Charles de Lint - Pixel Pixies.pdf - Charles De Lint - margozap

Pixel Pixies

Charles de Lint

ONLY WHEN MISTRESS HOLLY HAD RETIRED TO HER apartment above the store

would Dick Bobbins peep out from behind the furnace where he'd spent the day dreaming

and drowsing and reading the books he borrowed from the shelves upstairs. He would

carefully check the basement for unexpected visitors and listen for a telltale floorboard to

creak from above. Only when he was very very sure that the mistress, and especially her

little dog, had both, indeed, gone upstairs, would he creep all the way out of his hidden

hobhole.

Every night, he followed the same routine.

Standing on the cement floor, he brushed the sleeves of his drab little jacket and combed

his curly brown hair with his fingers. Rubbing his palms briskly together, he plucked last

night's borrowed book from his hidey-hole and made his way up the steep basement steps

to the store. Standing only 2 feet high, this might have been an arduous process all on its

own, but he was quick and agile, as a hob should be, and in no time at all he'd be standing

in among the books, considering where to begin the night's work.

There was dusting and sweeping to do, books to be put away. Lovely books. It didn't

matter to Dick if they were serious leather-bound tomes or paperbacks with garish covers.

He loved them all, for they were filled with words, and words were magic to this hob.

Wise and clever humans had used some marvellous spell to imbue each book with every

kind of story and character you could imagine, and many you couldn't. If you knew the

key to unlock the words, you could experience them all.

Sometimes Dick would remember a time when he hadn't been able to read. All he could

do then was riffle the pages and try to smell the stories out of them. But now, oh now, he

was a magician, too, for he could unearth the hidden enchantment in the books any time

he wanted to. They were his nourishment and his joy, weren't they just.

So first he worked, earning his keep. Then he would choose a new book from those that

had come into the store while he was in his hobhole, drowsing away the day. Sitting on

top of one of the bookcases, he'd read until it got light outside and it was time to return to

his hiding-place behind the furnace, the book under his arm in case he woke early and

wanted to finish the story while he waited for the mistress to go to bed once more.

* * *

I hate computers.

Not when they do what they're supposed to. Not even when I'm the one who's made some

stupid mistake, like deleting a file I didn't intend to, or exiting one without saving it. I've

still got a few of those old warhorse programs on my machine that don't pop up a

reminder asking if I want to save the file I was working on.

No, it's when they seem to have a mind of their own. The keyboard freezing for no

apparent reason. Getting an error message that you're out of disk space when you know

you've got at least a couple of gigs free. Passwords becoming temporarily, and certainly

arbitrarily, obsolete. Those and a hundred other, usually minor, but always annoying,

irritations.

Sometimes it's enough to make you want to pick up the nearest component of the

machine and fling it against the wall.

For all the effort they save, the little tasks that they automate and their wonderful storage

capacity, at times like this - when everything's going as wrong as it can go - their benefits

can't come close to outweighing their annoyances.

My present situation was partly my own fault. I'd been updating my inventory all

afternoon and before saving the file and backing it up, I'd decided to go on the Internet to

check some of my competitors' prices. The used-book business, which is what I'm in, has

probably the most arbitrary pricing in the world. Though I suppose that can be expanded

to include any business specializing in collectibles.

I logged on without any trouble and went merrily browsing through listings on the

various book search pages, making notes on the particularly interesting items, a few of

which I actually had in stock. It wasn't until I tried to exit my browser that the trouble

started. My browser wouldn't close and I couldn't switch to another window. Nor could I

log off the Internet.

Deciding it had something to do with the page I was on - I know that doesn't make much

sense, but I make no pretence to being more than vaguely competent when it conies to

knowing how the software actually interfaces with the hardware - I called up the drop-

down menu of "My Favorites" and clicked on my own home page. What I got was a fan

shrine to pro wrestling star Steve Austin.

I tried again and ended up at a commercial software site.

The third time I was taken to the site of someone named Cindy Margolis - the most

downloaded woman on the Internet, according to the Guinness Book of World Records .

Not on this computer, my dear.

I made another attempt to get off-line, then tried to access my home page again. Each

time I found myself in some new outlandish and unrelated site.

Finally I tried one of the links on the last page I'd reached. It was supposed to bring me to

Netscape's home page. Instead I found myself on the Web site of a real estate company in

Santa Fe, looking at a cluster of pictures of the vaguely Spanish-styled houses that they

were selling.

I sighed, tried to break my Internet connection for what felt like the hundredth time, but

the "Connect to" window still wouldn't come up.

I could have rebooted, of course. That would have got me offline. But it would also mean

that I'd lose the whole afternoon's work because, being the stupid woman I was, I hadn't

had the foresight to save the stupid file before I went gadding about on the stupid

Internet.

"Oh, you stupid machine," I muttered.

From the front window display where she was napping, I heard Snippet, my Jack Russell

terrier, stir. I turned to reassure her that, no, she was still my perfect little dog. When I

swivelled my chair to face the computer again, I realized that there was a woman

standing on the other side of the counter.

I'd seen her come into the store earlier, but I'd lost track of everything in my one-sided

battle of wits with the computer - it having the wits, of course. She was a very striking

woman, her dark brown hair falling in Pre-Raphaelite curls that were streaked with green,

her eyes both warm and distant, like an odd mix of a perfect summer's day and the

mystery you can feel swell up inside you when you look up into the stars on a crisp, clear

autumn night. There was something familiar about her, but I couldn't quite place it. She

wasn't one of my regulars.

She gave me a sympathetic smile.

"I suppose it was only a matter of time before they got into the computers," she said.

I blinked. "What?"

"Try putting your sweater on inside-out."

My face had to be registering the confusion I was feeling, but she simply continued to

smile.

"I know it sounds silly," she said. "But humour me. Give it a try."

Anyone in retail knows, you get all kinds. And the secondhand market gets more than its

fair share, trust me on that. If there's a loopy person anywhere within a hundred blocks of

my store, you can bet they'll eventually find their way inside. The woman standing on the

other side of my counter looked harmless enough, if somewhat exotic, but you just never

know any more, do you?

"What have you got to lose?" she asked.

I was about to lose an afternoon's work as things stood, so what was a little pride on top

of that?

I stood up and took my sweater off, turned it inside out, and put it back on again.

"Now give it a try," the woman said.

I called up the "Connect to" window and this time it came up. When I put the cursor on

the "Disconnect" button and clicked, I was logged off. I quickly shut down my browser

and saved the file I'd been working on all afternoon.

"You're a life-saver," I told the woman. "How did you know that would work?" I paused,

thought about what I'd just said, what had just happened. " Why would that work?"

"I've had some experience with pixies and their like," she said.

"Pixies," I repeated. "You think there are pixies in my computer?"

"Hopefully, not. If you're lucky, they're still on the Internet and didn't follow you home."

I gave her a curious look. "You're serious, aren't you?"

"At times," she said, smiling again. "And this is one of them."

I thought about one of my friends, an electronic pen pal in Arizona, who had this theory

that the first atom bomb detonation for ever changed the way that magic would appear in

the world. According to him, the spirits live in the wires now instead of the trees. They

travel through phone and modem lines, take up residence in computers and appliances

where they live on electricity and lord knows what else.

It looked like Richard wasn't alone in his theories, not that I pooh-poohed them myself.

I'm part of a collective that originated this electronic database called the Wordwood.

After it took on a life of its own, I pretty much keep an open mind about things that most

people would consider preposterous.

"I'd like to buy this," the woman went on.

She held up a trade paperback copy of The Beggars' Shore by Zak Mucha.

"Good choice," I said.

It never surprises me how many truly excellent books end up in the secondary market.

Not that I'm complaining - it's what keeps me in business.

"Please take it as thanks for your advice," I added.

"You're sure?"

I looked down at my computer, where my afternoon's work was now safely saved in its

file.

"Oh, yes," I told her.

"Thank you," she said. Reaching into her pocket, she took out a business card and gave it

to me. "Call me if you ever need any other advice along the same lines."

The business card simply said "The Kelledys" in a large script. Under it were the names

"Meran and Cerin" and a phone number. Now I knew why, earlier, she'd seemed familiar.

It had just been seeing her here in the store, out of context, that had thrown me.

"I love your music," I told her. "I've seen you and your husband play several times."

She gave me another of those kind smiles of hers.

"You can probably turn your sweater around again now," she said as she left.

Snippet and I watched her walk by the window. I took off my sweater and put it back on

properly.

"Time for your walk," I told Snippet. "But first let me back up this file to a zip disk."

That night, after the mistress and her little dog had gone upstairs, Dick Bobbins crept out

of his hobhole and made his nightly journey up to the store. He replaced the copy of The

Woods Colt that he'd been reading, putting it neatly back on the fiction shelf under "W"

for Williamson, fetched the duster, and started his work. He finished the "History" and

"Local Interest" sections, dusting and straightening the books, and was climbing up on to

the "Poetry" shelves near the back of the store when he paused, hearing something from

the front of the store.

Reflected in the front window, he could see the glow of the computer's monitor and

realized that the machine had turned on by itself. That couldn't be good. A faint giggle

spilled out of the computer's speakers, quickly followed by a chorus of other voices,

tittering and snickering. That was even less good.

A male face appeared on the screen, looking for all the world as though it could see out

of the machine. Behind him other faces appeared, a whole gaggle of little men in green

clothes, good-naturedly pushing and shoving each other, whispering and giggling. They

were red-haired like the mistress, but there the resemblance ended. Where she was pretty,

they were ugly, with short faces, turned-up noses, squinting eyes and pointed ears.

This wasn't good at all, Dick thought, recognizing the pixies for what they were.

Everybody knew how you spelled "trouble". It was "P-I-X-Y".

Charles de Lint - Pixel Pixies.pdf

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