Columns

Pixie dust. That’s what its called. I know it well, for I have spent many a night in the forest. I’m a woodsman by trade. I do what I must to earn a living and stay close to the trees that I love. But I have learned to be leery of the dark past midnight. That is the time of the fairies—your people, the pixies. They think they own the wood and everything that grows within. They do not take kindly to a woodsman in their midst. But I have been clever and have not fallen under their spells. I have avoided the dust till now, for they say you never quite recover from it. 

But in the light the dust loses its magic. Then the pixies pose little danger to a clever woodsman. Powerless, for their own protection, with camouflage they must hide in the wood. Or they dress and pass as mortals. But you can always tell. Its their faces, those pixie faces. 

So I thought I was safe with you that day, even though I knew you were a fairy—and dangerous to a woodsman. Yes, I knew all along. For you have the most beautiful pixie face I have ever encountered. But I didn’t realize, though right away I should have known, you were special. The tallest of the pixies, you were the most cunning, and the most beautiful. I should have know, you certainly were a pixie queen. And there in lies the rub. Yes, pixie dust loses its power in the daylight. 

That is, for all but the most powerful of the fairy queens. And you are truly the most bewitching of them all. Somewhere in that wood, in the full light of day, you sprinkled some of your dust on me. Now I am captive to your magic. What the future holds for me I do not know. I know only that I am under your spell. 

›