Pixieland Diaries

Day Five of the New Me

Day Five of the New Me

Dear Diary,

Today I chatted up the naiads for advice. Most of Faerie won’t talk to me—they think I’m trouble or something—but naiads are magically attached to their trees, so it’s not like they can avoid conversation. Anyway, Nicola the naiad was the most helpful. She said to be super specific in my diary. As in, I should slow down and write details about every little thing.

Good thinking, Nicola.

With that in mind, I now take this solemn vow:

I, Calla, do hereby seriously promise to fully describe each eentsy beentsy thing that happens to me. No excuses. No exceptions.

Whew. Just writing those words makes me feel better. Next I’ll describe something that happened to me in crazy detail. And to make it super-official, I shall add a cool title.

Calla’s Amazingly Detailed Story Of Chatting Up Nicola

Verdict: adding a title is clutch.

Here’s what happened. Nicola lives with her sisters in a massive yellow tree within Pixieland’s Golden Vale. The naiad’s realm is sandwiched between the Pink Forest (where I live) and a Troll Swamp (ick). In terms of looks, Nicola and her sisters remind me of human ballet dancers, only with bark for skin.

Hmm.

Okay, I know I just promised that I would describe stuff in super detail. But I already explained my chat with Nicola. Not much new territory to cover. Therefore, I shall make a slight change to my mega-serious vow.

I shall record every detail, unless I pretty much told it already.

And/or it’s boring.

Thus endeth the story of Nicola.

Moving on.

After chatting up Nicola, I head home. This brings up a critical question. How do I get around? Answer: with cute pink wings that sprout on my command. When I’m flying, I leave behind sweet arches of pink fairy dust. There are two reasons for this.

One. Pink lines are really cute, and we all need more cuteness.

Two. Fairy dust is hard to make. Not for me, though. The fact that I toss it around always turns heads. Even the dwarves look up from under whatever rock they’re hyper-focused on smashing.

Needless to say, I could stop leaving dust trails, but why? I work super hard at the Pixieland Citadel of Magical Knowledge. I spend hours practicing how to summon orbs of power, which are the magical spheres behind higher-level spells. Plus I help out Bilge, the ancient hobgoblin who runs the place, along with his piggy familiar, Oinky. In my opinion, I’ve earned the right to have fairy dust fly off my butt.

Back to my day.

I flit along, looking awesome, and leave a totally cool trail behind me. Then I reach the massive red oak that’s my home. Specifically, I live with my parents in an oversized acorn on that tree. Anyway, my arrival requires that I pause and shake my hips extra fast. That way, I release enough fairy dust to shrink down to the size of a honeybee.

On second thought, make that a wasp. They’re way more badass.

Once I’m tiny, I zoom in through a gap in our acorn’s cap. Inside, our home acorn is carved up into three stories, complete with furniture. This late in the day, my parents—Poppa and Muti—hang out at the bottom level, which is where we chow down. I swoop to that spot.

Like the rest of our place, the dining room is pretty basic. There’s a wooden table. Matching chairs. Mandatory pictures of me on the walls. And, of course, Poppa and Muti. They’re silver tree sprites with crinkly faces, long gray hair and short white robes. Wooden bowls sit on the table before them. Clearly, they’ve been using these containers as pillows.

How do I know? Spit puddles.

As I approach, the pair sit ramrod straight, like they’ve been waiting for dinner instead of snoozing. Not that I blame them for napping. They’re both at least forty thousand years old, and that’s in fae time. If I were them, I’d snore inside an acorn, too.

“How was your day, Calla?” asks Poppa in his warbly old-guy voice.

“Fine,” I say. “You know, the usual. Flying around. Trying not to get exiled or locked up. That kind of stuff.”

Muti has overlarge eyes surrounded by layers of wrinkles. She widens them now. I call this her hopeful look. “What have you done today that’s selfish and horrible?”

We have this conversation all this time. Poppa and Muti want me to be meaner. They think it’ll help me fit in.

“Well,” I tap my chin dramatically. “I called Nicolianus, the tree naiad, a name.”

“Good!” Poppa grins, showing off his missing front tooth. “What did you call her? Dumb as a stick?”

“That’s an insult, not a name,” corrects Muti. “Maybe wooden head? Tree scum?”

“Not exactly.”

“When what?”

“I called her…” Pausing, I force on a terrible scowl. “Nicola.”

Muti scrunches up her face. “That’s not a mean name.”

Poppa shakes his head. “Oh, my poor Calla.”

“Hey,” I counter. “I have it on good authority that Nicola is a super-huge insult on Earth.”

Which is a total lie. However, Poppa and Muti have never been to Earth. It’s an easy all-purpose excuse. I’ve visited a few times, but I always end up at the same boring spot. Long story.

“Well, humans.” Poppa sniffs. “They have a lot of strange ideas. I hear they eat babies named Ruth.”

Muti nods quickly. “And drink their own pee on something called a television.”

Poppa joins in the nodding routine. “I don’t think they’re mean so much as nuts.” He knocks on the wall. “No insult intended.” That’s a good move. Our oak has its own naiad, Jolly. Despite the name, Jolly is anything but happy go lucky. Tick him off and you’ll end up stuck to your bed with a pile of sap. No lie.

Muti lets out a long-suffering sigh. “So, back to our question. What have you done lately that’s evil?”

At last, the obvious answer appears in my mind. “My latest pranks, of course. There’s the Macarena Caper as well as my Hairless Elf Council Adventure.” I give my pranks formal names; it helps me keep track of things. Pausing, I wait for the inevitable comeback from my parents. This will be something like, pranks on the council don’t count.

That’s not what happens.

Poppa smacks his thin lips. “Ever since Muti and I adopted you from the Ley Queen, we’ve only wanted what’s best for you.”

I frown. Nothing good ever comes out of a parental speech that includes, we only want what’s best for you.

Muti leans forward, setting her elbows on the tabletop. Normally, she’s very anti-table-elbows, so this is serious. “Both Poppa and I have come to a dark conclusion. Namely, we suspect your pranks are only done for good reasons.” The way she says the words good reasons, it’s like I pooped in her dinner bowl.

This is seriously bad news. My pranks are the only thing giving my parents hope that I’ll turn into a regular fae one day. You see, the lands of Faerie and Earth are connected by cords of power called ley lines. As in, there are literal blue lines of magic waiting underground. Using those cords, fae can travel about. And if you’re human and live near a major ley line? Then, watch out. You might have a fairy for a kid. Which is my story, by the way. After my human birth parents gave me up, Poppa and Muti took me in.

Voila. I’m a faeling.

According to rumor, we faelings have soft hearts. In my case, those rumors are spot-on. I need to fake some evil here.

All of which is why I put on my most innocent face, which involves widening my eyes while pursing my lips. “Whatever do you mean? All my pranks are filled nothing but cruelty.” I hold up my hands in a claw-like way and say grr, just for emphasis.

“Let’s consider that prank about losing hair,” says Poppa. “Isn’t that what Summer Fae do to changelings? Bring those humans here from Earth, put them in brown robes, and then shave their heads?”

I raise my pointer finger. “Winter fae don’t do that.”

“You know what Poppa means,” presses Muti. “Were you trying to show the council how a changeling human feels?”

I open my jaw wide in what I hope is a convincing show of shock. “Wow, I never thought of it that way, but you’re right. It would have given that experience.”

“And the dancing prank,” adds Poppa. “The revels require that humans dance themselves to death.”

Once more, I raise my pointer finger. “Winter fae only ask for human volunteers.”

I tried that route, by the way. My goal was to find a super-old human who wanted to kick the bucket while dancing. But the council got bullied by Lazare, the Protector of the Summer Realm. Lazare hates me for some reason, so he insisted I find some unwilling human to kill. Which I did.

Sorta.

Kinda.

Not really.

Griff volunteered in exchange for Macarena fun. Not that I’ll ever tell Poppa and Muti that.

“Don’t try to fool us,” warns Poppa. “You were giving the council a taste of how it feels to be abducted into the revels, weren’t you?”

“No, I was just acting super-evil with Griffin, my totally kidnapped human.” Lie.

Muti drums her fingers on the tabletop. “And you just happened to pick a prank that gave the council a—what do the humans say again?—taste of their own potion?”

“It’s medicine,” I say.

“What’s medicine?” asks Poppa.

“Calla needs to answer the question,” insists Muti.

I press my lips together while bobbing my head. This is my classic thinking face. Namely, I’m wondering if there’s any way out of this conversation.

Nope.

I throw up my hands. “You got me. If I’m pulling a prank anyway, why not give it a double purpose?” I hold my thumb and pointer finger an inch apart. “Just a little bit of good. Barely noticeable. And all while I’m being super evil at the same time.”

Muti sighs. “You can’t be nice, Calla. Ever.”

“Why not?”

“You’re already a rarity,” says Poppa. “How many faeling are there right now?”

This is a depressing topic. “One,” I reply. “Just me.”

Muti gasps. “What about that troll, Finster?”

“He’s been around for six thousand years,” adds Poppa. My parents are big into Finster the troll. He’s their example of faeling who made it.

“Died last month in a freak bridge accident.” Sadly, the death is totally sketchy. But after six thousand years in Faerie, you’re bound to have a bridge fall on your head at some point, right?

“This is bad,” groans Poppa.

“Terrible,” agrees Muti.

I slap on a grin. “Look, it wasn’t always this way, right? When good King Tristan ruled the summer fae, he wasn’t all pro-selfishness. He said we need a balance. Fairies like me were fine.”

Muti raises her shaky fist. “And look what happened to Tristan! That evil winter prince, Reiver, stabbed the good king through with a magical blade.”

“And now Tristan lays trapped in an enchanted sleep,” adds Poppa. “Lazare will run the summer realm for all eternity.”

All of which is true. Depressing, but valid.

I’ve only one argument left. “My point is, the winter fae aren’t as dedicated to evil. Reiver’s little brother, Dare, is a nice guy.” I can’t help but blush as I say Dare’s name.

“What good does that do?” asks Muti. “The winter fae aren’t as numerous or powerful as summer. Never have been.”

“You need to work on being more genuinely evil,” says Poppa earnestly. “Can you do that, Calla?”

Time to fib my face off. “I’ll try.”

“That’s all we ask.” Muti twiddles her craggy fingers over the table. A cascade of silver fairy dust falls down. Seconds later, my parents’ bowls fill with goopy pre-chewed dinners. Which makes sense; the situation with their teeth is pretty sketchy.

As for me, I get a bowl of galla root with cashew dressing. My favorite. Happy for the distraction, I dive into my nutty feast. After dinner, I’m super sleepy (galla root does that). So I kiss Poppa and Muti good night and flutter off to bed. That’s where I am right now, by the way. And I’m basically ready to snooze when it happens.

I notice a small white box on my bed stand. It wasn’t there a moment ago. Magic.

Plus, there’s even a card on top. I open it.

Calla, Here’s a gift for you. - Dare

Oh, my.

This is huge. I get one gift from Dare each year on my birthday. That’s how Dare works. But the Great Festival Of Me remains a week away, so this isn’t a birthday present. It’s something more.

Breathe, Calla.

Dear Diary,

I’m breaking this out into its own section because I’m obsessed with Dare and will want to easily find this bit later. For no reason.

-Calla