“You are free to wander the grounds. The outside exhibits are well signed. But if you’d like, I can accompany you. Perhaps the boys would like to see what an early jail cell was really like.”
She’d never offered to continue a tour beyond the indoor requirements.
Happily, she led the group outside and headed toward the knot garden. Three men standing behind the carriage barn at the edge of the woods caught her attention. She saw their bright yellow hard hats first.
These men weren’t interested in the exhibits. They’d set up survey equipment with sighting devices on tripods and were carrying industrial-length tape measures and clipboards.
Dusty stood at the edge of the herb garden, shivering in the heat. The floaty feeling she’d had since Hay had called her this morning before work just to say “hello” sank to her heels, forming a huge magnet that kept her rooted to the ground. She couldn’t flee, couldn’t think, couldn’t answer the question about the silver plant at the center of the garden.
“Are you all right, Miss?” the father asked.
“Please, call the curator,” Dusty choked out.
Seconds later, Joe marched out of the museum toward the three interlopers. When he passed Dusty, she gathered enough momentum to creep after him. “What’s going on here?” Joe asked authoritatively. His slender stature seemed to expand with righteous indignation.
“Just doin’ my job, buddy,” the man with the clipboard said with a shrug. “This is a city park. Unless you have authorization signed by the parks commissioner…”
“I got a work order signed by my boss. That’s all I need. These days work is work, I’ll take what I can get paid for.”
“May I see this supposed work order?” Joe held out his hand.
“Sure, buddy. But don’t stand there very long. You’re in my way, and I gotta start cutting this timber on Friday.”
“Th… that’s the day before the Masque Ball. It will be ruined! ” Dusty found her voice. “We’ll have to cancel and give back all the money we’ve already raised. But we’ve spent most of it setting up the party.” Tears welled up in her eyes.
“I see nothing official from the city on this paper,” Joe said, handing back the ordinary looking memo.
“Talk to my boss about that.”
“And who is your boss?”
“A voice on the phone from Pixel Industries, Ltd. I’m independent, subcontract out to the big guys.” He waved at his assistant at the other end of the tape measure to move slightly to the left.
“I’ve never heard of Pixel Industries, Ltd.”
“Neither had I. But I got a fax with the work order and an advance wired to my bank. Now get out of the way.”
“Dusty, go call the police. And the mayor’s office,” Joe ordered. “We’ll find out who and what is behind this. As far as I know there’s a law against cutting timber in city parks except for removal of dangerous and damaged trees.”
“I’m from Portland. Don’t know about your city laws. I just know I got work after a long dry spell of no work.” The hard-hatted man returned to his equipment, clearly dismissing Joe and his protests.
He took a sheet of notepaper from one of his compatriots, started recording the figures, paused, and pushed his hard hat to the back of his head. Then he peered closer at the paper, over the tops of his glasses and loosed a long low whistle.
“Holy ef… cow! That big oak alone has enough timber to make up for the purchase price. Can’t get old growth oak like that anymore. Surprised it’s not on the list of heritage trees.”
“The Patriarch Oak! No. No. No.” Dusty picked up her long costume skirts and ran back inside the museum.
She paused at the head of the stairs to the basement and made the two calls. Then she retreated to the sorting of potsherds she should have been doing instead of gleefully giving tours.
Seventeen
“DUSTY, 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.
“Work? You have a job?” Dusty’s voice came closer. “I didn’t think you could 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.