by Devon Ashley
I work through the day the same as all the other mindless pixies. I don’t say a word and hardly look at anything but the mushrooms I’m chopping. I almost laugh when I pick up one of the pieces of flint I’m supposed to slice with. Are they afraid to give us knives? I suppose they’re afraid we’ll try to kill ourselves, but I think…yep, the warm crimson liquid flowing from my wrist proves the flint can nick us. Well, I know they don’t care too much if we die, so I guess the sprigs are afraid we’ll use the knives on them.
Heck yeah, I would. Every last one of them.
The day ends faster than I expect. I guess there’s something to being mindless after all. When we’re being carried back to the pit floor, I can’t help but notice the pixie being carried by the sprig ahead of me. The sun is setting so the light is dimming, but somehow I catch a glimmer shimmering off her wings. It’s weak, but the magic seems to be returning. I gasp because I didn’t think it was possible. None of the pixies I’ve seen here have any magic in their wings. They’re all thin, pale and really dried out. This little green pixie’s wings actually look like they’re recovering, at the beginning stages of becoming healthy and nourished once more. Weird her body looks the complete opposite.
Once we land I can’t help but catch up and reach out to touch her wings. A slight tingle zaps my fingertips. I don’t know why I touch them. Healthy wings always zap another’s touch, though does nothing if the wing-bearer herself touches them. I guess I do it to confirm my suspicions – that her wings are healing, though there’s only a smidgen of magic in them so far. A healthy set of wings would have zapped me hard. Surprisingly, she whips around in fear but eases when she sees me. I don’t know her name because she’s one of the ones that rarely speak.
“Your wings,” I say. “They’re healing.”
My words make her do something I never see coming. She screams in terror and curls up in a ball on the ground. Shaking, I step back, not knowing what to do. My eyes scan the sky but the spriggans could care less that one of our kind is having a total meltdown in the middle of the pit. The last of the pixies are dropping and the sprigs vacate for the evening.
The way Juniper’s rushing toward us makes me panic. My hands snap to the air before my shoulders in surrender. “I didn’t do anything,” I blurt.
“Elma, what’s wrong?” Juniper asks. When Elma continues to scream and cry into her rocking body, Juniper looks to me for the answer. “What happened?”
“All I did was tell Elma her wings were healing and she completely flipped out.” I left out the part where I stupidly touched her wings and got a tiny zap for it.
Juniper sighs knowingly. “It’s alright. You didn’t do anything wrong, Rosalie.” Juniper searches the pit with her eyes, then calls, “Willow!” I turn just as the powdery blue pixie appears beside me. “I’m going to need your help with Elma here. I’ll hold.”
Hold? Hold what?
Willow nods and falls to her knees.
“Elma?” Juniper asks. “Tuck into a ball, honey. It’ll hurt less.”
“Hurt? What’s going to hurt?” I ask quickly, but no one pays me any mind. Elma rolls tight. Juniper hugs her shoulders and allows Elma to grasp her free hand, and Willow braces her hands on the edge of Elma’s right wing, which she has to be getting zapped for. It comes to my attention what Willow’s about to do and I hear a deafening crack. A horrible scream escapes Elma’s contorting body. Willow’s fast to snap the second wing, and even though I know it’s coming, a violent tremor rushes through my body upon breakage. Elma’s cries are heart-wrenching, and every nerve in my wings is screaming right along with her. Why would they do that? My head shakes in confusion as Willow rises, leaving Juniper to rock the crying, trembling pixie.
Willow walks away, ignoring me completely, but my disgusted gaze forces Juniper to answer the question I have yet to ask. “If we hadn’t done it, the spriggans would have, and they’re far less kind.”
Dumbfounded, I whisper, “Why?”
“To keep us grounded. The steel weighs us down but it’s the broken wings that truly keep us from taking flight.”
I groan. “How long does it take for our wings to heal?”
“When we break them, we do small breaks so we can return to work the next day, and they’ll begin healing in a matter of weeks. If the sprigs get a hold of you, they’re more aggressive and it’ll be painful for several days. And your wings will probably take about six weeks before the magic begins to return.
Elma’s screams reduce to a whimper as Juniper continues to rock her soothingly. I think I’m going to be sick to my stomach. I truly feel for Elma, but what’s mostly eating at me is the realization that in several weeks, Willow will have the pleasure of snapping mine.
Oh my Mother Nature this sucks! The heat from the fires suck every bit of moisture from my skin, literally sucking the life out of me. I’ve endured the heat all day long, my first time at the fire pit station, and my body is just shy of collapsing right here, right now. The only relief I get is when it’s my turn to go mushroom picking. It’s probably not the best idea to combine dazed-out pixies suffering from heat-exhaustion with touching hallucinogenic mushrooms, but there’s no way any of us will make it without the chance to cool off outside. And being at the station right up front under the spriggans’ noses means we can’t take several bathroom breaks to rest without drawing unwanted attention.
Finally, it’s my turn to go mushroom collecting again. I splash some water on my face, neck and shoulders. As I step outside, there’s not necessarily a breeze, but it’s definitely a few degrees cooler than the cave. I grab the basket made of dried woven vine and follow Holly through the forest. Each time we’ve gone today she’s shown me a new route that leads to a different patch. They seem to be scattered all around and plentiful, which confuses me given the decaying condition of every other living thing in this desolate forest. Holly mentions the mushrooms thrive easily here, and it makes me wonder if a faerie doesn’t come along each day and sprinkle a little pixie dust to maintain the number of mushrooms.
I spot the mushroom patch easily from a distance. The ones we collect for pixie dust have a white stalk and a red cap with several white circular patches. Call me crazy, but I seem to be the only pixie that finds it odd that the only thing growing in this wasteland is the one thing these spriggan jerks have us processing. We collect our bounty in silence while a spriggan hovers above us. Thank Mother Nature there’s no wind – otherwise we’d be downwind of his stench. Before we return to the cave, we dip the mushrooms into a fresh pail of water to rinse the dirt off. I use the term rinse pretty loosely. If we were making the mushroom powder for our own use, we’d take the time to thoroughly clean them. However, since we don’t give a crap about the purity of their dust, we only dip to make the spriggans believe we’re doing our job properly.
By sundown I’m utterly exhausted; more so than on previous days of slave labor. I’ve never been so wiped out, so drained of energy in my life. When the spriggan drops me onto the pit floor, I practically collapse right there. I lay there so long Juniper brings me a cup of water and my share of crappy mash. She tries to soothe me with her positive words, but my mind can’t process anything more than hello.
I’m just about to rise and be the last person to take a shower when something in the sky catches my attention. I’m not the only one to notice, and soon most pairs of eyes are watching two spriggans fly overhead. But it’s not the spriggans we’re really looking at. It’s the unconscious pixie they carry between them, feet dangling lifelessly in the air.
Oh, no. My heart sinks deeper in my chest. They’ve already replaced Orchid.
I feel pity for that pixie. Those first days of isolation still weigh heavy on my mind; some of the scars still faintly line my skin. I can only hope what happened to me doesn’t happen to her, and they remember to get her after three days.
Yesterday I got to catch up on some desperately needed rest so today wasn’t too bad working the back station. I sort of e
nvy Holly. Tonight the new recruit – er, slave – should arrive, so she’ll be back at the end of the line again tomorrow and get another day of rest. From what I understand, newbies don’t come that often; two of us entering within a few weeks of one another is rare. But still, that’s two more days of rest Holly gets over the rest of us this month. There are definite perks to being the tour guide around here.
I’m finishing up my nightly mash, waiting for my turn at the shower, like always. I’m not even sure what dinner is tonight. My taste buds are practically nonexistent now, so it all tastes pretty much the same these days. I’m still swirling half my mash around in my bowl when two spriggans appear and unceremoniously dump the new pixie into the pit.
Juniper rushes towards her; her right leg seems to limp a little. “Rosalie,” she calls. “Come help me.”
I automatically do as she asks, taking my mash and grabbing a cup of water on my way. Good thing I have little desire to eat my mash because we probably don’t have provisions to cover her. I lay the cup and bowl on the ground and gently lift the pixie to support her at an incline from behind. She’s a sage green pixie, not too unlike one of the quiet ones we have here. Perhaps they’re from the same Hollow, but good luck to her finding that out. The mind of that particular pixie seems long gone.
She looks younger than me, maybe fifteen. Why must they steal ones so young? Her sienna-colored hair is chopped short and probably looks cute when it’s not all matted down with sweat. She’ll have to learn to deal with long hair because she’s had her last official haircut. Whimsical swirls made of henna cover her skin and the inflamed scratches all over her body bring an eerie orange glow to the effect. A blackish bruise paints the right side of her forehead. She’s wearing a reddish-orange dress I find absolutely adorable, with a strap over one shoulder, fitted all the way to her waist, which then fans out and hangs loosely over the hips, creating gentle waves in the fabric all the way to her knees. So much material. I can’t help but look to my clothes and realize the beating they’ve taken in just a few short weeks.
Juniper wets the pixie’s lips. It doesn’t take long for her to lick her lips and her limbs to slowly come to life. She tries to open her eyes but they’re weak and close right back. “Here, dear,” Juniper says soothingly. “Drink this carefully.” Juniper tips the cup and pulls on the pixie’s lower jaw to separate her lips, which are more dried out than a crystallized raisin. A slow and gentle stream flows into her mouth, but Juniper only allows a little. Her tongue works, swishing the water around to coat the dehydrated membranes within her mouth. She swallows without choking, then clears her throat. A weak moan escapes and her body suddenly weighs heavier in my arms. After a moment, the young pixie drinks a few more sips of water.
Juniper pours the remaining water into my mash and stirs to make it really thin. Then she pours it into the cup and begins feeding the pixie. When she’s done, I gently lay her back on the ground and she seems to fall asleep instantly.
“Hopefully she’ll sleep well,” Juniper says as she brushes the pixie’s bangs out of her eyes.
“She’s so young.”
“I know. They used to bring pixies in their twenties, but now they’re bringing in younger and younger pixies.”
“What’s next? Eight year olds?” I snap bitterly. I want to be angry and spout my opinion but my body is so tired. No wonder most of the pixies lay around all lifeless. It’s not that their minds aren’t capable of contemplating things, it’s that their bodies are so flippin’ exhausted it’s all they can do. By the time I make my way to my spot near the edge, I just collapse. I don’t even make it to the shower this time.
Chilling screams wake me from a dead sleep. Confused, I spin madly, searching the sky for spriggans, the ground for deadly beasts, or just about anything that could cause the abnormal shrieks that fill the air. Juniper figures it out first and rushes to the new pixie, who’s the creator of the noise that awakes the entire pit. I’d head over myself but Holly’s already on her way. Lucky for the new pixie it isn’t Willow. She’d probably just punch the girl in the face to shut her up, not hug her and rock her like Holly’s doing. The pixie is still frantic and whatever words she’s choking on don’t make sense at this distance. I have no doubt Juniper will be able to whisper sweet thoughts to calm her eventually.
It’s early. Most pixies are lying back down, trying to get a bit more sleep before the sky completely lightens. Half tempted to do it myself, the coarseness of my skin reminds me I never showered last night. The new pixie’s going to need time for a thorough washing, so I decide to beat her to the shower and rinse the grit and grime off my skin. Afterwards, as much as my muscles ache and whine, I’m too alert to fall back asleep. The navy blue sky is already fading to a lighter shade and streaks of orange and pink color the wispy clouds above. Deciding to help out, I grab a fresh bucket of water and head over to our so-called kitchen area. I wash the cups and bowls piled up from last night. Not much washing is needed as everyone pretty much licks the bowl clean regardless of how unappetizing the meals are. When everything is clean, I dump the water and fill the bucket with fresh once more.
As I’m carrying the water back, a spriggan appears and lays our food carefully on the ground. It surprises me, seeing how every spriggan that’s carried me before had no scruples about letting me drop to the ground with at least six inches to go. I catch the eye of the spriggan and I immediately realize it’s a female. Maybe that’s why she’s so careful with the food. She nods her head at me before taking off and I stare until she’s out of sight. Careful with our food and attempts to be cordial? I didn’t think spriggans had it in them. Maybe it’s just the males who are vulgar.
Our morning meal is a miniature pumpkin, but even that’s a huge size for a pixie. It’s not easy, but I manage to cut the pumpkin in half using one of those lovely pieces of flint they allow us to use. I separate the strings from the seeds, figuring no one here will want to deal with eating those. But just in case, I pile them into a bowl until Holly wakes up and confirms it’s garbage. I use one of our flimsy spoons to carve out the meat and mash it down in our mixing bowl. I’m trying to figure out what to do with the seeds. I’ve always eaten them roasted in some way. I’m not even sure how well they’ll go down raw. Too bad we need to eat them this morning; otherwise I’d take them to the fire pit in the cave and dry them out. I experiment with one using the mortar and pestle. The seed packs more crunch than anticipated, so I start grinding the rest of them, then mix them back into the pumpkin mash.
Another exciting meal in crappy pixieland.
Apparently, a crowd is forming behind me, anxiously awaiting their breakfast. They’re so flippin’ quiet! I spoon out the portions evenly amongst twenty-five bowls, not forgetting our newest addition. There’s zero excitement as they each grab their serving.
Holly approaches with a smile. “Thank you, Rosalie,” she says as she grabs her mash, releasing an extended yawn. “Everyone between us and the back will be pushed up a slot so I can take Fern to the back. So that means either Willow or Peppermint will be your new station partner.”
I groan. No way was I lucky enough to get Peppermint. Guess it doesn’t really matter. Willow’s been working beside me for about two weeks anyway. I can’t see having her as my official station partner really making the glares or annoyed sighs that come off her any worse.
“Fern, huh?” Sometime while I was making breakfast, Juniper had taken her to the showers. Fern cringes and hugs her knees closer to her body as Juniper tries to wash the base of her wings to prevent further infection.
I remember the pain behind that face.
Surprise, surprise. Willow is my new station partner. Maybe she gets off on seeing others in misery. Maybe that’s what drives her and keeps her more lucid than the others.
I won’t say I hate having Willow as my partner – hate is such a strong word – but I don’t like not having any one to talk to. Yeah, Holly shuts down quite a bit, but at least she’s willing to talk so
me of the time. Going through the day speechless is making me absolutely miserable. And really lonely.
Another night, another scream. Like every two hours. Fern isn’t taking to this new life very well. I can hardly say I blame her. It’s bad enough being forced into slave labor, but at her age…it’s just cruel to strip the freedom from a pixling that’s just beginning to experience it for the first time.
Fern cries a lot. And begs for her momma. Poor Juniper consoles her as best she can, but I guess those that grew up with a mother find it hard to let another take her place. I sort of envy her for having one to begin with.
I never thought I would wish to be like the other pixies spread out around me, all dazed out and immune to emotion, but today I wish I could keep the sobs and pleas coming off this little pixling from breaking what’s left of my heart.
As I lay at the edge of the cliff with my arm draped over the side, I wonder what day it is. Not how many days I’ve been trapped here – I’ve long lost count of that – but which day exactly? Thursday? Saturday? Is it Tuesday back in the Hollow where Poppy, Tin and Tracker are enjoying their day off? Maybe they’re down by the river again. Oh, how I miss them. Even Nutty Nutmeg. I’d happily take a stinger to my bum and be the butt of her jokes now.
I’m not sure when it began, but I’m blacking out a lot now. Sometimes when I come to, I find myself working a different station than I last remember. Did I wander aimlessly from station to station, or did a night pass and I not even realize it? How can someone lose that much time without the slightest idea?
When I ask Willow about it, she looks at me like I’m an idiot.