Dust (Of Dust and Darkness) - By Devon Ashley Page 0,22
pixie with the gorgeous violet hair. Unfortunately, her grey eyes are ice cold and diminish the beauty of her other facial features.
“I’m a heavy sleeper. Don’t fail me, newbie,” she snaps, shocking me with her rudeness.
Willow. Of course the pixie with the alluring features is the one pixie who suggested I be left to die so I wouldn’t diminish her share of mash. Of all the pixies to be responsible for… She’s quick to turn her back and settle on the floor. I look to Holly with disbelief, wondering what it is I’ve done to offend this pixie, but she just shrugs it off.
Holly whispers, “Forget it. She’s…dramatic.”
You think?
“Alright. All we do at this station is sort the dirt from the dried mushroom powder.”
“What’s the difference?”
“No idea. Quite frankly, we don’t give a crap about the purity of their pixie dust.” My eyebrows lift and my forehead creases in amusement. Way to go pixies. “We just make it look like we’re meticulous.” The only table without a conveyer belt, Holly takes the pile of powder at the beginning and sweeps her forearm over it, spreading it into a thin layer before us. “If you see anything obvious, great. Otherwise, I don’t care which particles make it to your good and bad piles.”
I laugh internally, thinking the faeries deserve as much. “The sprigs don’t ask or check?”
“They wouldn’t know the difference either way. And the faeries obviously haven’t noticed the pixie dust isn’t as strong as it should be. Even if they did, these mushrooms are just one component they’d have to look in to.”
“That’s what they get for slave labor,” I add bitterly.
“Exactly. Anyways, the good will go into the sacks beneath the table. The bad will go into a bucket that we’ll dump on our way out of here.”
Holly begins sifting through the powder and I soon follow her lead. Taking a quick peek at the two against the back wall, I note that Willow and the other pixie, whose name I don’t know, are already asleep. The sleeping version of Willow is far more likeable, with features that aren’t taut with stress and anger.
“Holly?” I ask, waiting for her to murmur in acknowledgement. “Do you still believe you’ll be rescued?”
“No.” An invisible weight suddenly suffocates my chest. “I hope I’ll be rescued one day but I no longer believe anyone’s looking for me. I’m sure my family has come to terms with my death by now.”
“What’s a family?” I ask curiously.
She pauses to give me the weirdest look. “Seriously? Mother and father? Sometimes siblings, either a brother or a sister?” Now it’s my turn to give the weird look. I’ve never heard these terms before. “Wow. Okay. Your mother and father would be the female and male that came together to make your egg. That makes you their pixling. If they had any other pixlings, the females would be called your sisters and the males your brothers. Together they make up your family and they’re the ones that are there for you, no matter what. You take care of each other, have each other’s backs.”
“Oh. Interesting.” Weird, actually. I play with the pile of dirt before me, pinching bits here and there and letting them float carelessly to the ground.
“So you didn’t have a mother and a father raising you?”
“No. We’re raised by our village. When the eggs are laid, they’re taken to the nursery to be housed. When they’re born, the entire village raises the pixlings.”
Holly’s looking at me with this really confused look upon her face. “So do you know which male and female are responsible for laying each egg?”
I casually shake my head. “No. Several are born within a season and we’re all given the same birthday.” I sweep a random part of the powder into a good pile and a smaller portion into the bad. “I suppose your right. I never really thought about the fact that two of those pixies were responsible for my being alive. We’re just not raised to think that way. The entire village is responsible for our upbringing.”
“Come to think of it, I think Elm Hollow does that whole village raising thing. Is that where you’re from?”
I shrug. “We just call our home the Hollow.”
“We all do. What type of tree do you live in?”
“The Lauralyn.”
“Then you’re from Lauralyn Hollow. I’m from Ash.”
“Is there anyone else here from my Hollow?” I ask excitedly, peeking down the line, examining the pixies with a reddish hue.