Chicory Up: The Pixie Chronicles

by Irene Radford

  She patted Dick’s hand reassuringly, as if she followed his thoughts.

  “Thistle has no records or ID,” Dick said boldly.

  “I’m not an illegal alien,” Thistle interrupted. “I’ve lived near here all my life.”

  The judge raised his eyebrows in question but said nothing. One of his tactics to encourage reluctant witnesses to keep talking just to fill the silence.

  “Thistle’s parents raised her in a religious commune. They did not believe in education for women or in electricity or plumbing or anything else modern,” Dick said.

  “Where were you born?” the judge asked, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his massive mahogany desk. His eyes sparked with interest.

  “I… I don’t know for sure.” That was the truth. Thistle blushed and lowered her gaze. But she flicked Dick a glance to make sure she’d used the right words.

  “Her mother would have been at home with a midwife or a friend, not a doctor or a hospital.”

  “Birth certificate?” the judge asked.

  Thistle shrugged. “I wouldn’t know where to look.”

  “If her parents recorded anything, it would have been in a family Bible,” Dick filled in the blanks. He didn’t want a repeat of that fainting spell. He hadn’t told her of the brief glimpse of dark shadows he’d seen twining about her arms. The lie had tried to eat her.

  “Where are your folks now?” Pepperidge leaned back in his chair and studied the ceiling as if it would give him the answers to his questions.

  “They are behind a wall with armed guards somewhere east of here. When Thistle escaped, after a severe beating for disobedience, she left with nothing, not even clothes. She ran for days and days, barely surviving on creek water and berries,” Dick added. He needed to get the story straight and convincing. Giggles and a splash of Pixie dust wouldn’t help her evade answers right now.

  “So, I take it, the story of you showing up in Memorial Fountain naked in the middle of rush hour on a hot August morning was the end result of your ‘escape.’” Johnny Pepperidge grinned.

  Dick caught a glimpse of the mischievous imp a Pixie might inspire him to be when he was a kid.

  Why did the judge put imaginary quote marks around the last word?

  Thistle nodded vigorously at the last statement. It came fairly close to a truth she could agree with.

  “I’m interested in rooting out this commune. I will not allow freedom of religion as a defense for domestic abuse, or denying children an education in my court.” He fixed Dick with a suspicious gaze.

  “I’ve spoken to Chase Norton about it. He’s our police sergeant…”

  “I know Sergeant Norton. We’ve worked together on some other sticky issues. What’s he doing about it?”

  “I don’t know exactly. Something about county tax rolls, trying to find a large piece of property on the foothills of Mount Hood owned by a shadow corporation.” Dick made that up as he spoke. It sounded like a logical procedure.

  “Good place to start. Have Chase call me if he finds anything. I doubt he will. So Thistle needs some ID?”

  “Yes, sir. We want to get married; only we can’t get a license without ID. I can’t register her for my company benefits without a social security number,” Dick pleaded.

  “First step is to run her fingerprints through all databases, and check for social security numbers…”

  “Chase did that when he arrested Thistle her first day in town. Both came up negative. Our family lawyer said you would be our next step. That you have some authority in cases like these.”

  “So, Thistle, your folks were really intent upon staying off the system’s radar.” The judge swung his chair around facing the wall of law books, as if they would give him inspiration. “Yes, I have some authority. I’ll need a witnessed and notarized statement, preferably in your own handwriting, Thistle.”

  “Got it.” Dick handed over the trifolded piece of Mabel’s stationary.

  Judge Pepperidge raised his eyebrows when he saw the monogram.

  “I’m house-sitting for Mabel while she’s in the hospital,” Thistle volunteered in a rush. “It was the only blank paper I could find.”

  “I’ll witness your signature and have my secretary notarize it and make a copy for your records. The original I’ll push through the Bureau of Vital Statistics. This is doable, but it will take time.”

  “Any idea how long? We really want to get married. Legally.” Dick didn’t like the whining tone that came through his words.

  “Are you pregnant, Thistle?” Pepperidge fixed her with a probing stare.

  “No, sir. I insist that we wait to have sex until after we are married.” She sat up straight and firmed her chin.

  Dick almost laughed at her indignation.

  “Understood.” The judge winked at Dick. “I’ll see what I can do to push this through. But don’t make any plans for at least a month. Maybe three. Bureaucracy has its own timeline that rarely coincides with reality.”

  “Thank you, Judge Pepperidge,” Dick said.

  “Thank me on your tenth anniversary. Or name your first child after me.”

  Twenty-two

  THISTLE PUT THE FINAL FLOURISH at the end of her name where she signed the paper Dick had dictated for her. She had deliberately blanked the meaning of the words, concentrating on making each letter perfect. She’d slipped a couple of times, but Dick had reassured her that the mistakes made it look more authentic.

  Then she’d practiced writing her name on a separate piece of paper over and over until it came naturally. She liked the way ink flowed easily from the fat fountain pen the judge had offered her for this momentous ceremony. Something about the pen added officialness and import.

  Respectfully, she placed the pen back on the judge’s desk. The secretary nodded to her, gathered up her logbook and seal and left without a word.

  “We are going to get married.” Dick patted Thistle’s hand when she’d finished. “And soon. Just not as soon as we’d hoped.”

  “Then we’ll have to make good use of the extra time and plan a lovely wedding. Maybe we should ask Dusty and Chase if they want a double wedding after all.”

  “Considering how Dusty is reacting to Mom’s extravaganza, she just might appreciate a second bride to take some of the pressure off her,” Dick chuckled.

  “Heard about that,” Judge Pepperidge leaned back in his chair. “The moment the rumor mill said that Juliet Carrick would require Elizabethan dress, every man in town started making other plans for that date.”

  “Dad squashed that as soon as the idea blossomed in Mom’s over-fertile imagination,” Dick reassured him. “So far only the bride is getting stuck with an historically accurate gown, and she’s balking.”

  “Dusty walked out of a fitting yesterday and told Juliet that if she liked the dress so much she should wear it. Now she’s talking about eloping,” Thistle added.

  Humans seemed to think casual conversation was necessary after a ritual, like this signing thing. She thought a moment of respectful silence was better suited.

  “I’ll file the necessary forms today, Dick. My secretary will call you when we know more.” The judge dismissed them, all parts of the ceremony concluded.

  “Let’s find Dusty and Chase and tell them the news,” Thistle said, bouncing up and down just a little, as if trying to catch air on wings she’d lost three months ago.

  “Good idea. At least we know where to find Dusty,” Dick chuckled, guiding her through the offices to the corridor and grand staircase of the courthouse. “If she’s not hiding in the basement, she’s in her office.”

  “I thought she… she stopped hiding in the basement.” Thistle nibbled her lower lip in worry. “She’s grown a lot since last summer.”

  “True. But Mom can’t find her in the basement—no cell phone signal and the tour guides have learned not to bother her down there.” Dick lost a little of the happy glow on his face.

  “We really need to do somethin
g to make both Juliet and Dusty reconsider the wedding plans.”

  “No, Thistle. Dusty needs to do that herself. We can offer her support in her decision, but she has to tell Mom herself that reenacting a Shakespeare play is not what this wedding is about.”

  “Does Juliet make every gathering about her own wishes rather than the true purpose?” Thistle knew a Pixie or two who did the same. Alder’s bride Milkweed was one.

  “Usually. But she always gets the purpose accomplished, within her own parameters.”

  They both giggled a bit, more to return their moods to the joy of the day than true mirth.

  “It’s raining pretty heavily. Do you want to drive up to the museum?” Dick looked out from under the deep porch of the City Hall/Courthouse/Police Station. A fat raindrop plunked into his eye. He shook his head. “Definitely a day better suited to a short drive than a long walk.”

  “Agreed.” Thistle rose up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “I’ll wait here for you to bring the car around.”

  He returned the kiss briefly and dashed down the steps toward the street. His pretty car—with the top up—sat parked at the curb across the street and a block and a half down.

  A deep-throated buzzing started in the back of her head. She looked around. “That sounds like a Pixie. But not like a Pixie,” she mused.

  The annoying sound seemed to hover and circle around a single spot, neither moving closer nor fading into the distance. From the volume of the throb of beating wings she guessed the Pixie should be at the lamppost at the foot of the steps.

  Nothing. No blur of movement or flash of color alerted her. “Who?” she asked the air.

  Ding dang chug shplach.

  She covered her ears to block out the awful noise. Worse than the sirens hastening along the ridge above her.

  Worse than Alder’s total lack of music.

  Her gaze darted restlessly about. Now she wished she’d braved the rain to go with Dick. That persistent buzz made her wince.

  Dick bent slightly to unlock the car.

  Another familiar figure darted across the street from the second lamppost on the right. A young woman with a dirty pink backpack. She walked purposefully, without looking right or left. Cars screeched to a halt around her. Angry drivers leaned on their horns. She ignored them, moving quickly.

  Hope. Hope must have followed them.

  Without a word, she tapped Dick on the shoulder. He looked up, surprise written on his face. “Who?”

  Thistle saw his mouth form the word but couldn’t hear it. The buzzing in her ears grew louder.

  The Dick’s expression cleared. “Sandy?” he asked. The girl shook her head.

  Sandy Langford. The first girl he’d taken to bed.

  Dick and Hope looked so much alike, with only hints of the mother’s blood in the girl, a human would have to be blind not to see the relationship. Thistle’s Pixie senses showed her lines of energy reaching out from both of them, trying to find the connections, to bond and bring them together.

  The ugly yellow-and-rust Pixie looped around them, trying to tie those strands of energy together. He didn’t need to. They reached out on their own, understanding the bonds of blood and love better than Snapdragon’s artifice.

  “You have brought these two together. Your job as a human is finished,” Alder whispered to her. “He has no need of you now that he has found his daughter. Her mother will come back into his life soon as well.”

  A fat tear slid down her cheek. She brushed it away as she would a gnat. Another replaced it.

  She didn’t know if she rejoiced for Hope and Dick or feared that in their need to get to know each other there would be no room for her in their lives… or that Dick would remember his love for the girl’s mother.

  “He loved her mother once. He loves her still. Now that he knows about his child, he will go back to her. He has no need for you to fill the empty place in his heart,” Alder continued his malicious litany.

  Across the street, Dick placed a heavy hand on the girl’s shoulder and squeezed.

  “You are evil, Alder.”

  “Less so than Snapdragon.”

  “Snapdragon, or Haywood Wheatland, or whoever he is, is more honest in his evil. He doesn’t cloak his words in half-truths, doesn’t pretend to be your friend when he’s not.”

  “He’s half Faery. He lies as easily as a human.”

  “What about you, Alder? How can you lie?”

  “I am your friend, Thistle. I do not lie. I am your king. I’m only doing what is best for you. Come back to Pixie where you belong. Leave the complex emotions to the humans. Live for the day and forget about plans and consequences. Come home.”

  “I hate being human!”

  And still Dick continued to talk with Hope, scrutinize her, look all around town, but not at Thistle. He made no move to hasten back to her with his car.

  Thistle ran down the steps. Rain matted her hair and soaked her shoulders. Her shoes splashed muddy water up her slacks all the way to her knees. At the sidewalk she paused, willing Dick to look back at her, acknowledge her, take his eyes off his daughter.

  She ran left, away from Dick and his child, the child he shared with a woman he’d loved long ago, still loved. The bond of that lovely child was stronger and deeper than his proposal to Thistle. She ran up the steps that climbed the cliff face.

  Pixie needed her. Dick did not.

  The steps seemed to grow wider and taller as she stretched from one to the other. Still she ran.

  Breathless and sweating, she rounded the landing to the final flight. Her clothes were wet. She was wet to the skin. The clothes dragged against her skin, too loose and floppy to be of use.

  Without thinking, she shed them and grabbed a cobweb in the corner of the stair to cover her nudity.

  Onward she plunged, gathering a fallen leaf and bit of fluff from a thistle weed gone to seed.

  At the last step that opened to the lawn and the knot garden behind Dusty’s museum, her wings spread and her feet lifted free of the confines, the restrictions, the rules, and the heartache of being human.

  She flew as fast as she could into the heart of The Ten Acre Wood.

  Home.

  Twenty-three

  “WHO DID YOU SAY YOU ARE?” Dick asked the waif standing in front of him. She’d asked him for directions and a handout. What was this world coming to that ragged teens could skip school and panhandle right in front of the courthouse.

  “Do you remember Sandy Langford from high school?” She answered his question with a question, something Sandy used to do all the time. It drove him nuts.

  “Sandy? Yeah, I remember her. She left town a long time ago.” He dismissed the question. A strange buzz started up around his nape, making it hard to think.

  “I’m her daughter.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing. Forget it. Forget me. Everyone else does!” The girl wrenched out from under his grasp and ran full tilt toward Main Street.

  His head continued to ring with a discordant whine. It might have been raucous laughter if it came from a miniature Pixie throat. No, too discordant to belong to a Pixie. Pixies chimed when they spoke, or laughed.

  Ding dang chug shplach.

  He looked around frantically and saw the bloated yellow figure with ugly red splotches on its wings, flying drunken spirals around his head. Snapdragon. The mutant Pixie-Faery half-breed everyone was talking about. “Tricked you. Tricked you all!” He wobbled away, laughing so hard he had trouble keeping air under his wings.

  “Broke you and Thistle. Broke you, broke you, broke you. She’ll never be yours now. Never, ever, ever,” he chortled as he disappeared among the rhododendrons beneath the courthouse windows.

  Dick gave chase. He really needed to make sense of this.

  Reality reared its ugly head and he remembered why he was trying to unlock his car.

  “Thistle?”

  No sign of her on the courthouse steps. Only a penetrating buzz like a streetlight
on the fritz.

  Then a renewal of the annoying laughter in the super-high soprano range that cut through the static as Snapdragon rose up from the shrubbery and wound his way higher and higher, pausing on each windowsill of the four-story building. Dick’s gaze riveted on the Pixie. Something about those fungal infection splotches on the wings triggered a memory. Something about insanity and red dyes….

  Dick recognized the face of the large Pixie.

  “Haywood Wheatland, come back here and face me like a man.”

  “Tricked you. Tricked you good,” the Pixie sneered. “Tricked everyone.” He flitted toward the roof, a little steadier than a few moments ago.

  “Where’s Thistle?” Dick demanded. He took the steps two at a time, hoping desperately that Thistle had taken refuge inside.

  “Ring around the Rosie. Tricked you all. Trick you again. Trick Thistle better than Alder or sissy Milkweed.”

  Ice particles pricked Dick’s veins from inside.

  “Where is she? Where’s my Thistle?”

  “Where you’ll never find her.”

  “You can go back to your lost love now. Thistle won’t stand in your way,” another Pixie voice whispered. The voice didn’t chime with music like the other Pixies he knew. Nor did Snapdragon’s, what passed for his music, ding dang chug shplach, was as ugly and out of place as he was. But this other guy was surrounded by silence.

  “What the f…” Lost love. Sandy Langford’s daughter. What was this all about?

  “You don’t need Thistle. You need your lost love,” the whisper continued to wiggle into his mind.

  Dick dashed back to his car, flung open the door, and dropped into the leather bucket seat. He’d turned on the ignition before he got settled and barely remembered to close the door before setting it into gear.

  He peeled out of the parking spot and executed an impossible U-turn in the middle of the street.

  How long had he talked to the girl? Not long. He hoped. Thistle couldn’t have gone far on foot. But why would she leave him for talking to a lost child?

  Where would she go?