One missing Maine boy has been found alive but with amnesia and serious injuries after having disappeared for more than two weeks. Parents hold out hope that their missing youngsters will see the same outcome. -NEWS CHANNEL 8
A noise startles me out of my super-long couch nap. I groan and stretch. Someone knocks on the door. The sun has set and the clock says it’s seven. Even early in the evening our town seems deserted and haunted. The roads wander around dark corners. Trees crowd the edges. Snow reflects the moonlight like a silent white mirror. I peek out the window, and for a moment I think it’s Nick, but that is impossible.
When I open the door, Astley simply holds out his hand in the darkness. I take it and step outside almost hypnotized, not really even caring that I’m wearing this extra-large gray L.L.Bean sweatshirt and the bunny pj bottoms that Is gave me. I just go with him into the snowy cold. Something about the dark trees beyond our lawn makes me twitch a little. My foot slips on the snow. Anything could be out there.
“Betty’s in the shower,” I whisper. “What are you doing here? Did you see the Frank guy? Or my father? Are they lurking out there?”
“No. I have not.” He clears his throat awkwardly. “There has been no sign of your father.”
I guess I’d been holding my breath, because it all comes out of my mouth in a big rush. I don’t know if I’m upset that he’s missing and maybe dead, or relieved, or scared, or what. My feelings about him are so jumbled. He was manipulative and weak, but he tried so hard to be good. He let my mom go free, without turning her. I know he did.
Astley waits for a second before he speaks. Maybe he can tell that I’m trying to get a handle on my emotions or something. He glances toward the house and takes a step away from the door. “I want to show you our people.”
“Our people?” I say as his fingers tighten around mine. The world seems to shift on its axis, tilting me into a more confused state than I’m already in. “I’m not sure I really want-”
“You are our queen, Zara. It is time you met your pixies.” His other arm wraps around my waist. “We shall fly.”
“We have to be quick. Betty will-”
He nods. “I know.”
Flying is cold and swift. We swoop over the tops of trees and through the snowflakes. It has been snowing lightly for days and it still hasn’t stopped. I honestly don’t think it ever will. I long for the warm streets and bright sun of Charleston, my old home. I can almost smell the flowers, see the poinsettias that everyone along the Battery puts out for Christmas, the bright white lights along the porticoes. Life was so much easier then. I push the longing away. Below us the roads cut through trees. Town snowplows hustle as quickly as they can, clearing the way for cars and people. I hang on to Astley as he brings me to a clearing in the woods that’s not too far away from the high school. When we get closer, I can spot headstones of varying heights, in white, black, and gray. It’s a cemetery. The pixies are gathered in between headstones. Some even stand on monuments. They each seem to have some sort of light source. It’s a dizzying array of shadows and fabric, movement against the stark white snow. Fear pushes into my throat. As we start losing altitude, everyone turns away from us as if refusing to acknowledge our presence.
“They know I have difficulties with landing,” Astley explains, clearing his throat. He smells embarrassed somehow.
I remember those difficult landings, but it’s still weird seeing this mass respect for him, saving him from humiliation. If it were me, my friends would tease me endlessly about it and pointedly stare while I fell, for full laugh effects. “They respect you, so they turn around?” I ask.
“They are kind. Hold on.” He drives into the snow hard, feet first, and then plops over backward. I land half on top of him, half to the side, and the look on his face is so frustrated and embarrassed that I can’t help laughing. I give Astley my hand and help haul him up. Once he lets go, I start brushing the snow off my pajama bottoms and sweatshirt. He does the same. Oh, man… I’m in bunny pajamas meeting pixies. This is so not right. A soft laugh echoes under my breath at the absurdity of it.
The pixies surround us. Most are in regular clothes. None have bunnies on them. They wear jeans and cords and a couple have on those rugged brown construction pants with a lot of pockets. They wear leather and down jackets. One woman has a long royal purple coat. There are a couple dresses and a kilt, all of which look crazily inappropriate. They are glamoured in all skin colors and ages, except none are younger than high school. Many of them hold flashlights pointed down, making cones of light on the snow. Some have candles.
I touch Astley’s arm, overwhelmed. “There are so many.”
“These are only the ones who are here with me. There are hundreds more.” He stops brushing at the snow on his thighs and instead reaches out as if to touch my cheek. I step away. His hand stays in the air and then he makes a grand sweeping motion. “Turn around, my people, and meet your queen.”
As one they spin. There are so many eyes staring at me. I suck in my breath as my stomach wobbles.
“They are your people now,” he says, running a finger along the line of his jaw.
My people. My pixies. My responsibility. The wobble in my stomach becomes a full-fledged knot of fear.
I reach out and touch a tombstone. JOSEPH THOMPSON. 1971-1990. So much death here and everywhere. I do not want to put up a tombstone for Nick or Astley or anyone else I love or am responsible for.
Astley takes my hand in his and leaps to the top of a flattened tombstone that resembles a giant granite box. He pulls me up with him. The pixies move through the snow, closer and closer to us. He gives me a look that’s meant to be reassuring, but it’s hard to be reassured when you’re surrounded by pixies, even if they are supposed to be your pixies and therefore on the side of good. A cloud crosses the moon, but there is still enough light for me to see the faces staring up at me. Almost against my will, I grip his hand a little harder.
He stands taller. He seems regal, terribly regal, and I must look so puny and pathetic next to him. But I am not puny and pathetic. I was a princess and now I am supposed to be a warrior, even if I am wearing pink bunny pajama bottoms.
“Pixies of the Stars,” he announces. His voice is warm and loud across the graveyard. “Pixies of the Birch. I present to you your queen.”
One by one they bow.
I stand there for a second, and then I can’t help it. I start shaking. I start shaking because it’s absurd, like some weird circus of the dark. Their movements are too solid, too regal, too everything , really. How can I be one of them? How can I be their queen? I bend over and hold my stomach over the craziness of it all. The pixies’ breaths draw in. Astley stiffens beside me and drops my hand, and I know I need to get it together. It’s like being stuck in a dream where you’re in class stark naked, and you are aware that you’re stark naked but you can’t figure out how to get out of the dream. Everything is in slow motion.
“I’m sorry.” I raise up one hand. “I’m so sorry.”
I straighten up, biting my lip for a second. The snow tumbles down and I brave myself up enough to say what I’m thinking: “I’m sorry. I can’t do this. I just…”
I hop off the grave and rush toward the exit, race through the gates. I’m not one of them. I’m just… not . Somebody could catch me in a second, I’m sure. Somebody could stop me, but nobody does. So I run and run and run.
I am walking on the Bangor road for about ten minutes before Astley catches up with me. He lands in front of me the moment a pickup truck trundles by. He manages to only half fall and recovers quickly before putting his hands on his hips. The wind blows his hair in blond waves around his head. He pulls a hat out of his pocket and hands it to me before going back into the same belligerent posture.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
That’s not what I expected. “You looked mad,” I say.
“I am not mad, Zara.” He runs his hand through his hair. “I am concerned.”
Concerned. “That you made the wrong choice? I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Astley, but I’m not meant to be a pixie. I’m not meant to be a queen. It’s too much.”
His nose crinkles up and he looks up at the sky like he’s searching for some kind of help dealing with me. Finally he says, “You are meant to be my queen.”
“How can you know that? And don’t say, ‘I just know.’ My mom always says that. I hate that.”
His face softens. “I forget how young you are sometimes.”
“You aren’t much older than me.”
“Well, being king ages you.”
When I look at him, I can tell that it has. All that responsibility and I’m supposed to be strong enough to share in it now.
“How?” My voice is so soft I wonder if he can hear it. I make it a little louder. “Have bad things happened to you? Are you okay? Do you want to talk about it?”
He stiffens and then smiles a soft, sad smile. “I do not-not yet-but thank you, and I am much better now that you are my queen. Thank you for being my queen, Zara.”
“You’re welcome,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say, don’t know the words to get him to explain the sadness in his eyes. “I’m so embarrassed.”
“It will be okay,” he says, putting my arm through his as we walk. It feels nice and comfortable, solid and warm. “It is easy to be overwhelmed.”