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Authors: Irene Radford

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BOOK: Thistle Down
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From her own underwear drawer she found an unopened package of three pairs of white cotton panties. As she pulled them from beneath neatly piled, still serviceable garments she began to laugh.
At herself. At Dick for forgetting to buy panties. He probably never noticed if women wore them or not, even the women he so casually bedded.
Something to taunt him about. In private. Still laughing, she returned to Thistle’s room and presented her with the underwear as if bestowing the crown jewels.
With more laughter, and no embarrassment, she explained their usage. And while she was at it, she found a box of tampons and demonstrated the toilet and sink.
Their laughter felt natural; embarrassment fled. Suitably clad, Thistle began rummaging through the plastic bags. She jerked her hand away before she’d touched a single garment.
“What?” Dusty asked. She grabbed Thistle’s hand and watched a burning flush spread from her fingers to the back and across the palm. “Let’s get some cold water on this.”
“The bags, and the second dress, they’re fake.” Thistle sighed with relief as cold water from the bathroom tap flowed over her hand and arm.
“Synthetics. Of course! I bet you’ll have trouble with preservatives and processed food, too. Good thing you came to me. Most every other home in town would poison you in about three minutes.”
“Why do people poison themselves?” Thistle asked, cocking her head.
Dusty shrugged. “Convenience, shelf-life, laziness. I’m not sure. But since I was sick, Mom and Dad have done their best to keep me from getting sick again. We eat only natural foods and use only natural fabrics. It’s hard eating out and harder buying inexpensive clothes or towels, or even upholstery that aren’t synthetic. Mom took out all the wall-to-wall carpeting because it holds dust and mold and is largely artificial fibers.”
“I bet that’s why so many people are so fat. They can’t walk!” Thistle mimicked a man who had come to the museum that afternoon and had to sit every five steps, wheezing and out of breath.
Dusty’d had to restrain Thistle’s natural tendency to roll the little rubber ball from her game of jacks underneath him, just to watch him hop about in fright.
“He needed the exercise,” Thistle reminded her.
“What else do Pixies do besides play tricks?” Dusty asked upon returning to Thistle’s room.
“Oh, Pixies are the best matchmakers of all. And I know just the man for you!”
“Really.” Dusty’s bright mood faded. “Who?” If Thistle played her matchmaking games as poorly as her mother, Dusty needed to stop it right here and now.
“Joe Newberry, of course. He really needs a wife, and you really need to be a mother to his daughters.”
Dusty nearly doubled over in laughter. “Joe’s my best friend. Not my lover. Besides, I don’t think he ever played in The Ten Acre Wood. We have no shared memories.”
“We’ll see about that. Think about the new memories you will build together around the Patriarch Oak.”
 
Thistle lay down upon the bed, amazed at how the mattress and coverlet cradled her body. Much nicer, if lonelier, than curling up with seven other Pixies in a tangle of moss. Life was so different among the humans; so strange. And yet she had observed them for decades. She should know how they lived, how they thought, the appliances they took for granted.
The red numerals on the black box on the small table beside the bed must mean something.
“Five, two dots, four, five,” she mused. “That sounds like a time. Humans are obsessed with time. But I’m not sure what it means.”
The color scheme depressed her. It hadn’t worked ten years ago. One might graciously call it eggplant and evergreen with heavy dark wood accents. Thistle had never seen those kinds of trees, and to her the colors looked more like bloody mud and algae green atop alien and dangerous forests.
She closed her eyes and absorbed the scent of the room. Much nicer than looking at it. Roses, lavender, and cherry in the pomander on the dressing table. A bit too heavy and sweet, like the paint scheme. Maybe take out the cherry and add cedar?
Her hands caressed the soft coverlet and her dress. Sort of like the silky texture of the cobwebs, embellished with feathers and flower petals, which she usually wore. And much more substantial. But then, humans were also obsessed with keeping their bodies covered, or at least portions of them.
How was she supposed to get used to all this?
How was she supposed to sleep alone? Pixies slept in a tangle of legs and arms and wings, finding security in the gentle breeze of a dozen breaths all working in rhythm, a dozen hearts beating in time. Nothing sexual about it. Sex was sex and sleep was sleep. Unlike humans, Pixies didn’t mix the two.
The loneliness of living in a human body among humans who closed themselves off from each other was perhaps the cruelest punishment of all.
Moisture crept out of Thistle’s eyes and down her cheek. She missed the light breeze supporting her wings, drifting around her with the information about the weather, about her surroundings, and who trespassed within The Ten Acre Wood.
Memory grabbed hold of her, taking her soaring, playing tag with oak leaves, tweaking the tail of a squirrel, dancing just out of reach of the frog’s tongue. She hungered and took a sip of pollen. Dewdrops clinging to the bottom of a fern or in the cup of lupine leaves quenched her thirst.
A shimmer of movement above her, bright green and tan, the color of alder leaves and branches. She giggled. A deeper, enticing laugh was the only reply. More a challenge than any words.
Thistle rose to the occasion and chased the source of the laughter around a tree trunk, skimmed the top of fern fronds, dashed beneath a rhododendron, and skipped across the gentle wind-driven currents of the pond. He laughed and escaped. She chortled and dove beneath him, then looped around and came at him from the side. With one last burst of speed and a new round of bright laughter, she caught the tip of Alder’s left wing with her left hand. As he slowed in their game of tag, she flipped him around to face her.
Hovering within the shadows of the Patriarch Oak, with only a whisper of air between them, they came to rest in the joint where a stout branch met the trunk.
He cupped her face in both hands and kissed her deeply. “The ancient Faery living in the heart of the Patriarch Oak has died,” he whispered.
“What does that mean?” Thistle couldn’t remember a time when her tribe had anyone other than the nameless old one as their king. He’d stayed when the rest of the Faeries went underhill, taking their abundant magic with them.
“We need a king, someone to make rules and protect us from predators. No one else knows how to do the job, so I volunteered. The old one has been teaching me. I am going to be king,” he whispered. “Tomorrow I will be king. And I will need a queen. Today, right now, you and I will fly to the top of this tree, the center of the universe, and take our mating flight.”
Thistle returned his kiss and spoke aloud. “In full daylight where all can see and know that we belong together. Forever.”
Six
 
 
D
ICK CHECKED THE CALLER ID before answering his phone on the second ring while he sipped cold lemonade in the kitchen. A foreign code preceded the long line of numbers.
“Hi, Mom,” he said brightly.
“How did you know it was me, sweetie?” Mom’s breathy voice came clearly over the thousands of miles of cell phone signals.
“Caller ID, Mom. What’s up?” As if he didn’t know.
“Oh, just checking up on you kids. What’s Dusty doing? Did she get a call from my college roommate’s son?”
“Actually, Mom, we’re going on a double date tonight.” Dick bit his lip, hoping his all-too-perceptive mother wouldn’t catch the lie.
“Why, that’s wonderful, Dick. I hope she likes Ted Summerfield.”
Nothing about Dick; all she ever asked about was his reclusive sister as if she were still a teenager, just venturing back into reality after chemo-induced isolation. Heavy sadness settled on his shoulders. He wondered briefly if maybe Dusty truly was only an adolescent emotionally. She’d never grown beyond the restricted life appropriate to a twelve year old.
“Dusty and I are meeting Chase and a new girl at the Old Mill tonight. Just pizza and beer and maybe some dancing. We’ll be home early. I haven’t heard anything about a Ted Summerfield.”
“Oh, well. I guess he hasn’t had a chance to call her yet. I trust Chase. You keep an eye on your sister, though. Make sure she orders the vegetarian pizza with whole wheat crust and organic soy cheese . . .”
“Yes, Mom.”
The Dusty special, the cooks called it.
He scratched his fingernails over the receiver. “Um, Mom, I’m losing you. Cell phones, you know. They aren’t really reliable over this kind of distance.” Though he could hear her perfectly well, and he ran his business entirely from his phone.
“Of course, dear. Just needed to check on you and Dusty. We are having a wonderful time. Saw two plays yesterday. I’ll send a postcard.” She spoke over-loud, spitting her consonants as if she recited lines from a stage without microphones. “See you in three weeks. Bye, sweetie.” She made kissy noises and rang off.
Dick closed the phone and rested his forehead against the long farm kitchen table. Nothing ever changed. Dusty was still Mom’s sick baby, and he was her wayward son charged with his sister’s care.
What did he have to do to make a life of his own? Mentally, he added up his savings account and investments. Next month, he’d have enough money for a down payment on his own house. Moving back home for the summer had helped a lot. He’d wasted a lot of money these last five years on rent and expensive but insignificant dates.
He’d buy a house and move into it just as soon as his parents returned from England. There were a lot of good buys out there now with foreclosures and short sales. He couldn’t leave Dusty alone before then.
That new house would be awfully empty without someone to share it with. He closed his eyes trying to picture his ideal house and roommate. Thistle was the only one he could think of.
 
“Too bad Joe couldn’t make it tonight,” Thistle said blithely to Dick and Dusty as they entered the Old Mill Bar and Grill. She scuffed her new leather sandals through the sawdust and peanut shells littering the floor.
BOOK: Thistle Down
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ads

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