Thistle Down

Twenty-five

CHASE SAT STIFFLY in a straight-backed maple chair at Mabel’s kitchen table. “Are you sure this is the right thing to do?” he asked nervously.

“It was your idea. Run with your first instinct,” she replied, keeping her gaze fixed on pouring two fingers of scotch into a cut-glass tumbler. No more, no less. She lifted the glass to the light and gazed into the amber liquid with fondness, or admiration, or possibly lust. While the scotch captured her attention, Chase examined the label on the bottle.

He let loose a low whistle. “Twenty-year-old single malt. What’s the occasion?”

“Drink this,” Mabel ordered, plunking the tumbler on her round kitchen table in front of Chase. “You’re going to need it.”

“I’m tired, it’s late. I think I need coffee more than booze.”

“Drink it. It will help. I promise.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Chase lifted the glass, passing it slowly beneath his nose. The bouquet wafted upward, caressing his senses and inviting him to partake. He sipped just enough to coat his tongue, holding the precious liquid in his mouth a moment, letting the peaty smoke fill him. Then he swallowed, appreciating the burn and the rebound that smelled of thistle blossoms, heather, and cold ocean waters.

He had to open his mouth to let the heat escape.

“Oh, yeah. That’s the good stuff.” He savored the flavors bursting through his senses a moment. “Like I said, what’s the occasion? Must be something special,” he said when he regained control over his voice.

“Just drink it down.”

No one in Skene Falls dared say “no” to Mabel when she planted her hands on her hips and stuck her chin out like a pugnacious pit bull.

Chase had an instant flashback to Julia, the big red mastiff he’d raised as a child. The dog whose drool provided the ropey glue he used to stick a dragonfly’s wings together. Only it wasn’t a dragonfly.

By all accounts, he was supposed to believe the purple bug was actually Thistle in Pixie form.

He didn’t want to examine that thought too closely. He downed another slug of the scotch.

“Good. You’re ready.” Mabel nodded once, then she walked quietly over to the window on the other side of the nook. The sash window was already open to catch any stray breeze in the hot, humid night. She pushed the bottom of the screen out a bit and whistled three quick notes.

Seconds later a blue blob crawled under the frame and wriggled onto the sill.

“I’m drunk,” Chase murmured, rubbing his eyes with both hands.

“You didn’t have enough scotch to get drunk,” a tiny voice said. Or did it sing? Definitely a hint of jingle bells underneath the words. Dum dum do do dee dee dum.

A different blasted earworm tune.

“Yeah, I’m real, all right, and we’ve got to put up with each other ’cause Mabel says so.”

“I do not see a little man four inches tall wearing blue breeches and a hat made of blue blossoms.”

“The name’s Chicory. And the flower’s as much a part of me as your badge and gun are to you.”

That made Chase pause a moment and look more closely at the Pixie standing in front of him, hands on hips, glowering disapproval. Chicory fluttered his green wings and rose above the table a few inches.

“Why am I not running away and screaming in disbelief?”

“Because deep in your heart you always knew we were real.”

The scotch in Chase’s belly threatened to come up. It didn’t taste nearly as good the second time around.

“Oh, stop trying to make sense out of Pixies and reality. You two need to figure out how to fix something. Neither one of you can do it alone,” Mabel reminded them.

“Well, his fat fingers sure can’t fit inside,” Chicory sneered.

“How can a Pixie know anything about mechanics?” Chase returned.

“Like I said, neither one of you can do it alone. Now make your peace and get to work. You don’t have all night,” Mabel insisted. “And, Chicory, you’ll need gloves of some sort, there’s metal involved.”

“Looks like copper, not iron. I’ll be okay,” he replied.

“I have a feeling it’s going to take all night and then some.” Chase eyed the Pixie skeptically. “I’m not even sure he’s really here.”

“Oh, yeah?” Chicory flew up and dive-bombed, taking a nip at the tip of Chase’s nose as he passed.

“Ouch! You bit me!” Chase rubbed the stinging bump.

“You bet I did. And you taste like sour sweat and greasy hamburgers. Convinced I’m real yet?”

“Maybe.”

“So get to work. Sun comes up before six. You haven’t a lot of time. I’m going to bed.” Mabel stomped away, letting the swinging door swish back and forth in her wake.

Dusty wandered through the kitchen and dining room two hours before her usual rising time. Dawn crept around the edges of the trees on the east side of the house.

She hummed a sprightly little tune full of chimes and dancing notes.

Dum dee dee do dum dum.

She skipped to the tune, trying out a few remembered steps from her childhood ballet classes.

Despite the impending doom of The Ten Acre Wood and the ruination of her Masque Ball fund-raiser, she couldn’t help smiling in remembrance of Hay’s kisses last night. So different, more interesting, and much more exciting than Joe’s lackluster attempts to woo her.

The tune hit a sour note in her head. Samuel Johnson-Butler, PhD. had decided to cancel the museum’s grant. No appeal. He was the absolute dictator of the committee.

Three days to come up with a drastic solution. If only Mrs. Shiregrove had come with him, she could have offered possibilities and alternatives, like matching funds.

Matching funds.

Mrs. Shiregrove lived on a five-acre estate filled with wonderfully landscaped gardens between the house and the horse pastures. Gardens that would look magical with Pixie lights strung around the hedges, with the dense perfume of roses spreading through the dry air.

Dusty reached for the phone and caught a glimpse of the red digital numerals on the stove. “Damn, it’s only five thirty. She won’t be up.”

“Who won’t be up?” Thistle asked on a yawn. Her footsteps sounded heavy and hesitant on the back stairs. She rubbed the back of her head and winced at something tender.

“Mrs. Shiregrove. What are you doing up so early? What hurts?” She reached to examine the back of her friend’s head.

Thistle shied away. “That hurts!”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” She gazed into the distance, looking as if she searched her memory, or the trees in the backyard for the source. “I couldn’t sleep.” Thistle kept her head down, her thick black tresses flowing forward to hide her face.

That was a trick Dusty had used often as a child and a teen until she decided she wanted a wash-and-go haircut last year.

“There’s a bump on the back of your head. I bet it’s bruised. What happened, Thistle?”

She shrugged and put the kettle on for tea. “I ache all over. Like maybe I’m getting that period thing you told me about.”

“You were so happy yesterday at the City Council meeting.”

“That was yesterday. Today I think I’ve grown up.”

“I’m sorry. Sometimes we need to retain a bit of our childhood attitudes and perspectives. You’ve given us all a different way of looking at things.”

“Being a Pixie is easier than being human.”

“You’re needed here now. Since you came back into my life, I’ve laughed more than I have in ages. I’ve stopped hiding in the basement so much, and I really have started looking at life a little differently.” Memories of how Hay made her blood bubble like champagne sent lovely heat to her cheeks.

Thistle flashed a small smile that almost reached her eyes. “Then I’ve been a good friend to you.”

“Yes, you have.” Dusty reached over and hugged Thistle, something she’d never done with anyone since her days of chemo when any touch hurt like fire and invited germs to invade her compromised immune system. This felt good. Special. Different from the way she felt when Hay held her, but still important.

“So why are you up so early?”

“Lots of reasons. But I may have figured out a way to save the museum, if not The Ten Acre Wood.”

“Woodland Pixies don’t change to garden Pixies overnight. What will my tribe do if we lose the trees? How will we launch our mating flights if they chop down the Patriarch Oak?” Thistle looked ready to cry.

“I don’t have an answer for that. But if woodland Pixies can make do with a garden, they’re welcome to the rest of the museum grounds. Maybe they can make a better winter shelter in the carriage shed than in a hollowed-out log.”

“Let’s eat breakfast and then go talk to Mrs. Shiregrove about your ideas. I have it on good authority that she’s an early riser. She likes to feed and groom her horses herself.” Thistle hugged Dusty back with a hint of laughter back in her voice. Laughter that chimed and started up that haunting little tune again.

Dum dee dee do dum dum.

“The Patriarch Oak…” Dusty mused. “That’s the key to this whole thing. Someone said something just the other day. I don’t remember who or what, just that it’s important.”

“Think back, slowly, picture the oak and the words that make you think of it,” Thistle coached.

“Patriarch. A big part of our history. Our heritage. That’s it!”

“What?” Thistle looked up with eyes wide and luminous. Wild swirls of color seemed to sparkle within their purple depths.

“Heritage trees! They’re special. If we can get the Patriarch Oak named a heritage tree, then it’s safe. No one, not even Phelma Jo and the mayor, can touch it. How old do you think it is? If I can find documentation that something important happened there more than one hundred years ago, then the state will protect it until it falls down on its own.”

“How fast can you make that happen?” Thistle sounded breathless with excitement.

“I’ll find out on the laptop while we have breakfast.”

“Can we have oatmeal?” Thistle asked, taking the singing teakettle off the burner and wincing at the noise.

“I was thinking of cold cereal. It’s going to be hot again today, and I didn’t feel like heating up the stove more than I have to.”

“That’s okay. It will only be ninety-eight today instead of one hundred-two.”

“Only.”

Just then, the doorbell rang.

“Who would that be at this hour?” Dusty asked, making her way to the front hall. She stood back a few steps and peered through the beveled glass oval in the top center of the door. She caught a distorted glimpse of Chase: tall, blond hair cut short, wearing the blue uniform that took his Nordic good looks and made him distinguished and authoritative.

She opened the door and peered out, leaving the security chain on, making sure her eyes hadn’t deceived her. “Chase? Why didn’t you come to the kitchen? You never use the front door.”

“I… um, Dusty, the occasion seemed a little more formal and special.” He engaged her glance with a sheepish grin.

Then she noted the dark circles under his eyes, the shadow of unshaven beard, and the wrinkles in his shirt. He looked like he hadn’t slept at all.

“Come in and have some tea and breakfast with Thistle and me.” She slid the chain off and opened the door wide in invitation.

“This needs to be said just to you. And if you want to throw me out afterward, that’s fine. If you aren’t furious with me, then a cup of coffee would be wonderful. But I need to do this now.” He stepped in beside her, hands held behind his back.

“What’s going on, Chase?” He frightened her a bit. Gone was her brother’s joking friend, the comfortable companion of her youth. Here was a strong man, all grown up, determined, and as solid as a brick wall.

Dependable, a small niggling voice tickled the back of her mind. Trustworthy.

“First off, I owe you a long overdue apology.”

“You do?”

“For breaking your music box.”

“Oh, that. I haven’t thought about that in a long time.” But she had. Every time she passed the bay window in the living room, she thought about the pink box with the twirling ballerina that danced no more and sat silent inside the window seat, hidden from the world but not from her memory.

“But you never quite forgave me for breaking it. You said you did, but I could see the pain in your eyes.”

“Oh.” So many of her emotions had changed and surged over the last week she didn’t know what she truly felt anymore.

“So, I sneaked in by the back door last night about midnight. You should lock that door by the way, Skene Falls isn’t the safe-haven small town it used to be.”

“Why did you sneak in after we were all in bed?” The fine hairs on her arms and nape bristled with a sense of violation. “You don’t live here, Chase. I don’t care how good a friend you are to Dick, this is not your home.”

“No, it’s not. And I’m sorry. But I felt this was important enough you might overlook me overstepping the bounds of politeness for the sake of friendship.” He shifted uncomfortably and brought out what he’d been hiding behind his back.

The childishly pink, broken music box.

“What?” She didn’t know what to think, how to react. Only that the sense of violation grew even stronger.

“I fixed it. Took me all night with a lot of help from Mabel’s friend. But I got it working again. And now you can dance and twirl to the strains of Für Elise again, just like you did before… before the cancer and chemo stole the sparkle from your eyes.”

Dusty took the box delicately from Chase. “Thank you. I’ll treasure it even more now that you fixed it just for me.” Dusty’s heart swelled, and a tiny crack in it healed. A tear of gratitude touched the corner of her eye.

He opened the lid while she held the sides and the little pink dancer began spinning in place on one leg.

Only the tune no longer chimed the notes of Beethoven. It played the sprightly dum dee dee do dum dum of the tune that had haunted her half the night.

“What?” Chase looked at the box as if she held an alien being. “It played Für Elise ten minutes ago when I left Mabel’s house.”

Behind them, Thistle giggled. “That’s my song. It’s Pixie music. Pixie magic.”

Dusty held her breath. For a few moments, time seemed to stop, and her balance firmed up as if she’d teetered on the edge for a long time and only now found her center. With Chase close beside her, where he belonged.

“She really is a Pixie,” Dusty said in awe.

“Told you so,” Thistle sounded hurt.

“I’m sorry I ever doubted you, my friend.”

“Friends. Now we’re all friends again. Let’s eat.” Thistle bounced back into the kitchen, happy and light again.

“Friends,” Chase said as he bent and kissed Dusty’s cheek.