Thistle Down

Nineteen

THISTLE EASED OUT of the crowded kitchen as soon as she finished washing her salad plate and lemonade glass. Her friends argued noisily about Internet searches, persons of influence, places they could eavesdrop. She didn’t really understand what the Internet was, or how to search for things there. Dick and Dusty put a lot of faith in what they could find on that search.

Maybe it was like the garbage dump outside of town. She’d heard from other, more venturesome Pixies that one could find all kinds of wondrous treasures there if you looked long enough and hard enough.

“I’ll do a more conventional search. I’ll meet up with them later at the Old Mill Bar and report on what I find,” she decided as she walked slowly uphill three blocks and then south another five. She’d done a lot of walking today and her feet hurt. If she were still a Pixie, she’d curl up for a nap in the crown of a lush sword fern. “I’m not in Pixie,” she reminded herself. “No naps. This is more important than sore feet.”

Thistle paused at the middle of a white picket fence that came up to her waist in height. Bountiful roses spilled over the top, filling the neighborhood with their heady fragrance. Pinks and yellows dominated with the occasional coral and variegated red and white. None of them smelled as if they were anything but prideful roses.

Dwarfed by its showier cousins, a little pink wild rose climbed and twined around the fence and arched gateway, competing for light and space to grow upward. It smelled exactly right: sweet, fecund, mature, and wise.

She leaned over the fence a bit, cupping a single blossom and bringing it close to her nose and mouth.

“I know you’re in there, Rosie. Come out and talk to me.”

The pink petals fluttered, as if a stray breeze had wandered past.

“Rosie, we used to be friends. I need to talk to you.”

“Yeah, what of it?” came a disgruntled voice. More movement among the yellow stamens at the heart of the blossom.

“The Patriarch Oak is in danger.”

“Not my problem.”

“But it is! All the tribes use the Patriarch Oak for mating flights. If that tree falls, it will be the end of Pixie.”

“Wrong. It will be the end of your tribe.” The petals ruffled again and a tiny snore came from within.

Pursing her lips to keep from shouting her anger, Thistle plucked two of the pink petals and pulled upward. She held the draped skirt of the Pixie by the hem. Rosie hung upside down. She spluttered and spat and kicked to no avail.

“Since time out of mind, all the tribes have used the Patriarch Oak as the center of mating rituals,” Thistle insisted. “We of The Ten Acre Wood are merely the caretakers and guardians. That’s why the old Faery stayed with us, and not you.”

“Yeah, well, have you noticed anyone but your precious King Alder using the oak since he put a crown on his head? Life was better for us all when the ancient Faery still ran things in this part of the world.”

Thistle had to think about that.

“And your buddy the king has used it dozens of times. Not just with you or his queen. Though rumor has it she hasn’t trusted him enough to mate yet. Will you put me down?”

“Say please.”

“Okay, okay, okay. Please put me down. I hate flying upside down by myself. Though Alder does make that fun.”

Thistle wanted to drop the impertinent gossip. Instead, she drew in a deep breath to master her temper, and dumped Rosie into her open palm.

“Whatever your grievance, I need to know who in the human world wants to destroy The Ten Acre Wood.”

“Like I said. That’s your problem. This garden is my territory. You can’t have it. Even before your ignominious exile, you couldn’t come inside the fence without an invitation. The Ten Acre Wood belongs to Alder. No other Pixie can enter without his permission, and that’s been mighty rare. Your territory is not my problem.” Rosie jumped, spread her wings, and flitted off to the safety of a pink dahlia closer to the old carriage house converted into a cottage at the front of the lot.

Thistle reached to grab her, missed, and nearly fell over the fence. The pointed wooden slats jabbed her middle, fiercely.

“Don’t you dare tell those lies about my Alder!” she called after the other Pixie.

He’s not your Alder. He never was, Thistle had to remind herself.

“They aren’t lies. Ask anyone. Ask Milkweed, the queen who won’t mate with your king! ” Rosie called back.

Chase stood on the corner of Tenth Street and Maple Drive, watching Thistle talk to a rosebush in Mabel Gardiner’s front yard.

Why didn’t this surprise him?

He wasn’t sure when he’d stopped doubting her story. Not that he truly believed she was a Pixie, only that it was easier to just accept it than to try to find an alternate story that made everything fit.

Like the aura of thistle-leaf-shaped wings growing out of her back when she collapsed.

Now she talked to something fluttery in her hand. He detected faint traces of movement and a high-pitched buzz that might take the shape of words and sentences.

Three days ago, he’d have thought she cradled a pink dragonfly in her hand.

Today? Today he wondered if the green-and-purple dragonfly he’d captured long ago and Dick had set free really was an insect. He’d never found a dragonfly with those colors or that size in any of the bug books he checked out of the library.

Then Thistle reached too far over the fence toward the escapig… thing… and nearly fell.

He took two steps to see if she was hurt, but she dashed off down Maple toward Skene Falls Boulevard, or SFB in local parlance.

His feet dragged, unwilling to check out Mabel Gardiner’s two acres-a standard lot facing the street with a long strip between the backyards of adjacent houses that ran nearly the full length of the block-for signs of Pixies. Part of him really didn’t want to know if she’d spoken the truth. He’d rather believe that back lot connecting to the derelict Victorian mansion on Filbert Street was a haven for the homeless and offered privacy for teens to make out under the scraggly apple trees.

If Thistle had spoken the truth, if this Pixie nonsense was real…

Dizziness assaulted all of his senses. Colors flashed brighter and more intensely before his eyes. Outlines became crisper and better defined. Talk about upsetting his worldview!

He didn’t know how long he stood there, trying not to think about it, but thinking of nothing else, when Haywood Wheatland sauntered up Tenth from the direction of SFB.

Chase did his best to fade into the mongo pine that leaned over the sidewalk.

He needn’t have worried. The blond man stopped at the same spot Thistle had. He, too, leaned over and cupped a delicate pink blossom in his hand-a delicate, long-fingered hand that looked too fragile to belong to an athletic man. On careful consideration, Haywood Wheatland appeared a lot more slender and lighterboned than on first glance. As if he’d puffed himself up the other times Chase had seen him. Or disguised his size by padding his sport coat and adding lifts to his scruffy shoes.

Chase shook his head and closed his eyes, trying to clear it of the multiple images layered one atop another.

When he looked again at Haywood, the man seemed normal, just as tall and robust as he should be.

“Rosie,” he called into the bank of prize-winning roses. “Rosie, my beloved, where are you?”

A pink bug darted out of a showy flower near the house. It flew from bush to flower to tree branch in short, hesitant bursts of energy, pausing at each point as if to rest. Or search for intruders other than Haywood Wheatland.

“Ah, Rosie, sweetheart, there you are.” Haywood held out his palm and the pink bug alighted on it. Its green wings, shaped like rose leaves, rubbed together in a decidedly flirtatious preening.

Then that high-pitched buzz invaded Chase’s head again.

He turned sharply away from the scene. He had too much to do and too much to think about to linger. Digger was expecting him, and then he’d meet up with Dick and Dusty and Thistle at the Old Mill.

But he couldn’t get the thought of Pixies out of his head.