Shadow, the poacher’s dog

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The family got Shadow from the SPCA. She seemed like a fine dog for a young and growing family, barking at squirrels, night noises, and investigating scurrying sounds in the woods. Accompanying the children as they played in the forest proved to be her favorite job as family dog.

Little did any of the family members know their shelter dog’s first owner had been a poacher of the worst kind. The kind who hunted mythical beasts by using his dog to sniff them out in their houses. Once caught, he sold the poor creatures to the highest bidder. His career ended when he tried catch a fairy-goblin hybrid (also known as a fairlyn) and she used her hybrid magic to turn him into a mosquito. Rumor has it he was swatted years ago.

The fairlyn considered Shadow to be innocent of any crimes, and dropped her off at the SPCA for safekeeping. Just the same, Shadow’s early training stayed with her all her life.

The children regaled their parents with tales of the goblin feasts and weddings they crashed thanks to Shadow, the fairies she rooted out to show them, and the boggarts that rode clinging to her collar as she charged through the woods. Their parents gave indulgent smiles at their children’s imaginative tales and wondered if they weren’t spending too much time in the woods.

It is a testament to their own lack of imagination that it never once occurred to them the stories might be true.

a hornets’ nest of questions

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“They say that if hornets build their nest high, the snow will be high the coming winter,” said the man.

“How do you suppose the hornets know? Do they visit a fortune-teller?” asked his son.

“Does the snow fairy give them inside information?” asked his daughter. “That doesn’t seem fair.”

“Are they time-travelers?” asked his son’s friend.

“Is it possible unicorns use their horns to pierce hornets’ nests so they can protect children?” asked his daughter’s friend. “It might explain why they’re called horn-ets.”

The man stared at the nest and gave his head a small shake. He should have known better than to start a conversation with this group.

Mapwick and Erstwhile

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Mapwick struggled with a bashful nature. His camouflage made it easy for him to freeze and wait for others to pass by without noticing him, but after a while his loneliness got the better of him.

He made up his mind to befriend the next creature who happened by. A few hours passed and sure enough, a brownie wandered past, foraging for mushrooms.

Mapwick took a deep breath and tried to bury his panic. The strain of it caused a few cracks to appear on the outer layer of his wood-skin. The brownie heard the sound and peered at Mapwick with curiosity. “Hello?” he asked.

Another crack appeared. “Hi there,” Mapwick said. His voice sounded tinny and strange, but he managed to get the words out.

“I’m Erstwhile, I live over there, in the little hill. Didn’t know I had a neighbor. Would you care for a mushie?” The brownie held out a few skullcap mushrooms.

Mapwick shook his head. “No, thank you. I prefer to eat through my roots, but would you like a cup of tea?”

“Oh, yes,” said Erstwhile, grinning.

Mapwick smiled back. He hadn’t smiled in well over a decade, and it caused still more cracks, but he didn’t mind. He’d done it, he’d made a friend at last, and it only hurt a little.

tips for spotting hobgoblins in secret and why that’s best

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Over the course of my life, I’ve collected many methods for seeing the fey. As a former little girl, a mother, and a writer, I consider these the tools of my trade. Among my favorites are wearing your jacket inside out, gazing through a hagstone, and washing your eyes with dew at midnight on the summer solstice. My favorite one of all is peering through the natural hole in an autumn leaf.

This method is, in fact, the best way I’ve come across for spotting a hobgoblin unbeknownst to the hob, which is the best way. If they know you’re looking, they might adopt you and start doing your dishes and helping out around the kitchen. In return, they’ll expect you leave out a saucer of milk for them behind the stove. This might seem like a wonderful idea, but here’s where things can get complicated.

One night your cat is bound to discover the saucer and have itself a taste. Hobgoblins turn into boggarts when they lose their temper over the cat stealing their dinner, and the next thing you know kitty’s been turned into a dragon. Now you have to go out and buy a dump truck full of kitty litter every week. This can get expensive, and that’s without the fee of hiring an excavator to empty the stinky thing. Toss in the extra insurance charges for having a fire-breathing pet and suddenly you’re broke, your kitty litter’s overflowing, and you can’t even afford dragon kibble.

Of course, you do get a dragon out of the deal. This may seem wonderful, but be warned, the dragon isn’t guaranteed. I had a friend whose cat was turned into a saber toothed tiger after drinking her hob’s milk. I miss her. If only I’d told her about the holey autumn leaf.

can you solve the autumn puzzle?

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Legend has it, if someone can solve the autumn puzzle and return each leaf to its proper place upon the tree, she or he will be granted their dearest wish. I’m not sure how many, if any, have succeeded, but more than once I’ve been tempted to try.

Paige and the not-so-boogeyman

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She peeked over the edge, hoping to count the rings in the stump and figure out how old the tree had been. She never expected a goblin to be staring back at her. With a shriek, she ran and hid behind the nearest tree.

“Wait! I’m sorry! I know I’m spooky-looking, but I never meant to scare you!”

The girl poked her head out from the tree, taking another look from her safer distance. The monster’s mouth opened into a terrible, splitting gash, but she supposed it wasn’t his fault. “Have you ever lived under a bed?”

“No, just this old stump.”

“Do you know the boogeyman?”

“Never heard of him.”

She took a step towards him. “Promise you won’t eat me?”

“I promise.”

“Okay, then.” She hopped over and grinned into his horrible face. “I’m Paige.”

 

the blush of the red maple

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“Dad, how come some trees turn red like that?”

“They’re shy.”

“Shy?”

“Yeah. It’s autumn, and everyone knows all the leaves fall off the trees in autumn. Look, some of them have already started.”

“So?”

“So, the trees know they’ll be naked soon. The shy ones are blushing.”

the spoils of autumn

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The leaf looked around, bewildered. One moment he was wafting on the breeze at the end of his favorite branch, the next he tumbled down into some sort of wet impressionist painting. Sure, he had a few friends with him, but still. He didn’t imagine the painter would be glad to see a bunch of renegade leaves stuck in his painting after it dried. Arms and legs would come in handy at a time like this.

the trouble with pregnant tomatoes

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The gardener muttered to himself and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Tomatoes aren’t supposed to get pregnant.” He’d tried some of those newfangled heritage varieties with that hippie fertilizer his son was always going on about. Organic – that’s what he called it. The gardener shook his head. “All-natural,” his son said. Yep, he bet. Lotsa things were natural, he reckoned, didn’t mean he wanted his tomatoes gettin’ knocked up.