Authors: Irene Radford
Thistle Down (22 page)
Seventeen
“D
USTY, WILL YOU PLEASE come up here?” Thistle coaxed from the top of the stairs. Faery snot! Why did her friend have to hide underground? Underground robbed Pixies of strength and thought. Going underground was sort of like dying.
USTY, WILL YOU PLEASE come up here?” Thistle coaxed from the top of the stairs. Faery snot! Why did her friend have to hide underground? Underground robbed Pixies of strength and thought. Going underground was sort of like dying.
Faeries could, and did go underground during the day, only coming out after dark. The cowards! They were hiding from people who didn’t believe in them any longer. Dusty was hiding from reality, from herself, from . . . everything.
“I never thought you’d be more akin to my mortal enemies, the Faeries, than to the Pixies you love,” Thistle muttered.
Cutting down the Patriarch Oak would end the mating rituals of all Pixies. Cutting down The Ten Acre Wood would kill all of Thistle’s tribe. She didn’t dare think about that. Dusty had to find a way to save the forest. Dusty was the only one who could.
But she hid. Just like a cowardly Faery. Whose side was she on, anyway?
Thistle was too close to the darkness here. The cellar stairs beckoned her with fascinating horror of the terrible things underground would do to her.
“No!” Dusty said. Her voice barely reached Thistle.
“When something scares her, she hides down there for days,” M’velle whispered.
“A lot of things scare her,” Meggie added. Both girls peered over Thistle’s shoulder toward the dark hole where Dusty retreated.
Thistle could understand how her friend found solace and protection in the darkness. Like Thistle once found in the elbow of a spreading branch in the old oak tree.
At the edge of the basement, Thistle only found fear.
“Why don’t you go down and get her?” Meggie asked.
“I . . . I can’t,” Thistle cried. “Pixies can’t go below. And I really need Dusty to come up and save The Ten Acre Wood.”
“She has to come up on her own. Just like she had to decide to go on that date. Force will only make things worse,” M’velle added.
“Dusty, please. I’ve got to go back to work, and your friends up here are worried about you,” Thistle pleaded.
Don’t talk about The Ten Acre Wood, or her fears. Talk about things that would make Dusty want to come up on her own
.
Don’t talk about The Ten Acre Wood, or her fears. Talk about things that would make Dusty want to come up on her own
.
“Work? You have a job?” Dusty’s voice came closer. “I didn’t think you could
do
anything.”
do
anything.”
Thistle stepped back, grateful for her release from the thrall of the death that awaited her below. “Yes, Dick and Chase invented a job for me. I’m to befriend the old folks and make sure they and their pets have what they need. They said you need to take me around and introduce me to my new friends. They know you and trust you, so they’ll trust me too if you say they should.”
“That sounds good. You did a good thing for Mrs. Spencer on Saturday. But you won’t be needed once this heat wave breaks.” The stairs creaked, then stopped. Dusty had come up three risers by Thistle’s count. Then no farther.
“I’m also babysitting for Joe on the nights he has lodge meetings or something like that.” Thistle stepped back again, bumping into the two teenagers. “That gives you a couple of free evenings a week. But I can’t get started without you.”
Coaxing Dusty up was sort of like luring a cat into the wetlands. Tantalize it with a flash of wings and confused loop as if lost. Then when she’d caught the wicked beast’s attention, fly a little closer to the target. Stop, wait, tease, let it pounce, but make sure it missed. Repeat, until the nasty cat landed up to its chest in icky mud and algae.
The last time Thistle had played that game, she’d won ten gold-and-cream-colored hairs from the cat’s tail as her prize. No Pixie had managed more than six hairs before.
If The Ten Acre Wood was destroyed, there’d be no more games with cats, or children. Thistle would have no more family. She’d never be able to return to Pixie.
She took a deep breath, trying to concentrate on her job. Be a friend to Dusty, just like she was a friend to Mrs. Spencer and seven other elderly folks living on the ridge.
Thistle looked at her fingers, wondering if Pixie dust would work underground. Probably not. Without the forest nearby, she had little magic. Using the tiny bit available to her exhausted all of her strength, as badly as going underground. She had nothing but herself. And her few friends, like Dusty.
“What if we called the guy who took her to dinner Saturday night?” Meggie asked. “I bet he could persuade her to come up.”
“I called him already, he can’t come,” M’velle replied.
“Dick says there are a lot of old folks who need help, this coming winter, and even in good weather,” Thistle called down to Dusty. She wished the girls would shut up and let her get on with this. “Our elders forget things. They need to be reminded to eat and tend their pets. Some of them need help taking out their garbage and washing their dishes. I can do that. I especially like the part about letting the dogs run and play for a bit. I like dogs. We get along great. I don’t like cats. But they pretty much take care of themselves.”
“Who’s paying you?” Three more steps creaked. Dusty must be almost to the first landing.
“I’m not sure. They said something about a community fund.”
“Don’t you need training and an insurance bond to do this? Me vouching for you isn’t enough.” Dusty’s voice came clearer now, unmuffled by the death that leaked out of dirt walls underground.
Thistle flashed a smile at the girls. “Dick is taking care of it. But I need you to trust me, Dusty. I’m your friend.”
Meggie left to tend to two women wanting a tour. M’Velle stepped back far enough to keep an eye on the front door and still monitor the situation with Dusty.
“Wh . . . what’s happening with The Ten Acre Wood?” The creaking stairs said that Dusty retreated; so did the smallness of her voice.
“This is ridiculous,” Joe said on a huff coming out of his office. He pushed Thistle aside and trod heavily down the stairs. It sounded like he had to go almost all the way to the bottom. “Dusty, it’s time to grow up and come help me.”
“Joe . . . I . . . I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. Dusty, I’m your friend. You know me. I need you upstairs. We’ve got to sort out this mess with City Hall. But it’s Monday and the mayor’s office is closed. He always plays golf on Monday. We can’t do anything until tomorrow. So you might as well stop hiding and
do
something useful.”
do
something useful.”
“Like . . . like what?”
More stairs creaking, like two people climbing them.
“Like research an alternate venue for the Masque Ball if we can’t get a hold put on the timber work. We won’t clear as much money if we have to rent something, but we can still have the Ball.”
“We won’t be able to string Faery lights on the trees.”
“Those are Pixie lights,” Thistle corrected her. “Faeries are snooty cowards who smell bad. They’re afraid to get their wings dirty but think they can run the world by remote control from underhill.”
“Pixie lights. Yes. Around the shrubbery and the knot garden, even the covered wagon. We can’t have a covered wagon if we go somewhere else,” Dusty protested. The creaking on the stairs stopped.
“I bet you can find a place that will have lots of places to string Pixie lights. You’re good at researching stuff online,” Joe reassured her. The two of them appeared in the dim light, more than halfway up. Joe had a firm grip on Dusty’s elbow.
“But they’ll cut down the Patriarch Oak. That’s a very special tree,” Dusty almost cried.
“I know. I’ve got calls in to the mayor and several members of the City Council as well as the city’s lawyer and the police chief. We’ll get this straightened out. I promise, Dusty. Hiding won’t help. We have to work on this together.” Joe patted Dusty’s hand and led her farther up the stairs. “This town needs you.”
Hot tears welled in Thistle’s eyes.
“What’s wrong?” M’velle touched Thistle’s back in sympathy.
Thistle leaned into the gentle touch. “I failed Dusty. Pixies are supposed to do anything to help their friends. Dusty needed me to go into the basement with her and . . . and I couldn’t. Pixies can’t go underground.”
“Ever think that maybe you need a friend, too? You’ve got your problems. Dusty has hers. Seems like you should help each other.”
“But . . . but humans have never helped Pixies.”
“I think they have,” M’velle said. “And now Dusty is going to help you by saving The Ten Acre Wood and the Patriarch Oak.”
“She’s only doing that to help herself.” Thistle dashed away the moisture from her eyes. “That’s all that humans can do. Help themselves. That’s why you need Pixies.”
“Maybe so. But in helping herself, she helps you. She helps a whole lot of people who love those woods. Everyone who grew up in this town thinks of those woods as their own personal fantasy land. Good things happen in that bit of forest. Magical things. She helps the whole town maintain a major asset in that park. Trust her. She’s your friend.”
“Will you be my friend, M’Velle?”
“I already am. You made me laugh when some kids teased me for having dark skin when I was six. I never forgot that. I didn’t want to remember you when I grew up, but when you came back to us, I did. You made me believe in Pixies again.”
“You always were the smartest, and the kindest in your class. You always kept your gossip to nice things, even about the children who were mean to you.”
M’Velle blushed and looked at her shoes. Then she raised her head proudly. “I had you to emulate.”
“Mabel, you know more about what goes on in Skene Falls than anyone,” Chase said. He hoped he made his statement sound admiring. Casually, he perched his left hip on the corner of her desk at the heart of the police station.
She glared at him for intruding on her space.
He remained planted.
“What do you want, Chase?”
Oops, maybe he’d presumed too much. If she called him by name rather than an endearment, she was pissed.
“I overheard part of a conversation. When I went looking for those involved, I found every door in City Hall closed to me.”
“Happening a lot around here since Mayor Seth told a few folks semiofficially he’s not running for reelection. Haven’t had an open election in nigh on thirty years. Lots of people think it’s their turn to run things. And they’re all plotting behind closed doors.”
“Who do you think will win the election in November?” Whoever won would have to deal with an outraged community over the destruction of a favorite park. Good reason to cloak it in anonymity. The offer came through a third-party lawyer out of town. Pretty hard to track that with client-lawyer confidentiality.
“Lots of people throwing their hats into the ring,” Mabel hedged.
“Like?”
“George Pepperidge.”
“Councilman Pepperidge has been on the Council, what, seven years? He’s qualified, about the only councilman who takes his job seriously and actually asks questions rather than rubberstamping the mayor’s decisions.” Pepperidge had protested the land deal. Who had he protested to?
“This town is old and slow to change. Except there’s a lot of new people commuting to Portland. They might want change, bring things up to date,” Mabel mumbled.
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