservation of information and wanted the children to live happily, then they should have given each family one child, and everyone would have been content. And then we would have order.”
When Bosya returned, the whole family had already moved from the lobby to the living room. Father settled comfortably in his favorite armchair made of dense clouds; mother sat to the side on a soft armrest hugging his neck, smiling and humming.
In the middle of the living room, grandmother fluttered in the whirlwind of clouds, cheerfully hooting. Every now and again she would toss Fanyasha up into the air; she merrily laughed and flapped her arms, her legs, and her small transparent wings, as if trying to fly higher and higher, but then falling again and again into the arms of her happy grandmother.
“Here, I brought it,” muttered Bosya, looking at the hero of the day from under his brows, and handed his green notebook to his father, on which it was painstakingly written:
Languages of Love
This notebook belongs to Borisey Aros, student of the second grade of the School of Angels,
“Well, well,” said father in a businesslike manner, scanning the pages covered in neat handwriting.
Even though father tried to hide it, based on his delighted expression, it was clear that he was very proud of his clever and diligent son who had graduated from the Junior School of Angels with honors, and had been a student at the Middle School for the past year. There was no doubt that Bosya’s diligence and patience would be enough for the seven years of the Middle School of Angels, and then for the three years in High School, which is a totally different life, a life of a grown-up angel.
Father was confident that Borisey, with his inherent sense of responsibility, in addition to his love of learning and order, would succeed in tackling not only school, but also his new role as an older brother, and would become a good role model for his sister.
“So,” said father loudly, and paused expressively, waiting for everyone to settle on the puffy clouds around the armchair in which he was sitting, “today the beautiful Efania has joined our family.” Having said these solemn words, he looked at Fanyasha who, realizing that she was being talked about, flung up her nose and closed her eyes with pleasure.
“Our task is to give her as much love as possible, and to help her to become a strong, beautiful and happy angel! Now we will divide our responsibilities for the next ten years.”
This was exactly how much a childhood without a care in the world was supposed to last, according to the laws of the lives of angels, after which something important happened and the life of a small angel changed for good. At ten years old, an angel entered the Elementary School, and the new doors opened into a new world full of amazing events and discoveries. But it was too early for Fanyasha to think about this: in the years to come, what she had in store for her was to play, fly, enjoy the marvelous life, and bask in love. All the more so as her parents decided to go to great lengths in order to make their daughter’s childhood the most happy, carefree and safe, and for her childhood be lived at the highest level, according to them.
“Borisey, your turn,” continued father. “Can you list the five languages of love?”
More than anything in the world Bosya disliked answering questions, the answers to which he knew precisely, and for that reason he straightened his back, confidently flew to the middle of the living room and pronounced boldly and without hesitation:
“Five languages of love exist in the world. The first one is the words of affirmation, the second — quality time, the third — receiving gifts, the fourth — acts of service, the fifth — physical touch.”
“Great job, son,” said father, pleased. “Choose which language you want to be in charge of.”
“I… I… I am not sure,” Bosya’s confidence disappeared; he frowned and looked at his mother and grandmother hoping for some help.
“I choose the fifth language of love, and will give my baby affection and my tender touch,” said mother, and carefully took Fanyasha in her arms, kissed her forehead, and stroked her head. Fanyasha beamed and pressed herself against her mother.
“Great, settled! Especially since in this world, there is no one more tender than you, my love,” said father playfully, then looked at grandmother, who decided to encourage her grandson and lovingly patted him on the back.
“And you, dear Nokomis, will get the most important language of love,” said father, addressing grandmother.
“Allow me to guess,” interrupted grandmother and smiled slyly. “Is it quality time?”
In angel families, mothers and fathers are often very busy. They constantly fly away and, according to them, solve very important problems, and the grandchildren are raised by the grandparents, who for some reason have far more free time.
Bosya also spent the first 10 years of his life with his grandparents. Then, when he entered the Elementary School, his grandfather said that he needed to fly on an important mission and he never came back. Bosya knew that the grandfather flew up a very long corridor and that since then somewhere up there he has been doing a very important job. Only once did Borisey try to fly up the long corridor in order to see what was up there, but he became scared. The higher he flew, the stronger the wind was blowing, and his wings didn’t have enough strength to fight that current.
Bosya loved his grandfather very much, missed him, and hoped that when he grew up and became strong and brave, he would without a doubt visit his grandfather up there.
Mother and father remembered grandfather with great respect, and grandmother sometimes sighed and said these strange words: “All of us will be there. Everything in its time.”
Bosya knew that his grandmother was a distinguished and respected angel. She was an excellent student in her youth, then she worked a lot, and so now she had an opportunity to spend more time at home and engage in activities that she liked.
“Does she really like to care for the little ones? It is so tiring and tedious,” thought Bosya, remembering how much trouble he caused his grandmother because he was a very quiet and dissocial child, and hid from her in the clouds, refused to learn how to fly, collect the rainbow, play with sunlight dapples, and sing songs.
“Although it seems that most likely Fanyasha won’t be such trouble,” thought Bosya. “She seems to be curious and cheerful, but maybe all girls are like that. All they want to do is laugh and dance. Grandfather was a different story — he could sit on a cloud for hours and ruminate. Most likely I take after my grandfather,” thought Bosya.
“Boriseeeey! My bo-o-oy! Can you hear us? Hello?” Bosya’s thoughts were interrupted by his father’s loud voice.
“So, what have we decided here? Since it is our duty to speak with Fanyasha using all five of the languages of love, it will be better if each one of us focuses on one language. Now, let me repeat: mother will be in charge of the physical touch, grandmother — of the quality time, I am in charge of the enjoyable gifts, and Borisey will get the acts of service.”
“But what about the first language of love? What about the words of affirmation?” worried Bosya.
The truth of the matter is, he was a very attentive boy, and of course, it didn’t escape his notice that father only named four love languages.
“Son,” said father with a smile, “we already discussed this while your mind was somewhere else. As for the kind words of praise and encouragement, our grandfather had no equal, if you recall. Since he is currently away on an important assignment, we decided to distribute this language of love amongst ourselves. So don’t forget to encourage and praise your little sister. Deal?”
As always, father did not wait for the response, since in this family everything he said was perceived as the law. Of course, any of his decisions were preceded by a family discussion. Father always mentioned how important the opinion of every member of the family was to him, and this created an impression that one could influence his final decision. Perhaps one indeed could.
One thing was obvious: mother, in addition to grandmother, Bosya and even little Fanyasha, understood and accepted who was the boss in the family, and this created an atmosphere of respect, safety, peace and confidence in the future. This is what the relationship within the family should be like: a man’s decision incontestable, a woman’s care and love unconditional. But even among angels, families like this are rare, let alone among humans.
“OK, give me a little bit of time and I will set up a room for Efania,” said father and flew up the corridor.
“Dear, don’t forget what we agreed upon,” yelled mother. “Only one window, and make it high, alright?”
Father didn’t answer. He didn’t like to be reminded about anything, especially since he remembered about the window.
Mother felt that they made the window in Bosya’s room too low, and that’s why the boy spent too much time by the window, even when he didn’t know how to fly, and saw what he was too young to see. For this reason, he started asking questions and began to learn about what was not necessary to know in childhood. This, according to mother, was the reason for Bosya’s excessive bashfulness and fearfulness. In addition, the parents felt that the walks with their son at an early age and stories about the living arrangements of angels were not needed.
Consequently, mother and father decided to be more responsible parents this time, and shield Fanyasha from anything unnecessary, and keep her from leaving the house, even her room, for as long as possible in order to prolong her happy and carefree childhood.
But it should be noted that the adults’ notion of happy childhood often does not correspond to what children themselves desire.
“Oh, how I would like to become firm and resolute like father, so that I would be obeyed, too,” thought Bosya, and then heard his mother’s tender voice.
“Bosya, Bosyushka, dear, come, we are flying to show Fanyasha her room.”
From top to bottom Fanyasha’s round room was filled with soft curly clouds of different shapes and sizes in shades of light pink, gold and purple. Fanyasha happily sat in the middle of the room, batted her eyes, and waited for something.
“Should we shower our Efania with love and then we’ll go about our business? Except for grandmother, of course,” having said this father flew up to his daughter and put a beautiful pendant around her neck in the shape of a large letter “E,” which was iridescent and twinkling. Mother tenderly hugged and kissed Fanyasha, then kissed Bosya and followed after father, taking his hand.
“We love you very much,” whispered mother, looking back.
“Boriseyushka, please help construct a bed for your sister,” said grandmother, and put a large white cloud in front of Bosya. “And then you can go study. Fanyasha needs to sleep more today; I will read stories to her.”
Bosya got to work right away. He knew that the sooner he finished, the sooner he could finally retire to his room and deal with the important matters.
Fanyasha wanted to get upset about her parents leaving, but grandmother pulled a beautiful soft book from under the hem of her wide dark green dress, swept the palm of her left hand over the cover, and placed it in front of her.
The book levitated, twitched as if it was woken up at the wrong time, and opened itself with a groan. Of course he remembered it! It was his favorite book “Good Old Tales for Little Angels.”
The room became filled with the gentle subtle fragrance of cedar and lavender, the soft light of sunset, sounds of the babbling brook and bird trills. Fanyasha did not know what these sounds were, but she enjoyed them very much. She turned on her side, facing grandmother, and fell asleep. Grandmother started reading to her softly.
“Grandma, look, look!” anxiously whispered Bosya pointing to the back of his sleeping sister. “Look at her wings! They are growing in front of our eyes!”
“Well, of course they are growing, said grandmother smiling kindly. “Love always makes wings grow! All of the newborn angels grow their wings while they sleep, and when we give them love, their wings grow even faster.”
Bosya was so impressed that he even stopped rushing and started making a bed for his sister more diligently, glancing from time to time at how her wings were stretching, straightening and filling with silver light.
Why Angels Need People
Imagine the most beautiful day, the most pleasant weather, the best mood, the most beautiful house, the coziest room and the greatest happiness which fills you because you are doing exactly what you want to be doing — this, perhaps, is an approximate description of how an angel lives the first years after birth!
There are no worries, no cares, no troubles — nothing can disturb the feeling of absolute bliss, peace and pleasure of each and every moment of a carefree life. As surprising as it sounds, everything is like that, and not otherwise. That is how this world works. Such are the rules of an angel’s preschool upbringing. Everything that a little angel sees, everything that it touches, should always be filled with light, beauty and love. This, furthermore, is how small children are supposed to live too.
Among the soft clouds, in her wonderful warm room filled with either purple, pink or golden light, Fanyasha felt happy and protected.
Her mother and father would fly in to spoil her with nice gifts and kisses; Bosya helped decorate the new room. Now Fanyasha could brag not only about a comfortable snow-white crib, but also about two wonderful armchairs made of peach-colored clouds, a small pink table and a pretty lilac dresser. She had learned to make the pillows herself. She enthusiastically fluffed small curly clouds and then formed them into a variety of shapes, and had a lot of fun doing it.
This way, Fanyasha’s room was filled with numerous large and small pillows of odd shapes. What amused her most was how spooked her grandmother became: every time she found a small angular pillow in her hem, she jumped up screaming and tossed the unwelcome guest away.
“Now stop being naughty!” her grandmother wagged her finger, frowning, and at that moment her lips stretched into a smile that made her big brown eyes radiate unconditional and endless love for her granddaughter.
It was nice being with grandmother — she knew thousands of wonderful fairy tales and songs, taught Fanyasha how to dance and draw wonderful pictures using splashes of light. There were days when the air filled with drops of moisture, and the grandmother taught Fanyasha the craft of rainbow weaving.
It turned out that with the right combination of air and sunlight, one could create a wondrous beauty out of seven colors: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo and violet. One glance at the rainbow, and the heart filled with goodness and joy.
Sometimes grandmother Nokomis surprised her granddaughter with the West wind game. She flew to the upper part of the room, sat by the window facing the wind, brought her long and gracious hands to her lips, blew the air slightly and, gracefully moving her fingers as if playing on invisible stings, created a beautiful play of sounds — it seemed that everything around became music, mysterious and magical.
In these moments, Fanyasha felt a certain power inside herself and even became aware of the wings growing on her back. She closed her eyes and imagined herself flying, strong and beautiful, and her long iridescent dress fluttering in the wind. But alas, she could not fly just yet.
“Everything in its time,” repeated grandmother every time Fanyasha showered her with questions about when she would at last be able to fly out of the room and discover the beauty of this world.
“Mom, I am already two years old, but I still don’t know how to fly!” complained Fanyasha one morning when her mother parted her delicate curly hair and started braiding it.
At the age of two, Fanyasha could talk, sing, dance, and even spell words from children’s books for angels very well. She could count to twenty, make a rainbow, draw well with splashes of light, mold objects out of clouds, and wholeheartedly enjoy herself in her room, but all of this wasn’t enough.
Her inherent inquisitiveness and her desire to constantly discover something new were eating her up, and demanded that she fly beyond the borders of the room, the door to which was positioned too high for this small flightless girl.
“My dear daughter, you will certainly fly when your wings grow and become strong!” replied her mother tenderly, and started making the second braid.
“But mom, when? When will they grow? I don’t want to wait! I want to fly right now! I want to leave the room and look at the house,” screamed Fanyasha and clenched her fists.