Were-Whisperer

By Bo Dean Logsdon

Tom Ticks is an insecure southern California dog-rehabilitator-in-training who, through a series of bizarre ewail-to-email mishaps, finds himself mistaken for the infamous magical Were-Whisperer, whose services are desperately needed by the villagers of Peculiar, Pennsylvania, in their efforts to rid themselves of escalating and dangerous "canine issues".

Eagerly leaving a warm California beach for the remote autumn backroads of Magique County, PA, Tom soon discovers that the panic-stricken citizens of Peculiar have unintentionally bitten off more than poor Tom can chew!

This is an uproarious, quick-paced adventure involving dozens of delightful characters who will solicit you, the e-reader, for your undying support!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bo Dean Logsdon
• Release date: Apr 26, 2013
• ISBN: 9780988499508

Bo Dean Logsdon

All those years of classroom education has taught me little, except to pique an interest or two. The real lessons were learned "out there", including a four-year army stint, even shorter stints with ex-wives, a couple of cool kids, and, mostly, the lessons from low-paying jobs with high-experience returns. It's like my old man used to say, "It's hard to hit a moving target." That in mind, I always bring along my pals, Bob and Weave. In the end, it's about gold flakes in your pan, a basic consideration when you're hungry, and I am oh-so-hungry.

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WERE-WHISPERER

Bo Dean Logsdon

Were-Whisperer

By Bo Dean Logsdon

Copyright 2012 Bo Dean Logsdon

Smashwords Edition

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Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1 - Neither Here Nor There

Chapter 2 - in the Light of Day

Chapter 3 - A Long Shift

Chapter 4 - Outside Influence

Chapter 5 - Arresting Work

Chapter 6 - Peculiar Town Meeting

Chapter 7 - Ventura Beach, California

Chapter 8 - When It Wanes, It Pours

Chapter 9 - Mizery Loves Company

Chapter 10 - A Little Red

Chapter 11 - The Golden State

Chapter 12 - A Day of Mizery

Chapter 13 - Bugged Without Mercy

Chapter 14 - You Have E-Wail

Chapter 15 - A Peculiar Reception

Chapter 16 - Quarry in a Bottle

Chapter 17 - The Post-Quarry Inquiry

Chapter 18 - For Whom the Stroll Tolls

Chapter 19 - Witch Way to Go

Chapter 20 - Meanwhile at the Cotton Ranch

Chapter 21 - A Query at the Quarry

Chapter 22 - Ticked Off But Viable

Chapter 23 - The Beating Goes On

Chapter 24 - Closing a Sale

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Prologue

Magic is in the eye of the beholder. For Tom Ticks, a struggling California dog-rehabilitator-in-training, magic is simply succeeding as a canine whisperer. After barely surviving the embarrassing Great Wiener Incident (involving an unruly dog pack under his leadership and an errant hot dog vendor), something wonderful happens.

Through a series of bizarre e-wail (magical server) to e-mail mishaps, he receives a desperate plea for help from the magical community of Peculiar, PA. Their request is simple: the community’s work-visa Were-Folk are suddenly acting oddly when they turn. Recently, they’ve become downright dangerous! Reluctantly, they called for the mysterious Were-Whisperer, but have, instead, made unknowing contact with Tom Ticks, the non-magical Whisperer-in-training.

The question remains for this confusing incident: have both parties bitten off more than they can chew?

Chapter One - Neither Here Nor There

It’s a tidy, small shop with narrow aisles and tall gondolas, the kind of cramped store that the citizens of Peculiar, Pennsylvania expect and prefer. For one thing, one can stand in the middle of an aisle and reach shelved items on either side, which is of particular importance to Miss Pickertree, who stands four-feet-nine-inches tall (in pointy-toed boot heels) and weighs 86 pounds wet. She’s known to Mr. Portlee, the proprietor, as a ‘reach-all’ customer, which he encourages. Otherwise, he would have to rise upon his corn-riddled feet and waddle regrettably to the customer, who is most inclined to ask a foolish question anyway.

It’s a general store, stocked with the usual assortment of frosted glass jars packed with exotic herbs, bundles of sage, jerky bats wings, pickled poison frogs, dried raven wings (just add water for fruition), and odd-looking insects floating in murky solution. Tied bundles of broom hay dangle from crossbeams. Displayed on end-caps are large cauldrons packed with paper cones stuffed with clusters of dried blood root and poison oak twists. Nearby are stout cages with beds of potted soil for the screeching mandrake roots, which, at this very moment, seem content to gurgle belligerently while hissing defiantly at passing shoppers. And, of course, there is the floor-to-ceiling herbal cabinet, each drawer marked with Latin or Runic names scrawled upon yellowed labels.

Mr. Portlee stands resolutely behind his front counter, leaning uncomfortably upon bowed elbows while sneaking an occasional glance towards a row of lead-glass windows, where just beyond, a quivering orange sun scrapes against a ridge of stark trees. A pair of claw-tipped bone fingers mark the clock’s local time (smaller dagger blades point towards portal updates of local interest). A wobbly, wooden cuckoo bird pokes through a tiny door and announces in a traumatized voice, Twilight! Oo! Oo! Twilight!

Mr. Portlee sighs impatiently as an ancient gentleman dressed in 1840-era English attire searches every one of his twelve breast pockets for a predetermined coin. Finding it, he smiles, toothless lips pressed against protruding gums.

The farthing is your tip, he amicably informs the shop owner.

Most gracious of you, Mr. MacHowlingster, Mr. Portlee manages to say in a shallow, raspy voice.

The ancient gentleman tips his stove-pipe hat, then, with the same wrinkled fingers, adjusts a woolly scarf.

Meanwhile, Mr. Portlee glances at the tarnished coin before nonchalantly dropping it into a dirty cup bottomed out with other worthless coins. With thin smile, a courteous bow, and puffy eyes, he sneaks another glance at the setting sun.

Now, if I might escort you to the door.

Just then, Miss Pickertree rounds the corner, her pixy smile matching her elfish face. She carries a bundle of twisted dragon sticks and an assortment of tiny bottles filled with stardust.

Mr. Portlee has forgotten her, the strained realization washing across his sunken face.

Nonetheless, he manages to ask. Have you found everything to your liking, Miss Pickertree?

The perky, elderly lady rises upon her toes and peeks over the countertop. Your inventory of faery dust is a tad restrictive, Mr. Portlee.

I promise to accelerate my endeavors, Miss Pickertree. He reaches for her purchases. May I package these items for you?

Oh, no! she politely answers. Just wand them to my kitchen.

As you wish, he answers, while shuffling from around the counter. He lightly cups both patrons beneath their bony elbows and directs them towards the front door, but Mr. MacHowlingster must first manage a series of blunted right turns before he is aiming directly at the intended destination.

I really must be going, the elderly gent exclaims. I am most anxious to enjoy a roaring tea and a sip of fire.

You mean ‘a roaring fire and a sip of tea’, sir, Mr. Portlee gently corrects him.

The old man seems befuddled, thinks about it, then shrugs his shoulders. That, too.

It requires four lumbering minutes to shuffle the ten foot distance to the front door, where upon opening, a lazy gust of chilly air washes across their startled faces. Mr. Portlee points to a rambling old Victorian homestead directly across the street.

Shall I call a constable to escort you home, Mr. MacHowlingster?

Heavens no, he chortles. I’ll be at my doorstep long before dawn.

Mr. Portlee turns towards the delicate Miss Pickertree. A cab for you, surely?

She giggles. No thank you. I’ll faery-float from here. It’s such a lovely evening.

Then, dear madam and sir, I wish you both a pleasant voyage.

The old man carefully lifts one bony leg, barely clearing the half-inch door baseboard. Miss Pickertree merely sprinkles her tiny bowler hat with dust and floats away.

Mr. Portlee anxiously waits for Mr. MacHowlingster to painstakingly descend the porch’s three steps before closing and locking his door, the last vestige of a burning sun tapping against the silhouetted horizon. Sighing with considerable relief, he leans heavily against the stout wooden door while dabbing his damp forehead with an oversized handkerchief.

With effort, he pushes away from the door, flipping the ‘Open’ sign over, thereby announcing that, at last, Portlee’s Pastures Shoppe is definitively ‘Closed’ for the evening.

One-by-one, he extinguishes the flames within each dangling antique lantern with his long, curve-tipped snuffer, then shuffles as fast as old legs will manage towards the shop’s back wall and its draped entrance to a small back room. Having nearly reached his destination – suddenly – a slim, lanky figure steps from behind the last gondola, causing Mr. Portlee to yelp! The young man’s nametag reads, ‘Here Boy’.

Heavens, lad! You startled me!

Here Boy brims with enthusiasm. Time, then, is it, Mr. Portlee?

Of course, it is, Here Boy. Haven’t you been watching the clock?

Grinning sheepishly, Here Boy scratches beneath his chin. You mean that round thingy with stick-arms, sir? he asks.

Mr. Portlee removes his spectacles and cleans the thick lenses with a wrinkled handkerchief. Dryly, he responds, Yes, that ‘round thingy’. Returning his glasses to a ruby-red nose, he nods to the boy. We must hurry.

The old man pulls a curtain to one side, revealing the small back chamber. In the center of this room is an enormous wrought-iron chair bolted to wide floor planks. Heavy iron chains dangle from the armrests, an additional set anchored to the stout legs. Lastly, overhead and framed in a glass dome, appears a pale stream of rising winter moonlight.

Here Boy dutifully sits in the chair, assisting Mr. Portlee in chaining his ankles and wrists with shackles.

Mr. Portlee, sir?

Just a moment, the old man replies, his hands trembling as he glances at the glass dome.

Mr. Portlee checks and rechecks the extended chains and shackles, making sure that each chain is appropriately coiled and untangled. He nods his head with satisfaction.

Now then, lad, he says in a firm voice, I’ve straightened the chains. You’ll be able to reach the bathroom . . . He hesitates, a dire expression imprinted across his face, . . . You will make it to the loo this time, hmm?

No problem, sir! Here Boy proudly answers. I’ve been practicing!

Mr. Portlee stares blankly at his energetic clerk, but decides not to ask any questions that might offer up undesirable visuals. Practice makes perfect, I suppose, he mutters.

Here Boy frowns, squeezing his eyes as though it might help him concentrate on the meaning to the riddle.

So, Here Boy, Mr. Portlee asks, what is the urgency you mentioned earlier?

Well, sir, Dr. Vespor come by today and told me I done turned six winters old!

Did he now? A young pup no more. We must discuss a coming-about celebration.

Oh, that would be grand, Mr. Portlee! The boy’s eyes dart from side-to-side. Mr. Portlee, sir?

Mr. Portlee has retrieved his coat and hat and is shuffling towards the front door. Irritated, he turns towards the bubbling lad. What is it? Be quick.

Here Boy squares his shoulders. Bein’ all growed up and all, I – uh – well, I’d like to be called ‘Here Man’ from now on, sir, if it be agreeable with you.

Mr. Portlee is taken back, stroking his chin whiskers before replying. That would require adjusting your work visa papers. Legal fees, I should think.

Woolen coat and hat secured, the old man leans upon the front doorknob. I must think about your request. As for now, stay away from the meat counter. You know how poorly you handle smoked meats during the change. Good night, Here Boy.

He grasps the front door handle, key in hand. Just then, a low-pitched, guttural sound echoes from the back room. Instantly, Mr. Portlee’s hand begins to shake; he drops the key, stiffly bending over to retrieve it, when a baritone voice growls from within the gathering darkness

I told you, Here MAN! the voice protests, adding, And what’s this about ‘no meat’?

The old man is disinclined to turn around and face the protesting voice. Sweat beads trickle down his whiskered cheeks. Finally, he clears his throat and responds, Not your usual were-voice, lad. Changing with maturity, are you?

Chains rattle. Metal squeals and snaps. A second snap, more forceful than the first! Suddenly, unlocked iron shackles slide across the planked floor, slipping between Mr. Portlee’s boots and crashing into the door! His knees involuntarily knock together. Horrified, he turns and faces the rear of the store.

Here Boy is standing in front of the stout chair, no longer confined by his shackles. Moonlight floods across his muscle-swollen shoulders, clumps of dark fur poking between tears in his shirt. His scalp bristles with a thick mat of curly hair, which is shaped into a flat-top with winged shoots projecting from each side. Bushy sideburns stretch to his wide jaw, where a gaping mouth exposes two rows of gleaming, formidable and slobbering fangs.

Mr. Portlee’s knees welded together; he stutters. You’ve …grown.

The were-human takes predatory, stalking steps towards Mr. Portlee, who manages to shake an accusing finger.

Now, now! You know the rules! All were-guards must wear their shackles during the change!

In long, unhurried strides, the creature reaches the store owner, leaning forward and sniffing the old man. Its nose wrinkles repulsively, as though detecting rancid meat. Mr. Portlee trembles, hat tumbling to the floor and woolen coat sliding from his narrow shoulders.

I . . . want . . . MEAT! the creature growls.

Mr. Portlee oozes a sickly grin. Perhaps . . . a bit of blood-sausage?

The beast hesitates, maniacal yellow eyes bulging. Blood? it roars. Yes…lots of BLOOD!

Overhead, ravens circle the shop, their intense cawing overwhelmed by Mr. Portlee’s pitiful cries. Higher still, a reddened hue washes across the full autumn moon.

Chapter Two - In the Light of Day

Yesterday’s tracks are smoothed over by a fresh blanket of morning snow, the town and its many steeples looking postcard-perfect, every rooftop chimney puffing out thin columns of warming fireplace smoke. During the cold part of the year, the birds traditionally gather around these chimney tops to warm their beaks and wings, their numbers and varieties ranging from hundreds of sparrows to a handful of magpies and crows, to just a few self-important storks and slinking vultures.

Today, however, is an exception; today there are dozens of vultures, their bald heads bent over and staring patiently at Mr. Portlee’s Pastures Shoppe. They seem to be gossiping in low voices amongst themselves, a clear sign that something is amiss.

Several Peculiar police officers huddle on Mr. Portlee’s storefront porch, giving some noticeable distance between themselves and the front