Chicory Up: The Pixie Chronicles (2 page)

“Cops are pigs!” Dark-hair placed his hands on his hips and stood as tall as he could, almost a full Pixie length taller than Red.

“Who’d let you be a cop?” Shy Boy asked. “You’re too fat to pass the physical.”

Chicory itched to dash in and calm the hostility. Boys should play, not fight. Their battles should train them to defend themselves, not hurt each other.

“Take it back!” Red screamed at his fellows. He cast aside his stick and launched himself through the air at the skinny boy. They tussled, rolling in the mud until Red landed half in the water. He howled in distress. Skinny sobbed and crawled through the muck to drier ground.

“Chicken, Bryon? Giving up ’cause Ian hurt you?” the dark-haired one taunted. “What kind of name is Ian anyway? Sounds like a wimp. Fights like a wimp, too.”

“Go away, Luis,” Red—er—Ian spat. He, too, crawled away from the mud.

Names are important
, Chicory reminded himself. Have to remember the names so he’d know who they truly were.

“Can’t hold your own in a fight?” Luis titled his head back and roared with laughter.

The indigenous Pixies congregating within the tree shadow giggled, too. Anything for a laugh, not caring who got hurt.

“They’re so careless they’re halfway to becoming Faeries,” Chicory snarled.

He glared at the fun-loving, wild tribe of Pixies. Still, he held his troop of Dandelions back. The time had not yet come to intervene. Maybe it would not appear today.

All of the Pixies stilled. The entire Ten Acre Wood seemed to hold its breath.

Then Chicory heard the measured tread of another human intruder. An older boy, perhaps fifteen, sauntered into the clearing. His unwashed blond hair flopped heavily into
his eyes and curled over the collar of his cracked leather jacket.

“Why’s he wearing leather on a warm day like today?” Dandelion Three asked. Sensibly, she kept her voice low, barely more than the whisper of the breeze.

“Because he thinks it makes him look important,” Chicory whispered back.

“Stupid human. Importance comes from how you act and how many people you help,” Dandelion One recited one of the first lessons of Pixie.

“He hasn’t figured that out yet,” Chicory said. He didn’t like the way the other tribe slunk off into the shadows. This was their territory. Why weren’t they driving off this boy, or befriending him?

“It’s not nice to fight.” Leather Jacket slid the words out, like nasty oil on top of a puddle.

“Huh?” the younger boys replied almost in unison.

“If you want to be special—and important—I can show you how.” Leather Jacket sidled up to Luis, the apparent leader of the trio, the one who stood aside from the fight but egged on the kids with his taunts.

All three boys looked up to the older one, eyes wide, expressions questioning.

“I’ve got some extra pixie sugar, special flavors all wrapped up tight in pretty paper tubes. I’m willing to share.”

“Never take candy from a stranger,” Red said, but not very convincingly. He heaved himself to his feet, then offered a hand up to Bryon.

“Lemme see,” Luis demanded, not moving from his aggressive stance.

Leather Jacket pulled his left hand out of his pocket and slowly opened his fingers to reveal four brightly striped paper tubes, each wrapped in the clear stuff humans loved for protecting food.

All three younger boys leaned forward, peering closely at the neon pink, chocolate brown, and blinding green. “What is it?” Luis asked before the others.

Red edged backward a half step, unsure.

“Special sugar dust. Only cool guys get to eat them. I kinda like your attitude, Luis. You should be able to handle
the chocolate one. It’s more special than the strawberry or the lime. I’m keeping the blueberry for myself.”

Luis grimaced as if he didn’t truly understand the boy.

“I mean, you look big enough, and smart enough to take good advantage of this candy. But if you’re afraid….” Leather Jacket started to close his hand and return the contents to his pocket.

“I’m not afraid of nothin’,” Luis protested. His hand darted out and grabbed the strawberry-pink one.

“Me, too!” Bryon chimed in. He slid his hand up to take one, like a snake slithering through the grass. He latched onto the lime.

“Not so fast, Bryon.” Leather Jacket trapped the youngest boy’s hand within his own. “Red’s bigger than you. He hasn’t taken his yet. I bet he’s worthy of the chocolate.”

“And I’m not going to take one.” He looked to Luis and wrinkled his nose. “They smell funny. You’ve probably left them out in the sun, and they’ve spoiled.”

“Not at all, my friend. I made these up special just this morning.” Leather Jacket stretched his arm so that the brown-and-gold paper was right under Red’s nose.

Chicory caught a strong whiff of mushrooms beneath the cloying sweetness of chocolate. “I don’t like this at all. We’ve got to do something.” he whispered. “Those mushrooms are dangerous. The sugar just covers up the taste so the boys won’t notice what they’re eating.”

The Dandelions cringed away from him. “Wh… what can we do?”

“I don’t know…”

“Will this help?” Dandelion Seven flew quickly to a hawthorn bush in full bloom. Deftly, he broke off one of the thorns, about half as long as he was.

“Yeah, that’ll work.” Chicory fetched his own weapon from the obliging shrub.

“Wow, that’s the biggest butterfly ever,” Bryon turned lazy circles staring up at a purple-and-green Pixie who dared come out of hiding to inspect the candied mushroom powder.

“Dragonfly. Dragons wheeling on the wind, spouting clouds instead of fire,” Luis added, wobbling his own circles.

Bright candy colors smudged the corners of their mouths
and around the edges of their noses. They’d sniffed the mushrooms.

Too late.
Chicory chided himself.
We waited too long in indecision.

“Eat it!” Leather Jacket demanded of Red.

“No. You can’t make me.” Ian took off for the path toward the open park. But his tennis shoes squelched with water, leaking mud with every step, slowing him down. His round body wasn’t fit enough for a fast sprint.

“You guys are stupid. Not cool. I should have stayed friends with Chase and Dick, not you losers.” Ian stumbled and sobbed in his desperation to get away.

Before he could fully right himself, Leather Jacket jerked out a long leg. Ian tripped and sprawled full length in the underbrush, sobbing. Leather Jacket leaped on his back and tried to stuff the chocolate powder into the younger boy’s mouth. Ian clamped his teeth and shook his head. Leather Jacket grabbed a fistful of red hair and pulled sharply upward.

Ian howled in pain, only to have the candy jammed into his now open mouth.

“Pixies to the rescue!” Chicory called, brandishing his makeshift sword. Without checking to see if the Dandelions followed him, Chicory dove toward the intruder. He grinned fiercely when the point of his thorn struck the boy in the cheek and drew blood, a bright red dot.

Flipping into a backward summersault, the Pixie snagged a hank of greasy hair and pulled.

Leather Jacket slapped one hand to his injured cheek, the other to the top of his head, releasing Ian. “Ow!”

Chicory didn’t bother chortling in victory. He flew in for another stab, and another. Each time he yanked out a few more hairs and tossed them into the pond.

After the fifth strike, Leather Jacket was hopping around, trying to avoid his attacker. Ian got to his feet and hastened away, his mouth agape in horror. “Bad drugs. This is what bad drugs do to you. I don’t see real Pixies. I never have. Aunt Mabel’s ‘Pixies’ are just warped hallucinations from her heart medicine,” he said, cringing away from the blossoming red spots on his enemy’s face. Then he ducked out
of sight. “I’ll never eat chocolate or candy again. I’ll never, ever take any kind of drugs again!”

Chicory took a moment to check on the Dandelions. They mimicked his actions, darting in and out, attacking Luis and Bryon, not Leather Jacket. The boys’ faces were now masses of dripping red splotches—worse than any case of teenage acne.

The purple Pixie the boys had previously admired joined in the attack, giggling all the while.

Oh, well. At least those boys had learned never to take candy from a stranger. Chicory hummed a sprightly tune to reinforce the lesson.
Dum dum, do do, dee dee dum
.

He stopped in mid-phrase as Leather Jacket shrank, shedding his clothes and mask of greasy dirt. A bright Gold Faery with green edges emerged and flew away.

“Had to be a Faery. Too big to be a Pixie,” Chicory reassured the Dandelions. But the creature had woven, grasslike wings and the softer, rounder features of a Pixie.

Oh, well, best forget it. The kids had learned a lesson, and that was all that was important.

Dum dum, do do, dee dee dum.

Twenty years later.

“D
UM, DEE DEE, DO DUM DUM,” Thistle Down hummed her own special music as she bent over the darkest red rose in the garden. The rose swayed in time with her song as if a light breeze stirred through the dawn air on this damp October morning. With the plant duly lulled into cooperation, she flicked a cotton swab around the inside petals.

“Got it!” she chortled, holding up the swab, now covered in rich pollen. “Now to find a likely partner. You know you all want to help me create a purple rose, the same color my hair used to be.”

The rose responded by piercing her finger with a long thorn where she still held the stem.

“Ouch!” she protested, sucking her wound. She tasted a single drop of crimson blood, the same color as the rose. “You had no call to do that. You’re just being selfish by keeping all that lovely pollen to yourself. If I were still a Pixie, you’d gladly share so I could have a good meal.”

The rose stood tall and proud, not at all repentant.

“Or maybe you prefer to feed treacherous Faeries instead of honest Pixies,” she accused.

Another thorn jabbed her butt.

“Ouch. There was no need for that, you nasty rose.” But the plant stood straight and silent denying her accusation. It hadn’t reached behind her.

She swung around. A flutter of movement without substance
drew her eye in wild spirals up and down, back and forth, and around and around. Thistle spun about trying to follow the blue blur. Her head couldn’t keep up, sending her into dizzy wobbles. She staggered around the side yard, arms out, trying to find her balance while avoiding the fake tombstone Halloween decorations.

If only she had her Pixie wings back, she’d right herself quite readily.

The stabbing pain came again. She jumped, slapping her hand over her wounded bottom.

“Stop it!” she yelled at the blue blur that was now joined by a bright yellow-and-red one. “Slow down so I can see you when you attack me.”

A sly giggle erupted from somewhere behind her, in the vicinity of the last of the dahlias.

She focused on how the tall blossom-heavy stalks swayed and nodded. Her head stopped spinning at last, just before she encountered the witch’s cauldron suspended by a tripod over a fake fire. The witch mannequins hadn’t yet gravitated from attic to yard; otherwise she’d have crashed into them and sent the entire display sprawling.

One last deep breath, then she closed her eyes and reopened them looking for the
thing
out of place. There! She spotted the Pixie, a splotch of not-quite-right golden yellow with purply-red streaks against the greenery. A dashing fellow all decked out in sunset colors. His translucent faded brown wings took the form of multiple sheaves of grass woven together. Their edges looked limp and curled in odd places with a few holes crusted in red around the edges. That did not look healthy.

She didn’t recognize him. He wasn’t from one of the local tribes.

The blue blur zoomed in on the yellow fellow, a long spike from a hawthorn tree held out like a sword.

“Chicory?” She followed the blue-garbed male. He’d lost his multi-petal cap, and a thin trail of red blood dripped down his left arm.

Thistle slid her hand around him, capturing him easily. A sure sign that the wound slowed him down.

“Let me go,” Chicory protested. He wiggled and
squirmed, jabbing at her tiredly with his thorn sword. The point barely pricked her palm.

“Chicory, what ails you?”

“Seeking refuge at the hands of a human,” the yellow fellow’s voice sounded a bit ragged and breathless as it slid up and down an atonal scale in squeaks and slurs. Not musical at all. More like that awful noise teens called “Rock.”

“I was captured,” Chicory protested to his opponent. “At least I’m not hiding from the finer soldier.”

“Soldier? What’s this about? Pixies have no soldiers, no armies. We do not war among ourselves,” Thistle said.

“What’s she talking about? Talking about? She’s no Pixie. No Pixie.” The yellow male peeked out from behind the heavy flower head that nearly mimicked his own colors.

“She used to be our own Thistle Down,” Chicory yelled back. Then he lowered his voice to a whisper, “Walk me closer, Thistle. I’ll stab him from behind.”

“No, I won’t. Now explain yourselves. Why are you fighting, and who is this stranger? He’s not from any of the tribes and gardens in Skene Falls.”