Thistle Down

Thirty-two

THE HOT AND HUMID NIGHT AIR pressed upon Dusty like a thick wet blanket, robbing her of breath and will. Few would sleep tonight in this uncomfortable, swampy air. She fought to take a deep breath before kneeling beside the broken rhododendron.

With all the timbermen in jail after this afternoon’s brawl, she had little hope of them restoring the damage their machines had caused. Someone had to fix as much as possible.

At least she’d gotten her park back for the Ball.

Carefully, she trimmed a bent branch, then sat back on her heels to see if she’d cut enough or too much.

The shrub seemed to bounce back and shiver, almost as if it felt a relief with the amputation.

“Wish I could recover so quickly,” she murmured.

“Why can’t you?” Thistle asked from behind her. Dusty didn’t bother to turn around. She couldn’t face her friend with tears streaking her cheeks and turning her eyes a miserable red. “Violence has never been a part of my life. It defines Chase’s job. Joe made me think about having to get used to that,” she admitted.

Thistle sat cross-legged on the grass on the other side of the rhodie. She trimmed the ragged end of a branch that had broken off. “Since Pixies set up marriage treaties and made the Patriarch Oak neutral ground, we haven’t seen much violence either.”

“But now Alder has closed off the Patriarch,” Dusty said. “A war could develop if he doesn’t come to his senses soon.”

“Yeah. He’s stupid. A great lover, but stupid, untrustworthy, a liar, and a cheat. Unless… Maybe he has a motive he’s keeping secret.” Thistle bent her head, hiding her face behind her hair.

“Do you still love him?”

Thistle studied the grass in silence for a long moment. “Sort of. I mean that mating flight was fantastic. Not just because of the best sex ever. Because of the mutual trust. We had a glowing aura. Everyone saw it and was amazed. That rarely happens.”

“What are you going to do about it?” Dusty asked. She moved over to a patch of mums just coming into bloom. Half of them lay dead, their promise of autumnal rust-and-orange blossoms stripped away.

If the fall flowers died, did that mean summer would never end? She hoped not. She’d had enough of the heat.

“I don’t know what to do about Alder. I have to think about Dick, too. I think if he and I ever had a mating flight, it would be even more spectacular. That’s not likely to happen. There isn’t a lot I can do about Alder in this big body,” Thistle said quietly. She looked longingly at the twilight shadows at the edge of The Ten Acre Wood. So close and yet so far away.

“If the barrier prevented you from getting into the wood, that must mean you are still a Pixie, in heart and spirit if not in body,” Dusty reassured her.

“Maybe.” Another stretch of silence as they worked to restore some of the damage. The lawn was a hopeless cause. But the flowers? Could even Pixie magic bring life back from the vandalism?

“What are you going to do about Chase?” Thistle asked suddenly.

“I don’t know. Something. I’m not sure what.”

“I expected to find you underground, hiding from reality,” Thistle said cautiously. Under her nimble fingers, three sword ferns resumed their upright posture. She squirted them with a mist of water from a little spray bottle she’d stored in her pocket.

“May I try some of that water on the mums? Some of them might revive if I put the roots back into the ground and give them a good drink,” Dusty mused.

“I’ll get the hose.” Thistle rose in a series of jerks and pauses, testing each motion before continuing. When she stood upright, she ambled off to the back of the building. She dragged the long, unfolding coil behind her like a pet snake.

“Hey,” Dusty yelled as a spray of cold water filled the air around her.

Thistle laughed as she pulled the nozzle trigger, spraying Dusty as much as the flower bed.

Dusty laughed, too, lunging to grab control of the hose.

Thistle giggled and ran away, carrying the hose with her. As Dusty got close, she turned and sprayed water again.

Dusty stooped and grabbed the hose, yanking it away from Thistle. “Turnabout is fair play!” she proclaimed as she drenched her friend.

Instead of running, Thistle spun, raising her arms high in pure joy. She looked like the little pink ballerina in the music box. Change the tutu from pink to lavender.

Dusty dropped the hose and spun in her own delighted dance. She hadn’t danced, really danced free and unfettered for the sheer joy of dancing, since the leukemia diagnosis.

Should she count the dances with Chase at the Old Mill last Friday night? His arms had held her captive and awestruck. But she’d danced, and gloried in his embrace and the movement.

“So what are you going to do about Chase?” Thistle asked again when they staggered with dizziness.

“I thought you wanted me to be with Joe.”

“At first I did. Joe needs a mate. But he’s acting out of desperation, not love.”

“He’s still in love with Monica.”

“Maybe so. The girls are excited about seeing their mom again-outside the courtroom.”

“You’ve been babysitting them a lot lately.”

“Some. Does Chase frighten you?”

“Not Chase. But his job…”

“Chase isn’t his job.”

“But.… but… you’re right.” Dusty hung her head and moved on to another drooping rhododendron. “I have to do something, don’t I? I can’t hide, waiting for someone else to solve this problem.”

“Nope.”

Dusty took a deep breath. “I’ll think of something.” She looked around at the grounds. “It’s getting too dark to see what we’re doing. Let’s go find some dinner.”

“Pizza?”

“If you want. We’ll order in.”

“Chase will be down at the Old Mill.”

“I’m not ready. I have to think through what I need to say to him so that I don’t run away again and ruin everything.”

Thistle blew the new whistle Dick had given her to go along with the bright yellow hard hat with the big F on the front. “Snug those floor panels up tight,” she called to the three burly men who carried a four-foot-square section of dance floor from a flatbed truck across the grass. Mabel had brought them to the museum grounds among the first volunteers for the setup for the Ball tomorrow night. The three all wore jeans and plaid shirts and looked amazingly similar with the same straight brown hair, tanned skin, and broad, broad shoulders.

She almost drooled over them but caught sight of Dick working his way among the dozen or so men and women unloading the flatbed truck so it could return to the mini storage for more supplies. His lithe body and self-assurance quelled all of Thistle’s interest in other men.

“We don’t want any dancers tripping on the seams tomorrow night,” Thistle said to the burly workers.

“Why not?” the tallest of the three asked with a wide grin that didn’t show any teeth. A Pixie grin. For a Pixie to show teeth was an act of serious aggression.

“Because that will be bad for the fund-raiser,” Thistle explained patiently, though she also wanted to grin at the idea of tripping up some of the extravagantly costumed guests tomorrow night. She could almost imagine ladies’ hoop skirts flying overhead revealing bloomers and gentlemen losing their top hats only to recover them later decorated by Pixies in bright feathers and flowers.

“If it helps Dusty, then we’ll do as you say,” a second man said on a shrug. He almost dropped his corner of the heavy floor section. His foot had already trampled a rhododendron she and Dusty had healed last night. She didn’t want to think about what he might have done to the silver herbs at the edge of the knot garden.

She didn’t know the name of the low plant; it wasn’t native.

The yellow monster machine still sat at the edge of the tree line. Its treads had carved long tracks in the lawn.

“Mabel said we have to obey you because it helps Dusty,” the second man said.

“Nice hat,” Dick whispered in her ear as he wandered past with a loop of Pixie lights strung over his shoulder. “I’m going to string these around the covered wagon, and maybe that CAT-decorate it if I can’t move it. Then I’ve got to go back to work. Will you keep an eye on Dusty? She didn’t look well this morning.”

“I noticed the circles under her eyes were as heavy and leaden as the air. I’ve seen storm-drenched rose blossoms stand taller,” Thistle replied. She worried about her friend. They’d laughed and played last night. But in the dark hours before dawn, Thistle had heard her crying.

“Maybe it’s just the weather. There’s a thunderhead growing in the southeast.” She paused to sniff the air. “I don’t think it will reach the valley anytime soon. The mountains will get rain tonight, though.”

“What’s wrong with Dusty?” Mabel’s three laborers asked in unison. They dropped the floor section, further damaging the gouged grass beside the broken rhodie.

“Mabel told us to help Dusty,” the leader said.

Something about his belligerent posture triggered a memory in Thistle. The directionless light cast no shadows or highlights to give her clues.

But…

“Chicory? Is that you?”

“Yeah, what of it?”

“Why are you and your brothers here?” Now that she put an identity to Chicory, she recognized Delph and Aster quite clearly. Their human disguises were good but, to Pixie senses, only a thin gloss of magic.

“We told you, Mabel said we had to help Dusty.”

“Why is Mabel suddenly so concerned about Dusty?”

Chicory shrugged. “Don’t know, but that’s the only reason we’re taking orders from the likes of you.”

“I don’t think Mabel is as healthy as she pretends,” Aster whispered shyly.

“She doesn’t have any children to help her with the garden,” Chicory remarked. “That’s why she gave our tribe safe haven there.”

“Her nephew wants her to sell the house and grounds to a developer who will break it up into smaller lots,” Delph added.

“We think Mabel’s decided to cultivate Dusty ’cause she knows Dusty won’t let anything bad happen to us and the garden.”

“Not like what’s happening to your tribe, Thistle,” Chicory snickered. “Falling apart because Alder got selfish about the Patriarch Oak.”

“Alder’s got a lot to answer for, I admit,” Thistle agreed. “Maybe not as much as you think.”

“Might as well cut it down, since he won’t let anyone use it but himself. And rumor has it he’s using it a lot, with every female except his chosen queen,” Delph added with a knowing glance at Thistle.

“Hmmm…” New thoughts circled around Thistle’s mind. They made her eyes ache in the glare of light in the thick air. Pixies weren’t supposed to think about the future, make plans, or see anything beyond the next trick. “How can rumors have any basis in truth when no Pixie can get in or out to verify them?”

“Ever since the night the policeman came over and asked our help in repairing an old music box, Mabel has been keen on Dusty,” Chicory changed the subject. His eyes crossed as if he had a headache from too much thinking.

“Music box! That’s it.”

Reluctantly, she pulled off the beloved hard hat and lifted the whistle lanyard over her head. “I think that since the Patriarch Oak belongs to all Pixies, not just Alder, we need to make sure no one tribe is responsible for the tree. No one king should have the right to close off the entire Ten Acre Wood to all Pixies.”

“Huh?” Chicory looked dumbfounded.

Good. Make him think. Pixies needed to think more in order to protect themselves and their territories from greedy and mind-blind humans.

And greedy, uppity, cowardly Faeries.

“What if my tribe moved to a smaller section of The Ten Acre Wood, leaving the Patriarch Oak open to all, and the responsibility of all? It needs to go back to being neutral territory.” She looked around at the men.

“I don’t know. We’ve never done things like that before…” Aster mused.

Thistle turned to talk to him directly. He seemed more capable of working his mind around new ideas than his brothers.

“Think about it! Think about ending the territory wars among Pixies. Think about kingship being more than privilege. We should all work together for the benefit of all. Build up our strength so that Faeries can’t exploit us any more than humans can. And our best bet for preserving the Patriarch Oak is to keep Dusty working at the museum and overseeing the welfare of The Ten Acre Wood.”

“Maybe that’s why Mabel is suddenly so fond of Dusty!” Delph added. “Mabel’s not sick at all, she’s just looking out for us.”

Chicory snorted at that. But he didn’t say anything to dash his brother’s hopes.

“Look, you guys are gardeners,” Thistle said, handing the whistle and hard hat to Aster. “You guys take charge and make sure these plants get help and the grass is repaired while the humans set up for the Ball. I’m going to go see what kind of help Dusty needs to make sure she continues as guardian of our tree.”

She turned and strode sprightly toward Dusty inside the museum, whistling her song. “Dum dee dee do dum dum.”