Chicory Up: The Pixie Chronicles

by Irene Radford

  “That’s the least of our worries. I’ve got to go.” Without further ado, he ducked his head lower into the upturned collar of his coat and walked purposefully out of the park toward his beige sedan parked a block away.

  Phelma Jo sighed in relief. Done. This last chore was done and she could get on with the rest of her life. A life she hoped she’d spend more of with Ian.

  As she turned to exit in the opposite direction, toward the historic neighborhood adjacent to the museum and The Ten Acre Wood, a tall figure approached along the sidewalk.

  She’d know that long and purposeful stride anywhere. Ian had followed her. Throwing her hood back she plastered a big smile across her face. A false smile that spoke as many lies as Phelma Jo Nelson lived.

  “What was that all about?” Ian asked without preamble. He stopped directly in front of her. If she wished to flee without speaking she’d have to go around him.

  “Just some business papers that needed delivery in a hurry,” she replied keeping her smile in place. Inside, she bristled at the thought of having to explain herself to anyone. Yet she didn’t want any more secrets or lies to come between her and this handsome man.

  “I know Marcus Wallachek. His oldest son is in my Scout troop. He’s not looking to buy or sell a house,” he said flatly.

  Phelma Jo met his semi-accusation with silence.

  “He’s a social worker,” Ian continued. He sounded nervous, as if he had to fill the silence.

  “I know.”

  “Phelma Jo, what is this about? Neither one of you is likely to choose to exchange papers outside an office, let alone in this half-forgotten out-of-the-way place on a miserable day.” As if to emphasize his words the wind blew a wave of chill rain in their faces.

  “Believe it or not, I have business that must remain confidential.”

  “If you wanted confidentiality, you should have just said so. Instead, you lied to me about a dentist appointment.”

  Phelma Jo gulped. Nervousness had made her excuse less plausible than usual.

  “You wanted secrecy, not confidentiality. You lied rather than trust me with the truth.”

  “Truth!” she snarled. Anger ate at her. Anger that had propelled her through life at breakneck speed to trample the ghosts of her past.

  Or run away from them.

  Had all her lies and manipulation been driven by a need to run away rather than to prove herself to a disapproving town?

  She wouldn’t think about that. She could justify every action, every lie, every less-than-truthful scheme.

  “Well, Mister Holier-than-Thou, I just made it possible for Marcus to rescue a little girl who was beaten nearly unconscious by a man who uses ignorance as an excuse to enforce control over children with his fists. The current political climate is sympathetic toward fundamentalist Christians, so he exploits that attitude. He invents a new prayer to say for grace at each meal. Different every day, every meal. And when his foster children can’t recite that prayer—because he hasn’t made it up yet—he beats the devil of impiety out of them. Ten years ago the big campaign was to limit children’s exposure to sex and violence on TV, to get them off their fat rear ends and turn off the set. He used the excuse that I broke house rules by asking to watch television before seven thirty or after seven thirty-eight.”

  “What? No man of honor would…”

  “Wake up to reality, Mr. Eagle Scout. Not everyone has your sense of honor. Or any sense of honor. They manipulate the system. If authorities don’t believe the religious crap, he counterattacks the child’s accusations. He didn’t beat them. They tripped or came to him wounded and bruised. He was the last foster parent I had. I ran away from him. I’ve taken care of myself ever since. Not every child can manage that. So Marcus and I work with a kind of underground railroad to help teens run away from the system when it breaks. Before it breaks them.”

  “A laudable cause. But surely there must be a way to help that isn’t illegal…”

  “There isn’t. At least not that we’ve discovered.” She made to move around him. He blocked her with a hand on her shoulder.

  “Phelma Jo, there has to be a legal way, an honest way…”

  “If there was, your aunt, Mabel Gardiner, would not have started the network. One of the reasons she’s so deathly afraid you’ll tear down her house is because it is a stop along the path to freedom for the teens we help.”

  “My aunt would never do anything illegal. She’s a police dispatcher!”

  “Grow up and take off your rose-colored glasses, Ian. A lot of people break the law when they see the letter of the law becoming more important than the spirit behind the law.”

  He gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbed. Then he firmed his jaw and leveled his gaze on her. “Phelma Jo, I don’t know if I can continue seeing you as long as you take this view of life.”

  “Fine. You either accept me for who I am, or you get lost. So get lost.” She pushed him aside and marched across the street, making a point of avoiding the clearly marked crosswalk. Cheap plastic scarecrows, tied to signposts, mocked her as the wind made them wave, their lopsided grins making fun of her tears that threatened to join the rain splashing her face.

  Nineteen

  CHASE PAUSED AT THE EDGE of The Ten Acre Wood in his afternoon patrol. Today’s drizzle was uncomfortable. But he had a waterproof jacket and plastic cap protector. His boots would serve him in a foot of snow. Driving a cruiser around town couldn’t replace the more intimate contact of foot patrol. No need to watch for traffic while seeking out potential risky behavior. No need to worry about parking the vehicle and securing it before giving chase on foot.

  Normally he loved walking the streets of Skene Falls in any weather, checking on citizens, watching for vandals, and doing his best to keep his town a little safer. A little neater!

  In the last week he’d spotted more than the usual amount of suspicious behavior: teens out of school, cars driving slowly along the same residential streets repeatedly, drunks staggering out of bars and into their cars, and Halloween decorations torn out of yards and dumped elsewhere. Dumped here.

  A pile of junk lay heaped in the roadside ditch. Halloween decorations stolen from neighboring yards.

  Before Mabel got sick, her Pixies reported such things early and he was able to avert crimes before they started, mostly just by making his uniformed presence known.

  He’d also rousted three illegal homeless camps in the Wood in as many days.

  Today he need go only as far as the drainage ditch. He counted a sodden witch cutout, at least six strings of green-and-orange lights, sheaves of leaves tied with orange and black ribbons—now also drenched beyond usefulness—and three of the ubiquitous scarecrows. The Pixies weren’t doing their job.

  “Norton to dispatch,” he called into his shoulder mike.

  “Skene County sheriff’s office,” came the anonymous male reply.

  Damn, he wanted to hear Mabel’s friendly banter. But until she recovered, or the chief hired a new dispatcher, they had to make do with part-timers and backup from the county.

  “Dispatch, I’ve got a pile of refuse discarded from the latest vandalism reports. There’s too much for me to carry back to the station for matching with lost items. Can you send a cruiser with a forensics tech? We might get a fingerprint or two.” He gave directions.

  “Officer Johnson is on the way. ETA three minutes.” The voice was so bored and monotone it might have been a recording.

  Johnson was okay. Young and in need of experience, but dedicated. “I’ll be right here unless something comes up.”

  While he waited, his mind wandered to happier times in his youth. A grin spread across his face in fond memories of the adventures he and Dick had invented deep within the forest shadows. The best parts of his life, including the first kiss he shared with Dusty, had been spent in and around the wood.

  Lately not so much, what with the fire last August, the homeless camps, and now this pile of yard decorations ruined by
rain, and it looked like spray paint on the witch and scarecrows. The woods drooped today as if in sympathetic sadness. Cedar limbs, heavy with rainfall and coming winter, sagged nearly to the ground. The greens and browns of mixed evergreen and hardwood blended together in a uniform blanket. A few bright red-and-gold leaves clung to maple trees, granting a brief reminder of the vibrant life within the wood that would burst forth again come spring.

  Generations of children had played here. Some had befriended the Pixies who dwelled near the pond. Some, like himself, had not discovered the magic until later.

  He was glad now that knowledge of Pixie had come to him at last. He had a new appreciation of life, of the value of friendship, and of the magic that existed under every green leaf, in the blue of the sky, of refreshing rain, and of the love of his life. Dusty.

  “Soon, Dusty. Soon you will be my wife and I won’t have to say good-bye at the end of the evening, only good night.”

  About that time Johnson arrived, alone without a tech. Together, they donned latex gloves and loaded the mess onto a tarp in the back seat. Johnson drove off. They’d exchanged perhaps six sad words about the bad attitude in the neighborhood.

  Chase walked on, following the gravel road to the dead end at the edge of the cliff and the foot path that curved across a vacant lot to the historic neighborhood. A sigh escaped him as his mind spun with daydreams of spending the rest of his life with Dusty, raising a bevy of adopted children with her, of Scouts, school plays, and dozens of other activities.

  A sting grazed his cheek. He slapped at it instinctively. His fingers came away wet with blood. Ducking and seeking the source, his free hand leaped to loosen his weapon from its holster.

  No gun report, screams, or pounding feet.

  What?

  More warm blood trickled down his cheek toward his jaw. Another quick swipe with his hand revealed a long gash across his cheekbone, nearly to the ear. He might need stitches. After he found the culprit.

  Another long sting across the back of his hand followed by a blur of yellowish movement. With reflexes honed by seven years on the force, martial arts, and weapons training, Chase grabbed at the blur.

  Something soft fluttered against his palm and closed fingers.

  He watched as a hawthorn spike flashed between his fingers. Thistle had been jabbed in the hand with a hawthorn spike several days ago. Mrs. Spencer’s tree—er—shrub had been stripped of thorns.

  “And who do I have here?” He raised his closed fist and peered at the tiny green boots kicking against his wrist. Yellow legs seemed to stop abruptly at the line of his fingernails.

  “Lemme out!” came a high-pitched whine, akin to a mosquito buzz.

  “Wrong time of year for mosquitoes, or much insect life at all. Not enough sun to attract the last of the dragonflies. So you must hail from Pixie,” Chase mused.

  “You can’t see me. You can’t hear me,” the tiny voice chanted. A bit of glittering yellow pollen, that was probably Pixie dust, drifted around Chase’s fist.

  “Oh, but I can see you and hear you. And I know just what to do with you. The Murphys’ three cats are getting fat and lazy. They need someone like you to chase.”

  “Lemme go. Please. He’ll kill me if I don’t show up for muster. He’s worse than those three cats combined!”

  Muster? That was an odd sounding word from a Pixie.

  “Who will kill you and how? I’m an officer of the law, sworn to protect all the citizens of Skene Falls. Including Pixies.” Anxiety began to play lawn bowling in his middle. He didn’t like the sound of this at all.

  Show up for muster. That was a military phrase. “I can’t imagine any Pixie with enough self-discipline to join an army. You guys are supposed to be more interested in fun, practical jokes, and friendship. Friendship that keeps you on the lookout for crime before it happens.” Chase opened his hand just enough to grab a green sawtooth wing with two fingertips. The rest of the little fellow was all garbed in yellow, including a cap made of long slender petals. A dandelion.

  “Well, Snapdragon has other ideas. And he’s going to be really mad. He may throw my brothers into the cellar if I don’t show up on time.” The yellow Pixie shivered all over.

  “Cellars are not good for Pixies.” Chase shared Dandelion’s chill. “But how can he throw you anywhere you don’t want to go?” Chase remembered Alder throwing Thistle out of Pixie altogether. But that was different.

  “He’s bigger’n any Pixie I’ve ever heard about in legend and lore. And he’s mean. Mean as a ground wasp. And he’s not from around here, but he’s in charge somehow.”

  “What’s your tribe, Dandelion? I’ll fix it so you can go home, safely.”

  “I used to sort of belong to Mabel. At least she sent me places to listen to you humans blather on and on and on about nothing. Mabel thought it was important, so I listened. But Mabel isn’t around anymore. Maybe not coming home ever. And this guy Snapdragon saunters in, cozies up to our Queen Rosie, and now he’s fighting this war against anything that goes into or comes out of The Ten Acre Wood.”

  “I thought Rosie was betrothed to Hay, from the valley tribes.” Chase tried to puzzle through the complex relationships Thistle had explained to him. He got lost about the time Alder signed a marriage treaty with Milkweed, Hay’s sister. Only Alder had taken Thistle on a mating flight the day before the wedding. Only…

  He shook his head in bewilderment.

  “Thistle says that the first rule of Pixie is that you don’t play tricks on other Pixies. That’s what humans are for.”

  “This war is not about pranks. Snapdragon threw Chicory into the cellar two nights ago and no one’s seen him since. Daisy cried herself to sleep. Pixies don’t cry.”

  “Chicory? The sarcastic blue guy who helped me fix Dusty’s music box last summer? Chicory, the guy who helped Thistle’s friends tickle the clouds and bring us much needed rain to fight the fire in The Ten Acre Wood?”

  “Yeah, that Chicory. He was a good guy. We all liked him. Wish he could kick Rosie off her pink rose and become king.”

  “Somehow I don’t think that will get rid of Snapdragon. What does he look like?”

  “Like a snapdragon. Big, bloated, yellow with ugly red spots that look like they’re eating his wings. Only they can’t ’cause he can fly faster and farther than any of us. Gotta have whole wings to gather that much air. He makes us practice with our hawthorn swords by stabbing at his wings. I’m terrible at it. He moves so fast I can’t see where to strike.”

  “I haven’t heard about this Pixie before. How come?” But it sounded a lot like the description of a huge dragonfly witnesses said caused the big accident on the freeway.

  “Dunno. Let me go, please. Before he gets even madder than he already is.” Dandelion opened his eyes wide and turned on a winsome expression that tugged at Chase’s heart.

  “I don’t think I should let you help this guy.”

  “But… but… but my brothers?”

  “What are your brothers’ names?”

  “Dandelion. We’re all named Dandelion. Every tribe has a least a dozen of us hanging around the edges, getting in the way. So many of us you can’t walk without tripping over us. We’re hardy and good breeders. In winter we’re the ones sent out of the nest for food, ’cause the cold doesn’t hurt us until it’s cold enough to snow.” He puffed out his chest with pride.

  “Ah.” Chase smiled. That described dandelions perfectly. “If there are so many of you, then Snapdragon isn’t likely to miss just one.” And if they bred like weeds, two more would pop up for every one that got pulled.

  “Um… hadn’t thought about that.”

  “Do you know where Dusty lives?” Chase asked, an idea brightening his mind.

  “Yeah, big pretty pink house with a porch that wraps nearly all the way around it?”

  “That’s the one, only I wouldn’t call the pink pretty. It’s a bit garish for my taste.” Harem pink with purple-and-green trim that was supposed to
complement each other and look Victorian but somehow clashed. Juliet Carrick missed the boat on color combinations.

  Dandelion giggled. “That’s what I think, but I’m not supposed to say so. Rosie likes those colors.”

  Chase opened his hand, letting the Pixie stand on his palm, no longer restrained.

  “Well, I want you to gather your brothers and as many of the others as you can and go hide at Dusty’s house. I don’t think there are any Pixies living there and the family could use some help with the garden.”

  “You mean it? Our own place?”

  “Yeah. But you have to continue spying on the town and report back to me. I need to know what’s going on before people get hurt.”

  “You mean like them?” Dandelion pointed toward three boys in the twelve-to-fifteen-year-old range sauntering down the gravel road toward the museum from The Ten Acre Wood. Each had a cigarette dangling from his mouth, and they all flicked disposable lighters on and off with their thumbs.

  As Chase watched, they angled their steps toward the carriage barn, open on the south side and filled with antique wagons and carriages, all made of old, dry, and very flammable wood.

  Chase didn’t recognize any of the boys from the local school.

  “Yeah. Like them. Now go weaken Snapdragon’s army and take refuge at Dusty’s.” Chase watched the Pixie flap his wings with strength and energy as he rose up and took flight on an arrow-straight path toward the forest.

  Chase followed at an oblique angle to intercept the hoodlums. They all had a strange dust clinging to their wet hair and shoulders. He’d noticed a similar dust coating the first car in line at the multi vehicle pileup. It looked like rusted gold. Only gold did not rust.

  Twenty

  A FLICKER OF MOVEMENT OUTSIDE caught Dusty’s attention. She used her pioneer costume apron (the afternoon had filled the museum with groups of older tourists and she’d changed to accommodate them) to clear her glasses of dust specks. Glasses repositioned on her nose, she squinted to look out the upstairs bedroom window that faced north, toward the carriage barn and the wall of trees behind it that marked The Ten Acre Wood. Three boys in their early teens marched toward the barn from the gravel road. Each held a disposable cigarette lighter in front of him with a straight arm. Their stance reminded her of the flag bearers in the Olympic Parade of Nations.