How to Train Your Hodag

by Maku Kasai

  John bobbed his head and Connor nodded once in satisfaction before gripping the scales on the back of the hodag’s head as it continued to lambast the side of John’s face.

  “I think we’re in need of a new strategy, Jerry,” Connor informed both John and the animal.

  “Not my name, Connor. I know better than to use my name in front of any of the fey.”

  Cerberus amicably shifted to continue his work. “I could look for articles online about dog training.”

  “That might be a good idea.”

  John pulled out his phone and was greeted with the sight of a single red triangle in his battery life indicator. “I need my charger.”

  Connor tilted his head, taking a seat on the top of a Queen Anne’s Lace bloom. “Where would you get one of those?”

  “I have one in my room,” John said.

  Connor grimaced. “It doesn’t happen to look like a funny bit of cable that a hodag might have chewed in two, would it?”

  “No, it’s a—” John shoved the hodag back and turned to gaze at Connor “Wait, what do you mean chewed in two?”

  “Hodag slobber doesn’t do much to you, but it annihilates everything else.”

  John facepalmed. “I have a spare charger in my old apartment.”

  Connor nodded. “Good thinking, but under the circumstances, would it really be wise to leave the hodag on its own here?”

  They looked at Cerberus, who trotted across the porch and started gnawing on the step.

  “No, no, it wouldn’t,” John said. “But, the last time I tried to leash Cerberus he ate it.”

  “I’m sure we’ve got a bit of chain lying around here somewhere.”

  “I can’t walk around with him on a chain,” John said. “But maybe there is something else we can do.” He entered through the glass sliding door and went to the kitchen, where he began opening and closing drawers.

  “What are you after?” Connor asked.

  “A tube with clear liquid inside.”

  Connor grabbed a drawer handle and pulled out just such a tube. “This? What is it?”

  “It’s called superglue,” John said as he dug through the kitchen drawers, still looking for something. With an “aha!” he pulled out a pair of scissors.

  “Aye, but why is it called super?” Connor hefted the tube and eyed it suspiciously. “It doesn’t look like much”—Connor leaned his head in and took a long sniff—“and it doesn’t smell great either.”

  “It’s called super because it makes stuff stick together really strongly, and now would you please stop going through the junk drawer and help me make this costume?” John asked.

  “It can’t be stronger than spider’s lace. How does it work?” The fairy tapped it against the kitchen counter.

  “You pour it on something you want to stick to something else. I need it for the costume.” John huffed and his lips drew into a grimace. “There is bound to be some fabric around here somewhere. Can you stay here and keep an eye on Cerberus?”

  “Oh, aye.” Connor waved a hand absently. “How do you pour it?” He knocked the cap against the counter again.

  “You unscrew the cap. Stop messing with it. I’ll be right back.” John retreated downstairs.

  Connor flipped the bottle around and slapped the cap, which spun slightly. “There you are.” The fairy continued to slap the cap, spinning it until it popped off. “Now we’ll see how strong you really are.” Connor flipped the bottle upside down and gave it a solid squeeze. “No harm in prepping for when the lad gets back.”

  A little rush of clear semi-liquid gel flooded out, creating a large puddle on the counter.

  He poked it experimentally with his foot and pulled back with a frown. He bent over and scooped a handful. He licked it, puckering his lips in a sour expression. “Tastes like the back side of a woodchuck.”

  He shook his hand vigorously, sending small globules flying, then looked down in surprise that some of it still coated his hand. He shook it again and carefully closed his hand into a fist. His muscles tensed and after a short delay his hand popped back open. Connor nodded. “Hmph. Is that all?”

  He tried turning around but found his foot now stuck to the counter. He stared down at his foot. “Well, now.” He reached down with both hands to clasp his ankle and pulled. His foot popped free and he set it down on a patch of counter not sticky with glue. “There, I—” Connor tried to release his ankle, only to discover it was now glue-bonded to one of his hands.

  He grunted and hopped up and down a few times before finally pulling free and promptly lost his balance. The gel made a splooshing noise as he landed in middle of the puddle.

  “Ack! Badger bottom!” Almost instantly the fairy was back on his feet, flailing and staggering, sending more glue flying.

  Connor made it a few more steps before one of his feet stuck against the surface of the counter, immediately followed by the other. Connor jerked one leg, then the other and finally crouched down, his muscles straining like a coiled spring, and leapt, ripping himself free. He sailed for a moment before coming to a crash landing in the open junk drawer, sending a veritable spray of paperclips clattering onto the floor.

  The fairy, swearing, emerged from the drawer. Two pencils, some post-it notes, several paperclips, and a box of staples all bonded into one solid mass around him, like debris floating down a sewer drain. Connor hit the floor, and after a couple false starts and several bent paperclips, he got to his feet.

  He looked up to see that Cerberus had now wandered over to him, and the hodag lowered its snout to sniff at the strange new mess. Connor attempted to move his legs again but found them awkwardly tangled with paperclips and would have tripped, but for once more being stuck to the floor. Cerberus snorted at him and offered the little man his broad side.

  Connor glared through the tangle. “Don’t you dare.”

  The hodag, in reply, lifted its leg.

  Fifteen minutes later John came back. The small figure of Connor tromped across the counter and came to a halt. He pointed a tiny finger at John. “You owe me.”

  John stared at Connor, taking in the fairy’s slightly singed appearance. “What happened to you?”

  “What happened to me?” Connor sputtered, unable to form a coherent sentence, and then degenerated into a string of what John assumed was cursing in some ancient fey language.

  John spared a glance at Cerberus who laid its head down but had both eyes open, and the spikes rippled down its back as the tail scraped across the linoleum.

  John glanced at Connor and stared as the fairy continued to rant. “Hey, uh, Connor? Is your hair lighter than it used to be?”

  Connor stopped mid-rant and plopped down onto the counter, his arms and legs crossed and his lower jaw set. “No comment.”

  “I don’t think this is going to work,” Connor said.

  “It’s got to.” John looked down at the white bedsheet that had been mangled, taped, glued, and stapled to look like a tiny ghost costume, and then starched to the point of solidity to keep Cerberus from chewing it.

  Underneath the stiff sheet, the hodag yipped, the tip of his long pink tongue just visible under the section of cloth attached to his head. Spinning in a circle, he chased the hem of the cloth trailing his spiked tail.

  “I’m just saying this might not be the best costume,” Connor said.

  John looked down at the misshapen mess. “Can anyone in the clan sew?”

  Connor nodded. “There are a few who are deft with a needle.”

  “Great!” John hopped to his feet. “Could Nessie?”

  Connor shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?” John asked, leaning down to Connor’s eye level.

  “She’s, um…” Connor picked at a nail, then straightened his pants.

  “You two have a fight?”

  “No.” Connor looked away, avoiding the question.

  “Is it because you’re helping me?” John asked. He rubbed the back of his neck. />
  “Not quite.” Connor bit his lip.

  “I don’t want to cause problems for you. I’d hate to think she was mad at you for helping me out.”

  “Mad?” Connor’s lips pursed. “Try the opposite. When I told her your plan, she fell off her chair laughing.”

  “Laughing?”

  “Before she succumbed, she managed to say that it was the worst idea she’d heard in a century.” Connor paused. “And a half.” Connor lifted his hands up as if trying to disarm a bear. “Not me, though. I think it’s a decent plan.”

  John gritted his teeth. “Do you think she might get over her giggle fit and help us?”

  “Hard to say. I told her an hour ago. When we started on the costume.”

  “And?” John asked.

  “She stopped for a minute to explain it to some of the others.”

  John dropped his face into his hands. “Will they help us?”

  “They were still clutching their bellies, rolling on the floor when I left.” Connor rocked on his heels.

  John glared. “The costume is fine. We’re going.”

  John now walked a small fabric ghost through town after successfully retrieving his phone charger. “Connor?” John paused as Cerberus stopped to sniff at a telephone pole. “Shouldn’t you be hiding or something?”

  “Why?” Connor’s small face scrunched in perplexity.

  “What if someone sees you?” John offered, motioning at the empty street ahead.

  Connor waved one hand. “I’m too small for anyone to see except up close, and I’d see them long before they saw me and have time to hide.”

  John shifted his feet. “But if they did?”

  “Humans are blind as bats, and in denial. No one would ever admit to themselves, much less anyone else, that they’d seen something out of the norm. Probably think I’m a finch, or a butterfly.”

  John tugged on the chain he used as a leash. “Wouldn’t the same thing work for Cerberus?”

  “In small doses, yes.” Connor reclaimed his seat on John’s shoulder. “He darts by you, blame your imagination. They may think he’s a dog dyed weird. But they’d look twice. That’s where real trouble starts.”

  John kicked a rock, and it clattered down the sidewalk.

  “Connor, why the list? Why send Lilith running all over on stupid errands?”

  “They aren’t stupid,” Connor said. He thrust his terracotta hands in the pockets of his green pants.

  “You’re after something. What is it?” John crossed the grass and back onto the sidewalk. They plodded along silently, and for a long while, the only sounds were Cerberus sniffing at things and the distant traffic.

  “There is something.” Connor walked through the grass head down.

  “Throw it on the list,” John said. “The Hag is desperate to get back in her house.”

  “Can’t.”

  “Why not?” John asked.

  “She can’t remember.” Connor rubbed the back of his neck. “We would have to go looking for him.”

  “Him?” John asked. He stopped on the sidewalk. “Connor—”

  “Heads up!” Connor disappeared.

  “Good morning!” a new voice called down the street.

  John looked up to see the figure of an older man wearing a dark suit and brightly colored tie. His heart skipped a beat as he glanced to where Connor should be, and then down at the cloth ghost that sidled up to his leg and sat contentedly, the tip of Cerberus’s tongue just barely visible. John could feel his pulse start to race as he plastered on a smile and turned to meet the approaching man. Bishop Barnes, the local religious leader who kept an eye on his neighborhood, was coming his way.

  “Bishop Barnes! Good morning.” John hoped he could greet the older gentleman and go.

  The older man came to a stop a few feet away from John. “You know, it’s the funniest thing, I could have sworn I saw a mouse just now.” He stared at the bush that Connor had ducked into. He stared long enough that John felt the need to clear his throat. The noise made the bishop look up at John. “Hmm?”

  “So, uh, how’s God?” John glanced nervously down at Cerberus before turning back to the bishop.

  The older man smiled. “Our Father in Heaven is doing well enough. I’ve actually been hoping I would run into you.”

  John gulped. “You have?”

  “Oh yes. I went by the other day to thank you and everyone else at the plasma center for helping organize the blood drive last month. It was really very good of you and it helped a lot of people.” He sounded genuine enough; still, there was a “but” coming.

  John blinked. “Oh. That. Well, no worries, bishop, it was the least I could do.”

  “No, a lot of people do a lot less and don’t think anyone notices. There are angels above us—”

  Involuntarily John glanced around, his shoulders tensing. He didn’t want to spend any more time with angels.

  “—who are silent notes taking—” The bishop paused and stared at John for a moment. “Are you alright?”

  “Huh?” John turned back to the bishop and managed a sheepish smile. “Just overheated I guess. I should get indoors.”

  “Uh-huh.” The bishop put a slightly weathered hand on John’s shoulder and looked him directly in the eyes. “Son, I heard some people got hurt at the plasma center a while back. Are you doing alright? Are you talking to anyone about it?”

  John squirmed a little under the surprising weight of the man’s gaze. “I’m alright, sir. I just really ought to be on my way.”

  “My door is always open. You know that.” The bishop patted John’s shoulder once, then removed his hand.

  “Yes sir. I’ll remember that if I need to talk,” John said.

  “Sure, sure.” The older man crouched down, and before John could stop him he reached for Cerberus’s headcover. “Now who do we have under here?”

  John froze, nightmare images of a hodag attack filling his vision followed by police cars and a long prison sentence. John shut his eyes and tried to form some kind of response on the fly.

  “Look, bishop, I can explain—”

  “Ha!” replied the older man, a grin pulling up the corners of his mouth. “I thought so! That’s great!”

  John opened his eyes tentatively. “Great?”

  “Absolutely marvelous.” The bishop rose to his feet. “Why, I haven’t seen one of those in years.”

  “You haven’t?” John shuffled his feet. “I mean, you’ve seen one of these before?”

  “Seen one? I had three when I was a kid.” Bishop Barnes smiled.

  “Three?” John struggled to comprehend the idea of three hodags in anyone’s care.

  “Yes, my brothers and I would walk them up and down State street. You should have seen the looks we got.” He patted the top of the ghost costume with gusto. “Why, once we almost caused an accident this one driver was rubbernecking so hard to watch us.”

  “Really?” John gaped.

  “Oh yes, marvelous prank,” he chuckled, rising again.

  “It is?”

  The bishop laughed, likely reliving memories of his own. “The old ‘invisible dog routine.’ A classic.”

  “Invisible dog—” John glanced down to see that the top headpiece of the costume had fallen over. The starch in the fabric kept it hodag shaped. John could clearly see inside the empty costume, including the gap in the back big enough that Cerberus had slipped out.

  John stared at the situation with growing horror.

  The bishop, oblivious to any concern, continued to talk. “You should have seen the three of us, we—”

  In one fluid motion John scooped up the hollow costume. “Bishop, I gotta go.” And with that John ran off, leaving behind a cloud of dust and a rather confused clergyman.

  Not far away, Mike stared at the brick wall of the alley as he undid his fly and started to pee. A Big Gulp of Mountain Dew’s worth of fluid worked its way out of his system and onto the alley wall. He adjusted the lit joint carefu
lly between his teeth and managed a shallow pull.

  His moment of relaxation was jarred as the splashing sound doubled in volume. The source of the increase in sound came from somewhere below him. He turned his chin slightly to look down. The scaly green face that met his eyes was enough to momentarily cause a hiccup in his stream.

  The creature stood staring at Mike, one of its rear legs raised nonchalantly to allow it to also pee freely against the wall. Mike drew in a sharp breath and momentarily forgot the joint, causing him to cough and look away.

  When he looked back, the creature finished its business and now stood on all fours with its jaw partially dropped and a long tongue lolling out of its mouth. Behind it, the scattered garbage at the base of the wall steamed slightly. The creature gave a yip, spun in a circle, and then went bounding off down and out of the alley.

  Mike did not move.

  A breeze passed through the alley, scattering a few leaves and discarded fast food wrappers. With careful adjustment he pulled up his fly and with deliberate motion removed the joint from his lips. He stared at the end of the alley where the creature had been, then down at the still smoking joint in his hand, then back at the alley and then back at his hand. Then, still with great care, he put out the joint, turned, and left very quickly in the opposite direction.

  Had he continued to watch, he might have seen John go running past with a stiff white cloth.

  John had managed to tackle Cerberus just past the convenience store and lug him back to the house. He dropped down onto the porch. The latest bundle, fashioned from now-ruined clothes, rustled and unfurled until Cerberus happily jumped out and ran in its customary circle before plopping down on its hind legs. The hodag panted and nudged John with its nose.

  “In a minute, Cerberus.” John groaned and dug into his pocket for the charger, staggered to the plug below the open kitchen window, and plugged it in.

  Connor stood on the sill scratching at his scalp. “That super glue is super annoying.”