Dust (Of Dust and Darkness) (2 page)

             
“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 a
n
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
.

             
O
n 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 thoug
ht 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
,
f
ight
ing
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 light
er
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 Must
ard from wanting to court her. So f
rom 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 know anyone that well.  Courting is overrated. I don’t need a companion to find enjoyment in life.

             
A few
striped
sunfl
ower 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 f
avorite seed
s
. 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 t
o reach the amber-colored cone, and
yelp the moment
my bum makes
contact with the anther, losing my treat
s
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.

             
I pluck the stinger free from the flower and
flick
it into the river
rippling
just a few feet away
. That’s one stinger she’ll never get back. I retrieve my seed from the ground, dusting it clean, but I leave the moist berry
for
the ants. I return to the anther and successfully sit down atop the flower. The others stop laughing but Meg still wears a smug grin.
Flippin’ pranksters
. Yeah, I enjoy a good laugh, but I don’t go around setting up booby-traps just to get them.