Chicory Up: The Pixie Chronicles (25 page)

“No, I haven’t come to apologize.” Phelma Jo returned the stare, amazed that Dusty had finally learned to stand up for herself. She supposed that her engagement to Chase had filled her with more self-confidence than she’d exhibited in fifteen years.

“I’ve already apologized to you for my part of that fiasco,” Dusty looked at her shoes. “We both need to admit it all turned out for the best. You got out of an abusive situation and into foster care. I got an early diagnosis of leukemia and life-saving treatment when the scrapes didn’t heal.”

“Agreed. But I nursed the hurt so long, as a coping mechanism, it’s become very hard to let go.”

“So why did you seek me out today?”

“I… I’ve seen some strange things lately. I thought you might be able to answer some questions.”

“Because I’m strange?” Dusty cocked her head and hid a smile by taking a sip of her tea.

“No… well, yes. You always did live in a different reality from the rest of us. Living in your imagination and writing little stories about your so-called adventures.”

“What did you see?”

“A bloated yellow dragonfly with red donuts on his wings and the face and voice of Haywood Wheatland. Call me crazy and send me to a shrink. But I swear that’s what I saw.”

“Sort of a combination of these three things?” Dusty asked, shoving her open laptop to where Phelma Jo could see the screen.

Right there on the glossy surface, in three separate windows, Dusty had arranged a picture of a dragonfly in brown and gold, a yellow-and-red snapdragon blossom, and sheaves of grain with alien reddish-purple pods instead of seeds on the tops.

“I don’t see…”

“Close your eyes and let your memory of each image overlay on top of the other,” Dusty suggested.

Phelma Jo obeyed. Slowly she visualized each item and
let them merge until… until she saw in her mind the nasty bug that had bitten Ian and taunted her.

“Oh, my!” she gasped involuntarily.

“Oh, my, indeed,” Dusty echoed.

“What is that?” Phelma Jo pointed to the picture of the mutated grain.

“Ergot.”

Phelma Jo cocked her head in question. “Should I know what that means?”

“It’s a poison fungus that infects damp grain. Mostly rye and barley, sometimes wheat. In advanced cases it causes muscle spasms, hallucinations, and insanity as a prelude to a painful death.” Dusty sounded calm and rational. Dispassionate. But her fingers tightened into fists.

“Dick and I think that when you were first arrested, when we sent you to the hospital and put Hay into the pioneer jail that is half underground, he may have been infected from the dampness in the ground. Add to that a general body weakness and suppression of his immune system from the iron handcuffs, and he succumbed. That’s why it took him almost two months to regain enough energy to shrink back to his normal form and fly away from jail.”

“By that time he was already insane,” Phelma Jo mused. She told Dusty about her visit from Haywood the day he escaped.

“That was the day of the big accident on the freeway. A number of drivers reported a nasty yellow-and-red bug as big as a small bird nearly slamming into their windshields.”

“Damn,” Phelma Jo said, thumping her half-empty teacup onto the table.

Dusty raised her eyebrows.

“I… I think I saw him do the same thing downtown the day he bit Ian.”

“Downtown? Was it today? In front of the courthouse?” Dusty leaned forward, shoulders tense with anxiety.

“No, it was a few days ago. You and Thistle had just gone into the Bridal Shop. Dick was in his car talking on his cell, not far away.”

“Do you know why Thistle ran away from Dick today?”

“No. Other than that she woke up and realized what an
unfaithful ass he can be.” What had Hay said? Something about separating Dick and Thistle, humiliating them, sending Thistle back where she belonged?

Where did she belong? Sometimes she acted like she’d come from another world.

Like Pixie.

“You do know where she is! Which way did she go?” Dusty sounded breathless with anxiety.

“Not today. I haven’t seen her or Dick today. But I bet if you find that horrible creature, you’ll find Thistle Down.” She pointed to the computer screen.

Phelma Jo and Dick seemed to be in the same boat. Separated from their loves.

That did not mean she’d take Dick back or comfort him. She wanted Ian, not a poor substitute pining for his lost love.

C
HICORY INSPECTED THE SLATS across an attic opening that overlooked the porch roof of Juliet’s home. All he could see beyond the roof was another house with grass that hadn’t seen a mower all summer and not much in the way of shrubs. The house was smaller than Juliet’s. Hmmm, a yard that truly needed a few Pixies to take care of it.

The other members of his tribe flew from corner to corner, trunk to box to rafter, exploring their new winter home.

“We usually cover the inside of that vent with plywood for the winter,” Juliet said. “Cuts down on drafts. But I can leave it open if you and your tribe need to come and go. We do have a few bright and dry days in the winter.” She rocked idly in an old wooden chair that creaked with each forward movement. “Of course that will increase our heating bills. I certainly hope your work in my garden is worth the trade.”

“You may cover the vent.” Chicory flitted from the slats to hover in front of her. He moved forward and back with each of her rocks so that he stayed the same distance from her. “When we hibernate, we only go out once in a while during the false spring in February. We can go through the house if we need to.”

Her movements were making him dizzy. But he had to maintain his authority.
I’m king of my own tribe!
he chortled to himself.

“’Now is the winter of our discontent,’” Juliet muttered, eyes half closed.

“Huh?” Chicory asked. Maybe he really was too dizzy to understand his new protector.

“Just a quote from Shakespeare,” Juliet said brightly. “I do love the way his words trip so blithely from my tongue.”

“Who lives across the street?” Chicory asked. He had to get the conversation back to something solid, that he could keep straight in his head.

Juliet stopped rocking to look over her shoulder toward the vent. “Which house?”

“The small one with the peeling gray paint and neglected yard.” Chicory took up a perch on the open drawer of a walnut wardrobe cabinet. A peek inside showed him a nest of old bed linens. Hmm, nice place to sleep away the cold weather. Just big enough for the eight of them. Four couples. By spring they’d probably have at least one baby Pixie to increase the tribe.

As king, he’d have to make sure they all took mating flights. Juliet had a big maple in the back corner, a hundred feet high at least. Plenty tall for a good long mating flight. He grew warm just thinking about it. And scared.

What if his wings weren’t strong enough to support both him and his Daisy-love? What if he failed…?

No. He mustn’t think about that. “I’m king. I have to take care of my tribe,” he muttered to himself.

“Oh, that house,” Juliet scoffed. “Phelma Jo Nelson’s mother rented that house for a while when the children were small. She lost her job at Norton’s Diner and moved to someplace cheaper. I don’t know who owns it now. But I think it recently sold. I hope the new owners take better care of it. It’s an eyesore that should have been torn down ages ago.”

“It needs some Pixies to take care of it.” Chicory gnawed his lip. That yard needed friends. The prime duty of every Pixie was to befriend those in need. As king, he should make sure that house had friends. But his tribe was so small they couldn’t take care of both yards, and Juliet offered them shelter during the winter…

He had no idea being king was so hard. He had to make decisions. He had to think.

He needed Thistle’s help. She knew how to think and weigh consequences.

“Where’s Thistle?” he asked Juliet.

“What? Oh, at Mabel’s house, I guess. She moved over there a couple of days ago. Something about watching the property while Mabel is in the hospital.” Juliet rose gracefully from the rickety rocker and opened the doors of the wardrobe, inspecting the dusty clothing inside. “I wonder if I could persuade Dusty to wear her great-grandmother’s wedding dress since she won’t wear the gown I had designed for her.” She fingered a frilly gown with odd puffs and drapes. It had once been cream-colored with an overlay of lace. Now it looked gray with dust.

“You’ll have to get it cleaned before you ask her,” Chicory advised. “She’s got her heart set on a dress in the window of the bride store downtown.”

“She has. She said something about that.” Juliet whirled around. A piece of lace came away in her hand with a gentle ripping sound.

Daisy and her sisters set up a worried chatter. They darted from various parts of the attic to converge near Juliet’s shoulder. They picked at the torn lace and worried over ways to reconnect the delicate threads with spider silk.

“Why didn’t Dusty tell me earlier?” Juliet dropped the fragment of lace. It fluttered to the ground, surrounded by girl Pixies.

Chicory watched it with a feeling of doom. The scrap fell like a Pixie who’d lost his strength in the middle of a mating flight.

“Chicory, why didn’t Dusty tell me when I first started planning her wedding?” Juliet prodded. She sat back in the chair and glared at him.

“Because she’s Dusty.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Chicory bit his lip, staring at the fallen lace.

“Tell me. That’s part of our bargain. You keep me informed, and I let you use my attic.”

“She’s afraid to speak. Afraid you’ll judge her and find her lacking, just like… like when she was a kid.”

“But… but she’s grown up now. She’s getting married.”

“When was the last time you let her make a decision?” Chicory darted for the vent, not sure he wanted to watch Juliet think that one through.

But one day he’d have to. That was also part of being a king.

And one day he’d have to face Rosie and Snapdragon. That was also part of being king. His tribe wasn’t safe until the war was over once and for all.

Chase sat on the exam table in one of the three tiny rooms in the clinic. He held an ice pack to his head over the hawthorn sword wound. A headache throbbed in the same region across his eyes to the other temple. The ice helped a little. Getting back to work would help more.

He wanted his boots, his hat, and his weapons back.

Damn, it was humiliating to be laid low by a four-inch-tall, worthless dandelion of a Pixie.

The sound of multiple shuffling feet and hushed voices in the hallway gave him hope that his endless wait to be seen by a doctor was almost up. He sat a little straighter and set the ice pack beside him.

The commotion moved deeper into the clinic.

“I’m sure the police have called someone to deal with a swarm of killer bees,” Nurse Hazlitt said firmly.

“They wasn’t bees,” a much younger voice insisted with a hint of a lisp. “Was Pixies. Pixies with swords.”

“More likely a small bird infected with that killer flu virus,” an adult female said.

Chase slid off the table and opened the door a crack. He peered out, straining to hear every word. Seven children ranging from tiny kindergartners to gangly third graders milled about, sporting deep scratches on hands and faces similar to the one he had.

“Nurse, I need to talk to these children,” he insisted, opening the door all the way. He half turned to make sure the kids all saw his own war wound.

All seven clamped their mouths shut and stared up at him with eyes wide in wonder and… and defiance.

Nurse Hazlitt shifted her gaze from Chase to the children
and back again. “Oh, dear, this looks serious. I may have to call animal control or the CDC, or
someone
.” With wide open arms she tried to herd her charges into the largest examining room at the back of the building.

Chase stalked after her in stocking feet. “I need to know where and when,” he said reaching for his pocket-sized spiral notebook and a pencil. “As you can see, I know what attacked us all.” He tapped the eraser end of the pencil next to his wound and wished he hadn’t. The headache deepened.