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forty

Man or Mouse?

“ M ake way through the kitchen,” directed Heather. “I want to renew the garden before we depart.”

The four of them hovered in a cluster, advancing through the empty, cavernous great hall. They fluttered over discarded plates and cutlery, through long shadows of torches towards the open arch connecting the chambers.

Tarragon had seen better days, struggling worse than Heather on her untried, twinging wings. He dipped lower, wings drooping. He managed to steady before gliding gently to the tablecloth shrouded banquet table.

Skye and Rhoden followed suit, Rhoden landing first by Tarragon’s side, looping the injured male’s arm up over his shoulder.

A shadow eclipsed their forms, like a bird of prey. In a flash, something swooped overhead, cutting the flow of air. Heather was thrown downward, colliding painfully with the tabletop. Eyes shooting up, fearing Fee had found her revenge, she realized a glass dome encased them.

A cloche from the kitchen.

“What do we have here?” The muffled voice of a man sounded, echoing off their cage. The pixies clapped their hands over their ears, the pain deafening. Uster’s unfortunate face peered through, eyes gleaming, his features distorted through the glass.

Trapped. They were trapped.

“I caught myself a mouse,” Uster tsked, “What did I always say?” he needled her. “The perfect prey, no matter what size.” His immense eyes laughed at them through the cloudy barrier as he chuckled maliciously. “And you brought more mice, seems we have an infestation.”

Heather glared up at Uster. Anger churned in the pit of her.

She climbed to her feet, her fingers curled into fists, nails leaving cuts in the meat of her palms. A cumulation of repressed feelings thundered forth with a blaze, building like a squall: every attempt to ignore this man, be the bigger person, all the effort and time wasted avoiding his unwanted, threatening advancements.

The assault. And every jeer and taunt rushed forward in a flood of memory, channeling the tide of magick forth from her heart.

She had faced a spirit vaster than the sky, defied a human king, stood tall in opposition to a faerie ruler. All the while living her dream, securing a wish on the oak of lore.

Uster was nothing in comparison.

A misty cloud of pink magick sprouted in her hand. It seeped slowly forth until it was a steady stream, rapidly swirling in a vortex within the glass cage. A tornado of power.

Before their eyes, her power intensified, pressing against the surface until it exploded outward, shattering their enclosure to pieces. She saw Skye, Tarragon and Rhoden brace themselves against the flying shards.

The stubborn man who refused to hunch over to hear her words, fell to his knees, his mouth agape. For once in his life, speechless.

Impossible. She had witnessed the pixie’s ability to shrink inanimate objects and revert them to their natural state. But never this. Heather towered over Uster, human sized with pixie wings glistening at her back. Pink tendrils of magick whirling.

“I’m not the mouse.” Her calm, cold tone belied the anger pulsing through her veins. Given physical form in her magick. She pointed down at the man who made her life a living nightmare.

“You are.”

Tendrils of enchantment circled him in a rapid twisting wind, his face became more angular, he sprouted a salmon tinted nose, his eyes shrunk to beads, and his cherished fine clothing ripped as a tail spouted at his back end.

His foul feathered hat fell to the floor.

He morphed quickly before their eyes, from a mouse of a man who strove to make those around him feel small and lesser than- to a literal mouse.

He trembled, down at her slippered feet.

A tiny, brown field mouse.

“Give Fee my regards,” she landed the last jab, for she would no longer acknowledge him, his name lost to memory.

Mouse Uster scurried to the wall edge, disappearing among the rock. Heather felt a presence at her shoulder. Skye hovered there, amazement written on his face.

He flew to the shell of her ear, “Moonbeam, you’ve accomplished something never dared before. Not once have I heard of a pixie turning themselves human sized.”

She reared back in shock. She hadn’t considered, just acted on instinct. Would she be able to turn back? Her magick had calmed after shifting Uster, the swirling reducing to a faint glow of her wings.

“Heather?” Mae’s soft questioning voice sounded from the kitchen alcove.

Heather pivoted to the archway, pleasantly surprised to see Mae.

What a sight she must be. Heather twitched her wings.

They were lovely human sized, shimmering at her back, pink illumination seeping unbridled.

Smoothing her dark skirts, she approached Mae as Skye and Rhoden assisted Tarragon in her wake.

Embracing Mae in a hug, “Mae, do you know what happened to Jessa?” Mae was slow to reciprocate, but did- hesitantly, her arms wrapped around Heather’s waist. Her eyes were wide, caught on Heather’s wings, looking like she was wondering if she was dreaming.

“She went foraging with Hammy about a week ago.”

Heather released a deep breath of relief. Hope sprouted in her heart’s depths. Jessa was alive! “Do you know what path she planned on taking?”

“She didn’t have finite plans, with the rains, she was prepared for slim pickin’s. I doubt she’d return until she foraged enough to make a trek worthwhile.” Skye zipped to Heather’s shoulder, he bowed, a courtier to the mortal.

Mae’s mouth gaped. “And who might this gentleman be?” She inquired to Heather with a raised brow. Heather blushed, “This is Prince Skye Ashwoode.”

“Skye, this is my ….” It was difficult to put into words what Mae was to her, they had no familial ties, but she had been a stand-in for absent family for so long… “My Mae.” Heather said at last.

The elderly woman’s eyes went back and forth between Skye and Heather.

“A prince, eh?” Mae winked at her. “Are ye a pixie now child?”

“The faerie tree myth is real. I traded my wish ribbon.”

“Let me see you.”

Heather spun slowly before the woman, her adoptive mother. A small, pleased smile graced her lined face. “Look at you in this royal color!”

Skye hovered to Heather’s ear, capturing her attention by gesturing to Mae.

“Would she be inclined to accompany us to the faerie tree?” inquired Skye.

Heather beamed at the suggestion.

“Could she?” she asked, almost a whisper, Skye nodded with a wide grin.

She didn’t know if Mae understood Skye with human ears. She looked to Mae, “Would you like to join me in faerie?” Heather couldn’t hide the hope that filtered through her tone. Mae linked Heather’s hands into her own.

“I’d love nothing more.”

“Skye, my transformation was agonizing, will she feel any pain?” When she shrank, Heather felt like her bones were crushed. If that horror was the only way for Mae to accompany them in faerie, she’d object.

“Our magick shall make it painless, the tainted mushroom was a different story,” replied the prince. Satisfied with his words, Heather nodded, granting consent.

Heather took a step back, willing her magick to life. It manifested in her palm, tingling. But it sputtered- too weak to fully materialize. Shrinking to an ember, it vanished. Heather’s eyes darted to Skye, their depths filled with alarm.

He fluttered next to her ear, “Don’t fret, Moonbeam. You’ve simply overtaxed your power by shifting to human sized. I can shrink Mae.”

He flew over to the head chef, circled her thrice, his green light twinging her figure.

Mae’s form reduced slowly, she dropped a foot, then another in height, the change occurring gradually.

When Mae was pixie sized, Heather bent at the knee and gently scooped her up in her palm.

A wide grin spread across Heather’s face.

If Clive thought Heather in his kitchen was a challenge… wait until he encountered Mae!

Heather focused on Skye, Tarragon and Rhoden, “Would you all like a ride home upon my shoulder?” No need for them to strain themselves to carry the extra weight of an injured Tarragon.

They consented by floating over, Skye taking a seat on her right shoulder, the other males on her left. Heather gently placed her hand near her collar bone so that Mae could climb up to Skye. Ever the gentleman, he offered Mae a helping hand.

“I can see why you fell for him, dearie,” teased Mae.

Passengers secured, Heather made her way quietly through the kitchen arch, through the dreaming servants and out the open door to the muddy gardens.

She dimmed her glow and pulled her wings tight to her body.

The Luna moth glamor would be no help to her now.

She chuckled, imagining the butcher waking to the sight of a massive moth in the cookery.

But she had sensed the enchantment slip from her skin like oil from water when she morphed to human size.

She felt Mae pull against the threads of her gown, determined to not plummet from Heather’s shoulder.

The exterior kitchen door remained open, and on silent feet, Heather strode through.

As she moved toward the perimeter of the garden, she spotted firelight in the distance.

They were advancing quickly towards the castle.

Torches, she realized. Flames held aloft by an enraged peasant mob.

Angry shouts carried across the lowland as she quickened her pace, navigating through the dark.

Too scared of being discovered to light her way.

As she slipped into the hillside’s shadow, the mob overwhelmed the keep.

She feared for the remaining staff, hoping the ire of the commoners would be reserved for those in power.

Mainly the king who had toppled the stones and incited the wrath of the Divine.

If she and the pixies had been any later in retrieving their friend, they would have been entangled in the violence ensuing.

She turned back, eyeing the castle. Plumes of smoke rose from the keep.

For the first time in months, she wished for rain.

She paused for a moment, wondering what would become of those left behind, and where Jessa could be.

Skye patted her shoulder. His presence a constant, soothing balm.

Facing the barren landscape, she quickened her pace.

Homeward bound.