Sketch

         Bridget hesitated, only for a moment, before entering the eerie, windswept moorlands. She darted through bracken and tangles of wildflowers, scurrying to a chorus of birdsong. As she leapt over a shrub, a merlin was startled out of hiding and she tumbled across the lumpy terrain. Her father asked her to promise him that she would stay within the borders of her new home until they could explore the desolate moors together. But he owed her the option of deciding for herself where she’d spend her alone time, considering that it was his decision to come to Scotland in the first place.

         Sean Flannery was pursuing a promising job opportunity and the family of two had recently moved to the UK from America. Bridget wasn’t adjusting well to the differing lifestyle easily. The customs, the word pronunciations, the unfamiliar vocabulary, it was all so overwhelming for her, and quite frankly, she found it insufferable.

         She struggled to her feet and hobbled a few more paces onwards before her hiking boot sank into the soft, spongy bog. Her trek turned treacherous as she hopped across wet bits, balancing between tussocks of drier ground. The sweet, soothing aroma of green vegetation was replaced with an earthy scent of peat. When she encountered a sizable patch of moss, she sank onto her knees and sat back on her heels. The velvety swath of green provided a cushion beneath her bony shins.

         Tears flooded her red-rimmed eyes, and as she peered downwards into a shallow puddle, a single teardrop spilled, splashing onto the brow of her doppelganger staring back at her. A tiny protuberance like a growing blister materialized and broke free from the water’s surface. The pea-sized bubble swelled as it drifted toward the yellow gorse beyond the bog, then popped when it was pricked by a thorn. A being no larger than Briget’s index finger flitted gracefully to the ground. She blinked and wiped her dampened cheeks.

         The delicate creature stood on two slender legs and very much resembled a tiny person. Its flawless body glistened with an iridescent sheen and pointed ears the size of pistachio nuts flanked its shiny head. Tuxedo wings, sheer and tinted an azure blue, cloaked its back, nearly stretching down to its heels.

         Bridget was mesmerized. “It seems Scotland is full of surprises,” she mumbled to herself.

         “You are not from Scotland then.” The being spoke and Bridget gasped, clamping her hands over her mouth.

         After a few moments of awkward silence, the odd little creature spoke again, “Cat got your tongue?”

        Bridget lowered her hands, placing them firmly on the ground, ready to spring to her feet and flee. She fumbled for her words, “Oh — you — I mean — what.”

        The being took a step forward and Bridget flinched. “Don’t be afraid, my dear. I only wish to comfort you,” it said,

         Bridget hesitated, then asked, “Are you a pixie?”

         “At your service.”

         “The kids at school say pixies are mischievous, deceptive liars.”

         “Is that right? — And what do you say?”

         Bridget gazed at the pixie’s upturned tear drop head and poppy seed eyes. She wondered if it was a boy or a girl, but she thought it would be rude to ask. “You’re beautiful, “I don’t believe you would hurt a fly. — You kind of look like a dragonfly,” she giggled.

         “A dragonfly? Dragonflies are as hideous as the beasts they were named for. I bet you have never seen a creature as dazzling as myself,” scowled the Pixie.

         “My father is quite handsome.”

         The Pixie harrumphed. 

         Bridget broke the uncomfortable energy flowing between them. “My name is Bridget, it’s very nice to meet you. I’m from America. My father and I live in a cottage on the other side of the moorlands.” A tear trickled down Bridget’s freckled complexion.”  

         The pixie snatched a twig off a brittle hedge plant and covered one end with downy moss. Transparent, helicopter wings parted and extended from its back, then it levitated into the air. It sailed towards Bridget, pausing, and hovering within millimeters of her aquiline nose. With the tip of its homespun paintbrush, The Pixie soaked up the girl’s tears. It soared to a flat steppingstone and painted a reproduction of a sketchpad in one stroke then plucked the image from the stoney surface.

        The being gently laid the book of drawing paper on top of Bridget’s bent knees. “Sketch a likeness of your father and you will forget your sadness.”

         “I’m sorry,” Bridget uttered, “I’m not an artist.”

         “When a young child draws a picture, adults will call it cute, precious, an absolute gem,” the Pixie explained. “But in truth, the child's drawing may not bear any resemblance to their muse. As long as the child believes their drawing is what they say it is, it makes it so.”

         The charmed being handed Bridget the magic paintbrush. It transformed into a writing implement upon her touch, the moss tip now serving as the rubber on a pencil. While she drew, the Pixie chattered, and Bridget soon became hypnotized by its beguiling ways. They had a laugh together and Bridget began adding exaggerated features to the character on the page: She blackened the eyes, doodled a horn for a nose, and added extra rows of teeth, creating a very wide, toothy smile.

~~~

        The sky had turned a luminescent pink and purple and the mystical creature announced that it was time for them to part. The being told Bridget that she had to throw the magical twig into the puddle, but Bridget wanted to keep it. She pointed towards the hills beyond the moorlands, and when the Pixie turned to look, she stuffed the enchanted tool into the single fold hem of her blouse then pulled the bronze hairclip out of her auburn locks.

         The Pixie turned back to face her, “What do you see?”

        “I thought I saw a bird in the sky.”

        “There are many lovely birds that inhabit the moorlands: the skylark, the black grouse, the whinchat, the grey wagtail…” While the Pixie prattled on, [“the peregrine falcon, the curlew, the hem harrier, the red grouse”] Bridget hurled the clip into the puddle. All the Pixie saw and heard was an arched blur, a plunk, and a ripple. Then the being jumped into the puddle and disappeared. Bridget struggled onto her feet and navigated back to dry land. She hugged the sketchpad to her chest and skipped towards home.

~~~

         Bridget’s father slumped on the top step in back of the house, his onyx eyes wide and alert. He had just caught sight of his daughter. He stood and waved. She was eager to tell him about her thrilling experience. But as she closed the distance between them, she stopped still and let the sketchpad plummet to the ground. Her father’s facial features were horribly distorted and wrong.

        He spread his arms in a welcoming gesture and Bridget stepped forwards. When she felt the unevenness of the sketchpad beneath her shoe, she glanced down. It lay open to the bizarre picture she had drawn. The resemblance to her father was uncanny. She looked into the murky abyss that flooded her father’s formerly hazel eyes.

           The Pixie wasn’t her friend, it knew exactly what was going to happen when she portrayed her father in such a monstrous way. She recalled the device the Pixie leant to her to draw the picture. She slid the mechanism from her blouse and crouched to retrieve the pad of paper. Then she began to erase the sketch with the mossy end of the gadget.

         Bridget erased one of the blackened eyes — then the other. Wet, squelching noises along with her father's muffled cries enveloped her. She watched in awe as he pleaded for mercy behind a frozen grimace. His eyeballs were forced from their sockets. They dangled on cords of sinew like rubber stoppers chained to a couple of cavernous drains. The site disgusted her, and in her panic, she began to rub out the teeth. Pearly incisors and canines dribbled from her father’s creepy grin, clattering on the concrete below, tinkling from one step to the other.

         Tears blurred Bridget’s vision. She unclenched the utensil from between her fingers, letting it plummet to the gravel. She tore the page from the book, crumpling it and tossing it into the birdbath. The cracking and snapping of her father’s bones seized her awareness as his limp body collapsed onto the veranda. Bridget dropped the sketchpad, sank to her knees, and crawled to her father’s shattered carcass. Rage overtook her emotions, and she wanted revenge.

         She wiped her eyes and sniffed then staggered onto her feet. A sudden gust of wind blew, fluttering the blank pages of the open sketchbook lying in the weeds. Bridget scuffled nearer the beckoning pad of paper and gathered it into her arms. Her eyes surveyed the area around her in search of the magic pencil. All the muted tones of the organic matter blended together and made it almost impossible to differentiate one stick from the other. Then she noticed a fragment of the green moss like a jade gemstone amidst the browns and grays.

         She collapsed onto the ground and reached for the magic drawing tool. Taking a breath, she doodled her best recollection of the Pixie on one of the rumpled pages. She rose and stumbled onto the porch, flung open the front door and lunged across the threshold into the kitchen. She dashed towards the living room and hurled the sketchpad into the blazing fireplace.

~~~

         In the bog, a peregrine falcon perched atop a moss-covered mound. It cocked its head to the side as if in wonderment. The puddle before it boiled and gradually shrank in size as it evaporated, unearthing something shiny and angular. The falcon pounced on the bronze hairclip and whisked it away in its powerful, claw-like talons.