Chicory Up: The Pixie Chronicles

by Irene Radford

  “Chase, I…”

  “Just close your eyes and visualize a white board with all your committees listed and tasks assigned to each. Draw arrows in your mind connecting things,” he said quietly.

  “I need a board…”

  “No, you don’t,” Phelma Jo snorted. “You’re the smartest person in the room. You can keep all of it in your head and still have space for historical anecdotes and Shakespearean quotes. Stop thinking about what you can’t do and do it!”

  Chase nodded slightly in her direction. She tossed him a grimace, complete with rolled eyes, and flounced back to a chair in the center of the first row. Slowly the crowd joined her, putting a bit of order into the unruly group.

  “Who has the phone number of the school board chair?” Dusty asked quietly.

  “I do,” Digger Ledbetter said, pulling out his cell phone.

  She closed her eyes. Chase watched her eyelids twitch as if in REM sleep, or reading the virtual white board printed on the inside.

  “Digger, please call and politely request the use of the gym and the auditorium all day Saturday for our static parade. We’ll discuss fees later when we have time.”

  “I’ll get him to waive the fees.” George Pepperidge held out his hand for Digger’s phone to complete that chore.

  “Reverend Tilbury,” Dusty continued, eyes still closed. Damn, she remembered everyone in the room. “Is the basement of the Episcopal Church available for the craft fair? You’re right next to the school, so visitors can visit both without moving their cars from the downtown plaza to the high school. I’m sure we can arrange some kind of donation…”

  “Any rental fees will be donated to the clinic fund,” the pastor said. “I’ll make sure the basement is available. The kitchen, too.”

  “Impressive,” George said to Chase.

  “Yes, she is. When we break through the habits of shyness. She combines her mother’s talent for organization with her own subtle, but diplomatically correct vulnerability, which makes people want to help.”

  “No, I meant you, Sergeant Norton.”

  “Huh?”

  “You saw what needed to be done and did it. And you did it correctly because you know the people of this town and what is right for them.”

  “Part of my job. Which I can’t do right now because of the administrative leave thing.”

  “What would you say if I appointed you to the vacancy on the City Council that will occur when I move from this seat to the mayor’s place?”

  “I’d say there are better candidates. I’m not ready.”

  “What other candidates?”

  Chase looked around the room where most of the town’s movers and shakers had gathered. “Digger Ledbetter. But he’ll probably turn you down. He prefers digging news out of the murk of city life. Phelma Jo comes to mind.”

  “Hmphf,” George snorted. “She’ll run against me in four years.”

  “She’ll run against you in four years anyway. Why not learn to work with her and let her learn that running a town is hard work, and compromises are more efficient than bulldozing her way through the issues. That she has to lead, not control.”

  “Something to think about. Now, about your job…”

  “A job I can’t do from a desk. Especially during the All Hallows Festival. We’ve got something vicious running around town stabbing innocents. I need to be out on patrol, protecting our people.”

  “Yes, you do. I suggest you return to your desk and complete as much paperwork as possible today. Then report to the review committee at nine tomorrow morning. Be prepared to defend your actions.”

  “Sir?” Hope filled Chase’s chest. He’d finished the monster report this morning. Dusty had given him release from his pain and energized his thoughts back into coherency.

  “Phelma Jo has taught me that sometimes a bulldozer is the right tool for the job.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Oh, and have you heard the rumor that Lieutenant Ledbetter, Digger’s smarter older brother, has applied for a better paying job with the State Police?”

  “Um…”

  “Of course, you’ve heard. Nothing remains secret for long in this town.”

  Chase smiled and nodded rather than admit to anything. There were secrets and then there were secrets.

  “You will take the lieutenant’s exam on November second. That’s an order. I expect you to pass and be in line for promotion when the opportunity arises.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’re going to need the pay raise. Dusty looks like a high maintenance kind of woman.”

  “Not as much as her mother.”

  “Got that right. I figured that out when she was sixteen and I mistakenly asked her to the senior prom.” He rose and left the room on a chuckle. He paused at the back door. “Oh, and for the next couple of hours your job is to make sure Dusty is safe, happy, and not overwhelmed with people so she can get her job of saving All Hallows done right.”

  “On it, sir.” The best job in the world.

  “Then catch up on your paperwork. Stay up all night if you have to. We’re going to need you on the street after that. I have a funny feeling something weird is going to happen.”

  “Who ever heard of a static parade?” Phelma Jo complained, three seconds after Chase left Dusty at the empty high school gymnasium. Phelma Jo got there first, not having to deal with sixteen people trying to delay her with repetitive questions.

  Dusty figured now that Chase had removed her from the press of the populace he’d completed his duty to protect her.

  She took four rolls of black-and-orange crepe paper streamers from Phelma Jo. “You heard about my static parade back in the town meeting when I introduced the idea.”

  “This town doesn’t do well with new ideas.”

  “Tradition is good. It binds us as a community. But there are times when we have to adapt to a changing world around us.”

  “I suppose. You’re the expert on tradition and history.”

  “How many times in the last twenty years, because of rain, has the All Hallows Parade been delayed or so poorly attended it was barely worth the fuel for the trucks. No rain in the gym. Voila, we have the parade and guarantee you won’t need an umbrella to view it.” Dusty swept her arms to include the big room.

  “Unless the roof springs a leak,” Phelma Jo reminded her. “A new roof is on the budget for next year.”

  “I won’t let it leak this weekend,” Dusty said firmly. She wondered if Pixie magic could hold off the rain as easily as they tickled clouds to release some when the town badly needed it to help quench the fire Phelma Jo had started in The Ten Acre Wood.

  A chill breeze erupted from the back doors of the gym as the janitor came in with a rolling cart piled high with tarps. Dusty remembered that the Pixies were heading indoors, getting ready to hibernate, not play pranks with the weather.

  Phelma Jo giggled. “I don’t think you have much to say about whether it rains or not.”

  “The principal assured me the tarps are to protect the floor from the displays and thousands of tromping feet, not from a leaking roof.” Dusty flounced deeper into the room, assessing dimensions.

  “If you say so,” Phelma Jo grumbled. “How’d I get roped into helping you?”

  “George Pepperidge volunteered you.” Dusty studied the echoing space. With the bleachers rolled back and the basketball hoops retracted, she had a lot of room to work with. “Do you think there’s enough room for all the floats if we organize it like a maze and people wander up and down aisles like streets marked with paper ghost cutouts?”

  “Or yellow bricks. How am I supposed to know?” Phelma Jo looked at the four rolls of streamers left in her hands. “I haven’t the foggiest idea about how to do this. You’d be better off with Thistle. Or your mother.”

  “But you are good at keeping people on topic and delegating chores.” Dusty decided she needed a map. She liked maps, especially old ones. Maps contained a lot of informatio
n if you knew how to dig them out.

  “So are you, if you can do it all by email. We haven’t time to wait for email and responses and endless ‘thank yous’ and ‘will dos’ before people finally sign off and do the job.” A tiny smile touched the corners of Phelma Jo’s lips. A little moment of agreement. Maybe they wouldn’t make it all the way back to friendship, but they traveled toward companionship.

  “So, Phelma Jo, find someone with a measuring tape. A big industrial-sized one. I need to know the precise dimensions of this place and the size of every display that would have been on a flatbed truck but will now be on the floor.”

  “That I can do.” Phelma Jo whipped out her phone and flipped through the touch screen. “I don’t want to work with him. Hell, I don’t even want to talk to him. But he’s the person you need right now.” Then she spoke into the phone. “Ian, you wanted to get more involved in the community. I have the job for you. High school, now. Bring your tape measure, graph paper, and a hard hat. Report to Dusty.” She hung up abruptly.

  “Phelma Jo, I appreciate your help, but why are you being so cooperative?”

  “I’m not sure. But it feels like the right thing to do.”

  An hour later Dusty blinked at the efficient map she and Ian had pieced together. Sixteen pieces of graph paper taped together spread across the floor. “It’s beautiful and efficient, but we cannot, as in ever, put the first missionaries next to the brothel,” she said, stepping away from the map and the man who had come to her rescue.

  Phelma Jo had introduced him and then carefully backed off to the side, making phone calls and keeping tabs on the people coming and going, and what they dumped here in preparation for the setup tomorrow afternoon. Not once did she look at the handsome redhead. He very carefully avoided looking at Phelma Jo’s station by the exterior door. She said she had a better signal there. He feigned disinterest with anything but the map and his measurements.

  Dusty appreciated his precision in measurement and ability to reduce numbers to diagrams on the graph paper. He didn’t have a lot of imagination and tended to see things in black and white with no shades of gray, but he was bright and witty and knew the town.

  “The brothel was here first,” Phelma Jo called as she slid her phone shut once more. “Madame Bethany’s was well established as a place of entertainment, fence for stolen goods, and a Shanghai holding cell three years before the first missionary set foot in town. Seems to me the leader of the missionaries was her best customer.”

  “That may be true. But we can’t put them next to each other in a public parade. This town doesn’t do very well with subtle,” Dusty said.

  “But that is the most efficient use of space!” Ian protested. “And chronologically…”

  “Ever hear of political correctness?” Dusty asked sarcastically.

  “He lives by political correctness, even when it’s hypocritical,” Phelma Jo spat.

  “Political correctness tries to soothe clashing opinions. As such, I see your point, Dusty. But there is no other logical place to put the missionaries. Their exhibit is small, just the right size to tuck in here beside the saloon and its sprawling annex.” He blushed at the reference to the illegal portions of the bar’s trade.

  “How about if we trade the Boy Scouts with the brothel?” Dusty mused, looking for smaller exhibits—the ones designed for pickups instead of flatbeds.

  “Now that is funny,” Phelma Jo said, finally deigning to wander over and actually look at the map. “Next you’ll want to include a tribe of Pixies in the parade.”

  “Pixies, if I dared include them, would fit better flying around from exhibit to exhibit rearranging the decorations and untying aprons and shoelaces,” Dusty said. But that was an idea. She could get the elementary school children involved. Thistle could organize the pranks. She was good with children…

  But Thistle was missing. And Dusty didn’t have time to entice her home.

  Ian carefully averted his eyes away from Phelma Jo.

  Dusty took another step back and looked at her two companions. She didn’t need Thistle’s magic to see how the two sparked off each other. Their energy was definitely trying to connect, but something kept the sparks from jumping the gaps.

  Their gazes locked for half a heartbeat.

  “I’m out of here. I’ve wasted enough time and need to get back to work.” Phelma Jo averted her eyes from Ian.

  Running away, Dusty thought. Just as Thistle and Hope had run away. And Mom. Mom used Shakespeare to avoid dealing with unpleasant reality. And Dad had run away to another university rather than deal with Mom. Then there was Mabel, running away from her family rather than face the possibility that her beloved home, a sanctuary for Pixies and runaway teens, might not be perfect.

  Dusty had run away to the basement too many times. At least now she was trying not to.

  Did she have the courage to try and stop the pattern in those around her?

  “My eyes are crossing from looking at the map. I need a break,” Dusty said, more like thinking out loud. “I haven’t visited Mabel yet today. Ian, do you want to come with me?”

  “Dusty,” Phelma Jo said, warning clear in her voice. “We have to respect Mabel’s wishes. She doesn’t want to see anyone but you and Chase, and maybe me.”

  “I don’t think Mabel is thinking clearly. She needs to connect with her family. But that’s something you don’t have a lot of experience with.”

  Anger flushed Phelma Jo’s face.

  “Think about it, Phelma Jo. There was a time, before I screwed things up between us, when you pretended to be my sister. You wanted family so desperately you practically lived at my house. I’m sorry we lost that closeness. But surely you must see that family is what Mabel needs right now.”

  “I—I’d like to see my aunt,” Ian said. “I’ve tried several times, but she closes her door to me.”

  “Well, I know how to open it. Come along. Phelma Jo, if you want, you can come, too.”

  “No way. You aren’t my family, and neither is Mabel. I have work to do. Maybe I’ll see you around. Maybe I’m done with being a good citizen. Let the Eagle Scout take up the slack.” She flounced out the door across the gym to the interior corridor. Running away, even if she did it slowly enough to be called back.

  Thirty-two

  THISTLE ROSE UP TO HOVER beside Milkweed where she basked in the fitful sunlight on a flat rock beside the pond. Most of the tribe flitted about collecting pollen and berries and seeds to hoard for the winter. The little ones gathered soft moss and shed animal hairs to line the nest. Milkweed did nothing to enhance the tribe or work with them. Neither did Alder.

  “Alder, tell your bride why the Old Faery really chose you to be king?” Thistle called out so that all could hear her. Now that she looked for signs of Faery blood in Alder, she saw that he stood half a hand taller than she. His magical power pulsed through him, almost visibly stronger than any Pixie. Had it come to him simply by claiming kingship, or had it been there all along, carefully hidden and controlled?

  “What is she talking about, Alder? We both know she’s full of Faery lies,” Milkweed protested.

  “Faery lies. That explains a lot, doesn’t it, Alder?” Thistle said.

  “I don’t know what you are saying. Perhaps the cold from sleeping alone, too close to the Earth, has addled your thinking.” Alder dismissed her with a gesture.

  “Look at his aura, Milkweed,” Thistle commanded, as if she were ordering Suzie and Sharon, her old boss’ kids to bed on the nights she babysat them. “See the fire that encircles him, fuels his magic, taints his blood.”

  “What… what?” Milkweed looked a little cross-eyed.

  “Lying about your family lines is enough to negate the marriage treaty,” Thistle said. “My guess is that the Old Faery in the Patriarch Oak was your grandsire, Alder. He raised you to take his place as king of this tribe. A tribe that should serve the Patriarch Oak and all Pixies, not just the few Pixies who call this wood home.”
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  “Don’t be ridiculous, Thistle. Everyone knows that Pixies and Faeries can’t breed. It’s all myth and legend and stories to frighten small children,” Alder snorted.

  A young Pixie threw a half-rotten walnut into the pond. Water sprayed upward and outward, touching Milkweed’s spider silk gown.

  Alder reached for Milkweed’s hand to draw her away from the pond. Water, the element that could draw him in and completely absorb him, just as Earth did to Pixies.

  “Milkweed, your brother, Hay, is half Faery. You know it and I know it. He is myth and legend and frightening children’s story come to life,” Thistle said gently. She needed this frothy white-and-gold Pixie to listen and understand. Her brain was as poufy as her gold-tipped white hair. Too easy for Pixies to dismiss and forget things that were unpleasant to think about.

  “Hay’s not… He wouldn’t… He couldn’t…”

  “Yeah, he is, and he’s proud of it. Only thing is, he has both the Faery size and loyalties. But he didn’t get Faery brains. His true father, King of the underhill that is in danger of being demolished for a discount store, ordered him to clear The Ten Acre Wood of Pixies so the Faeries could reclaim it as their own. Hay decided that meant he should clear The Ten Acre Wood. That’s why he manipulated Phelma Jo into buying the timber and starting to clear-cut.”

  Both Alder and Milkweed shuddered at the ominous idea of all these tall trees reduced to stumps.

  “When the timber cutting failed, he tried to set fire to the wood. He manipulated young men with Faery mushrooms so they’d blow up construction equipment and carnival rides. Rides with lots and lots of innocent people, children, onboard. And now he’s leading an army of Pixies to kill all of us, and the humans who get in his way.”

  “No. My brother would never… wouldn’t… did he, truly?” Milkweed looked totally confused.

  “Yeah, he did.”

  “So what?” Alder protested. “That was Hay. Not me. I closed the wood to keep the Faeries out.”

  “And where did you get the magic to do that, if not from your own Faery blood?” Thistle asked. “Is the lying, dishonorable, cruel Faery blood the reason you cannot remain loyal to any female? Is a mating flight just another thrill for you instead of a sacred ritual?”