Thistle Down

Twelve

THE NOISE AND CROWDS from the parade had dispersed. Dusty retreated inside the museum. Dick went off to do something he called work. That left Thistle alone, tired, hungry, and thirsty. She wandered back toward Dusty’s house, wishing she could just spread her wings and fly.

A laughing golden Pixie she didn’t recognize circled her head. At least he could see her.

“Go away. I’m not one of you anymore,” she cried, batting him away, much as she’d seen humans do to the Dandelions who got too close.

“And you never will be again,” golden boy taunted her. He flipped in midair and zoomed straight for her head, grabbing at a few tendrils of black hair. “Who ever heard of a black-and-pink Pixie. Looks diseased to me!”

Thistle slapped at her head where the pulled hairs stung her scalp. “Who are you? You’re bigger than most Pixies.” She squinted her eyes a bit to catch a glimpse of his aura.

Red-and-orange flames encircled his yellow, green, and brown life energy.

“You’re part Faery!” she gasped. She’d heard stories of such strange creatures. Myths of bizarre matings that took place before the Faeries went underhill. The half-breeds were bigger than either their Pixie or Faery parents, with more potent magic than a Pixie but less than a Faery.

That was long, long ago. Before Thistle was born. This jeering fellow looked too young to have come from the before times.

“You don’t exist. You can’t exist!”

“Neither do you!” He flew off, zipping in wild circles and loops, showing off the magnificent wings formed from splayed grain stalks.

“Lost. I’m lost to Pixie and lost to myself,” she cried.

Her stomach growled and her throat grew sour with thirst. She bent in front of a rhododendron no one had bothered to deadhead. The flower stamens still held their loads of pollen. A nice Pixie meal.

“Eew!” she spat out the sour grit. “That’s not what pollen is supposed to taste like.” Hastily, she sought a few drops of dew to rinse her mouth.

Nothing! The morning had grown too late and too hot. All the plants and gardens looked dry and sere. Ah, there on the side lawn of the big old house, a hose curled around a rack. A quick flick of the tap and she’d have a drink before trudging back to Dusty’s home.

A curtain flicked in the widow of a house across the street.

Thistle felt eyes following her every move as she stumbled while rising from her crouch. Damn, she’d depended upon her wings to right her and they weren’t there anymore.

“So, I’m as big and lumpy as a human. I need to be careful about trespassing and being seen. I can’t flit about, as unnoticeable as a dragonfly.” A tear welled up in her eye. She dashed it aside. That just made her thirstier.

So, she walked a few steps farther down the sidewalk until the itchy crawlies along her spine quieted. Her next step went sideways (where she tripped again with the shift in balance), on the other side of the overgrown rhododendron, onto the scraggly grass of the big old house with peeling gray paint and a sagging porch.

The tap didn’t twist easily. She tugged at it with both hands. Rust flaked off as she shoved it one quarter of a turn. Water gurgled lazily through the coils of the hose, leaking out of slits in the worn rubber. She captured a few drops with her fingertip and sucked the moisture greedily.

It tasted warm and acidic. A closer look revealed more rust in the water.

A dog howled from the shaded window above her.

“What’s up, boy?” she asked the graying muzzle that pushed aside the slats of the covering blinds.

Extreme distress gushed from the animal. Help us.

“I didn’t quite get that, Horace. That is your name, right?” When she was a Pixie, she could converse with all the dogs and cats. But she avoided the cats. They were mean alien monsters bent on murder. She knew them all intimately. Not this one.

Another whimper, this time in agreement. Help us.

“Um, I’m not supposed to come inside without an invitation, you know. Pixie Law. Human law, for that matter, too.”

Horace howled again.

“Okay, I guess that’s an invitation. Are the doors locked?”

Horace didn’t know.

Thistle rose on tiptoe and peeked through the tiny opening Horace had left between the slats. His muzzle still poked through, his whines becoming more urgent.

A bloated leg covered in a thick opaque stocking with a hole in the toe lay on the floor unmoving.

Thistle ran to the front door and knocked. She pounded her fist against the solid wooden barrier. The only sound of stirring that answered her was Horace’s claws on the other side. Mrs. Nosey across the street might object if Thistle waltzed into a stranger’s house through the front door. Was that a good or bad thing?

Thistle tried the doorknob. It remained solid, unyielding.

She jumped off the broad porch and ran along the side of the house toward the back. More signs of neglect here in the weeds running riot through the rose beds.

“Wonder if the rose pollen will taste any better than rhododendron?” she mused. “Or has my tongue changed now that I’m big?” She shook her head and proceeded through the sagging wooden gate. She had to help the old lady Horace companioned. The gate hung crookedly, no longer able to close completely or latch.

“I know something’s wrong, Horace,” she said to the dog who paced her progress from window to window.

The door of the screened-in porch also sagged so that the latch didn’t work. Thistle pulled it open with little resistance. She stepped into the shadowed room lined with more screen than wall. “Heaps of discarded furniture and a fine sanctuary for spiderwebs,” she mused. It reminded her of a hollow log Pixies had abandoned to beetles and ants when it began to crumble in the winter rain and no longer sheltered the tribe. “If Horace weren’t inside begging me to come in, I’d think this house abandoned for a long, long time.”

The back door, however, had a sturdy lock. Rusty, but still firmly engaged.

Horace began barking, his anxiety now filled with hope. Human or Pixie, Thistle couldn’t abandon him.

“If I were still a Pixie, I’d just fly through the keyhole. Keyhole. Hmmm, what does it look like inside?” Thistle closed her eyes trying to remember what keyholes looked like from the inside.

Blackness surrounded her memory. “Faery snot!” she cursed.

Horace barked louder.

“Okay, okay, I’m coming. If I only had a little Pixie dust left… Well, I did yesterday morning. Let’s see if I can find any more.” This time when she closed her eyes, Thistle placed her fingertip over the hole and blew with her breath and her mind.

Bright sparkles erupted out of the hole, encasing her hand in warm tingles.

“I am going to be in so much trouble if Alder ever finds out I did this.” Without thinking further, she twisted the knob, felt the lock give way, and pushed the door open.

Horace jumped against her, paws landing heavily on her chest. His golden fur looked oily and matted. He smelled strongly of dog in need of a bath. Then he bounced away dashing for the nearest bush in the yard. He lifted his leg and poised there seemingly forever.

Thistle took one step inside. Waves and waves of hot air poured over her, leeching her energy. She nearly dropped to her knees in exhaustion. Not knowing what else to do, she crawled through the kitchen to the sink, then hauled herself up to the drainboard. This tap worked easily. But the water flowed warmly over her hand. She splashed some on her face and felt better. A tall glass stood upside down in a plastic drainer. She filled it drank down one glassful, refilled it, and walked slowly inward, taking an occasional sip.

Horace trudged back in and led the way. She followed him and the smell of sour bread rising. Not good. Not good at all.

In the front parlor, a tiny old woman, not much taller than Dusty, but much stouter, lay sprawled on the floor beneath the window.

“Oh, dear. We need help, Horace.”

Help us.

“What’s that number people shout when they are in trouble? What is it?” She racked her memory and came up blank. She had to call someone. Who?

An old black phone sat on a lamp table at the end of the sofa. Thistle grabbed the receiver as she’d seen humans do for as long as she had befriended them. There on the base in big red letters she saw 911 and a red cross.

“Let’s hope that’s right.” She dialed the three numbers, waiting a long time for the rotary to return to its original position in between.

“911, do you need police, medical, or fire?

“Um…”

“Stop! What are you doing?” Chase yelled from the archway to the kitchen. He stood, feet braced, a wickedlooking pistol held in both hands, menace written all over his face.

“Help us!” Thistle shouted, pointing with the hand that still held the glass of water. Liquid spilled and splashed all over the old woman. She stirred in the slight relief.

Suddenly, the heat, the exhaustion from throwing Pixie dust, and the smell robbed Thistle of all her strength.

She gave in to the need to lie down. Right here. Right now.

Chase stood with his mouth hanging open as Thistle wavered, shimmering in and out of view. The outline of wings in the shape of thistle leaves sprouted across her back as she collapsed. Her skin took on a decidedly lavender tone. Deep-purple highlights shone in her black hair.

Then the heat made everything in the room look off kilter.

He shook his head free of the illusion and took a good look around, assessing the situation. As he’d been trained to do. He plucked the receiver out of Thistle’s hand and briskly ordered an ambulance and a cruiser.

Then he found the thermostat and turned it off. Next to it, he found the ceiling fan switch and flicked it on. Mrs. Spencer must have mixed them up. What else could he do?

Windows. Cross ventilation. One by one, he unlatched and raised as many windows as he could reach behind more overstuffed chairs, bookcases, knickknack tables, and just piles of stuff. He opened the front door as well, after releasing two deadbolts, a security chain, and the normal knob lock.

Why all this security and leave the back door open? He’d looked. Thistle hadn’t forced her entry.

The dog began licking moisture off Mrs. Spencer’s face. How long had he been locked inside with her? He didn’t seem to be in much better condition than the woman who had taught fourth grade to nearly everyone in town.

He grabbed the glass, returned to the kitchen, and filled it. The first lot went into the dog’s dish beside the fridge. The second glass he dribbled on Mrs. Spencer’s brow and wrists.

Thistle stirred, too, as the fan stirred up enough of a breeze to lighten the air.

He watched as the light glinted off the heat aura that looked like wings, then dissolved as she pushed herself up to a sitting position. Her skin remained very pale and lavender tinged.

“Get yourself some water in the kitchen. I hear the ambulance coming,” he ordered. When she’d slumped through to the kitchen, he shook his head again. “It’s the heat. Has to be the heat. I did not see Pixie wings. I really didn’t.”

Horace licked his hand. His golden eyes told Chase he was lying to himself.

Dick would laugh himself silly at Chase’s lack of belief in the face of this evidence.