Thistle Down

by Irene Radford

Everything hurt.

  She’d really let Alder have it.

  Nothing happened. Water lapped her waist and continued to pour down over her head. Her legs remained stretched straight. Smoothly curved stone cradled her bottom while jagged and warped rock pressed into her back. A huge itch clawed her entire spine from butt to neck.

  Unique and lovely green wings in the shape of double thistle leaves failed to flutter through the air.

  What had happened to her wings? Gone!

  Her eyes flew open. The remnants of sparkling Pixie dust settled in the pool of water around her legs, taunting reminders that Alder was king of her tribe and more powerful than any three Pixies combined. The old Faery in the oak had given him that power just before he left for . . . wherever old Faeries went when they no longer wished to live in this realm.

  She wasn’t in The Ten Acre Wood anymore.

  Then she noticed black hair—very wet black hair—tangled over her shoulders and chest. Chest? She had boobs! Big ones. When had that happened? Bad enough Alder had stolen her wings. What had he done to her lovely lavender skin and deep purple tresses!

  And he’d given her human tits the size of watermelons—well maybe only the size of pomegranates. But still, compared to Pixie evenness, those globes would throw her off-balance. She’d be too heavy to fly.

  If she had wings.

  Fat, salty tears mingled with the water dripping down her face.

  Blaring horns, angry shouts, the pelting of water hitting a rippling pool slammed against her ears as she grew more aware of things beyond her own pain and confusion.

  “This isn’t Pixie,” she gasped.

  “I don’t know what you’re on, lady, but dancing naked in Memorial Fountain during morning rush hour isn’t going to help,” a rough male voice said from somewhere near her left shoulder.

  Thistle peeked in that direction, trying not to move her aching head.

  A big, callused hand extended toward her. It was covered with sun-bleached blond hair on the back and knuckles.

  She followed the line of the hand up a muscular arm to the hem of a dark blue, short-sleeved shirt with three gold stripes in an inverted chevron embroidered on it.

  Gulp.

  “You gonna get out on your own, or do I have to carry you?” the man asked.

  Thistle placed her hand in his. He closed his fingers around it, hard, and yanked her forward.

  She stumbled to her feet, unsure how to balance with all that extra weight up front.

  She tried to compensate with a little lift.

  Her missing wings failed her.

  She almost sat back down again. The man pulled on her arm harder, keeping her upright.

  “Okay, everybody back to business!” the man shouted. “Get those cars untangled and moving. Nothing to look at here. Haven’t you ever seen a naked woman before? Eight o’clock and it’s already hotter’n Hades. I’d like to dance naked in the fountain to cool off, too! Pioneer Days nonsense. It’s going to be a bad Festival this year.”

  Thistle risked looking around.

  Behind her, Florentine swoops and curls carved into a stone urn. Water spouted up and out from the top. All around the fountain, dozens of human automobiles sat at odd angles in the six-way intersection. They should be flowing in a smooth circle around the fountain.

  Oftentimes, in her delightful Pixie size, she’d flitted from car hood to rooftop to trunk, diverting a driver’s attention and causing him to swerve oddly for several moments.

  But she’d never done anything to cause this much chaos before. This looked like a masterwork of Pixie tricks.

  Would she get the credit for it, or would Alder?

  She smiled at the tall blond man in a police uniform. Not a man alive had resisted that smile, especially if she threw in a few Pixie sparkles. He towered over her, glowering.

  Not a good sign, nor a bit of Pixie dust in the air.

  “Will someone get the phone!” Dusty Carrick called up the basement stairs.

  The shrill ring continued.

  “Lazy, self-centered, know-nothings, can’t remember the date of the Oregon Provisional Government in 1843,” she muttered as she dashed up the steep and dusty risers to the kitchen of the historic-house-turnedmuseum. She had to hike her long calico skirts and apron above her knees to keep from tripping. A very modern, cream-colored wall phone blended into the sprigged wallpaper of the pantry at the top. Dusty had painted tiny sprigs of pink flowers on the Bakelite to make sure it didn’t stick out like a sore thumb.

  She reached around the corner and grabbed the receiver on the seventh ring, just before it clicked over to the answering machine. Where was everybody? A half hour after opening on a summer Friday morning, there should be a full crew of tour guides and administrative staff around.

  Hadn’t Joe Newberry said something about an appointment first thing this morning and that she was in charge until he got back? That notation should be on the wall calendar in the employee lounge that she hadn’t bothered checking when she came to work at six. If there had been something about the archaeological dig or reference documents, she’d have noticed.

  She inhaled sharply, bracing herself to talk to someone she didn’t know about something other than history. Still, carrying on a stilted business conversation had to be better than listening to the slightly accusatory tone of a message on the machine. Or confronting the person face-to-face.

  Her inhalation caught on a dust mote and pushed it deep inside her. She sneezed horrendously before she could say anything. Her wire-rimmed glasses slid to the end of her nose, teetered a moment, then settled without hitting the floor.

  “That you, Dusty?” Police Sergeant Chase Norton asked from the other end of the line. She’d know that voice anywhere.

  “Excuse me, Skene County Historical Society,” she said stuffily and sneezed again. This time she managed to stick a finger under her nose and keep the glasses from falling off.

  “Your brother named you right,” Chase chuckled. “You been mucking about in the basement of that old mausoleum again? More dust than artifacts down there.”

  “Benedict has a foul sense of humor,” Dusty said. Actually, he’d done her a favor in nearly eliminating her full name from people’s memories. She’d done the same for him. Most of the world, except their mother, knew him as only Dick Carrick, from his business cards to his phone listing.

  Their mother, Juliet, was too enamored of Shakespearean character names. Thank God she hadn’t named her two children Shylock and Hero. Benedict and Desdemona were bad enough.

  Dusty also thanked whatever deity might listen that her parents had gone to Stratford-upon-Avon, England for the first summer of their retirement to absorb even more Shakespeare.

  They could have stayed home and spent their time finding blind dates for Dusty.

  “Look, Dusty, as much as I’d love to chat, I’ve got a problem only you can solve.”

  Her heart sped up. Did Chase want a date for the Historical Society Fund-raising Ball next week?

  “What do you need, Chase?” She didn’t dare say she’d do anything for him. If only he’d made this call twelve years ago when he was a senior in high school and she a lowly, and lonely, homeschooler. Maybe if he’d asked her out then . . .

  No sense in living in what ifs and maybes.

  The past was past.

  “I’ve got a young woman in custody who asked me to call you as her one phone call.”

  “Who?” Dusty couldn’t think of anyone she knew well enough, other than her brother, who would call her for help.

  “She says her name is Thistle Down.”

  Dusty’s mind spun in puzzlement. “I don’t know anyone named . . .” No, it couldn’t be. Five years without a word or a glimpse . . .

  Dusty hadn’t ventured into The Ten Acre Wood since . . . since she started working full time at the museum as assistant curator.

  “Don’t tell me she’s four inches tall, has lavender skin and purple hair with green wings i
n the shape of thistle leaves,” Dusty said, half hoping. She held her breath.

  “Nah, don’t be ridiculous. She’s got black hair and white skin and not a stitch on her when she landed in Memorial Fountain.”

  “That will give local gossips something new to memorialize.”

  “But her eyes are the most amazing shade of purple . . .” Chase drifted off almost dreamily.

  Dusty’s heart caught, then beat again loudly in her ears.

  Chase was falling in love again.

  “If she puts on sunglasses, will you remember the color of her eyes?”

  Then a new thought caught her in a sucker punch.

  “Purple eyes?” Dusty asked.

  The clatter of a big tour group gathering in the front lobby jangled along Dusty’s nerves.

  “Look, Chase, I can’t get away from the museum right now. Isn’t there someone else you can call?”

  “Nope. This is her one and only call. Don’t know why she chose you.”

  Dusty had her suspicions.

  “Well, I guess you could drop her by here . . . just to see if I know her.”

  “If I turn her over to your custody, she stays with you. Otherwise it looks like I’ll have to charge her with drunk and disorderly . . .”

  “I am not drunk!” a female voice chimed delicately in the background. “I haven’t had a drop of honey.”

  The world came to a screeching halt around Dusty. “Bring her by in an hour, after I deal with the current tour group.” She hung up. Where were those girls who were supposed to do the tours?

  Dusty gritted her teeth and went to greet the noisy crowd of tourists with their equally loud bevy of children.

  For the next forty-five minutes, Dusty led the group of five adults and six children through the pioneer home. She explained as clearly and succinctly as possible the exhibits highlighting the history of Skene County, Oregon, and the city of Skene Falls on the Skene River. If she made the tour comprehensive, she wouldn’t have to answer questions.

  Of course a child had to ask: “How come there aren’t any bathrooms?”

  “When the house was first built in 1845, no one had indoor plumbing. Washing clothes or taking a bath was a big deal that required a lot of work and planning.” She crouched to be at eye level with the eight-year-old boy. Much more comfortable communicating on this level than dealing with sneering adults who kept staring at the dust stains on her apron. She imagined she felt the waves of judgmental disdain emanating from them.

  “They didn’t have electricity to heat the water, or pump it from a reservoir back then. When the Historical Society moved the house from river level up here to the plateau to become a museum in 1937, we stripped out some of the more modern conveniences.”

  “Like bathrooms,” the boy said. He began a telltale sway from foot to foot.

  Time to get this group out of here.

  “Life was really different back then; no electric lights or TV or telephones, no hot and cold running water. No X-rays or antibiotics to help you get over sickness.” Or chemo and bone marrow transplants.

  “My grandma died of cancer,” the six-year-old girl said solemnly.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Some things we don’t know how to fix yet. I bet your grandma lived a lot longer than she would have back in 1845. Because of vitamins, and good food trucked in from all over the country, and medicines, she lived long enough for you to get to know her. That’s something to be grateful for.” She’d fought cancer herself when she was about this girl’s age. She had won the battle with a lot of help. She knew the ache in the middle the little girl showed by clutching her stomach as she spoke.

  Dusty pasted a bright smile on her face as she stood to face the parents. “This concludes the organized tour. Feel free to browse the gift shop next door where you bought your tour tickets. There are picnic tables on the grounds, along with some hands-on exhibits like the covered wagon, and public restrooms at the corner of the park on the Center Street side.”

  “The little log cabin?” the father asked.

  Dusty nodded. “The Ten Acre Wood is part of the park and open for exploration. We ask that you stay on the gravel paths and not damage the native ground cover. There are leaflets in a drop box behind the carriage barn that will guide you through a treasure hunt. The pink papers have trivia questions based on local history, the green ones are about movies, and the blue ones are general trivia.”

  “Is that where all the tall trees are?” one boy asked. He strained his neck peering out the nearest window toward the towering Douglas firs.

  “Yes. And I hear there’s pirate treasure buried there. Or was that a dragon hoard? I’m not sure. Maybe you should find out.”

  The children dashed out the door, followed more sedately by their parents.

  Dusty exited as hastily as she could without seeming to run. On her way back to the sanctuary of the basement, she found the two teenage tour guides relaxing on the back porch that had been enclosed for an office and employee lounge—and private restroom. Both girls wore modern sundresses, had their feet up on the long worktable, and had cans of cola in their hands.

  The sight of thick condensation dripping off the cans reminded Dusty she hadn’t had anything to drink in a couple of hours. She threw a roll of paper towels to the girls and pointed to where their cans dribbled on the sheaves of papers on the table. Then she poured herself a glass of iced tea sweetened with agave nectar from the pitcher she’d made when she first arrived.

  “There are two more groups approaching the front walk, girls,” Dusty said at the dark portal to her underground hiding place. “Your turn to guide the tours. You might spend some time talking about the spinning wheel and whale oil lamps.”

  “Ah, Ms. Carrick, it’s hot out there,” Meggie complained, rubbing the cold soda can over her brow. “Can’t you take them?”

  “Your job,” Dusty reminded them. “Remember the internship credit, and recommendations you’d like to get for your college applications?”

  Meggie, the willowy blonde who looked too much like Phelma Jo Nelson for Dusty’s comfort, dropped her feet to the floor and stood as if the action took every bit of energy she possessed. “I guess.” She heaved a sigh, letting Dusty know how much of a burden work was. “I haven’t given a tour to a cute boy in like ages.”

  Unlike Phelma Jo, Meggie was unmotivated, and not a bully.

  “Pioneer Days officially starts with the parade at ten AM tomorrow. Traffic all over town will pick up any minute now. And you’ll have to wear costumes all week. The volunteers delivered a whole stack of them yesterday, cleaned and pressed. Now, I have an appointment in,” Dusty looked at the watch pinned to her bodice with an antique enameled bow brooch, “fifteen minutes. I’ll need this office since Mr. Newberry locked his and hasn’t returned from his appointment. You girls need to be elsewhere before then. Now get to work.”

  Dusty escaped to the cool depths of the basement and the broken crockery from a tribal archaeological dig performed by the community college. The artifacts needed cleaning and piecing together. The crockery dated the dig to post-European contact. The remnants of shell beads and leatherwork suggested an earlier time. An interesting puzzle.

  Artifacts didn’t judge a person unfairly on first impressions.

  Two

  “LIFE’S A BITCH AND THEN YOU DIE,” Phelma Jo Nelson spat at the stooped man. She leaned back in his comfortable office chair and propped her feet on his massive desk. Once tall and robust, her opponent now sagged and wavered.

  Vulnerable. She could make some money off his new fragility. A more attractive prospect was that, in replacing him, she would be in a position of power to close down Dusty Carrick’s precious museum. The collapsing pile of lumber without plumbing or electricity had no place in this modern town. Phelma Jo had managed to acquire the lot where her mother’s shack had stood. It hadn’t had plumbing or electricity either, only empty booze bottles. The lot now held her modern offices and condos.

&nbs
p; She needed to be in a position to control growth in this town, control crime by ridding it of hiding places for criminals—like The Ten Acre Wood—and control her own life.

  “So you have to retire,” she reminded the man.

  “You’ve had a good run, honey. Now it’s time to step aside for a younger and more aggressive generation.”

  “I have no intention of allowing my failing body to dictate . . .”

  “You don’t. But I do. Now sign this press release, and I’ll make sure it gets to the proper reporter. Not that Digger fellow. Someone who will show respect for you and your position in this town and know that I am the only person you trust to continue your good works.” She slid the single sheet of paper across his desk.

  He made no move toward acquiescence.

  She selected an antique fountain pen from the leather cup holding several fine writing instruments and rolled it onto the paper.

  “Sign it.”

  “PJ . . .”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “Phelma Jo, surely we can work something out. I’ll appoint you to any position you want, name you my heir. But I am not retiring.”

  “Yes, you are.” She retrieved a fat file from her soft leather document satchel and waved it at him.

  He blanched. “You wouldn’t release that information. You’re in as deep in the land deal as I am.”

  “Yes, but then I’m a real estate developer. Everyone expects me to push a slightly shady deal. You’ve cooked the town’s books and skimmed taxes, my taxes, into your own pocket. I’ve never done anything overtly illegal.”

  “Yet.”

  Dick Carrick bounced up the steps of the Skene County Historical Museum. He stepped into the deep shade of the long porch across the front of the pioneer house, then paused and blinked a few moments to let his eyes adjust to the shadows.

  Only eleven o’clock and already the summer sunshine beat hot and heavy upon his back. He whipped a silvercolored silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed his face clear of perspiration. His custom-made gray silk suit, a shade darker than the handkerchief and his tie, rode easily on his shoulders. Nothing on the front porch or inside the museum seemed to match. It was all a mash-up of odds and ends collected over decades.