Tales from the Woodfolk: A collection of short stories

Lair of the Dark Elf - Part 5: Oblivion

The third shell horn sounded. It was time for the Fire gathering. 

Together, the lower-ranking pixies fixed a large bonfire in the centre of their band. It was Anita's turn this time to partake in the lighting of the bonfire. 

Together with Amanda, Brenda and Kelvin, she rubbed her hands, summoning the gold dust in her veins. They linked hands and blew into the perfectly balanced pentagon of oak twigs. Flecks of gold dust floated from their lips and landed onto the bark, leaving spiraling marks in the sheen of light cast upon the band from the rising sun. Within minutes, the crimson and emerald flames sparked to life on the pentagonal pyramid, dancing and dancing as they merged, growing larger and larger into a giant bonfire, as tall and wide as the Chief himself.

The Monarch stared into the flames, sensing the signals from its dancing tongues. The words came to her as immediate sparks or flashes; messages from The Ones around them and high above. Whenever this happened, her pupils would turn silver, reflecting the light from the fire.

"Abana...Oak-collector...

Kelana...Sparrow-hunter..."

There was a need for these items. There would be a festival during the marriage ceremony at Star's Peak, and the lower-ranking band must pay the dowry.

There were 50 pixies in the band, a number quite common among bands of such lands. Where a nomad's lifestyle is the path, efficiency is key. Soon, all 48 pixies excluding the Chief and the Monarch had their roles read out and recorded onto a maple leaf by the scribe Patricia. All except Anita, which sent a wave of puzzlement down the crowd. What was she to do this time? Cook, and cook only?

Anita had never felt so much shame in her life before. Had her leaders deemed her prior performance so terrible that they decided she was ill-fitted for any duty at all? She tore at her fingers. They were close to bleeding now. Her wing hurt evermore, the sharp pain piercing her right shoulder blade. It was growing numb.

"Anita Morensleaf, your name has not been called from the fires," the Monarch declared.

The crowd lowered in murmurs.

"However, your case is different. It is pertinent that a messenger of Silverstoll spoke to me last night, bringing forth the order from the Ancient Ones, a deeply important mission for you."

"The Silverstoll smoke?" The Chief stuttered, his eyes growing wider with every second.

His shock was reckonable, for the Silverstoll smoke spoke only once every hundred years, coming only at a time of high prestige and urgency.

The murmuring in the crowd grew by multiple notches now, rippling with confusion, surprise, and amazement. Heads turned more rapidly now, as eyes shone and narrowed, casting shimmers of multiple shades from one pixie to the next.

"Is that not the legendary messenger from the Turren-droll Heavens of our pixie elders?"

"I've only ever heard about it in folk-stories – it is real?"

"And for it to happen to her – of all people, why?"

As shocked as her fellow bandmates were, some reeling in jealousy now, they could be no more shocked than Anita. Her face had grown a Naples white, eyes dilated as emerald gems do in the showering sunlight.

"They spoke to me with the proposition that you are to save our band from a foreseen drought next year. We thought we had planned well, but how sly the hand of Nature is! While the drought may wipe out most of the resources near Star's Peak, and our own accrued stocks may run dry by then, there is one way to prevent the culling of our band and that of our partnering leaders. We have to accumulate the golden acorns from the Tree Castle of Modriel. They are sturdy, hardy, and can be used to barter with the neighboring elite pixie tribes that accept nothing less for plentiful food when the time comes. You, among all of us, is the fastest climber and sharpest acorn-detector. Your emerald eyes and swift feet will serve you well in this mission."