flight of the wingless pixie

flight of the wingless pixie (1 of 3)

“Let me tell you a story” rang out the old man’s voice. It was hoarse and whistled through his missing teeth, but it was strong and confident; the kind of voice that drew people. Children were always the first to answer his call everywhere he went. In the early days of what passes for summer in Red River the sun is seen seldom, and night still falls silently, unexpectedly. The darkness and the forest spell disaster to wayward wanderers so there is little movement outside of the well lit, well protected encampments. Safety sides with those who put some distance between themselves and the Mother Nature's darker side.

The fire burned bright in the town square though, and the creatures that stalked the darkness beyond were kept at bay by the flame’s dancing glow. “It’s a story about a night very much like this one, and it happened in the forest, just over there”, the old man spoke while raising his hand and pointing a bony old finger north with an audible crack.

“You’re lying!” raised up one of the kids suddenly, a young boy. “No one goes in the forest at night, it’s forbidden! Nothing could happen there, nobody's allowed!”

“Hah, how right you are” answered the old man with a sad chuckle, “but it wasn't always that way. We used to go into the forest at night all the time, before the great melt. But you’re right; you should avoid the forest at night at all costs, especially tonight.” He looked at the boy, cocking his head slightly to the side. The child’s arms were still folded across his chest, but the defiant little smirk had disappeared from his face as the idea that perhaps in the past people could go into the forest entered his brain, creating new possibilities with every bob. His eyes widened just a tad and the man knew he had grabbed his toughest critic; he had them now.

“The story goes like this. The forest was always a dangerous place at night, but a long time ago people went there regularly. They brought with them light and weapons and the animals were scared of them, they ran away. You all know that up the path out of the village and north across the bridge is the Fisheye Lake. You’ve all been there to jump off the old tanker hull.” A sudden hush had fallen over the children. How did he know about the tanker hull? They had all sworn to secrecy. Everyone shed blood on the pact! Who could have told? But those questions would all wait to be asked until the next day. Sadly no child would yet be old enough to realize that every one of their parents took their first dive off that hull or that their children would likely do the same. For now it was merely a rude awakening to the powers of this old storyteller.

A small crowd had now gathered around the man. Some were parents who had come looking for their children when things were too quiet for too long, some were passersby entranced by the way sparks of the fire lit up the old man’s face, and how the long shadows danced in the flicker. Regardless of how they got there they had arrived and the old man now had a sizable audience. He cleared his throat and prepared his voice to accommodate the expanded congregation.

“The forest used to have creatures in it just like it does today, but back then there was no radiation, no electrostorms, no thirst, no disease. The creatures were different too. They didn’t necessarily attack on sight, humans could even befriend them. But one creature in particular ruled these forests, though they were rarely seen. They were called Pixies. Some say they were faeries, others say just gypsy daughters who’d been kicked out of the Tribe for baring half-blood children.” That last comment got a laugh from the back of the crowd and it now looked like most of the village was joining the onlookers. Even the priest and the Mayor could be seen standing off in the distance. Those wandering by who perhaps did not mean to stop were now being drawn into the old man’s web, more and more joining the throng like flies. Certainly the mass now spread out beyond the reach of the fire’s glow and some people stood in near darkness to listen, including the laugher.

“Pixies were never seen by people unless they wanted to be, but they took little pleasure in talking to men. If legend is to be believed Pixies were forest spirits, Mother Nature’s daughters. They lived forever with the trees and with the night. The shortness of our lives, and our dependence on the idea of time made humans into meddlesome infants in the Pixies’ eyes. They often chose to show themselves to people only as tricksters, unworthy of their attention. And besides, Pixies were tricksters by nature, too small to be considered powerful, too clever and proud to merely run away. As humanity’s population grew we began to infringe on what the Pixies considered their territory, and so they began to retaliate in their own sort of way. A man would complain that overnight his cows had been magicked into giving purple milk. He would say he’d seen what looked like a young girl around his cattle at sundown. A woman might say that her hens were laying eggs out of their beaks, and she too would remember seeing a little girl with enormous eyes and odd clothes around her farm before dusk. And then there was the incident with the priest’s family.

The priest in question, a Father Gehren, decided to take his newly wed wife on vacation for a weekend in Cliffborough. They drove out at night to make it to the city by early morning but returned only a couple of hours later, blaring their horn and screaming for help. The priest, in near delirium, would rashly explain that they were driving along the road surrounded by darkness when suddenly they saw a flash of light in the forest. That they saw what looked like devilfire, a rainbow of colours exploding among the trees, floating in the air in cascading evil. Armed with holy water the priest bravely abandoned his wife in the car and went in to the trees see what was happening, but what he saw was a sight they could never forget. In a small clearing, surrounding a pyre of green flame floated dozens of what looked like young girls. Allegedly the girls were all creating the colourful, evil sparks with their fingers and chanting something in a language unlike any the Priest had ever heard. "Demons!" he screamed as he stumbled and ran away.

A search party was created in an instant, as there was something to hunt down and destroy. Soon men were running with pitchforks, with torches, with flashlights, and with dogs. Some carried guns. But when they arrived at the spot there were no girls, no green fire, no magic fingertips. There was only the thick darkness of the forest, and the silence man creates with his crushing footstep. But the Priest swore by what he saw so no one questioned him openly, though privately it was said that father Gehren's breath smelled of Wolflilly and his pupils were as wide as saucers. That opinion was less popular though, as it could be dangerous, and so the legend grew. But this story isn’t about Pixies, it’s about just one.

...end of part 1