Final Draft

Delilah dashed through the tangle of wildflowers in the meadow before hesitating at the edge of the dreary forest. Her father had asked her to stay within the borders of the tree line until they had a chance to explore the mysterious woodland together. But as she stood peering into the great beyond, she reasoned that he owed her the option of deciding for herself where and when she’d spend her alone-time. Her father brought her to this curious country so that he could pursue a job opportunity here and she complied without argument.

She pressed onward, meandering around conifers, spruces, and pines, while leafy bracken swiped at her heels. The earthy scent of the forest floor filled her nostrils, and the surrounding foliage emitted a bouquet of herbaceous and floral aromas. The crisp and refreshing scent of the trees brought flashes of joyous winter holidays in Pennsylvania. Many delicious fragrances swathe in a cloak of moisture. An overall sense of tranquility enveloped her.

While clamoring over a fallen tree trunk, Delilah’s shoestring caught on the jagged bark, and she tumbled hard onto her hands and knees. She craned her neck and took note of the sporadic beams of sunlight that shone between the clusters of shadowing trees ahead. Grappling to her feet, she hobbled to the nearest illuminated patch and continued prancing from one spotlight to the other.

It wasn't long before she arrived at a large boulder jutting out from the muddy banks of a shallow pond. Using her legs to propel herself upward, she mounted the massive stone and kneeled atop it. She peered into the murky waters below, a lighthouse keeper overlooking the sea. Tears flooded her red-rimmed eyes as she studied her reflection.

The social differences in England were proving to be quite overwhelming for Delilah. The unusual customs, the odd word pronunciations, the unfamiliar vocabulary, she found the entire lifestyle to be challenging.

A single teardrop splashed onto the surface of the pond causing a blister to grow on the brow of her mirrored image. It grew to the size of a tennis ball and detached from the water. The iridescent bubble drifted toward the brambles and popped when pricked by a thorn. A being no larger than Delilah’s index finger flitted gracefully to the ground.

The delicate creature stood on two slender legs and very much resembled a tiny person. Its flawless body glistened with a lustrous sheen, and pointed ears, no bigger than grains of wheat, flanked its heart-shaped head. Tuxedo wings, sheer and tinted an azure blue, adorned its back, nearly stretching down to its ankles. Delilah was mesmerized.

“It seems England is full of surprises,” she mumbled to herself.

The being spoke, “You are not from England then.”

Delilah flinched and her eyes widened. She clamped her hands over her mouth.

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

Delilah lowered her hands, placing them firmly on the ground, ready to spring to her feet and flee. “Oh — you — I mean — what,” she stammered.

The being took a step forward and she winced. “Are you a pixie?”

The pixie genuflected and nodded its shorn head. “At your service.”

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

“I am merely playful,” it said, “and I assure you; I do not lie. — there's no need to be afraid of me. — Unless of course it is you who tries to deceive me. It smiled a smarmy grin.

Delilah stared at the pixie’s upturned 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,” scowled the Pixie. “Dragonflies are as hideous as the beasts they were named after. I bet you have never seen a creature as dazzling as myself,”

“My father is quite handsome.”

The Pixie harrumphed, insulted by Delilah’s comment. It scrunched its tiny facial features and thought, maybe this man is the most handsome in America, but this is my territory.

Delilah could sense the uncomfortable energy flowing between them, so she said, “My name is Delilah, it’s very nice to meet you. I’m from America. My father and I live in a cottage just beyond the forest.”

The pixie snapped a twig off a brittle hedge plant before levitating into the air. Its wings began to ripple, and it sailed toward the boulder on which Delilah perched. After covering one end of the twig with some velvety moss, it soared upward, hovering within centimeters of Delilah’s freckled nose. With the spongy tip of its homemade paintbrush, the pixie soaked up the girl’s tears. It slowly descended, and with one stroke of its wand, created a reproduction of a sketchpad on the side of the boulder. The pixie plucked the book from the stoney surface and presented it to Delila, handing her the magic paintbrush. The enchanted twig transformed into a drawing implement upon her touch, the moss tip now serving as the eraser on a pencil.

“Sketch a likeness of your father,” said the pixie, “and you will forget your sadness.”

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

“When a young child draws a picture, adults will call it cute, precious, an absolute gem,” explained the pixie, “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.”

Delilah nodded, and while she sketched, the pixie whistled the most delightful tune she ever heard. She discovered just how calming drawing could be, and the finished product gave her a sense of pride and accomplishment. The portrait turned out better than she first imagined.

“Do you feel better,” asked the pixie.

“Oh yes, much better,” Delilah said, and smiled.

The sky flourished with a luminescent pink and purple and the pixie announced that it was time for them to part. The being told Delilah that she had to throw the magical twig into the pond, but Delilah wanted to keep it. She pointed toward the vegetation beyond the trees in hopes of redirecting the pixies gaze, and when the pixie turned around, she stuffed the charmed tool into the single fold hem of her blouse before pulling the bronze hairclip out of her auburn locks.

“What do you see,” asked the pixie, it’s back still turned.

“I thought I saw something in the bracken.”

While the pixie scanned the undergrowth, it said, “These woods are home to much wildlife: ospreys, red squirrels, goshawks, roe deer, frogs, badgers…Delilah hurled the clip into the pond. [plunk]

The pixie turned back to face Delilah. “I think there is time for us to have a bit more togetherness. Since you have obediently discarded of the drawing tool I provided for you, I will have to make you another.” The pixie crouched and snatched a second twig from the forest floor. It levitated once again and drifted to the moss that grew at the bottom of the boulder. After assembling the magical device, it offered it to Delilah.

“Let's have some fun, shall we?”

Delilah accepted the enchanted drawing implement and listened to the pixie’s proposal. She began altering the portrait of her father. While the pixie sat on her shoulder. She soon became hypnotized by its beguiling ways, giggling at each silly suggestion it whispered into her ear. She dutifully followed instructions, blackening the eyes, doodling a horn for a nose, and adding a brick wall of teeth to the character’s grin, creating an extremely wide, toothy smile.

“Who is this a picture of,” quipped the pixie.

Tears streamed from Delilah’s eyes once again but this time it was tears from laughter. “This is my father,” she exclaimed.

“I do say, I am very amused by your final draft, but now it is time for me to go.” Then the pixie snatched the magical implement from Delilah’s hand and jumped into the pond. Delilah hugged the sketchpad to her chest before sliding off the boulder. She found her way back to the meadow and skipped toward home.

#

Delilah’s father slumped on the top step in back of the house, his 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.

“De I la, utz ong,” he forced through an enormous wall of clenched teeth.

He spread his arms in a comforting gesture and Delilah instinctively stepped forward. 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.

“The pixie did this,” she whispered.

Echoes of the impish creature went through her mind; there is no need to be afraid of me unless you try to deceive me. Did the pixie know that she tried to fool him when she tossed her hair clip into the puddle instead of the magical tool? She peered into the dark and gloomy abyss that flooded her father’s formerly hazel eyes.

She slid the mechanism from her blouse and crouched to retrieve the tablet of paper. Then she began to erase the sketch with the mossy end of the gadget. Delilah erased the horn she had drawn in place of a nose. She looked up at her father. The freaky looking horn was gone. OK, all she had to do was draw him a new nose.

She glanced back down at the picture. She drew, then erased, unsatisfied with her drawing. She tried again, then erased. She was beginning to panic. Her hands trembled. Tears blurred her vision. She unclenched the utensil from between her fingers, letting it fall to the gravel. Delilah dropped the sketchpad, sank to her knees, and cupped her face in her hands. Rage overtook her emotions, and she wanted revenge.

A sudden gust of wind blew, fluttering the blank pages of the open sketchpad lying in the weeds. Delilah wiped her eyes and sniffed then reached out and gathered it in her hands. 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 green like a jade gemstone amidst the browns and grays.

She picked up the magic drawing tool and flipped open the sketchpad to a blank page. Taking a breath, she doodled her best recollection of the pixie, and when she was finished, began erasing it one limb at a time. One leg, then the other. An arm, the other arm. The torso. The head. It was like playing hangman in reverse.

Wrestling onto her feet, she stumbled up the steps and onto the porch, flung open the front door and lunged across the threshold into the kitchen. She dashed toward the living room and hurled the sketchpad, along with the magic pencil, into the blazing fireplace.

A hand slid on her left shoulder, the shoulder the pixie sat on while manipulating her with his cunning commands. Delilah slowly lifted her right hand and quickly slapped it down on her left shoulder. [Smack] Whatever was there was now flat; she felt the pulpiness of flesh. Guardedly but with determination she turned her head. A hand was clutching her shoulder. She spun around. It was her father, he looked... normal…handsome. The magic had been erased.

#

In the forest, a goshawk perched atop a boulder. It cocked its head to the side as if in wonderment. The pond below boiled like a pot of water on a stovetop while back at the cottage the pencil and paper burned in the fireplace. Little by little the small body of water evaporated, unearthing something that glinted in a moonbeam. The bird swooped down, whisking away the bronze hair clip in its powerful, claw-like talons.

END