Pip was,
Without any question,
The worst flyer in the whole of the Forest of Elves.
She knew it.
Everyone knew it.
She had known it since the very first time she had opened her petal wings and flown directly into a tree.
The tree had been extremely large and extremely still.
And she had flown into it anyway.
The problem was her wings.
They were made of flower petals.
Malapi.
Gloriously pink flower petals.
And there were far too many of them.
They flopped to the left when she wanted to go right.
They caught on things They fluttered so loudly that she could never sneak up on anything.
Not that she particularly wanted to.
When she flew fast.
Which she rarely managed.
They made a sound like someone dropping a very large pile of washing.
But Pip loved her wings enormously.
They were the most beautiful wings she had ever seen.
On sunny mornings,
The light came right through them and turned everything around her faintly pink.
She thought this was absolutely wonderful.
Pip was small and round and soft,
With enormous golden eyes and two very short legs that she windmilled furiously when she was trying to change direction midair.
She had a nose like a button,
And cheeks like two little plums,
And a habit of saying,
Oh,
Very quietly to herself whenever she saw something she liked.
Which was often.
One evening,
Pip was out later than usual.
She had meant to be home before the light changed.
She had been very firm with herself about it on the way out.
But then,
She had seen an interesting beetle.
And then a cloud shaped like a boot.
And then,
A flower she had never seen before,
In a color she couldn't quite name.
And by the time she remembered she was supposed to be going home,
The sun was already on its way down.
The sky turned gold.
And then it turned something far better than gold.
It turned a warm,
Burning rose,
The color of the inside of a watermelon,
Bright and extraordinary.
And then,
Above that,
A layer of the most stunning burnt orange Pip had ever seen.
And over that.
A blue so rich and dark.
Said Pip very quietly.
And then she stopped trying to go home entirely.
She turned her floppy wings toward the open sky and flew upwards.
Bumperley at first,
Listing to the left as she always did.
Her legs windmill.
But up she went.
Up past the top of the tree line,
Up into the open evening air.
And the sky wrapped around her like the most colorful,
Warmest blanket she had ever felt.
Below her,
The forest of Eld was a carpet of dark green.
The meadows at its edges glowed rose and gull.
A river she had never noticed from the ground caught the last of the light and turned it into a long,
Bright ribbon.
Winding away into the distance.
Oh,
Sad Pip again.
She hung in the air for a moment.
Her petals all fluffed out around her,
Taking it all in.
And something caught her eye.
To the west,
Where the sky was brightest,
Something was happening to the clouds.
They were changing.
One moment,
They were ordinary evening clouds,
Stretched thin and pink across the sky.
The next,
They were folding and curling and rising,
Growing taller and taller,
Piling up on themselves in great towers of rose and gold.
As they climbed,
They began to glow.
From the inside.
A warm,
Flickering light that had nothing to do with the sun,
Because the sun had just gone.
The clouds were making their own light.
And then to Pip's enormous delight.
The clouds began to rain.
Upward.
Tiny drops of light rose from the tops of the great cloud towers and floated up into the darkening sky above.
Spreading out and dissolving into a faint,
Warm shimmer that spread across the whole sky from one edge to the other.
The Shema hung that.
Rose and gold and faintly pink,
And the whole world below was lit by it.
The meadows glow.
The river turned to bright,
Burning gold.
Pip's petal wings turned a colour so new it made her blink.
The color of a plum dipped in sunlight.
She flew toward the clouds.
It was not a straight line.
It never was.
She drifted left and corrected.
Drifted right and corrected.
Her wings made their usual enthusiastic noise,
But she got there.
Up close,
The glowing clouds were breathtaking.
Each one was a different temperature.
She could feel the warmth on her face change as she passed through patches of different air.
Some were soft and cool and smelled of rain.
Some were so thick and warm,
They were like flying through a very large,
Very gentle hug.
Pip flew through them slowly,
Stopping every few moments to say,
Oh.
And she came out the other side.
And below her was something that made her tummy jump with its beauty.
A plain,
But a completely impossible one.
The grass was the color of fresh mint,
Bright and vivid and very,
Very green.
Growing out of it in great random clusters of flowers taller than houses.
Taller than the tallest trees in Elk.
The flowers were different colours.
A blazing scarlet.
A warm sunshine yellow.
And the blue so bright it almost hurt to look at.
And each one was lit from inside with its own gentle glow.
They towered up into the evening sky.
Enormous and extraordinary.
Nodding very slightly in a breeze Pip could feel even from up high.
She dropped down toward them.
As she got closer,
She realized that each flower was making a sound.
A low,
Warm hum,
Different for each color.
The scarlet ones hummed something bright and quick.
The yellow ones hummed something warm and slow.
And the blue ones made a sound so low,
She felt it more than heard it.
A long,
Deep thrum that moved through her petals and into her chest and settled there like a warm stone.
She flew between them.
Each time she passed through the space between two flowers,
Something happened.
Between the scarlet and the yellow.
Pip felt bright and fizzy,
Like the top of a laugh.
Between the yellow and the blue,
Pip felt like she had just had a very big hug.
Her shoulders dropped and everything slowed down.
And between the blue and a great white flower she had only just noticed.
Every part of her went so still and peaceful,
She almost forgot to flap.
She hovered in that patch of air for a long time.
Her wings float her legs stopped windmilling.
She just floated in the warm calm between the great flowers,
With the last of the evening light all around her and the low hum of the blue flower moving through her.
Then something on the ground caught her eye.
Far below,
At the base of the great white flower,
The ground was glowing.
Softly.
In a perfect circle.
A warm,
Faint light coming up through the grass,
Pale and gold and very gentle.
Pip tilted her wings and spiraled down toward it.
She was not graceful about this.
She went slightly the wrong way twice and had to double back.
One of her petals caught on the stem of the great white flower and pinged her sideways.
She said,
Oh,
Rather more loudly than usual.
But she landed.
Right in the center of the glowing circle.
The moment her feet touched the ground,
The glow brightened.
It spread outward from her feet in a slow wave,
Lighting the grass all the way to the edges of the circle in a warm pale gold.
The humming of the great flowers deepens.
The air grew warmer.
And the grass beneath her feet was the softest thing she had ever stood on.
Softer than moths,
Softer than feathers.
Softer than anything she had a name for.
She looked up.
Above her,
The great white flower had opened further.
Its petals spread wide across the sky.
Each one enormous each one glowing from inside with that same pale gold light.
And from the very center of the flower,
Something was falling slowly.
.
.
.
.
Like snow but warm.
Tiny pieces of light drifting down through the evening air.
Each one spinning slowly as it fell.
They landed on Pip's wings and dissolved.
Each one left a small,
Warm feeling,
Like a tiny hand placed very gently on her shoulder.
One landed on the end of her button nose,
And she went slightly cross-eyed,
Looking at it before it disappeared.
Oh,
Said Pip,
Very softly this time.
She sat down in the middle of the glowing circle.
The soft grass rows up a little around her,
The way a duvet folds in when you curl up inside.
Warm and gentle and perfectly fitted to the shape of her.
Above her,
The great flower glowed.
Around her,
The enormous coloured flowers hum.
The tiny lights kept falling,
Slow and warm,
Dissolving as they landed.
The sky above was dark now,
A rich and perfect blue,
Scattered with tiny bright points of light,
Far away and very still.
Pip's petal wings settled around her like a blanket.
All those big,
Bloppy,
Gloriously pink petals folding in.
She thought about the beetle.
She thought about the cloud shaped like a boot.
She thought about the color she had no name for.
The upward rain,
The river of light.
The tiny warm lights falling down.
Until all her thoughts simply drifted away.
The hum of the flowers grew lower The falling lights drifted slower.
A warm circle glowed on.
Dimming slowly,
As if it too were growing tired.
Hip's large golden eyes grew heavy.
Her wings once still.
And then Pip slept,
As the flowers hummed her gently into dreams.
