Chapter 20 Pixie Feeding Fortunes
Pixie Feeding Fortunes
Where there are people, there are pixies. And where there are pixies, there are traditions as old as the creatures themselves.
In case you didn’t spend your adolescent years ditching class to hang out beneath bridges like I did, then you might not have gotten up close and personal with the blue creatures who hide in the cracks and crevices of the modern world. Even so, you’ve heard of them.
Pixies don’t just populate attics or make nests out of stolen socks.
For generations, they were the sole means of communication between far-flung communities, with messages of love and loss and warning carried in their little blue hands.
It was a mighty responsibility for creatures so small, and perhaps that’s why so many superstitions sprang up around them.
When the days are dark and food runs scarce, a lowly pixie carrying a message might be the only creature standing between your community and death.
Today, many of us have forgotten days of famine and fear, but cultural memory runs deeper than any one person.
Stories linger. Traditions, particularly those tied to the survival of winter, are ingrained in our collective DNA.
Pixies star in many Burden’s Moon stories. Their images decorate children’s books explaining the importance of hearth and home. Songs about mischievous pixies stealing gifts only to leave better ones in their place dominate the airwaves.
Our forgotten lifelines are everywhere during the thirty days of Burden’s Moon.
To pixie enthusiasts like Dr. Moira Luten, a biologist and pixie expert from San Francisco Protectorate University, they’re important year-round.
I sat down with her for a coffee to discuss her favorite subject and watch the frenzy of activity that is Union Square being decorated for the holiday.
Dr. Luten doesn’t look like what you might imagine a typical biologist would. Short, curvy, and dressed to the nines, she has a dreamy smile and a calm demeanor that’s a breath of fresh air to your reporter, who’s been stuck in the bullpen for a little too long.
While we make ourselves comfortable on the bench, she asks, “So, what do you think of pixies?”
Normally in an interview, I’m the one asking the questions, so it takes me a moment — and a too-hot sip of my latte — to summon an answer.
“To be honest, I don’t have much of an opinion. I like them well enough, I guess, as long as they aren’t chewing holes in my walls,” I answer.
“Pixies don’t chew holes,” she corrects me. Lifting one hand, she makes a scratching motion in the air. “They dig them. Their claws are made of a similar material as elvish claws, which makes them incredibly efficient little homemakers.”
“I just wish they wouldn’t make so many homes in my drywall,” I reply, half-joking.
Dr. Luten gives me a long look as she sips her drink — a coma-inducing mixture of syrups, foams, and non-dairy milks I can barely comprehend. Sensing judgement, I rush to add, “I mean, I think they’re cute, but they’re also pretty loud.”
“That’s because they communicate through song,” she explains. “They have an incredibly advanced language, actually. Studies have shown that they create new ‘words’ for unknown things, and that they pass them on to their flights.”
A flight is a group of pixies, and the study she’s referencing is actually one she co-authored five years ago.
It showed that pixies have a vocabulary, and that while different flights have unique songs, they also share enough common language that when two pixies from completely different groups meet, they can effectively communicate.
The reminder that they’re intelligent, if loud, little creatures makes me a little abashed. I rub my neck as I try to find a way to redeem myself. It’s too early in an interview to be so wrong-footed.
“I don’t love loud neighbors, but I’ve been a fan of pixies since I was a kid,” I tell her. “We have so many in the city. I loved to see them flying around the park.”
“They build their nests under slides sometimes,” she replies, nodding.
“And they’re in basically every holiday story and song.”
Dr. Luten cracks a serene smile. “That’s true. My favorite is the one where they steal cakes and leave their footprints in powdered sugar all over the house.”
“Well, we used to keep them as pets, right? With those claws and their brains, it was probably hard to keep them contained,” I say, shuddering a little at the idea of trying to keep intelligent little creatures out of my sweets stash.
It’s hard enough to hide it from my mate, who barely even eats to begin with.
“Definitely. And that’s part of the reason we stopped keeping them as pets.
Collectively, I mean. Some people still do.
” She adjusts the collar of her white fur coat, her eyes drawn to the squabbling giants trying to negotiate with a massive Moon display determined to list to one side.
“You can’t actually keep pixies unless you want to lock them in a steel box.
They keep themselves. Pixietamers have to convince a flight to stay, and if they choose to go… ”
She shrugs. After another sip of her drink, she asks, “Do you know the origin of all those stories? The ones where pixies get into the feast before Moonrise?”
“Uh…” I wrack my mind, but nothing comes up. “No? I figured it was just a regular enough occurrence that everyone could relate. You know, since there’s always so much food around at that time, and pixies were more common in homes.”
“Well, that’s true,” she agreed, “but actually it’s related to something a lot older than that.”
Intrigued, I shift a little in my seat. It’s not a large bench, so my attempt to get a more head-on look at her bumps my thigh into her hip.
It’s not a hard hit, and I wouldn’t think anything of it under normal circumstances, but I’m startled when a furious, high-pitched trill erupts from the furry depths of Dr. Luten’s coat.
“Um—” I don’t get a chance to ask her where it came from before the doctor continues, either oblivious or unconcerned.
“In many cultures, particularly in Eastern Europe, Scandinavia, parts of the Mongolian Steppe, and northern India, it was tradition to scatter flour or spices around offerings of food left out for pixies.” She walks two fingers in the air to mime tiny little steps.
“While the pixies ate the food, they’d walk in the dust. In the morning, people would find their tracks and interpret them to predict their fortunes for the year. ”
Briefly distracted from the sounds still coming from her coat, I ask, “Wait, people actually left food out for pixies? I thought they were always stealing the Moonrise feast.”
“Well, it’s probably tied to that,” she replies. “I’ve seen some theories that folks put out offerings at first because they thought it’d distract the pixies from the real prizes, and the fortune-telling came later.”
“That makes sense, I guess.” I pause, waiting for her to address the squeaks and whistles coming from her coat. She doesn’t. “Might even be a fun tradition to bring back if people have a pixie problem.”
“Pixies aren’t a problem,” she asserts. “People are the problem. We bred them to live close to us and send our messages, but the moment we figured out a different system, we abandoned them. It’s not their fault.
Yes, holes in walls obviously aren't ideal, but homes with a pixie population actually have dramatically fewer instances of pests because they eat insects and don’t tolerate rats or mice. ”
The sounds coming from her coat appear to have multiplied. Setting my coffee on the arm of the bench, I abandon all pretense of politeness and gawk at her coat, which now appears to be moving.
Dr. Luten doesn’t seem bothered by it at all.
She crosses one leg over her knee, her white boot bobbing up and down with an upbeat rhythm.
“If everyone tried working with their pixies rather than trying to push them away, we’d all be better off,” she says, her calm voice a little firmer than before.
Snorting, she jokes, “People might even be able to tell their future.”
I try not to notice, but it’s no use. I have to know. “Moira, I have to ask— What on Earth is happening in your coat?”
Looking a little surprised, like she can’t believe someone noticed the cacophony coming from her clothing, Dr. Luten pulls the collar from her neck.
Instantly, a little blue head the size of a pingpong ball erupts from the snowy fur.
I jump a little, taken aback by the dark compound eyes that fix on me. Tiny clawed fingers sink into the fur as it stretches upward, little nose twitching to get my scent. There’s an iridescent gleam behind the creature — a flash of translucent wings.
A pixie stares me down, judging my worth, as Dr. Luten says, “This is Puck. I rescued him from a trap three years ago, but he couldn’t be released because his leg was permanently damaged.”
Still holding her collar away from her chest, she dips her chin to peer down into the depths of her coat. “And then he bonded with Crumble, and next thing I know they’ve started a flight.”
Like they understood they’d been introduced, three more tiny heads pop out of the fur, all of them chittering and whistling. Little white fangs flash, showing off the weapons that catch the insects Dr. Luten talked about.
Astonished, I say, “You walk around with them?”
“Not all of them,” she admits, stroking Puck’s bald head with the tip of her finger. The pixie’s compound eyes close in bliss. “Just the ones that volunteer. Puck’s always game for a field trip, but the others don’t always want to leave the nest.”
Setting aside her drink, she digs in her pocket for a moment before she holds out a handful of tiny brown pellets. “Here,” she urges, dumping them into my hand before I can object, “give them a treat. Who knows? Maybe they’ll give you a fortune.”
It’s a little too late to object, and the gods know I’ve done crazier things, so I nervously hold out my handful of treats, palm up and fingers straight.
I expect the pixies to swarm, but they don’t. Instead, they watch me closely, as if determining whether I’m worth accepting food from. I flounder for a moment, confused, before I default to the call every pet owner knows: kissy noises.
It’s actually a relief when the swarm arrives. There’s nothing worse than being rejected by an animal — except perhaps being rejected by an animal you thought was a pest half an hour ago.
A tiny cloud of blue explodes from Dr. Luten’s coat.
Wings buzz and teeth chatter as pixies hover around my hand, little fingers patting and grabbing.
Before I know it, they’re not just munching the pellets.
They’re climbing my arm, nibbling my fingers, and diving into my windbreaker.
One even takes a shine to my ponytail and begins to swing from the end, a joyful whistle filling the air.
I’m laughing not just because of the absurdity — it’s maybe the silliest interview I’ve ever conducted — but because it’s also the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. I thought I knew pixies, but I’d never been so close to one before.
I certainly never had one nibble my cheek, its little blue hands patting and tickling as Dr. Luten explained, “They’re grooming you. Well, Puck is. It means he likes you. And that you’re maybe a little dirty. They’re very fastidious little animals, you know. Super clean.”
Closing one eye, I try to get control over my laughter enough to say, “Okay, rude, but I probably earned a little criticism. I had no idea you guys were so cute!”
“They are,” Dr. Luten agrees, smiling as one of the smaller pixies zooms over to throw itself back into the warmth of her coat. Reaching inside to give it a stroke, she adds, “They’re our friends. We just forgot.”
Daring to give Puck a little tickle behind a large, batlike ear, I say, “Friends who can predict the future. You really are handy to have around, huh?”
Puck trills, one tiny hand sneaking behind my ear for a careful scratch. I smile, smitten, and think of the flour in my kitchen. I don’t have a pixie problem at the moment, but I kind of wish I did.
Dr. Luten is the head of pixie research at San Francisco Protectorate University.
She also runs a nonprofit pixie rescue called Forgotten Friends Rescue, which accepts donations.
If you’d like to donate, know of a pixie in need of rescue, or learn more about how you can support your local pixie flights, she welcomes all inquiries.