Pick (Notevember 2021, #10)

“Put yer back into it, Thistledown!”

“What does it look like I’m doing, brother?”

This whole risky enterprise had been Shrewmoss’s idea, and Thistledown only came along to see him fail. But along the way, he had convinced her – as he was wont to do – to join in the theft. Or attempted theft, rather, as they had yet to succeed. Though considering the time they had already spent trying to part the pumpkin from its stem, success was not the direction in which they appeared to be heading.

“Well, put more back into it, then!” Shrewmoss whined.

“If ye don’t shut yer gob, I’ll be putting you on yer back,” Thistledown muttered, but renewed her efforts with the saw.

Her shoulders and arms already ached like mad, and her brother’s were sure to do the same, but they had cut more than halfway through the stem by now. In for a penny, in for a pound, as the Big Folk said. On the other hand, the Big Folk were likely to pound the faeries to paste if they were caught stealing from the farm. Not that Thistledown or her brother – nor anyone she knew, really – had ever been spotted by a human. But she had heard enough gruesome stories to know the risk they were taking. And even if they weren’t caught…

“Mossie?” she said. “I’ve been thinking.”

“Have ye now? Should I be worried?” Shrewmoss teased her.

“Not about me, no. But what d’ye plan on telling father when we come back with a pumpkin?”

“I reckon I’ll be telling him that dinner’s on us.”

“Is that so? And d’ye also reckon he’ll be satisfied with that answer?”

“Aye, why shouldn’t he be? It’s a fat enough gourd.”

“Fat, yes. And stolen. Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but our father doesnae hold with thievery, does he?”

“How’s he to know, eh? Ye’re no stupid enough to tell him, and neither am I.”

“Mossie, it’s a pumpkin. A Big Folk pumpkin. ‘Tis naught else it could be but stolen.”

“Right… Well… Let me worry about that. I’ll think of something,” said Shrewmoss, but he didn’t sound too confident.

Thistledown had just opened her mouth to argue further, when an easing of pressure on the saw let them know the job was done. Well, the first part of it – and arguably the easiest.

“Now that’s more like it!” her brother exclaimed. “Get the dust out and we’ll have this prize home in no time at all.”

“Which dust?”

“Are ye daft, sister? The flight dust.”

“Don’t look at me. I didnae bring any flight dust.”

“Eh, why not?”

“Wasn’t my plan, now, was it? Why didn’t you bring any?”

“Me?! It’s woman’s work, dust and sing-stones and suchlike.”

“So you couldn’t have took some from, oh, I don’t know, auntie Violet’s stock? Or begged some from Honeysuckle?”

“And risk having her tell?”

“Like she would. She fancies you.”

“She does not.”

“She does too, and ye’re blind for not seeing it.”

Shrewmoss sighed. “No sense dwelling on it. No dust, no pumpkin.”

The faeries were quiet for a moment.

“Maybe,” Shrewmoss began tentatively, “there’s some other way?”

Thistledown started smiling. “Aye, I suppose ye could carry it,” she suggested, earning her a searing look.

“That thing weighs at least thirty pounds. Pray tell, sister, how would I go about carrying something like that?”

She started laughing. “Just put yer back into it!”