You have to understand that there are several kinds of small fae. Some of them look very human, and, aside from their size and wings could pass for human. These have considerable human genetics. They’re usually attractive little things. They know it and strut it, but they’ll also gouge your eyes out and eat them for desert. Carry a sword, and never date one.
The two that have adopted us are not of that sort. They’re human looking after a fashion, but there is so much of “other” in them that you’d never mistake them for anything related to pixie or larger human. They tend to be shades of brown, though emotion will change their coloration. Their heads are very narrow; the eyes large and black; their lips are thin, their teeth sharp and pointy. They have, as do all fairies, considerable attitude.
There are smaller fae than these, but they’re hard to see and can do little damage because of their size. Even other fairies tend to ignore the smallest of the fae. The pair that has moved in on us is from a group treated as low class. Larger fairies alternately abuse them, teat them as pets, slaves or a ready food source. They lead a hard life. One would suppose that they would band together for their own protection, but they have no real unity and often abuse their own. That’s why I ended up being the … what? Damn it! Sometimes I feel as if I’m their mother or something.
I found them backed up against a wall by others of their kind who wanted the female. I’d have left that alone, except the male was protecting her. That’s unheard of. So, I pulled one off by his wings, (They screech when you do that.) pinned one to the wall with my sword, and batted three or four away. The two I rescued took refuge in my hair, and I’m stuck with them.
They treat our house as if it were an amusement park. I’ve had to stop them from swimming in the potty. The male thinks jumping up and down on the flush lever is true fun. If they had their own way, I’d have no privacy. And my dear Lord! The male flirts with anything female, even dolls.
Because their voice is high-pitched they’re hard to understand. My youngest seems to understand them best and translates for them. They wanted to sleep on my pillow. I forbade that in very plain terms, but they snuck under the bedroom door. Every time I moved one or the other of them scolded me. Finally – at my husband’s suggestion (Let’s call that ‘insistence’) - I shooed them out of the bedroom. Oh my soul! Have you ever seen a fairy pout? I thought pixies could pout. …
My youngest solved that problem by shoving one of her dolls out of a doll bed and giving it to them. I remind her that they aren’t our sort and that fairies of all sizes are dangerous. She just smiled and said, “Oh they won’t hurt me.” I’m not sure where she gets her confidence, but they treat her as if she were a goddess. This may have to do with the mirror and brush incident.
They were flying around my head while I was brushing out my hair. The female (I usually call her Mary. I can’t pronounce her slithery, oily name.) ran her fingers through her hair. Her unhappiness was apparent. I ignored it. They have poor hygiene and probably never comb their hair. The large fairies are vain, but the little ones are just umm natural may be a good word for it. It never occurred to me that given their social status among their own kind, they probably never had the opportunity to care for themselves past an elementary level.
Anastasia saw this through educated eyes. They’re doll size. If you have a doll, you comb its hair. Right? So she coaxed them into her bedroom and combed out the little thing's hair with a miniature doll comb. This sent them into raptures of delight. (I read that phrase in an old novel once.) Putting nail polish on the little fairy’s toes and fingernails was a challenge. A magnifying glass and water color brush did the trick.
Now yesterday morning, early, way-way early Katarina, daughter four, shook me awake. She stood beside my bed, blurry eyed and popping those tiny marshmallows in her mouth. The two fae stood on her shoulder rattling off something in their squeaky voices so swiftly that I couldn’t understand it at all.
“What?” I asked. “And why are you eating marshmallows at four am?”
“They threw them at me,” she said. It sounded rational, but in this house one never knows.
“They say that the blue house has fairies. Bad ones.”
“The blue house is vacant. Go back to bed.”
“Someone moved in this morning. I mean yesterday morning. You were sleeping.”
I held out my hand and the female landed on it. “Talk slowly,” I said. “What’s going on.”
“Fay-eer-ee,” she said. She gestured in a way typical of someone indicating large size. She made a knife cutting gesture up her belly and then a chewing gesture. This was bad.
Pixies can smell fairies. Our house smelled of these two, though my knobby-kneed Scot couldn’t smell them. You have to be pixie to have a nose that sensitive. So … what to do?
I grabbed my coat and slippers, and headed out the door. The two little ones followed. I figured we were safe that time of day, but I took my sword in hand and hoped the police weren’t patrolling our street. I didn’t want to explain an eighteen inch blade engraved with silver-chased phrases.
The blue house is six houses down from us. It’s been vacant for seven months. It wasn’t vacant anymore. And, yes, it smells of fairy. Not little fairy, but the big kind. I’ve killed my share of them, but it’s not easy and it’s not at all pleasant. It is, however, more than a little satisfying to bring down a rogue fairy and watch the blue iridescence creep over their bodies. It’s the mark of death and decay in fairy kind.