Chicory Up: The Pixie Chronicles Read online

  “ROSIE, MAY I ENTER YOUR GARDEN?

  MABEL SENT ME,”

  Thistle called to the queen of Chicory’s tribe.

  “Go away!” Rosie yelled back from the flower directly above Thistle’s head. Only it wasn’t a flower. Rosie had curled up in a ball, letting her petal gown mimic the adjacent blossoms.

  “Rosie, this is important. Mabel is sick. She sent me here to protect you all until she can come home again.”

  “We know. Go away. We don’t need you.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “What can you do? You’re a woodland Pixie, as wild as a Dandelion. We’re a civilized garden tribe.”

  “Ask anyone in this district how well I tend gardens,” Thistle shot back, affronted. “A Pixie is a Pixie. We all listen to plants of any variety to learn what they need to thrive.” She shifted her gaze, seeking signs of movement or flashes of color.

  “Rosie, where is your tribe?” Thistle asked suspiciously.

  “None of your business.”

  “It is my business if they are all off fighting valley Pixies, or… or…” Stars above, could they be attacking the Pixies in The Ten Acre Wood, Thistle’s tribe?

  Not that Alder, her king and philandering lover, didn’t deserve to be thrown off his throne. His own tribe was the only one with the right to do that.

  Thistle didn’t know for sure. She needed to talk to Alder. Not likely to happen while she was exiled to a human body.

  “We’re at war, Thistle,” Rosie said in that superior way of hers. “And there’s nothing you can do about it. We all know where your loyalties lie. And it isn’t in my garden.”

  DAW Books Presents

  the Finest in Fantasy by

  IRENE RADFORD:

  The Pixie Chronicles:

  THISTLE DOWN (Book 1)

  CHICORY UP (Book 2)

  The Dragon Nimbus:

  THE GLASS DRAGON (Book 1)

  THE PERFECT PRINCESS (Book 2)

  THE LONELIEST MAGICIAN (Book 3)

  THE WIZARD’S TREASURE (Book 4)

  The Dragon Nimbus History:

  THE DRAGON’S TOUCHSTONE (Book 1)

  THE LAST BATTLEMAGE (Book 2)

  THE RENEGADE DRAGON (Book 3)

  The Stargods:

  THE HIDDEN DRAGON (Book 1)

  THE DRAGON CIRCLE (Book 2)

  THE DRAGON’S REVENGE (Book 3)

  CHICORY

  UP

  Irene Radford

  DAW BOOKS, INC.

  Donald A. Wollheim, Founder

  375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014

  Elizabeth R. Wollheim

  Sheila E. Gilbert

  Publishers

  www.dawbooks.com

  Copyright © 2012 by Phyllis Irene Radford.

  All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN: 978-1-101-64187-3

  Cover art by Cliff Nielsen.

  Cover design by G-Force Design.

  DAW Book Collectors No. 1586.

  DAW Books are distributed by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious.

  Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  If you purchase this book without a cover you should be aware that this book may have been stolen property and reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher. In such case neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Nearly all the designs and trade names in this book are registered trademarks. All that are still in commercial use are protected by United States and international trademark law.

  First Printing, May 2012

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

  DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED

  U.S. PAT. AND TM. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES

  —MARCA REGISTRADA

  HECHO EN U.S.A.

  PRINTED IN THE USA

  CHICORY

  UP

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  Thirty-nine

  Forty

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  CHICORY PEERED THROUGH THE LACY fronds of a bracken fern. His blue wings fluttered in unease. The pond at the center of The Ten Acre Wood looked full and healthy, as it should on the first day of summer vacation. A fat bullfrog croaked, slugs inched along the verge, birds sang in glorious morning greetings, and dozens of Pixies flitted about. Presiding over them all, the Patriarch Oak, full of sprouting mistletoe, invited climbers. Children should flock here from every Pixie territory for miles around.

  Dawn had come and gone hours ago. The sun burned off the last traces of dew from the blooming foxgloves and the depression in the middle of lupine leaf clusters.

  “Perfect,” he murmured to his charges. A bit of pride made his chest swell. Finally, Queen Rosie had entrusted this vital work to him, Chicory, a ditch weed of a Pixie. But a loyal and trustworthy ditch weed, he reassured himself.

  “Are they here yet? I don’t see any children? Where are they?” Dandelion Five chittered in excitement.

  “Hush,” Chicory hissed at all seven of his charges. “We have to be quiet. This isn’t our territory. But it’s the best place for Pixies to make friends with children. That’s important. Our most important work.”

  “Hush yourself. Never known you to keep your mouth shut for more than three heartbeats,” Dandelion One sneered.

  Dandelions! Too dumb to remember orders, and so many of them, impossible to tell them apart. That was why they had numbers instead of individual names. He was sure that other Pixie tribes had a Chicory, a Rose, a Foxglove, one of each, but only one. Every tribe had a horde of Dandelions. Often a dozen or more. They bred so fast no one could keep track of them all. Few bothered to look close enough to determine male from female.

  Just then, three boys tromped noisily along the path from the park to the south. They probably thought they were moving quietly in their game of Pirate Treasure, or Cowboys and Indians, whatever adolescents played this year. To Pixie senses they thrashed and stomped, their whispers almost as loud as shouts.

  “They look like eleven-year-olds,” Chicory guessed. “Just about the age boys give up believing in Pixies,” he continued in whispered tones. “Our job is to make sure they continue believing and let us stick around as friends to help them through the most difficult years of their lives.”

  “Impossible. Once they give up believ
ing, it’s useless to try and change their minds,” Dandelion Eight said, crossing her arms and hunkering down into the leaf litter.

  “Not impossible. Just difficult. That’s why it’s so important we do this.”

  “I’m tired. Let’s go home,” Dandelion Twelve whined. He was the youngest and smallest of the lot, probably too young to do the job. But old enough to learn about stubborn adolescent boys.

  The boys in question each picked up a stout stick and swiped the tops off of the towering foxgloves. The round redheaded boy with lots of freckles and ears sticking out to the sides took a proper stance and stabbed with his mock sword. “Take that, you traitor to the Boy Scout oath,” he pronounced as he lunged into a mass of sword ferns.

  “Boy Scouts are lame,” said the skinny, dark-haired boy with swarthy skin. He spoke with the inflection of another language holding primary place beneath his words.

  “My Aunt Mabel says Boy Scouts are the best training for the Police Academy. I want to be a policeman when I grow up,” the redhead continued in his superior tones.

  “Cops are bullies,” the youngest of the boys whispered shyly. “My dad says never trust a cop.”

  “Are not!” Red insisted. He turned his stick toward the other two, as if ready to run them through with a real sword. “You two aren’t really my friends. You’re bad boys. Disrespectful boys. Just like Aunt Mabel said.” The last came out in a disappointed whisper.

  “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 unde
rbrush, 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.