The Trial of the Magic Pixie

A nervous hush hung over the assembled beings beneath the old Poplar tree’s roots. Seated at the head of the diminutive hall, bathed in the sunlight pouring through a gap in the growth, Dismuth the Wise presided, his steely gray eyes keeping watch. Standing between this imposing figure and the masses, Hargum the Wood Elf glared angrily at the figure seated in the middle of the room. There, on a simple stool crafted from an acorn cap, Ricky the Pixie twiddled his thumbs, swished his feet, and did his best to not make eye contact with anyone.

After receiving the nod from Dismuth, Hargum began, “Ricky the Pixie…”

“Ricky the Magic Pixie,” interrupted the young lad, overly proud of his self-appointed moniker.

Hargum glared all the more, “You’re not making this any better for yourself.”

“Can’t get much worse,” he grumbled in reply.

A ripple of shocked murmurs went through the crowd, from the wispy fae huddling at the edges, through the enchanted tree frog contingent, across the group of grumpy gnomes, and to the stately grasshoppers on the other edge. Dismuth silenced them all with a pounding of his walking stick on the root where he was sitting. Again he nodded for Hargum to continue.

“You’ve gone too far this time, you and your mischievous ways. Your trickery. Your nonsense. This is blasphemy.”

Ricky shrugged, “tis my nature, is it not? Tis the pixie way.”

An older pixie woman at the back of the group dropped her pink head, sobbing glittering tears into a mulberry leaf handkerchief. A glowing green wood nymph tried to offer comfort, awkward patting her on the shoulder. A cicadaman seated on the other side of her just shook his head and let out a brief chirp from his wings.

“The pixie way, hmm,” Hargum challenged, “Is it the pixie way which brings your own mother to tears? Did she teach you this pixie way, only now to regret it so?”

“You leave my mother out of this!” Ricky said hotly, raising a pointed finger towards his accuser.

The assembly gasped collectively. Dismuth again quieted them with a thump of his walking stick, even if it was really no more than a twig. Hargum gave a satisfied smile and a mocking shrug to the onlookers. Ricky folded his arms, pouting upon his stool.

Dismuth intoned solemnly, his croaky voice resonant and echoing in the assembly hall, “There are ways and tendencies, and then there are the laws by which we wee folk live, laws ordained from the before-time, laws that have kept us safe for eons. You would do well to respect them and this court, young man.”

Ricky said nothing but nodded.

Silence prevailed again. Somewhere outside a raven cawed briefly. The air inside hung heavy with dust and tension. Dismuth closed his eyes and placed a wrinkled purple hand on a rootlet dangling near his head. He breathed, and the root system pulsed almost imperceptibly before taking on a soft, yellow glow.

The elder statesman opened his eyes, “Lest there be any confusion as to whether or not this court is in session.” His gaze fell squarely and sternly upon Ricky.

Again Ricky said nothing, but his nod was more crisp, more quietly emphatic as to his understanding.

Hargum cleared his throat and addressed the Mystic Mole beside Dismuth, “Will the court reporter please read the charge?”

This being, covered in fur that was at once a dull brown and a shimmering black, also cleared its throat, “Forthwith, this court is called into session regarding one Ricky the Pixie, also known as Ricky the Magic Pixie, also known as Ricky the Moss Pixie, also known as Funtown Fred, vis a vis the standing accusation before the assembled hosts of Spennymoor Woods that he did knowingly and with blatant disregard consort and communicate with a human.”

Again, the pink haired pixie in the back collapsed into her handkerchief, sobbing with shame and grief. Many heads shook in disapproval. A fae with light brown skin turned a shade of green and excused herself, one hand over her mouth. Dismuth sighed and motioned for Hargum to continue.

“Do you deny the charges?”

Looking more serious than he had ever been in his life, Ricky said in as polite and formal a way as he could, “Piss off, sir.” A round of shocked gasps and a stern look from Dismuth later, he rephrased, “I bid you make your case, sir.”

Shaking his head in disdain, Hargum continued, “Will the court reporter please read the first line of the intercepted text?”

The Mystic Mole cleared its throat, caught the tiny bit of stardust that had escaped to tuck it behind its ear, and read, “One day Ricky the Magic Pixie went to visit Daisy Bumble in her tumbledown cottage.”

“Let the record reflect,” Hargum interrupted, “that Daisy Bumble, also known as Daisy the Big Bumble, also known as Daisy What-What, is a known and frequent associate of the accused.” The audience grumbled and nodded in acknowledgement.

Receiving a nod from Hargum who had in turn received a nod from Dismuth, the Mystic Mole continued, “He found her in the bedroom. Roughly…”

“Nope! Nope! We’re skipping that bit,” Hargum said hastily, waving off the reading of that particular portion.

“Well, if anything, I think it’s particularly germane and should be included, if we’re going to do things properly.” Ricky was trying to sound serious, but there was no missing the smirk on his lips.

“You just can’t help yourself, can you?” Hargum taunted, taking a step towards Ricky, glaring down at him.

Ricky shrugged, the smirk all the more apparent.

Hargum composed himself, “Will the court reporter please read, commencing at the next annotation?”

The Mystic Mole shifted uncomfortably, scratched itself on the haunches, then continued, “Rumpletweezer ran the Dinky Tinky shop in the foot of the magic oak tree by the wobbly dumdum bush in the shade of the magic glade down in Dingly Dell. Here he sold…”

“Nope! Stop.  Good, very good, that is. I mean, that’s a good stopping point.” Again Hargum had to compose himself, straightening his willow bark tunic. “Is Rumpletweezer present?”

“Aye,” came the abrupt answer from a remarkably wizened and wrinkled gnome in the center of the crowd.

“Mr Rumpletweezer,” Hargum asked with all due deference, “is that an accurate description of both the nature and location of your place of business?”

“Aye. But I don’t sell them things what he said I sell.”

“That’s quite alright. Thank you, Mr Rumpletweezer.”

“Aye.”

Ricky scoffed, “A great bunch of circumstance. You have nothing.”

Now it was Hargum’s turn to smirk, calling out, “Is Tippler Frog present today?”

Without speaking one of the tree frogs ambled forward such that it was at the front edge of the audience.

Hargum continued, “Would you kindly share with the court what you observed on the night in question?”

Tippler nodded, and with a voice that was smooth and angelic, related, “I observed Ricky, our so-called Magic Pixie, emerging from a human domicile, a house of idols, I believe they called it.”

“You slick-skinned rat! She never liked me!” Ricky tried to protest, but the fight was lost.

“I rest my case,” Hargum said with a nod.

Shaking his head in dismay, Dismuth asked solemnly, “Do you have anything to say for yourself, young man?”

With a sigh and a shrug, all Ricky could offer was, “It made for a killer joke.”