Dust (Of Dust and Darkness) (6 page)

             
A second voice huffs heavily and grunts, “I’m not going back for another. Let’s see if it survives first.”

             
“Fine.”

             
Two pairs of hands grab me and lift me off the ground, their mitts so large they practically wrap completely around my arms. Sadly, all I seem to care about is that they’re moving me farther away from the flame. I never appreciated the ability of making fire before I got thrown in
to
this hellhole. I groan
with
disappointment because I’m too weak to protest any other way. My head hangs low as I feel our ascent up the prison. When I feel my body shift sideways, my heart jumps with excitement.
I’m free! Oh, Mother Nature, I’m free!

             
With the flame’s light I’m now able to see the rocky floor just inches below us. It’s black with a hint of silvery sparkle twinkling at me as we fly over. I find solace in knowing my captors don’t intend on killing me, but I’m still left with zero sense of what’s going on and who they are, and more importantly, where I fit into this equation.

             
My skin shivers as a refreshing rush of wind tumbles past us through the tunnel, invigorating my sense of touch. I’m able to lift my aching neck for just a moment and spot the entrance to the cave that imprisoned me these past few days: foreboding with rocky peaks dropping down like canines in a wolf’s mouth. I certainly feel like I’ve been in the belly of the beast, but what an odd feeling to be going the opposite way in the maw, like I’m disgusting to taste, and the monster’s spiting me back out. Water showers down the other side and explains the constant hum I heard during my involuntary stay. My captors pause before the entrance and I wonder if they’re inexperienced flyers when it comes to wet wings. Had I the strength to escape their grasps and fly away, I’m sure I could have burst through the water with no problem. But then I remember the condition of my wings and I hang my head in reluctant defeat.

             
My captor with the gruff voice bellows, “Open up ya’ friggin’ sprig!”

             
A spriggan? Is that what holds me up? It makes sense. Spriggans are the largest of the faeries, coming in around fourteen inches tall, whereas faeries max out about nine and pixies seven. Barbarians at best, if you find a group of spriggans
,
they’re typically acting as mercenaries or bodyguards for someone. So this can’t be good.

             
I hear a thunderous clunk, like wood slapping against wood, and I lift my head enough to see the shower before me turn into a trickling rain. As my captors fly us out of the cave and over a tiny stream, I’m sprinkled with water droplets. I quickly lick the ones on my shoulders and feel the instant gratification, but my body yearns for so much more. I rub my lips together, desperately trying to spread a single drop between them. My eyes widen at the stream just inches below my feet and my body instinctively squirms to reach for it. The hands upon my arms squeeze tighter and my body weakens into submission.

             
It’s night and all is dark. The full moon must have passed while I was imprisoned because it’s hard to see beyond the light of the flame. My head still hangs limply so I have no idea where I am, or how far I am from home.

             
After flying for a few minutes, I am unceremoniously dumped
on
the ground. The hardened clay beneath me is as uncomfortable as the rock prison I just left, but at least it doesn’t cut my skin. My captors up and leave me, but not alone. Once their light fades to nothing, I hear soft whispers and the pattering of feet approaching. Gentle hands embrace me and lift my upper body.

             
“Drink this,” a mature female says softly. I feel
smoothed
wood against my lips followed by a slosh of water. I’m eager but my mouth is slow to react, so my handler tilts the bowl, allowing the water to flow gently into my mouth. The relief is instantaneous, but my mouth is so dry and lifeless I gag on the small amount pooling within.  Water trickles down the wrong part of my throat and I involuntarily heave, thrusting air upward to expel it. I choke for several seconds, and more than one pair of hands tries to cradle and comfort my body. “Try again,” the voice says, and I do, this time properly sipping at the water until the bowl runs dry. The water cools the burn I just caused, leaving my lips, mouth and throat refreshed
,
but not really satisfied. I sigh and lean back, releasing my weight to the hands supporting my back.

             
M
y eyes
open
and
I
immediately see the moon, just a tiny sliver
amongst the bright specks
in the
midnight blue sky. It’s off to the side in the sky, early in its nightly journey, but the lack of trees around me make it easy to see
. Behind me I hear the mature voice say, “Willow, dear, hand me one of the bowls of mash.”

             
I hear an annoyed huff, followed by a younger female voice
answer
, “We weren’t given any provisions for her. You know we don’t have enough to feed her too. And by the looks of her
,
she’s gonna die any moment anyway.”

             
“Willow!” the older female barks. “I wasn’t asking for permission. Hand me one of the bowls.” The sternness of her voice makes my body tense and I’m relieved she’s on my side at this moment. I can’t see Willow, but in my mind I picture her cowering before what must be a beast of a female.

             
“Here dear, try this.” I finally see the face that goes with this mature voice and it’s nothing like I expect. Sure, the pixie is several decades older and her poor face is weathered and wrinkled, but it’s the other attributes I didn’t expect. She’s not beastly but pathetically thin. Her cheeks are concave, her eye cavities hollow and the area under her eyes look almost bruised they’re so dark. And all this I can tell under the night’s sky. Come morning – if I survive – I’m sure it’ll look ten times more emaciated.

             
I’m not sure who’s supporting me from behind, but I appreciate the steady hold as the old pixie gets ready to feed me some type of dark mash in a wooden bowl. My stomach has no interest but my eyes sure do, and they widen with anticipation. She uses a
wooden spoon
to scoop it up and my lips envelop it, sweeping the substance off the
smoothed
curvature
and into my mouth. My lips are so chapped even the smooth edges of the
spoon
feel as sharp as a shard of slate. The mash is gritty and mushy at the same time. My taste buds aren’t telling me what I’m eating
,
but just the texture alone gets my face to wince.

             
“It’s alright. It’s just some seeds and local berries. Really chew on this. I don’t want you choking.” I obey her command but my mouth is extremely sensitive, and each crack of the seeds on my teeth causes an explosion of pain in my gums. Despite being slicked down with mashed berries, the seeds are hard to go down and pieces get stuck in my throat, scratching
like fingernails
as they slowly descend with each swallow.

             
“Water, please.” It’s the first time I’ve been able to speak clearly for days and the
please
comes off as begging. The old pixie obliges and I tilt my head back a little to allow an easy pour into my mouth. The water sweeps through my mouth and rushes down my throat, cleansing as it goes. I sigh
with
satisfaction, truly feeling refreshed for the first time, and my lips curl into what smile my crusty lips can produce without splitting and drawing blood. She continues alternating the mash and water until the bowl runs empty. I never really taste what I’m eating but my stomach roars to life now that something resides in it. The pixie holding me up gently lays me back and I see her for the first time. She’s not much older than me but her body seems as thin as the older pixie, and what I fear will shortly be my fate as well. No wonder Willow didn’t want to share the food with me.

             
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, t
he 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.