I came across a piece of short fiction I wrote in 2012, that I think is kind of fun. In 2012 we still talked about global warming. This is a term I use in the story. I could have changed ‘global warming’ to ‘climate crisis’, but it didn’t fit as well in the story. Here you are, the story in its entirety.
Pixies of Zarfyn
by Eve Barbeau
In Zarfyn, near Toss, the pixies wore no clothes. This was fine in the summertime when the sun lay over them like molten honey, but come the autumn the Pixies began to tremble, and by mid-winter, they’d all gone mad with frost. Something had to be done.
You may know that pixies can vanish from
sight in an instant and reappear somewhere else. What you may not know is that
they can’t just pop off to Tahiti where it is warm all the time and the problem
of clothes or no clothes would not come up. Some of you may know that a great
painter, Gauguin, popped off to Tahiti and you may wonder if he wore clothes.
The pixies are sure that he didn’t bother, but people mostly think he did,
because what self-respecting European would walk about with no clothes. I mean
what would you look at when you talked to them. No, it just couldn’t happen.
There was no doubt that the Pixies in Zarfyn
needed clothes. They weren’t born with clothes on their backs and it wasn’t
given them to make their own. They had to earn them. In Toss, a very cultured
town, the Pixies had no trouble earning their dress, though they had their own
problems. Delicate silk tutus were hardly warmer than no clothes at all. In
Zarfyn the trouble was not an effete culture. No, here were sturdy church-going
stock who worked hard at industry. The trouble was that the folk could not
imagine what they’d have for lunch let alone a pixie. And as you know, Pixies
not imagined can’t be seen.
No respectable human being will imagine a
naked pixie if they imagine one at all. The moment you see a pixie you imagine
them with at least a pair of trousers or a house dress. That is how pixies get
their clothes. They had to get the attention of the humans and once imagined
they would surely be dressed. It explained why the things in Toss wore delicate
tutus, or artist’s smocks so heavy with daubs of paint that the poor wee pixies
were lost in the folds. Painters always wear thick heavy clothes. They suffered
in cold drafty garrets for their art and need something to keep them warm
enough to move.
But it is not the pixies in Toss that we
are worried about. We know they have their own problems.
In Zarfyn, which is where our pixies
reside, the problem is that no one can imagine a pixie. You and I know that
just because we can’t imagine something doesn’t mean that it doesn’t exist. In
Zarfyn there existed a large population of pixies and they were cold. Something
had to be done.
On a late afternoon on a Tuesday–it took
that long for the poor pixies to thaw enough for them to move–Grandma Pansy
called a town council. All the pixies in Zarfyn were to be there or be square.
(It is truly frightening what imagination can do. Please, whatever you do,
don’t imagine a square pixie). Everyone came though there were some late
stragglers who had somehow found themselves in the shade, so their thawing
process was slowed.
“Pixies of Zarfyn,” said Grandma Pansy, “something
has to be done.”
All the pixies groaned. They had heard
this speech many times before. Most of the time they were all frozen up before
the speech ended and nothing at all got done.
“Shush,” said Grandma Pansy, “I know you
have had enough of, “something has to be done”, speeches. We hear far too many
of them. Remember the Biguns have them too. You’ve heard the speeches coming
from the boxes they watch all day long. Something must be done about greenhouse
gases. Something must be done about global warming…” Grandma Pansy digressed.
“I dearly hope the global warming comes
soon,” muttered Purslane, whose fingers were still tingling from the retreating
Purslane’s usual luck held, and Grandma
Pansy heard him. “Purslane come on up here. You have a brave mouth. Maybe we
can match the rest of you up to the mouth of yours.”
“Ah, Granny. I was just saying it would
be a fine thing if the global warming came to Zarfyn.”
Grandma Pansy nodded. “It would seem to
be an answer to our prayers son, but the Biguns are awfully worried about the
warming. It sounds like a fearsome thing.
No, Purslane, what we want to be doing is to get the attention of the
Biguns, any one of them at all and get them to imagine a pixie in warm woolen underwear-red
maybe, with long sleeves and a trap door…” Here Grandma Pansy got
side-tracked in a Rhapsody too long underwear. She shook her head. Pixies had
no trouble imagining, but imagination would not warm them. “So, I was thinking.
You know the mill owner’s boy, the pale skinny one, not the other with a head
as thick as an oak tree. I’ve seen that little Bigun sitting by himself with a
dreaming look on his face. Could be that boy has the imagination we need.”
“That boy is half daft,” said Parsley who
was standing beside Purslane. “If he’s dreaming anything at all, it is about
how to get rid of his knot-head brother.”
“Shh,” whispered Purslane, “not so
loud. Granny’s, sure enough, gonna make us stand guard outside if we keep
“Parsley,” said Grandma Pansy, “have you
got something to get off your chest?”
“No, ma’am.” Parsley stepped behind
“Why don’t you and Purslane come-on up
beside me here. I have a plan and you can help me.”
Purslane grimaced and marched forward to
stand beside Grandma Pansy. Granny might have a plan, but if it included that milk
faced Bigun boy it was doomed to failure. He’d seen that boy staring off into
space many times. He doubted that boy was contemplating anything much, whether
in the world or behind his eyes. Purslane was wrong.
Parsley shuffled up to stand beside him.
Damn Parsley, his retiring nature was a pain. Always the last to offer, always
so little to offer. Still, he knew Parsley had big dreams. Parsley longed to
step up and be a hero. Trouble was, he was too shy to make it happen. Purslane
didn’t give a damn about being a hero. In his mind, he already was one.
Grandma Pansy looked the boys over.
Funny, wasn’t it, that whatever you believed you were was indeed what you were.
‘Course, sometimes, just sometimes, things happen in such a way that what you
thought you were changed. Parsley could do with some new thinking about
himself. A little change wouldn’t go amiss for Purslane either.
Grandma Pansy looked at her people, blue
with cold, huddled together, teeth chattering. The babes were wailing. It was a
terrible sight and she could not let it go on any longer. She pressed her lips
tight together and thought of all the other times she’d sent an envoy of pixies
to some Bigun or other hoping to dredge up just a little imagination, just
enough that one of them could glimpse a pixie. Biguns always wore clothes—well maybe
not when they washed or played hanky-panky, but the Biguns even played
hanky-panky with most of their clothes on. They were not the kind to lie around
and enjoy their nakedness. Which for her purposes was a good thing. If Purslane
and Parsley could get that boy to believe in pixies, they would have a good
chance of having warm clothes.
“What I want you boys to do is find that
skinny Bigun boy and I want you to get him seeing pixies. And, for goodness
sake, make sure he thinks you are wearing warm clothes. Go now, while the sun
is still up. You know it will be impossible when evening comes. The old ones
and the babes cannot handle the cold much longer.”
“Aye, Granny,” said Purslane, “but what
would you have us do? We’ve been sending out parties of pixies for years and
not once have we found one Bigun who could imagine a pixie. These people aren’t
dreamers Granny. These Biguns are all doers.”
“Would you rather go to Toss, Purslane,
where there are no doers and most of the dreaming is about pink tutus? We got
to keep trying and I think we have a good chance with this white-faced boy.”
That white-faced boy was the second son
of Boswell the plumber. Boswell had two sons, one was as big and dull as Boswell
himself, and the other was Richard. Richard spent long hours hiding away from
his big brother Harry, reading books and dreaming about naked women. You see
Richard was fourteen and when you are a fourteen-year-old boy, naked is awfully
So, when Purslane and Parsley found him
behind the short wall in the garden, picking his nose and staring into space,
they caught him at the exact moment that his mind was weak with dreaming.
“Hey, Bigun! Hey, look at us!” Purslane
yelled, jumping up and down and waving his arms. He elbowed Parsley. “Come on,
we’re supposed to get his attention.”
Parsley looked doubtful, but if Purslane
said to jump, Parsley jumped. He bounced up and down, waving his arms in the
air, shouting at the top of his lungs.
Richard took no notice of them at all. He
just kept staring off into the distance while spiders spun webs between his
feet and flies buzzed around his head.
Hoarse from shouting, Purslane waved his
arms harder, so hard that he fell off the fence, just as a particularly large fly
lit on Richard’s nose.
Richard’s eyes crossed and lost their
glazed look. He swiped at the fly nearly knocking himself silly.
“Hey, you ugly, Bigun. See us!” Purslane
said as he landed at Richard’s feet. “By God, Parsley, look at him. I don’t
think he has a brain in his head. Grandma Pansy is daft from the cold. Whatever
made her think this one had a speck of imag—” Purslane broke off to bite Richard’s
Richard swiped again and this time he
caught Purslane in his pale clammy hand.”
“Huh?” said Richard, a big question swelled
in his head, but before he could think another thought he began to scream.
“Put me down, you knucklehead,” yelled
“He sees us! He sees us!” shouted
“Whaa, Whaa!” cried Richard.
Together they made a terrible din.
At last, Parsley could stand it no more.
Purslane wasn’t listening to him, nobody was listening to him, so he scrambled
up on Richard’s arm, holding tight on his sleeve even though Richard tried to
shake him off. When he reached the bigun’s shoulder he marched across it,
lifted the lank strands of hair away from the ear and shouted. “Do you see us,
The sound roared in Richard’s ear like a
train in an empty tunnel. He dropped Purslane and clapped his hands over his
ears, inadvertently knocking Parsley into his lap. He shut his eyes tight. When
he opened them again Parsley was standing on, a rather delicate part of his
anatomy up shouting at him while he bounced.
“Who are youse guys?”
“Are you daft boy? Can’t you see we’re
Pixies?” shouted Purslane bouncing up and down.
“Oww, oww, oww! Don’t you be doing that,”
Richard caught the pixies by the backs of their long red woolen underwear and
set them on his knees.
Seems Grandma Pansy was right, and Richard could, indeed, imagine. It took a while, to be sure, but before the winter truly settled in each and every Pixie in Zarfyn had warm clothes.
And that is how the pixies of Zarfyn finally got their clothes. In time, the global warming did come, and they found that the long red woolen underwear was very itchy in the humid heat. They began to envy the Pixies in Toss, but that is the problem for another story.