Dust (Of Dust and Darkness)

by Devon Ashley

  Copyright © 2012 Devon Ashley

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarities within are purely coincidental. Fonts used in this novel are Hawaii Lover; Café Rojo and Glider Girls courtesy of kevinandamanda.com. Brush for back cover wings created by Jennifer Apple.

  First Edition

  September 2012

  ISBN-13: 978-1475191103

  ISBN 10: 1475191103

  Visit http://devonashleywrites.blogspot.com

  Fantasy is escapist, and that is its glory. If a soldier is imprisoned by the enemy, don’t we consider it his duty to escape? ... If we value the freedom of mind and soul, if we’re partisans of liberty, then it’s our plain duty to escape, and to take as many people with us as we can!

  J.R.R. Tolkien

  I smile as my eyes adjust to the morning light, squinting as a beautiful blur of yellow and white squeezes between my eyelids. Sunbeams stream in through the thatched roof made of wood and twisted vine, one directly onto my face. My eyelids twitch as they fight their way open. Specks of dust float aimlessly through the air, twinkling as bright as the stars in the night sky. A thickleburn pushes through one of the cracks in the thatch and flits about my tiny tree house, finally landing on the uneaten blueberry I left on the floor last night. It looks at me thoughtfully with those black, metallic, oval-shaped eyes that are way too big for its head.

  “It’s alright. You’re welcome to help yourself.” The thickleburn releases a tiny squeak, then eagerly punctures the flesh of the blueberry with the point of its oversized beak. A gentle, repetitive sucking noise barely makes its way to my ears. The little bug reminds me of a hummingbird, yet no larger than a fly. The green sheen of its silky coat shimmers now that it’s settled down within a sunbeam.

  I stretch my limbs as far as they go, feeling the sigh of my muscles as they extend farther and farther. The fresh, soft leaves I picked last night to make my bed have dried and now crunch beneath me, a few broken twigs poking my skin in random spots. My skirt wrinkled during the night, and I try to rub the creases out of the silky fabric that drapes over my thighs. No go. My best bet is to dip into the river and fly to air-dry it quickly. And I can’t see them, but I’m sure the tails from my matching bikini top that wrap and tie behind my back are wrinkled too.

  I roll over and notice that a vine flower has pushed through one of the floor cracks and bloomed. The white flower petals are wilting, its stem weakened and curved over, exhausted from trying to touch the warmth of a sunbeam just out of reach. “Aww,” I sing with compassion. I pull a pinch of pixie dust from the weathered satchel around my waist, the fine particles prickly against my thumb and forefinger. Concentrating my desire, I will the dust to grow the vine as I sprinkle the glittery particles over it. A shimmer forms around the structure and an iridescent glow pulsates, first slowly, then so fast it’s constant. Like a still heart suddenly brought back to life, the vine strengthens and the neck of the flower rolls upward. The stem lengthens and the flower reaches the sunbeam, its petals thickening with magical strength as the wilted, curvy tips suddenly stiffen and hold strong. Satisfied, I roll myself up and lean back on my hands.

  Morning is my favorite time of day. The air seems fresher, like every living organism releases a sigh and fills the forest with a delicious combination of sweet and floral scents. The thickleburn has its fill of blueberry juice and buzzes my nose in appreciation before squeezing back through the thatch above me. I reach for the purplish fruit and savor the semi-sweet flavor for myself.

  There’s a terse knock at the makeshift door and I rush to pull the rickety wood inward, imagining the aged structure crying in pain, begging me to prevent the knuckles from rapping harshly once more. My roommate Poppy glares at me. Her arms are crossed over her chest and her opalescent wings flutter madly in the light, splattering the walls of my small tree house with dancing rainbow-colored specks.

  “Seriously? You slept here again?” Her lips curl in a way that makes me think I smell, but really it’s because she’s disappointed in me.

  “As if you’ve never slept up here before,” I accuse.

  Poppy’s arms drop and wave dramatically as she cries, “We were pixlings then! We’re teens now, Rosalie! Do you really think hotties like Tin and Mustard will want to court a pixie that prefers a pile of leaves to fine silks?”

  I want to be mad at her for being so shallow, but I know how important the idea of courtship is to her. I just don’t feel the same way. Sure, I’d like to find a mate, but it won’t ruin my life if I don’t. Lots of pixies go through life solo. And secretly, I fancy the idea of living life within nature’s warm grasp.

  “Poppy, I love nature. I love to touch it, breathe it, taste it. And I love my tree house. I’m sure if the right pixie is out there, he’s going to feel the same way.”

  Her mouth drops and her face scrunches in such a way that screams an overdramatic oh, the horror, but she quickly answers with, “Whatever. Come on. The others are already gathering at the river.” She doesn’t wait for me to reply – probably afraid I would say no.

  I step out of my tree house and onto one of the thick Lauralyn stems supporting my favored home. I built the structure way up high in the canopy. Partially because I love to watch the sky, but mostly because it offers me a sense of privacy I just don’t get down in the village. I give my wings a little shake and catch out of the corner of my eye the yellowish magical shimmer that courses through the veins and crossveins. I dive into the air and allow myself to fall head first with my eyes shut tight. I know exactly how long I can fall before my wings need to activate and curve my descent ninety degrees. When they do, I feel a hefty amount of air rage against my form, angry that I defied gravity once more. My eyes open and I shoot forward above the dirt paths lined with gorgeous green ferns that zigzag through the forest. Poppy dips from above and cuts me off, shaking her head at me for performing my nosedive. She finds my actions pretty reckless most of the time. I consider it enjoying life. I see her dive into a bush of miniature strawberries and exit the other side with a reddish blur secured under each arm. I follow suit and pluck two of the succulent ruby-red fruits from the stems for myself, the green leaves gently brushing against my skin.

  I follow Poppy as she leads us into the heart of our Hollow.

  Pixies of all ages are already up and about doing their morning chores. The older females are cleaning up around the homes we’ve burrowed into the tall Lauralyn trees. They use a cluster of pine needles to sweep the dirt and leaves that have blown into their homes during the night, the sap snatching everything within its sticky grasp. The younger males have already piled fresh twigs in bundles at each of the fire pits around the village. The older males are working on various jobs that keeps our little village functioning. Three are shaving wood into usable pieces of furniture. One is going around knocking down spider webs that went up overnight. Teenage females like Poppy and I gather fruits and nuts every morning. We deposit our strawberries to the pile already started on the large, flat river rock in the middle of the Hollow. I snag one of the wildflower seeds amongst the fruits and nuts, and devour the morsel as we continue on our way.

  Poppy doesn’t take us out of the village though. Instead, she pulls her body upright and stops at the base of the home we share. When Poppy and I turned sixteen last year, we were allowed to move outside the pixling home and we chose each other as roommates. We’ll stick together until the end, unless one of us decides to bond with a mate, which surely Poppy wil
l. I pull to a stop beside her. “I thought we were meeting the others.”

  “We are. But seriously, you’ve got to change,” she complains, her eyes scanning my body with disapproval.

  I shake my head in amusement, but push through the front door anyway. The width of our Lauralyn tree is smaller than most in the Hollow, but I don’t mind, seeing how I prefer the simplicity of my tree house anyway. Poppy complains about it all the time though. She’s still petitioning our elders to carve out a larger tree for us. But seriously, how much room does a six-inch pixie need?

  The main cubby on the ground floor is the largest room we have. The tree is hollow, but leaves five inches all around to maintain the structural integrity of the tree. The walls are about a foot high and have a chiseled look to them. Most pixies sand down their walls and make them smooth, but we like that our walls look rough and raw. Well, I like it. Poppy just didn’t want to bother with that kind of labor. One would think hollowing out the base of a tree would be detrimental, and it would be, but once a month we fertilize our tree with a mixture of pixie dust and nutrients that help the tree sustain its life. Trees like the one we live in won’t really be able to grow anymore, but our presence will by no means harm it.

  Neither Poppy nor I spend much time in our home, so we really haven’t done much with our common room. A large area rug has an abstract patchwork effect in shades of creams, tans and blacks. Each piece is made up of the velvety fur that wraps around the thorax of moths, which we have plenty of since their life cycle is only about a week. Our two chairs are dried, hollowed-out upside-down mushroom caps that rock gently back and forth, and are filled with dirt and topped with fresh live moss that we water once a week, to keep it fluffy and a vibrant shade of kelly green. A large flat stone sits between the chairs and is slick with silver flecks that sparkle, and indirect light shines in through the two circular windows cut out on each side of the tree.

  On opposite sides of the ceiling are two tunnels leading upward. I fly up the one on the right that leads to my personal space. The other tunnel leads to Poppy’s, whose room is squeezed between mine and the common room. I reach my room after I ascend three feet. At times I almost feel like our home is similar to an ant mound, made up of rooms within the housing material connected by a network of tunnels.

  I walk across the room, passing the bed made of Lauralyn wood cut from this very tree, garnished with a midnight blue coverlet made from silk, spun by the worms that live in a cave just outside our village. Dried flowers are pinned on the wall behind it, contrasting the bed’s dark colors with soft mauves, creams and greens. Their structures vary from curvy and wavy petals, drastic pointed spikes, some thin and wispy, some fuzzy or feathery, some even in grape-like clusters, all collaged in soothing tones with a pop of color here and there, releasing a mild scent of dried earth. I pull aside the shade hanging across my square-shaped window. It’s made of jasmine vine, twisted and looped in an abstract design, and occasionally tied in places with strings of moss. One end of the vine wraps around the base of our tree and nestles into the ground beside it. At night the jasmine flowers open and the breeze carries the delicious floral scent throughout our tree. I reach through the window and swing a wooden basin into my room. The morning dew has collected in the bowl, and I splash my face a few times.

  Beside me is a small chest of drawers, also made of smoothed Lauralyn wood. I pull out a fresh top and skirt and trade it out for the one I’m wearing, tossing the dirty set into a basket made of dried, twisted vine. I like the way the deep shade of red in the fabric looks against my skin. My tone is a subtle reddish-orange, similar to the salmon that swims upstream in our river during spawning, but a few hues lighter. I lean over the water basin and assess my appearance in the now calm water. I sweep a mixture of fine red dirt with sparkles across my eyelids to bring out my soft brown eyes, and run my fingers through my chestnut colored hair, deciding to hang the loose waves from the crown of my head. I swing my ponytail side to side and the curls tickle the top of my back. If I were in the sun, the natural red sheen in each strand would glisten to life the moment it caught the light. When done checking myself in the water, I dump the excess and swing it back outside to collect fresh dew again this evening.

  My effort pleases Poppy, and she actually rewards me with a smile. She then leads me outside the village and deep into the forest, but still within Hollow territory. No one ever goes beyond the Hollow. Well, a few pixies have, but they have yet to return. It’s speculated that the so-called dreamers that left met Father Time shortly thereafter, and just the thought of death puts enough fear in pixies to keep them grounded.

  I see a peppermint patch and dive through it, snatching a few leaves that taste cool and crisp on my tongue. Essence of peppermint coats my silky skin and slightly burns my nostrils. We slow and drop our feet as we approach the river, my body jerking more as the movement of my wings lessen. I extend and deepen each flap, fighting to keep me airborne as I descend, until finally the soft blades of grass tickle the soles of my feet. About a dozen pixies of all teen ages have gathered here, each with colors shimmering off their wings, various blends that range from white to cream to pale yellow. I’ve never been told the difference, but it’s speculated that the more yellow your shade, the more in tune with nature you are – completely possible since mine seem the yellowest of the bunch.

  I immediately notice that the males are painting the tips of their spiked hair with a greenish color. However, one pixie, Cumin, is quite upset as he dunks his head in the river, frantically trying to wash out his pink-shaded tips. A group of pixies hover over him laughing in hysterics. I’m guessing Cumin didn’t agree to the rosy color.

  Pixies love to prank. However, a general consensus in the Hollow is that you can’t prank your fellow pixie. Of course that doesn’t keep a few from pulling a few lighter pranks, like painting a male’s hair pink. But the real pranks are reserved for the other creatures living in the forest: splinters and crushed pine cone shards on the forest floor, feces in the popular watering holes, skin-infecting fungus smeared on the rocks that animals love to scratch their backs on. Not surprisingly, most animals have learned to give our village a wide berth. It’s mostly just birds and bugs that share the immediate habitat with us, and probably only do so because they’re equals when it comes to flying ability. So with a lack of creatures to pull pranks on, we become victims of our own kind.

  Predictably, Poppy lands a few feet shy of Tin and Mustard, who were still recovering from their fits of laughter at Cumin’s expense. Most of the males in our population are seven inches and the females six inches, but with the way Poppy braided her brown hair in some fancy updo, she practically levels out at their height. I scan the crowd to see who’s here – Tin, Mustard and Cumin, obviously; Petal, Ginger, Tracker, Patch, Pumpernickel, Seed, and standing at the end of the line with a pink streak through her almond-shaded hair, is Meg.

  Her name is really Nutmeg. When we were just pixlings playing in the patch, some of her crazy antics earned her the name Nutty Nutmeg. She was proud of that name for awhile. Then we became teen pixies and suddenly she realized having a crazy nickname might keep pixies like Tin and Mustard from wanting to court her. So from there on out she was just Meg. A few pixies didn’t want to let go of that nickname though. Patch dared to continue calling her Nutty Nutmeg. When he napped on a Magnolia flower later that afternoon, Meg floated above and dropped a mushroom puff on him. She used a stinkhorn mushroom, and when the puff exploded upon impact, he was enveloped with tiny particles that absorbed into his skin. For a week he smelled like he was decaying before us. Needless to say, Patch was the last pixie to ever use that nickname – at least to her face.

  Currently, Meg is glaring at Poppy. For the life of me I can’t figure out why. They both like Tin and Mustard and have yet to realize they could each be courted by one of them. I, for one, have no interest in those two. Or any of these pixies, to be honest. Though I will admit I’ve never taken the time to truly get to k
now anyone that well. Courting is overrated. I don’t need a companion to find enjoyment in life.

  A few striped sunflower seeds and single red raspberry lay out on a green maple leaf. I tear a drupelet from the aggregate fruit and grab one of my absolute favorite seeds. I sort of skip towards a purple coneflower by the river, allowing my wings to flutter just enough to lift me off the ground for a second at a time, kicking my legs in a scissor-like motion. I love the coneflowers. They offer a soft seat with horizontal petals that arc downward, perfect for laying my legs over comfortably. I jump and flutter just enough to reach the amber-colored cone, and yelp the moment my bum makes contact with the anther, losing my treats to the dusty dirt below. Laughter erupts, and I don’t have to turn around to know it’s coming from Meg. A few more pixies join in as I rub the spot that got pricked. I examine the flower and find a bee stinger sticking up, hidden well amongst the many stamens the coneflower has to offer.

  Nutty Nutmeg.

  I turn to glare at her because I know she did it. Stingers are her specialty. She even wears several around her neck, threaded on a string of moss so she’ll always have one available. I actually consider myself lucky. Had I been any other type of creature, I’d surely be itching madly by now. Meg loves to tip her stingers with poisons and venoms that make the victim either swell, puff out, burn, or break out in hives for a week. I’m particularly thankful she didn’t waste the scorpion stinger in the center of her necklace on me. I pity the poor creature she uses that on. At the moment, her eyes are crazy with excitement, and I shudder to think about the hysteric frenzy she must go into when she really gets to pull a prank.