Chicory Up: The Pixie Chronicles

by Irene Radford

  “There is no one else the tribe trusts. Except maybe you. And I don’t know why that is. You aren’t even a real Pixie anymore, just another human refugee running away from life. I thought we’d stopped taking those people in.”

  He shrugged his shoulders and flitted off toward the pond and the center of The Ten Acre Wood.

  A spatter of raindrops followed his path across the open clearing.

  Thistle huddled closer to her tree trunk. She needed to find shelter. That hollow log lined in cat-and-raccoon fur, with the warmth and companionship of a dozen other Pixies sounded good.

  “I’ll find my own bower. Someplace Alder won’t dare invade. He may be king of the tribe. But he’s not my king. Not anymore. And he’s not a proper king or Pixie because he doesn’t have any music.” She dropped down to ground level and began her search for sanctuary. A cold and lonely sanctuary without Dick to hold her close.

  “Thistle!” Dick called into the deep shadows of The Ten Acre Wood. From the glow of the nearest streetlight he made out the rounded shapes of sword ferns and the tall spikes of foxglove gone to seed. Beyond that, he caught vague suggestions of towering fir trees, spindly alders, and an occasional bushy maple, or maybe they were cottonwoods. He didn’t know.

  “Thistle, please come home,” Dusty pleaded from beside him.

  They both took a cautious step forward, keeping their flashlights pointed low to show the way, and to keep the glow from blinding them to small movements above ground level. Bracken ferns brushed against their legs. Dick stepped on a dry stick that cracked loudly. Dusty jumped at the sudden noise, so like the report of a gun.

  Dick wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “It’s been a long day for both of us,” he whispered. “We’ll go home soon. But we have to try this.”

  “Yes, we do. I’m okay. Just jumpy. And I think I need to stay with Chase tonight. He’s not well. Stripped of his gun and badge, he’s as alone in the wilderness as Thistle.”

  Dick nodded sharply. “I’m not the one to judge you. Let’s just hope Mom is so engaged with… with the girl she doesn’t notice you’re missing.” What if Hope truly was Sandy Langford’s daughter? What if the girl had sought him out for a reason; sought him, not shelter at Mabel’s.

  “There’s the Hanging Tree Judge Pepperidge set up for the maze.” Dusty flicked her light at the sturdy maple with a noose dangling from a branch ten feet up.

  “Look! Did you see that?” He followed a flicker of movement along the tops of the ferns. For just a second, he thought he saw a glimmer of purple reflecting the streetlight and the last of the dying sun.

  “Yes. We have to follow her.” Dusty broke away from the safety of the path. She tromped through the ground cover, heedless of blackberry vines snagging her jeans and cedar boughs slapping her face. Dick followed her toward the cliff on the west edge of the woods. A fifty-foot drop to downtown Skene Falls.

  “Careful.” Dick grabbed her hand and hauled her back. The encroaching darkness shifted his perceptions. How far away was the cliff? He heard the rush of water where the pond drained into a creek and spilled over the edge. Eons of drainage had eaten away at the volcanic rock making an inward curve in the wandering cliff.

  Dusty shone the weak beam of her flashlight in the direction they’d seen the flicker of movement.

  “That thing is so old it’s barely bright enough to show your next step.” He pointed his own flashlight higher; it illuminated a broad swath of the forest.

  Another flicker with a hint of lavender just at the perimeter of the light.

  “Thistle, please come back,” Dusty called. “You’re my friend. You can trust me.”

  The movement hovered for a few seconds.

  “Thistle, I need you,” Dick added his own plea. “I never meant to hurt you. Whatever I’ve done, I apologize. We can talk about this. Help me understand what’s wrong, please.”

  Dick held himself as still as possible, waiting, hoping his words penetrated through the walls of distrust between human and Pixie.

  “I love you, Thistle. Only you.”

  Another flicker in the light. He thought he saw something tiny move hesitantly toward them. It wound and braided a trail around the path of light, never encroaching close enough to do more than confirm to his eye that something was out there and moving closer.

  His chest ached until he released his breath and drew it back in.

  “Thistle, as your friend, I beg you, come home to us,” Dusty whispered, repeating her litany of friendship. Nothing was more sacred to a Pixie than friendship.

  Dick didn’t dare speak again. If he did, he might start crying and he wouldn’t be able to stop until he held his beloved in his arms once more.

  A faint giggle drifted through the air like tiny chimes singing to the wind. Dum dee dee do dum dum.

  Thistle’s song.

  Soon.

  Dick risked a little smile. “I love you,” he whispered. Maybe he only thought the words. He wasn’t sure.

  The flicker of lavender and green took on definition, green wings in the shape of double thistle leaves, a pouf of dark purple hair, and a tiny figure, paler than the rest of her. Something gauzy draped about her body and trailed behind her.

  Thistle, my love. Dick didn’t know if he said the words out loud or not. The pounding of his heart in his ears drowned out all other sound.

  Another lovely little giggle and a twist of Dusty’s curls lifted in the air.

  Dusty raised her hand to touch her hair. The Pixie shot up to the tree canopy.

  “Thistle, come back!” he called.

  “Idiot,” Dusty said with disgust. “She has something important to do first. She said she’d come back soon.”

  “What could be more important than us being together?”

  “The safety of her people. Freedom from Faery manipulation. Protection of this sanctuary from both humans acting under manipulation and Faeries doing the manipulating. Maybe if you thought like a Pixie and tried to stop construction of the discount store on top of a Faery hill, or found another hill for them that isn’t in The Ten Acre Wood, she’d come back to you sooner.”

  She stamped her foot and stalked back toward the lights around her museum.

  “She must honor you as a friend, Dusty. She played a trick on you.”

  “But she has work to do. Help her do that if you truly love her.”

  Twenty-nine

  “CAN I HAVE A LITTLE PRIVACY HERE?” Hope spat at Chicory. She looked away from him into the flame of a candle lantern atop the chest of drawers beside the doorway. The flame, protected by a glass chimney, held her attention longer than anything else had all day.

  Chicory back-winged until he could perch on the desktop two feet from where the girl stood in the middle of the turret attic. A single bed, with drawers beneath it snugged under one window. A cedar chest became a window seat under another. The third window at the center was really a door that led to a tiny landing. The door to the spiral staircase had long since sagged off its hinges and been moved to somewhere else in the house.

  She hadn’t bothered to turn on the overhead light, content with the softer glow of the candle.

  “I notice you chose this out-of-the-way cubby with windows on three sides with no curtains. You could have had the guest room that has only one small window covered in thick drapes and shades. I’d say you’re more interested in the view than privacy.” Chicory smirked at her.

  “There’s privacy and then there’s privacy.” Hope dropped onto the chest, propped her elbow on the windowsill, and stared out at the night. The candle reflected in the glass looked as if it was a comforting presence right beside her. Streetlights illuminated the neighborhood in dim yellow puddles of light. Thick, old trees shaded large portions of the sidewalks and yards. The moon tried to shine through the thinning clouds but couldn’t yet compete with the electric lights. Tomorrow would be clear and frosty, though. Respectable Pixies needed to be indoors, or within a snug bower by now.

&
nbsp; The kind of night when predators stalked and cats ruled.

  Chicory crossed his knees and hugged himself tight. He’d made the right decision to seek refuge inside for the winter. Even though that refuge came with the obligation to drink tea with his hostess and stay up long past his bedtime. He suppressed a yawn.

  “Why’d you run away?” he asked

  “None of your business.”

  “If you can’t tell me, an imaginary Pixie, then who are you going to tell?”

  “I thought Mrs. Carrick said that the highest calling of a Pixie is to befriend those who need a friend most. Friends don’t pry.” She flipped around to face the other direction, out of direct line of sight with Chicory.

  He flitted over to the adjacent windowsill. She didn’t have to look directly at him, but he was close enough to read her expressions.

  “Eventually, you’re going to have to tell someone where you came from and why you ran away. That’s one of the rules Mabel set up. We can’t help you unless you talk.” He mimicked her pose, elbow on knee, hand on chin, gaze on the view outside.

  A freshening wind pushed a tree branch against the windowpane. It rattled like it wanted in, along with the night predators.

  Hope jumped back, startled.

  “It’s cold out there tonight. And going to get worse as we head into winter. Stars and storms above, I’m glad I don’t have to worry about staying out of the weather and finding a hollow log that will keep me dry. Even then, logs have a tendency to leak. I hear cardboard shacks underneath bridges aren’t much better,” Chicory continued casually.

  “It’s not my fault,” Hope insisted. “Mom and I were doing just fine by ourselves. Then she had to fall in love and get married. Everything changed. She didn’t need me anymore, and he didn’t want me in the first place. I hope they’re happy.” Hope shooed him off the windowsill and threw herself down on the narrow bed.

  She couldn’t hide the trembling of her limbs. Or her chin.

  “That’s a start, Hope. We’ll talk more tomorrow. Or you can talk to Juliet. She won’t judge you. She’s one of the good guys.”

  “I’ve heard that before.” She turned toward the wall and pulled up the quilt, still fully clothed with her shoes on and her backpack between her and the wall, as if she needed to protect her few belongings from theft or to be prepared to run at a moment’s notice.

  “You’ll be more comfortable if you put on the nightie Juliet loaned you, and brush your teeth.”

  “Go away. I’m asleep.”

  “Not yet, but you will be. When you wake in the morning, all warm and safe, maybe then you’ll talk.”

  “Go away.” She turned her face to the wall, eyes clenched shut.

  Chicory giggled a bit and hummed his song: Dum dum do do dee dee dum.

  Hope breathed a little easier.

  He set his wings to a softer rhythm on a count of three. Dum du-um, do do dee, dee du-um. A nice song, that. He drifted with the music, until he almost fell asleep in mid-flight. He blew out the candle and slowly retreated down the spiral staircase to the second floor of the house and the enclosed staircase up to his own section of the attic.

  Refugees. He had to remind himself that this might feel like home already to him, but he and Hope were both refugees. Refugees running away from one home to something better. She hadn’t accepted the concept of home yet. Until she did, she’d keep running and never find more than temporary sanctuaries.

  Hesitantly, Dusty knocked on the door to Chase’s apartment. The time had come to make her own decisions and stop hiding what she truly wanted behind her shyness.

  “Who’s there?” he mumbled around a yawn.

  She sensed a shadow behind the spy hole as he peered out.

  “Dusty? What are you doing here? What’s wrong?”

  It took all of her courage to remain there and wait for him to undo deadbolts and security chains. Then he yanked the door open and gathered her into his arms, holding on to her as if his life depended on keeping her close.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked again.

  She ran a glance over him, noting sleep-heavy eyes, jeans hastily donned, bare feet and chest, and tousled blond hair. “Nothing is wrong with me,” she whispered into his chest, letting the fine hairs tickle her cheek. His warmth after the chill night in The Ten Acre Wood, his presence after witnessing Dick’s loneliness, and her love for him banished her anxiety and fear. “I… I came to check on you. To stay with you. You shouldn’t be alone right now.”

  His hands clenched onto her arms as he closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. “I’m okay. Woozy from the pain pills, still sore around the six stitches, depressed that I have that monster report to complete before I can go back to work, but my eyes are crossing and I can’t concentrate. Other than that, I’m okay. You don’t have to stay. I know you wanted to wait… But, God, it’s hard to let you go.”

  “Then don’t let go.” She shuffled her feet, manipulating them backward into the apartment without letting go.

  “Do you know what this means?”

  “Yes.” She stood on tiptoe and brushed her lips across his. “But if you need sleep more than sex, I understand. I’m prepared to sleep in the recliner. But I need to watch over you as much as you need not to be alone.”

  “I’ve felt so alone and lost. When I watched you fall after I fired my weapon, my heart nearly stopped with fear that I’d hurt you. I feel so guilty. I might have killed you.” He buried his face in her neck.

  “You didn’t hurt anyone. You did your job trying to protect historical treasures that are really only piles of rotting lumber and not worth the trouble of housing.”

  “That doesn’t change the fact that I fired my weapon at civilians.”

  “Hush, my love. I know. Neither one of us has to be alone or lost anymore. Or if we are lost, we’ll be lost together.” She kicked the door closed. “As long as I have you, I can even put up with my mother’s wedding plans. Our marriage is more important than her dream wedding.”

  Thistle shivered in the dawn light. Carefully she peeked out from beneath the leaf litter where she’d made her bed. “This will not do. I have to find a better place.”

  Would nesting with the rest of the tribe be any better? Less lonely, and warmer certainly. But she’d have to put up with Alder.

  Time to do something about that. She’d learned a few things last night when Dick and Dusty came to find her. But she hadn’t grown big again. There was something she had to do as a Pixie before she could go back.

  She quenched her thirst on some raindrops caught in the cup of a lingering foxglove blossom. She even found a few grains of pollen left inside, overlooked by hummingbirds and Pixies alike.

  A little closer to the wetlands around the pond she found a salal berry, translucent red, fully ripe, and delicious. Enough to feed her for the entire day.

  The carefree life of a Pixie filled her with a hint of joy. If it weren’t so cold. But her mind kept whirling. She needed to do something about Alder. She needed to stop Snapdragon from bringing war to the tribes. She needed to send Milkweed home or make her flatten her wings for Alder.

  That was something she could do before winter sleep overtook her. Hmmm, if she could get into the museum, Dusty would let her hide in the basket filled with yarn balls beside the electric fire in the upstairs parlor.

  But first things first. Milkweed had to make a decision. Or have one made for her. Thistle knew how to get the poufy white-and-gold Pixie moving.

  She whistled up her friend, the varied thrush. Unlike their cousins the robins, these brightly striped yellow-and-black birds hung around for the winter. The lady bird took a perch in a vine leaf maple at the edge of the clearing. The bright orange-and-yellow leaves made her look dull and drab, unnoticeable to any cats lurking below the scrubby little tree.

  Thistle smiled and stroked the bird’s soft neck feathers. “Why don’t you have a name?” she whispered.

  The bird cocked her head and chirruped someth
ing about not needing a name.

  True conversation didn’t work with birds. They’d earned the insult “birdbrained.” This one understood Thistle well enough and made her needs known. Other than that, they exchanged meaningless coos and shifts of body to indicate wants and approvals.

  Thistle continued stroking the bird as she whispered her plan.

  The bird trilled her agreement.

  Thistle smiled and flitted off to find her tribe. A wisp of white tipped with gold wandering between the Patriarch Oak and the mist above the waterfall showed her precisely where the sort-of-queen of the tribe spent her morning. Only an idiot bathed in the frigid air when she should be looking to add more clothing to keep her warm and dry.

  Milkweed shook herself dry and looked around. Morning sunlight slanting through the trees turned the mist into arcing rainbows. The delicate prisms caught in a perfectly symmetrical spiderweb strung between two slender alder trees. A big, spotted brown garden spider crouched in the middle, waiting to pounce on the first bug—or Pixie—to fall within the trap of the web.

  Milkweed dove head first toward the web, wings tucked back, billowing white hair streaking behind her. Nothing but the best silk for that queen, Thistle mused.

  She back-winged and watched the spider scuttle up the support strand as the Pixie stole her home out from under her.

  Milkweed laughed as she draped the strands over her shoulders, and around her wing base. The individual threads twined together, looping and sticking in all the right places to form an elegant gown that trailed behind her.

  It reminded Thistle of the beautiful wedding gown in the store window that Dusty so admired.

  Thistle shook off the reminder. She didn’t want Milkweed appearing the least bit bridal. She wanted her gone. For the health of the tribe, Milkweed had to go.

  A bit of breeze pushed spray from the waterfall over Milkweed. Water droplets caught on the gossamer gown. A stray shaft of sunlight made them sparkle like the diamonds in Thistle’s ring. She stared at the gems a moment in wonder. Why hadn’t she lost it when she shrank to Pixie size? It should have stayed big and fallen off her finger. It should have abandoned her.