Irene Radford - Thistle Down

“Aren’t you forgetting your own mythology?” Thistle sneered at him. She placed a foot on his shoulder, keeping him down. “Those are iron handcuffs. They negate your magic. You’re stuck in that body.”

“Huh?”

Chase completed his arrest ritual, making sure the cuffs fit tightly. No chance the tricky con man would find a way to wiggle free.

Dusty grabbed Dick by the arm, leading him away from the spreading flames. She shook him cautiously. “Are you okay?”

“I will be, when I can get some ice. Phelma Jo packs quite a wallop. Where is she, by the way? I think she’s been drugged.”

Chase turned to where she stood staring straight ahead, heedless of the flames that licked at her trouser legs. He threw Hay’s hands down and lunged forward in his best football tackle.

Dusty beat him to it. She crashed into Phelma Jo, knocking them both sideways, rolling onto the lush grass, until the flames gave up their fight for life and fuel.

Chase helped Dusty up, a little roughly, as he bent to inspect Phelma Jo’s injuries. “Medic! ” he yelled when he found second-degree burns on her ankles and hands.

Strangely, she remained silent, staring vacantly into the distance.

Dick joined him.

“Take care of her. You’ve got the EMT training,” Chase ordered.

“The wind has shifted,” Thistle announced. It’s coming from the east.

“Damn. That will spread the fire downhill, toward town.” Chase looked up, taking a tally of where everyone was and how much help they’d be. “We’re gonna need more fire trucks.” He pulled out his walkie-talkie and barked orders into it.

“The cliff is full of poison oak,” Dusty cried. “The smoke is toxic! ”

Chase looked at Hay and Phelma Jo in bewilderment. “I’ve got to get these two locked up. But I need to be on the front lines of this fire.”

“The pioneer jailhouse!” Thistle cried,pointing to the ramshackle shed whose wall planks sank two feet below ground level.

“That place won’t hold a fly,” Chase snorted.

“But it will hold Hay. Between the iron in the cuffs and being half underground, he’ll be powerless.”

“And Phelma Jo is really out of it,” Dusty reminded him, standing up.

Phelma Jo continued to lie on the ground unmoving, humming something. Do dum dee do . Not Thistle’s song, something else.

“She hasn’t moved. Dick, will she be all right?”

“Can’t say for sure. But she’s acting like he gave her flunitrazepam.” He tore Phelma Jo’s pant leg from ankle to knee, exposing more raw skin.

“What’s that?” Thistle asked.

“Commonly called Rohypnol or ruffies. A date rape drug that has hypnotic qualities,” Dick said, not looking up from his work.

“Just looks like a normal magic trance to me,” Thistle shrugged.

“Try explaining that to Judge Pepperidge,” Chase said, hauling a strangely silent and subdued Haywood toward the primitive shed. “Okay, let’s get this guy locked up. Phelma Jo goes in the first ambulance. Dick, find a paramedic among the fire crews for that knot on your head. It’s bleeding. Dusty, start organizing people to head downtown and meet the blaze with hoses and shovels as it comes down the cliff. We need the pumper trucks up here.”

“Will do!” she saluted him and ran off to the mass of people huddling away from the fire, doing a lot of talking but not much else.

“Don’t just stand there. Get out the hoses! Ladies, spray the sides of the buildings and the roof. This is my museum, and I’m not going to let it burn because you can’t make a decision. Gentlemen, into town and start wetting down as many of the buildings backing up to the cliff as you can.”

She sounded calm and determined, like a mother hen.

Bill Tremaine jumped to obey her commands, Pamela Shiregrove not far behind him.

He couldn’t help smiling. The old Dusty, shy and frightened of life was gone for good, because Thistle had taught her to embrace life rather than hide from it.

He heard Thistle call from the distance:

“I’ll get the Pixies to rescue who they can from the woods. The barrier came down with the flames.” She dashed off barefoot, nearly floating over the grass.

THISTLE BLEW HER WHISTLE, letting the shrill sound open a way for her voice. “Get a move on, buster. If you gotta gawk at the fire, park the damn rig and walk back so you can help! ” She waved the driver of the big black SUV around Memorial Fountain and away from the bustle at the edge of the fire.

Another blast on the whistle and she moved another line of traffic forward. Then she danced through the pool of the fountain, letting her bare feet send slops of water onto the street. The hem of her purple party dress dragged behind her. She stood face-to-face with yet another driver, leaning out his window rather than moving out of the way.

Just as she raised her whistle again to get his attention, a fat raindrop splatted against her cheek. Then another, and another.

A wild giggle erupted from her throat. “We did it! We tickled the clouds until they spilled their rain like laughter, right where we need it, when we need it. Pixies rock.”

“Huh,” the driver looked up at her, bewildered.

“Get your arse and that truck out of the way. Keep it moving, folks. Don’t stop to watch. This is a roundabout. That means drive around the fountain. Hey, don’t stop in the middle of the road. Get moving before the next fire truck runs over the top of you.”

This was her town. These were her friends.

Her bare feet barely touched the ground as she marched over to direct another group of cars into the proper lane. She danced to the Pixie music filling her heart and those of her friends.

Dum dee dee do dum dum .