by Devon Ashley
The young pixie abandons me for the night, leaving me with the older one, who’s gently caressing my cheek, perhaps even envying the plumpness of it. “What’s your name, dear?”
“Rosalie,” I whisper.
She nods her head and replies, “I’m Juniper.”
I think she can sense the many questions about to roll off my tongue because she immediately cuts in with, “Tomorrow, Rosalie. They’ll demand you work tomorrow despite your condition, and you’re going to need every minute of sleep you can get. Now relax your body and rest.”
My body takes to her words as if commanded. I have so many questions but I’m so exhausted. And knowing I’m out of that cave and surrounded by other pixies makes me feel comfort even though I’m still imprisoned. The anxiety within relents and for the first time in days I fall peacefully to sleep.
The next morning I’m awakened by gentle shaking. A layer of crust has formed over my eyes through the night, and when I reach up to rub them free, I feel the intense tightness of my muscles. I groan as I pry my eyes open. It takes a moment to adjust to the bright shade of lavender that fills the sky. A streak of hot pink as rich as the water lilies that flow through my Hollow’s stream encroaches over the horizon, announcing the sun’s approach.
“Good morning, Rosalie,” Juniper says. Like I expect, she’s even thinner than I saw in the moonlight, and her poor skin is incredibly raw-looking, dried out almost. Surprisingly, the hue of her skin isn’t salmon like mine either. It’s a deeper shade of red, like the dark red dahlia, and similar to the material I’m wearing wrapped around my body. I know she must have been beautiful at one point in her life, with dark brown hair as rich as the cocoa bean and eyes as gold as the sun. But she’s a withered pixie now with dry, wrinkled skin and dull strands of hair wrapped tightly in a bun on the top of her crown. Her wings are paper thin and dried out like the parchment our ancient stories are written upon. And they have zero luminescence. Without that shimmer, I know the magic has left her wings and makes her incapable of flying, even without the clamp. “I know it’s early but it’ll take longer for you to get ready this morning, and you mustn’t lag behind.”
It hurts, but with Juniper’s help I’m able to sit up. I gasp at the number of cuts and bruises I’ve incurred over the past several days. My dirt-coated skin is covered head to toe with bright red scratches. “Do you know how long I’ve been here?”
“You were isolated for four days. When they didn’t bring you out after three, I figured you died on them. They always leave the incoming pixies for three days.”
I shake my head in confusion. “Incoming? Where are we? Why did they throw me in that hole?”
“To weaken you, my dear. The males they actually leave in there longer. As for where we are, your guess is as good as mine. Someplace no pixie has ever escaped from, or ever been found by others. Every pixie you see here was stolen from her Hollow just like you.”
I scan the bodies spread across the hard tan dirt. Like Juniper, they too have different shades of skin tones. There are a few similar to the red in our skin, but quite a few are shades of green and some even blue, which I didn’t even know existed. And off to the far end of the pit is a pixie similar to a powder-blue hydrangea with the most alluring violet-shaded hair. Luckily she has her back to me because I couldn’t withdraw my gaze. Her colors are so mesmerizing, and as inappropriate as it is considering our situation, a twinge of envy stirs in my stomach.
But there’s one thing all the pixies do have in common. There’s no magic left in any of their wings. No shimmer. No luminescence. And I have this awful feeling that my wings look no different.
“Come,” she says, pulling me gently to my feet to avoid hurting my sore muscles. “I know you have questions and I promise we’ll answer them, but we need to cleanse your skin before the sun rises.”
“Why before the sun rises?”
“Because we work sunrise to sunset, no exceptions.”
I rise and follow her, noting her attire. Unlike the two pieces of fabric covering my body, Juniper’s clothing is a one-piece that’s been tied together by random strips of worn-out, faded fabrics of all colors. She’s done her best to cover up but there are gaping holes regardless. Juniper leads me to the far end of what I think is a pit, which seems to be no more than a couple hundred inches in diameter. I realize pixies are pretty short, but still, there has to be at least twenty to thirty residing in this pit. And even though most of their bodies are pretty well spaced apart, it still seems a little crowded.
We stop at a hole in the ground, no more than one foot square. As I lean over, I catch a glimpse of myself in the water it contains. A steady drip creates concentric rings in the pool and makes it difficult to focus, but I can tell something dark is on my forehead. I reach up to touch the spot in question. It feels dry and crusty, and tiny dark flakes break off and float aimlessly towards the ground. How I desperately wish I was light enough for the wind to take me…not that it’s flowing at this very moment in time.
“Here,” Juniper says. “Let me refresh the water so we can clean you up.” She grunts as she tugs on a rope with both hands. Above us a slab of wood lifts upward and the steady drip turns into a heavy flow that rushes over the pit’s edge and into the hole. The flow hits with enough force to expel the pooled water in one large wave. The wasted water rages along the edge of the pit, where the ground slopes downward, and disappears over the horizon. I begin to wonder if our so-called pit was once part of the river where the water pooled and produced a waterfall.
“Jump in, but be mindful of your wings. Those sprig jerks make it habit to keep them broken and you don’t want them to get infected.” With the excruciating pain from day one fresh on my mind, I do as she suggests and sit in the water as gently as possible. The clamp angles my wings downward, so their tips are forced to submerge. The water laps against the wings, applying pressure to the outer, broken structure at the base of my spine, and I hold my breath until the stinging fades.
The fresh clear water clouds and turns a sickening shade of brown. Together we rub down my skin and wash four days worth of cave grime off my wounds. It’s odd having someone else wash me, but I can’t deny there are places my stiff muscles just can’t reach right now, and I welcome the extra set of hands. When she asks me to stand and reaches for the rope again, I panic and reach to stop her. Remembering the food shortage last night and how that one pixie was vehemently vocal against sharing, I immediately worry about water usage.
“Is there enough water for me?” I ask, my hand shaking as it lightly grabs her arm. “I don’t want to upset anyone.”
Sensing the source of my true fear, a soft smile spreads across Juniper’s face. For a moment her cheeks appear healthy and full. “Don’t you worry about Willow. You’re not the one she’s really mad at. And as for the water, yes, there’s enough. They do restrict the amount of food they give us, but they’ve always allowed us as much fresh water as we’ve needed.”
My tense muscles relax and I step out of the way so Juniper can refresh the bath. Now mostly dirt-free, I can enjoy the refreshing cool water against my smooth skin. As I go to rewash my left arm, I immediately notice something that wasn’t there before. There, on the outside of my left wrist is the number eighty-nine. I rub with my hand but the number stays put. I rub harder, and when it fails to disappear again, I ask, “Juniper? Eighty-nine?”
I hear her moan before she answers. “You’re reading it wrong. It’s sixty-eight.” Her wrist swings to my line of sight and I see the number forty-one. It’s more faded because her skin has stretched and thinned through the years.
“It’s permanent?” I ask fearfully, but I already know the answer. I can’t believe those flippin’ sprigs marked me!
“Yes. It’s some type of permanent ink. I suspect they keep a list of certain things about us, but I really don’t know.”
Juniper returns to cleansing my back. I pay closer attention to my wounds this time, particularly the areas where scab
s are forming over dirty particles. My arms and legs, and probably every centimeter I can’t see, is covered with pink scratches. A few are bright red and more sensitive, but the pain from all those infections combined doesn’t rival the pain I’m feeling as Juniper washes the base of my wings. I know she’s doing her best to be careful, working delicately around the steel clamp, but the water stings as she angles my wings. I feel an internal burn travel the length of my spine. I hunch as she washes, and desperately fight the tears by holding my breath and wincing the muscles in my face.
She squeezes my shoulder and whispers, “All done.” Several quick breaths force their way into my lungs. I try to comfort myself, thinking the pain can only lessen here on out. If I can just endure today, tomorrow will be better. Still, I’d kill to have the ingredients to make Healer’s herb and aloe vera salve from home to calm the burn and ease my pain.
I’m a little shaky but I manage to stand myself upright and walk back to the center of the pit. Most of the others are awake and moving about, and those that aren’t are stirring on the ground. Some are able to look me in the eyes, but most seem defeated and stare at the ground instead. I’ll admit, after the past few days, I too feel weak and a bit defeated. But I’m also incredibly angry inside; I’m just too tired to express it. I’m furious that someone ripped me from my sacred home and dumped me in a hole to rot. No, not to rot. To weaken me into submission so I can…so I can… What, exactly?
As Juniper hands me my morning bowl full of berry and seed mash, I ask, “Juniper, you still haven’t told me why I’m here. Why any of us are here.” She sighs and diverts her attention to the mash, which looks to be black wildflower seeds mixed with strawberries. She forces a bite and gums it. I imagine as hungry as she probably is, she no longer craves to eat the same thing day-in day-out anymore. “Juniper?”
She looks to me with those electric golden eyes and sadness overcomes her face. Two pixies standing beside us depart with their heads held a little lower than the moment before. She sighs and then says, “We females are here to powderize hallucinogenic mushrooms. There are also male pixies imprisoned nearby that mine and pulverize diamonds.”
My eyes widen and I gasp, so startled my heart skips a beat. “Pixie dust!” I burst. I’m immediately shushed by several pixies who turn to the sky in terror, expecting my outburst to draw unwanted attention from our captors. I throw my hand over my mouth, but when no spriggans appear, I slowly lower it.
Unbelievable. General pixie dust isn’t that difficult to make, just time-consuming. The crushed diamonds go into every batch and make up the very essence of pixie dust, but the mushrooms are only used in batches that are used in creating illusions. My fellow pixies are guilty of using it on unsuspecting animals, convincing them all sorts of horrible things are happening to them that don’t really exist. “Pixie dust?” I whisper this time. “Is that what the spriggans are making?”
“Yes, or at least that’s what we assume. Our two groups are independently making two very important ingredients for it. And it’s not the spriggans. It’s the faeries they work for that want it.”
“Faeries? They can make this stuff themselves. We shared the recipe ages ago. What do they need us for?”
Juniper shrugs. “A lot of work goes into making a dust this powerful. Why make it yourself when you can force slaves to make it for you?”
Slaves. Just the thought causes anger to boil ferociously within me. It must show on my face because Juniper is quick to add, “Don’t do anything foolish, Rosalie. If you want to survive here, you keep your head down and your mouth shut anytime a spriggan is near.” I want to ask what happens to those that don’t, but she’s determined to bring our conversation to a close when she adds, “Now eat quickly. You have a long day before you and you won’t be fed again until nightfall. Today you’ll be working with Holly, so please do as she says and you’ll make it through alright.”
Juniper gives my shoulder a quick squeeze before walking off and calling for Holly, who obediently makes her way to her. I scarf the mash down as the two pixies clearly discuss me; Holly briefly peeks over Juniper’s shoulder to look at me, confirming my suspicion. The mash isn’t that bad but it would seem more fulfilling if it were heated. I grab a wooden cup beside the mash pot and dip it into a bucket of water. I’m drinking my second cup when I eye a bowl of mash on the ground. My stomach grumbles and I long to take just a little more, but guilt immediately floods my senses. I know that bowl belongs to someone here, but after being starved for several days, my survival instincts kick in and selfishness tries to take over. I withhold the urge to snag the last dish and try to fill my stomach with a third cup of water. I feel bloated but even that’s better than starving. If we truly did have unlimited water, I’d fill myself up until I spewed it back out again just to avoid feeling starved.
I take a few laps around the pit to ease the cramping in my calves, as my legs are still shaky from their ordeal. My eyes sneak a peek at the food area and I notice the last bowl is gone, and I’m grateful I didn’t give in to temptation. Holly catches up to me on my third lap, smiling weakly as she approaches. “Hi. I’m Holly.” Her voice is familiar, and I suddenly realize that it was Holly holding me up last night as Juniper fed me.
“Hi. Rosalie,” I reply. Normally pixies would flutter their wings in a manner of respect upon meeting someone, but with steel clamps weighing us down, we settle for a brief moment of awkwardness. Holly is one of the pixies with a bluer hue and now up close, I can tell her black hair shimmers with royal blue as well, just like the red naturally found in my chestnut colored hair that shimmers in the light. Her eyes are cool grey and her eyelashes are still thick and full, despite the lack of nutrition taking a toll on the rest of her body. I couldn’t help but look at her body with regret and wonder how long it’ll take before I look like that too.
“How long have you been here, Holly?”
She licks her cracked lips and replies, “I was stolen about two years ago, when I was nineteen.”
I withhold the urge to widen my eyes as I am overcome by shock. Twenty-one? She looks at least thirty right now, what with her dried out skin and stress wrinkles smothering her forehead and the outer edges of her sagging eyes. However, there aren’t any creases framing her mouth. Guess she hasn’t had a reason to smile these past two years.
And then a horrible revelation occurs to me. “Holly, who’s been here the longest?”
“Juniper. She’s our eldest and sort of like a mother to us all. I think she’s been here fifteen years now.”
I gasp, but catch myself before bursting my thoughts aloud like earlier. With a lot of restraint, I quietly respond, “So she’s probably really only in her thirties. I thought she was in her fifties at least.”
Holly nods. “That’s what years of working sunrise to sundown without a day off can do to you. Her reality is our future.” With a bleak look, she adds, “We’re all going to die here.” Overcome by our dire situation, I feel the need to comfort her, to comfort myself. I reach out and place my hand upon her shoulder and we stand in silence for a moment, both looking at our feet.
I’m not sure what I’m feeling right at this moment. I know I should be angry, and I am. I want to lash out at my captors and inflict the same pain they’ve inflicted on me. I want to snatch and roughly break their wings. I want to throw them away in a dark pit and let them starve to death, spending the days that pass thinking they’re going to die. I want them to desperately try to escape and injure themselves further in the process. But at the same time I feel all this anger, I sort of feel defeated. And I hate myself for that. I don’t want to be defeated. To be stolen and forced into slavery. I want my fellow pixies to realize I didn’t leave at my own volition and come look for me. To come save me and all the others taken against their will. But deep down I know that won’t happen. Because they think I’m flighty and expected me to up and leave one day. And it makes me sad. And makes me wonder about all those pixies that left our Hollow and never came
back. Were they stolen too?
I’m about to ask Holly, but her attention is diverted to the sky. I drop my arm as several spriggans fly into the pit and begin plucking pixies, taking them topside. I’ve never seen a spriggan before but I recognize them easily. The largest of the faeries, they’re both taller and bulkier in the muscle department, which is why they’re often used for protection or mercenary-type positions. Their skin is the color of dried mud and rough like sandpaper, with bulbous spade-shaped heads that seem abnormally large, even for their body size. These particular spriggans all have the same black hair, cut an inch long and spiked upward.
“Rosalie, when we reach the work line, go all the way to the end. That’s where you and I are working today, okay?” I nod, silently watching the spriggans snag one pixie after another. “Just stay quiet, don’t fidget when they move you and don’t talk when they’re around. Got it?” I nod again, just as two spriggans return to the pit to collect us. My captor grabs me under my arms from behind and my feet leave the ground. He holds me awkwardly away from his body, as if I’m the one that’s disgusting to touch. His hands are sweaty against my skin and I do my best not to cringe, especially since I could slip out of his grasp so easily. The pit’s walls are about one hundred inches high so it doesn’t take long to ascend to the top. My skin shivers as we exit the pit. He disposes of me next to the other pixies, who quietly hang their heads and fall into line. I do the same, fighting the curiosity to scan my surroundings.