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 Mustard from wanting to court her. So from 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 sunflower 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 favorite seeds. 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 to reach
the amber-colored cone, and yelp the moment my bum makes contact with the anther, losing my treats 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.
My molars crunch down on the corner of the sunflower seed, cracking the shell, and I dehull the exterior for the edible kernel within.
As I nibble on my prize, I grimace as Meg slowly saunters her way toward me, hands on hips with a wicked half smile. “So how’s the
rump, Rosie?”“Just fine, Meggy.” She scowls at the cutesy use of her name, but she can hardly say anything since she did it first. To
bug her just a little more, I add, “Mustard sure is having fun with Poppy today, huh?” Her smile drops, her head whipping so fast you’
d think it would snap off, just in time to see Mustard collecting a white flower that landed atop Poppy’s head. Poppy smiles as he
gently tucks it behind her ear, his arm lingering longer than necessary. “I know you like both of them, but don’t you favor Mustard over
Tin?”
Annoyed, Meg returns her attention to me, eyes pinched hard enough for skin to crease across her forehead in several waves. She
swoops in fast and rams me, scooting my body sideways involuntarily. Taken aback, she squeezes beside me atop the anther
before my defensive maneuvers can kick in. Now she’s sitting comfortably and I’m only half way on.“You really shouldn’t be eating
that, you know?” She says it with an annoyingly sweet voice, but her tone is smothered with snobbery. Meg crosses her legs and
lays her hands on her knee, one atop the other, kicking out the upper leg rhythmically. “Two of us should easily be able to fit on this
flower. And out of the two of us, you’re definitely winning in the hip department.”
Ugh! She doesn’t even see my evil glare because she’s so wrapped up in watching Poppy, but I know she feels my scowl when the
corners of her lips slowly creep upward.
I need air. And not the air every living thing around me has choked on the past few minutes. Real air – fresh, from Mother Wind
herself. I leap off the coneflower so abruptly it bounces Meg up and down, and a few of the purple petals break free. My wings take
flight and I shoot through the air, dodging trees and swaying branches until the evil laughter coming off Meg fades away. Only then
do I slow my flight and head for my place of comfort.
I burst through the treetops and my jaw drops in awe at the beautiful sight before me, immediately calming my irate manner. The
coming storm creeps along the horizon, painting the sky with shades of grays and blues, the clouds tumbling toward me over a
neverending floor of luscious greenery that dance and twirl with Mother Wind. Bright streaks of white light skip sporadically across
the sky and I see a flock of birds in the distance take flight, spooked by the thunderous roar above them.
As I hover over the forest canopy, I inhale several deep, cool breaths. The rain coats the land before me, saturating the soil, leaves
and flowers. The earthy smell hitches a ride with the wind and makes its way toward me. It fills my nostrils and lungs, and quiets my
mind. I slowly descend atop a leaf on one of the emergent trees that poke above the canopy, leaning back on my elbows and
crossing my legs. The leaf sways back and forth, and jerks me occasionally when a gale passes, but I don’t mind. The movement is
almost hypnotic.
I sigh with content. This is why I love my tree house near the canopy. The air’s more alive up here, continuously circulating around
you, prickling your skin with goose bumps, swaying you gently back and forth, as if Mother Wind herself is rocking you softly in her
arms. The others just don’t seem to get that, happy enough with the musty air expelled by the life at the bottom of the forest strata,
where fungus and decaying matter pad the forest floor. But not me. The higher up the better.
Between cool breezes, I hear a rustling in the tree beneath me, but the massive number of leaves protect the sound’s maker. I startle
when a figure punches through the canopy, but calm when I realize it’s just Tracker. His skin the same hue as mine, his muscles
curve subtlety along his arms and legs, his body lean for quickness but not built for strength. His eyes are tan, similar to the color of
dried moss that hangs off this very tree, and his hair a light shade of brown too. He pauses momentarily to take in the skyline, as
enthralled by the sight as I am. “Wow. I rarely come up this high. And never when it’s about to storm.”
I softly murmur mmm-hmm as I return my attention to the clouds swirling in the sky.“You mustn’t let Meg upset you,” he says softly. I
turn to see his kind, tan eyes gazing down at me.
I huff. “I promise you she didn’t. I couldn’t care less about her little antics. I just felt suffocated down there.”“You seem suffocated with
this place in general. I rarely see you in or around the Hollow anymore.” Tracker circles me a few times, inhaling a few deep breaths
himself. “But I can see why you prefer the air up here. Less…saturated.”“How did you find me?” I ask, because only Poppy knows I
come here, and because I had dipped and swayed so much through the forest I should’ve been impossible to follow.
His eyebrows lift with amusement. “They don’t call me Tracker for nothing.”
Impressed, I reply, “I had heard that you were good but I didn’t realize you were that good.”
He chuckles and nestles atop the leaf beside me, swaying in rhythm with me. “I’m not really. You were easy to follow. You left the
scent of peppermint behind.”
I smile. I had completely forgotten about diving through the peppermint patch this morning. I certainly don’t smell it when I inhale
anymore. I lift my arm to my nose, and sure enough, a whiff of peppermint cools my nose again.“To be honest, I’m a little surprised
you’re still here.”
My forehead scrunches. “What do you mean? I don’t care that pixies like Meg play stupid games. I’m not going to hide from them or
anything.”“I wasn’t referring to Meg. I meant the Hollow. I’m surprised you haven’t left like those before us. You seem just like them.”
The wind suddenly whips our leaves, so I doubt he notices my body snap in reaction to his words. “How so?”“They were all loners
that preferred to get lost in the forest. Pixies in general are in tune with Mother Nature, but you particular pixies are more so.” I didn’t
like the way he said you particular pixies – my nose actually wrinkles – like I was similar to those that abandoned our village and
never came back. “I’ve seen the way you look at our surroundings, Rosalie. It’s like you see something the rest of us don’t, and your
wings glow yellow like those before you. Like you know there’s more to life out there than what rests within our Hollow.”
On the contrary. I am completely content with my surroundings. With my little tree house all to myself, the small watering hole at the
edge of the Hollow that only I seem to know about, with all the types of bugs sharing the resources around me. I’m happy here. I like
simplicity.
But I certainly never knew the pixies that left before me had wings that developed a yellowish glow like mine.“Do you think the
reason none of those pixies have ever returned is ‘cause they’re dead?” I ask, the whistling wind competing for Tracker’s attention.“
Some of them, yeah. But not all of them. No, I think they just found something this place lacked for them. What that something is
though, I don’t know.”“And you think I may know what that something is?”