The Curious Case of The Witch and Pixie

The Curious Case of The Witch and The Pixie

Chapter 1.

Our story begins, not as most would expect.

No, not in the morning, where humanity thrives and is generally a pain in the backside, but instead at dusk, when the sun descends over the distant mountainous horizon, and the sky heralds the brightest red of shepherds delight upon its return.

It begins in a canyonous valley, slightly off the beaten path in a large, well travelled forest, a few miles from a village populated by religious, god fearing folk, who certainly wouldn't appreciate this story. Nope, not one bit I'm afraid.

However, this story isn't for them, it is for you, and it concerns an inquisitive young lady about to embark on a night-time adventure.

This inquisitive young lady in question lived in a hut, that was meticulously sung from an old white oak, surrounded by phosphorescent flora and all manner of delightful & interesting Fauna.

I say "Sung", because she literally sang to the tree, and the tree danced to the enchanting melody. It loved the song so much, it made a perfect home for her within itself.

Lights came from glimmering glass jars, which hung on healthy green vines around the hollow circular interior, and the furniture was all of fine pine wood, salvaged from the nearby village, cleaned, and adorned with thick blankets and soft pillows.

The hollow was of two floors, which widened outwards and twisted to a spiral around the outside, echoes of the old woods' acceptance and love of its extraordinary tenant. Intricate patterns made beautiful natural windows for the sunset to squeak through, the wind passing through like an old friend and carrying the sweet smelling scents of incense she kept lightly burning by the window sills.

On the second floor, our young lady stood at a wooden countertop overlooking her ethereally glowing garden, weaving together the last threads of a moderately sized wicker basket, lined with chequered cotton of red & white. She sang to herself during these processes, singing spells and songs into the work as she went, the flickering multicoloured lights revoking their glass jars to dance along with her jaunty tunes.

Her name was Milla.

Short for Camilla, you understand, but I'm fairly sure she wouldn't mind us pronouncing it as Mee-ya. It's all the same to her, in any case.

Milla smiled to herself as the fairy-lights danced to her work, and held the basket up to inspect.

Though she had a novitiate understanding of weaving, it looked pretty damned good. Not perfect by any means, but it was hers, and it made the girl proud.

Along the countertop to the end stood a tall mahogany cupboard, containing baskets of fresh fruits, strips and lumps of seasoned meat, dried (and drying) herbs hanging from twine, shelves of dirty glass liquor bottles bearing mysterious liquids that Milla would never tell us about, and possibly the largest well organised selection of sweets & desserts for miles around.

Pursing her lips, she chose 4 apples, 2 medium sized pound cakes, a handful of meat strips, 2 bottles of cows milk, and one of the bottles of mysterious liquid, which swirled in its captivity.

She would need bread too of course, so she gathered the raw ingredients from an imposing refrigerated chest next to the cupboard, and set the lot on the countertop.

She began to sing again, the raw ingredients jumping to life and dancing in tandem with her song, mixing themselves together with the tempo and tempering themselves with the beats, until a sizable lump of perfect bread dough lay on the wood.