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| "The Pixie" Image prompt from IronAge Media |
This prompt was a nice change in tone, and made me think of a warm, light comedy. Without further ado:
Thwack. Isabella was jarred awake by the ugly sound. She rose from her bed and flitted over to her door, her wings shaking loose a night's worth of scales. There was no one at the door, she confirmed as she peered through the little window.
Thwack. That sound again, and this time Isabella,fully awake, felt her home shake in time with the noise. My goodness, she thought. Someone must be doing something down there. She glanced out her window, a large (compared to her tiny stature) French-style set of bay windows that looked out over the edge of the forest.
There was a man down at the base of the tree, and he had an ax.
Thwack. Again. There was no time to be prim and proper. Isabella threw on a dress over her nightgown and threw open her door. She flew down to where the man was getting ready to swing his ax again. She made a tight circle around his head, and he abandoned his swing to swat lethargically around his face. She came to a stop a few feet in front of him, just out of reach.
“What do you think you're doing?” she demanded, squeezing as much force into her voice as she could manage.
Max halted and stared for a moment. Then he tried blinking, but it didn't improve the situation. This was something he hadn't seen in all of his years as a lumberjack: a tiny woman, barely four inches from head to toe, with iridescent green wings flapping like crazy, was berating him. The little creature was yelling in her melodic voice like a piccolo, but she was crafting insults like a skilled yet subtle drill instructor, never using the same noun or adjective twice and never resorting to the crassness of profanity. The creative insults continued to flow. It was a very angry piccolo.
Max shook his head and set his ax down. He put up his hands in apology, and finally the high-pitched deluge of unkind words halted. She hadn't done anything crazy yet, like shoot him with magic or turn him into a frog, so maybe she could be reasoned with.
“I'm Max,” the large man rumbled, the force of his voice nearly pushing Isabella back. She tried not to look afraid, but she did make sure to stay just a little out of reach. “I'm a lumberjack,” he explained.
“I am Isabella Montefiore,” she said indignantly, “steward and protector of this forest.”
“Forest?” Max said incredulously. “Miss, this is a tree farm. These trees were planted a few years ago, and they've always been meant to be cut down eventually.”
Isabella had wondered where this beautiful, unguarded forest had appeared from. She had been flying all over, looking for a new place to stay after a rather loud argument with the head fairy of her previous forest. She had marveled at the magnificent rows of young walnut trees, and was even more astonished when she discovered no other fairies guarded them. “A new frontier,” she had said aloud, then her face blushed deep crimson as she realized she was talking to herself. She hoped no one was listening. So she had found the largest tree and used her magic to gently carve a cozy little room into the upper part of the trunk, right before it split off into branches too narrow to live in.
It had been an incredibly comfortable few years. The tree and her apartment had grown steadily, and she had become contented--even complacent. And now it looked as if it might all come to an end, and why? Because some fool had decided to farm trees (who had ever heard of such a thing!), and now this flannel-and-denim-covered buffoon had appeared with an ax.
Isabella did her best to complain. She really did. She was surprised that Max hadn't threatened her by now. He leaned against the handle of his ax and countered each of her arguments with a simple point: she was, technically speaking, a trespasser. Only the most evil fae creatures like to be trespassers.
Eventually, it came to the point where Max agreed to go get the owner and let her talk to him. He walked off, scratching his head in disbelief. Isabella flew back to her home and made herself presentable. A few hours later, the sun high in the sky, Max reappeared with another man, this one all covered in smooth, shiny wool and silk.
The man, who introduced himself as Mr. Leslie Norland, brought the deed, and even photographs of the land before the trees had been planted and as they had grown. He did indeed own the land, and he had indeed arranged to plant the little, suspiciously orderly (she should have guessed!), forest. He made his case, and there was nothing Isabella could say to counter it.
The days of her house were numbered, whether she liked it or not. She frowned at the prospect of looking for another forest to build a home. What if she ended up in the same predicament later? Even if she had used her most powerful magic on these two, there were certainly more. It would only delay the inevitable. On the plus side, she was silently thankful that these two people hadn't attacked her or called her a witch. A hundred years ago it might have been different.
Then, all of a sudden, a look of inspiration flashed over Max's face, and he beckoned to Mr. Norland and said something quietly into his ear. Mr. Norland's face left behind its neutrality, and he broke into a satisfied smile.
Isabella was worried. What were they plotting? She felt a tiny droplet of sweat slide down the side of her head, starting hot at her temple and creeping down to her chin, where it hung like a dewdrop, a cold reminder of her terror.
The two men walked up to her, still smiling. She held still, trying not to tremble, and resisting the urge to flee. The ax--where was the ax? She looked around for it, and saw it leaning against another tree. Out of reach, she hoped.
Mr. Norland steepled his fingers. “How would you like,” he asked in a musical tone, “to be the caretaker of this tree farm?”
Isabella goggled. “What do you mean?”
“Well, we're going to be cutting down these trees. But... we'll also be planting new ones. And Max here,” Mr. Norland gestured with an open palm, “is something of a woodworker. He can build you a new house in a few days and attach it to a post here, and you can move in. All you have to do is let us know if anyone else tries to disturb the new saplings as they grow.”
It seemed like a deal too good to be true. “You'd do that for me?” she asked. Max and Mr. Norland both nodded.
“Why not?” Max rumbled.
And so it came to be that the walnut trees of the Norland tree farm fell, and new seedlings were planted over the next few weeks. Isabella moved all of her things into the new house that Max built, and she was over the moon in joy, though she tried not to show it when anyone else was around. Despite her desire to appear aloof, she had to admit her new house was far and away a nicer place than her old one, with the floor and furniture lightly lacquered and more gentle to her skin, the roof done in miniature shingle that kept rain out much better, and plumbing! Now she had indoor plumbing, fed by a little pipe going to the ground somewhere.
She fell back onto her extra-soft bed, mattress filled with fresh, sweet-smelling feathers, and glanced around, making sure no one was looking before she broke into a wide, warm grin.
# # #
This was a silly idea, but I liked it nonetheless. Kind of a "what price, magic?" type of idea. Frankly, if I were living in a pre-modern situation, you could probably get a lot of obedience out of me for a good set of indoor plumbing.
I don't do a whole lot of flash fiction, but you can find more of it here. Or, if you want some more fantasy stuff, try this link.
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