Authors: Irene Radford
Thistle Down (13 page)
A big bug.
He spat it out.
“Hey, watch it, buddy.” A blue splotch twisted away from the inside windshield. “Phew, you musta had garlic for breakfast.”
The blue splotch took on definition. Dick saw large green wings and a blue body. And . . . and . . .
He froze in place, moving only his eyes. Digger had retreated to the rear of the truck to release the tailgate.
“Who . . . who are you?” Dick whispered. Maybe he was only dreaming. He’d had a short night’s sleep on top of too many beers and too much salty pizza. With garlic.
“It’s about time you noticed I hitched a ride with you,” the blue Pixie stood on the dashboard while he waved his arms about like a semaphore. He stretched and flapped his leafy wings slowly, as if he needed to work the kinks out of them.
“Do I know you?” It was one thing to tell himself that Thistle was a Pixie grown to human form, quite another to confront a real-life Pixie.
“Nah, I don’t hang out in The Ten Acre Wood much. But I know you, and you really—
really
—need to brush your teeth.”
really
—need to brush your teeth.”
“Um, thanks, buddy. What’s your name?” Though Dick could guess, with the multiple thin blue-purple petals that made up his jaunty hat. “You must be Chicory.”
“You guessed it. Now, quick, tell me what’s up with Thistle, so I can report back to my boss.”
Dum dum do do dee dee dum
. A bright tune surrounded Dick with a sense of well-being and cooperation.
. A bright tune surrounded Dick with a sense of well-being and cooperation.
“Who’s your boss?”
“Can’t tell. I’m sworn to secrecy.”
“Nope. We trade information.”
“It’s just gossip, Dick. Gossip is my job. I’ve got obligations,” the Pixie whined.
“So do I. I need to load those flats of flowers.”
“Better water them first. The pansies are looking a little limp. Kinda late in the year for them.”
“That’s why the nursery donated them.” Dick unfastened his seat belt.
“Hey, you can’t leave me in the lurch!”
“Wanna make a bet?”
“What are you betting on this time?” Digger asked as he shifted a cardboard flat filled with four-inch flowerpots topped with a rainbow of blossoms.
“I bet a buck the parade finishes eighteen minutes late.”
“Sucker bet. The parade always takes longer than planned.” Digger dropped the flat and pushed it into the far corner of the truck bed.
“Dick, grab those snapdragons. They’ll make a nice contrast in height and color to the pansies,” Chicory whispered from the region of Dick’s left ear.
Why not
? He selected a flat from the array on the loading dock.
? He selected a flat from the array on the loading dock.
“Not that one. They’re full of bugs. Get the one to your right,” Chicory advised.
“Have you noticed how many bugs are around this morning?” Digger waved his hand in front of his face, chasing off some yellow flying things that might be Pixies, or dandelion blossoms floating through the air. “Loud buggers.” Digger’s gesticulations increased as the swarm of yellow grew to ten and then fifteen.
“Dandelions,” Chicory whispered. “Always a dozen or more in the tribe. We call them by number; they’re too dumb to have names. Too many of them to bother naming.”
“Just like weeds,” Dick mumbled. Then he spotted a flat filled with waving blue flowers. “I thought chicory was a ditch weed.”
“That’s a low blow,” Chicory replied. “See if I help you again.” He lifted off Dick’s shoulder, grabbing a fistful of Dick’s hair. The swarm of yellow followed him.
“It’s going to be a long day,” Dick sighed, slapping the stinging place on his scalp.
“You got that right,” Digger replied. “Let’s grab some coffee at Norton’s on the way to the station.”
“Dick, where’s Thistle?” Dusty asked as she wolfed down peanut butter toast and a cup of strong tea.
“How should I know?” he replied on a yawn, running his hands through his rumpled hair. He’d shaved and pulled on his buff knickers with bright red suspenders, but not his blue fireman’s shirt for the parade. “Coffee. Don’t suppose you made coffee?” He looked at her hopefully. “I didn’t take the time to meet the other volunteers at Norton’s before they start decorating the wagon. Too noisy and bright for my hangover.”
“In the pot.” She pointed to the coffeemaker full of his favorite exotic blend—organic and free trade, of course. She couldn’t stand the taste of the stuff even diluted with cream and sugar.
Dick poured a big mug full and swilled half of it down, hot and so strong it almost had a life of its own. He kept looking at his left shoulder as if missing something.
“You should have noticed if Thistle left before my alarm went off. The guest room is right across the hall from yours,” she reprimanded him. “The bathroom is between her room and mine, so I wouldn’t hear her even if she made a racket.”
Besides, Dusty had been drifting in that lovely dream before the alarm brought her back to the real world.
“Sorry. I was down at the nursery hauling plants long before your alarm went off. I’m back only long enough for a shower. It’s already hot, but not as humid as yesterday.” He shrugged and shuffled back up the kitchen stairs to the second floor.
“I don’t have time to look for Thistle. The grant committee is coming to the museum early,” Dusty called after him.
“Parade duty and then work,” he mumbled.
Dusty took one last swallow of English Breakfast tea with just a tiny bit of honey and freshly-squeezed lemon, grabbed her purse, and dashed out the door to her little hybrid car.
“I shouldn’t spend any more time with exiled Pixies. Nor will I believe I can fly. That’s as ridiculous as . . . as me having a date with a real man and not some lame fix up.” But, oh, it was a nice dream of flying. She sighed wistfully as she guided the car toward the museum on the ridge overlooking downtown. “I don’t think I’m going to accept the date Mom arranged with whatever his name is. It will be just like all the others: dull, embarrassing, and a disappointment for all concerned.”
Most days, when the weather was fine, she walked the few blocks to work. Today she wanted to look professional for the grant committee. Two-and-a-half-inch heels, hose, and a tight navy blue skirt did not take well to walking any distance. At least not for her.
A quick survey of the museum grounds told her that the herb garden planted in a knot design had been carefully weeded and watered. The signs on the outdoor exhibits looked straight, clearly visible, and legible. The City Parks Department had mowed the grass and raked it two days ago.
The sprinklers turned on their automatic timers as she bent down to reset the strap of her navy sling-back heels.
Fat droplets swished across her back and head. The spray of water passed on in its wide circle. The droplets hit in a distinctive rhythm. A tune, that might be the same one her old music box played but was catchier and brighter, caught the back of her mind in time with the sprinkles.
“Who reset the timer?” she shouted to anyone who might hear. Hastily, she rolled up the car windows and scuttled toward the sidewalk where the watering system didn’t dare threaten potential customers.
The tune seemed to dance along with her heels clacking against the cement.
Dum dee dee do dum dum
.
.
The line of water followed her like a malicious and living monster. It broke every rule of high summer water conservation and plastered the sidewalk as she ran away from the museum grounds toward the place where the road dead-ended by The Ten Acre Wood and the curving cliff.
Chiming laughter followed her every step until it suddenly choked on a sob.
Dusty looked up, realizing the water had turned itself off, leaving her slightly damp around the edges but not seriously soggy.
There, where the parkland grass met the first line of trees and sword fern underbrush stood a lone figure in a wilted purple-and-cream sundress. Her long dark hair flared out from a very pale face.
“Thistle, what are you doing here?” Dusty wanted to yell at the woman. Something in her slumped posture and bedraggled appearance made Dusty soften her tone.
“I can’t go home,” Thistle whispered. “I ache all over, my tummy is upset, and the light hurts my eyes. I need to go home to our den and let Trillium take care of me. I need to grow my wings and be purple again.”
“You’ve got a hangover. No wonder, with the amount of beer you drank last night. Come on into the offices and I’ll get you some orange juice and aspirin. Dick swears that’s the only way to get over a hangover.”
“You don’t understand. I’m stuck in this ugly, lumpy body forever. I can’t ever go home.” Fat tears trickled down her pale face, blurring her fabulous purple eyes.
“Thistle, you are the only person alive who thinks that’s an ugly body. And most people admire the lumps. Stop whining. Come on. You can stay in the museum lounge today. I’ve got meetings and the parade and a bunch of scheduled tours today. But tomorrow you need to look for your own place to live and a job. I can’t afford to support you.”
Though life would be duller and less bright without Thistle around. Years ago, all the color had drained from Dusty’s life when she got sick. Thistle had been the only bright spot in her life for many years after. Gradually, as Dusty grew older, Thistle stopped coming. She checked in once in a while, but it had been years since the tiny Pixie had graced Dusty with her presence.
She deliberately called up her dream and the feeling of carefree flight. When she opened her eyes, the world seemed a bit brighter and less threatening.
“Pixies don’t need to work,” Thistle sobbed. “A Pixie’s purpose is to befriend children who need us. We live on pollen and morning dew, gossip and an occasional mosquito. What will I do, Dusty? I need you and Dick. Without you, I am nothing. Without you two, it’s as if I don’t exist.”
“I’m not a child anymore, Thistle. I’ve grown up. Now you need to do the same.”
“But I can’t. Pixies can’t grow up. We just wither away and die when children stop believing in us.”
“I still believe in Pixies, Thistle. I’d go insane if I didn’t hold our friendship deep in my heart.”
Ten
“H
AYWOOD, WHY ARE YOU SITTING at your desk?” Phelma Jo tapped her foot in annoyance, hands on hips and chin thrust forward. Her first husband had told her he was afraid of her when she took that pose.
AYWOOD, WHY ARE YOU SITTING at your desk?” Phelma Jo tapped her foot in annoyance, hands on hips and chin thrust forward. Her first husband had told her he was afraid of her when she took that pose.
Haywood maintained that strange frozen pause when she finished speaking. Then he answered her as if no time at all had passed. “I’m at my desk checking on some local ordinances . . . I’m checking on some local ordinances before you file documents on your latest project,” Haywood replied calmly, flashing his heartstopping smile. “It’s Saturday. No one will be in City Hall to notice me snooping through their databases and City Council minutes. I don’t think we’ll be bothered with state laws unless someone knows where to complain and bothers with acres of paperwork.”
“I need you to go to the museum and get me my invitation to the Ball,” she reminded him.
“I will be on Desdemona Carrick’s doorstep thirty seconds after she opens the doors to the public.” He returned his attention to his computer screen and frowned.
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