The Hair of the Dog

By Joseph Sidari

You may have heard that many of the legendary cures for lycanthropy aren’t worth the yellowed parchment they’re scrawled on. Well, friend, buy me some ale, and I’ll spin a yarn about that very same supernatural libation. It may seem fantastic, but I swear ’tis true. And I’ve got a feeling that once I finish, you will believe.

Mmm. Thank ye. Your generosity humbles me.

We join our undeserving victim in my tale after he has already suffered through a wretched evening. He downed too many tankards at the tavern, leaving him without silvers for the brothel. Now, by the full moon’s light, he wanders the village—drunk and destitute. A ferocious snarl pierces the silence, and the squeeze in his bladder signals this miserable night just got worse, for he is staring nose-to-tooth at an enormous, upright wolf.

He cannot flee—the beast is too fast. When he turns to fight, it sinks its yellowed fangs into his outstretched arm. His cloak is shredded, and he’s drenched in blood. He cowers, expecting the beast to rip out his throat, when—

Ahem. I find myself dry. Another round, friend? Thank ye. Now, where was I?

Right. The creature suddenly scampers away, allowing this fellow to stumble to his rooming house. He douses his injured flesh with water from the basin and prays his attacker was not a shapeshifter. He sinks into sleep, and the next morn, he convinces himself ‘twas a dream. He’d encountered a feral dog—nothing more.

But the next day, the scabs covering his wounds grow hair.

And not little wisps. These bite marks sprout great tufts of fur. The more he trims, the heavier they regrow. After a week, he seeks a healer—and prays for a miracle.

He faithfully applies the healer’s balm to his wounds, but the pelt grows thicker. A week later, he confronts the healer. When she learns he was attacked on the night of a full moon by an enormous wolf, she admits she has no tonic to restore him.

“There must be something,” he pleads.

She opens her grimoire, flipping through it. She stabs a page with her finger and says, “Aye. ‘Tis as I thought. Some called it The Hair of the Dog. Others The Draught of the Damned. Rumor has it, only one wizened sorcerer has the ken to craft it. He practices his dark arts atop Mount Dread. Or at least he did. Now, he might be dead. He might not know it. And he might not deign to share it with you.”

I know what you’re thinking, friend. That’s a lot of mights. And you’re right. But the healer states that the curse can never be lifted if he does not locate and imbibe the potion within a fortnight, by the next full moon.

These tankards must be shrinking. One more round? I promise to provide the next one.

So, our man scales Mount Dread and finds the mage. “Wise Magi,” he says. “I am moon-bitten. I seek the potion that will save my immortal soul.”

The wizard stares at the fellow through rheumy eyes. He shakes his head.

“Surrender your spell book,” he says, pulling out a dagger.

“It is not written.” The mage taps his temple. “Some things you never forget. I will share the cure, but your soul is still lost.”

With the elder wizard’s formula, the man brews the potion within the week. His curse is lifted.

Well, I’d best be going.

Hey, unhand me, friend. ‘Tis not my fault the ending didn’t satisfy you. It is what it is.

‘Tis late friend. The bells are chiming midnight. But I guess I still do owe you a drink. Allow me to pour it for you. And a toast before drink. Morus lunaris, i ad dextrum.

Aye, that’s the way to down it, friend, and I’m not surprised ye never heard that toast. ‘Tis ancient.

All right, no need to threaten violence. I’ll share all the eldritch details. The old wizard spoke thus:

On the following night, when the moon is full bright,
Swirl two fingers of moonshine in a silver flask of blood wine,
Add a newborn babe’s tears to an old woman’s fears,
Then sprinkle in fur from a were-creature’s ears,
Shake twelve times at midnight, drink yours in a shot,
If you finish it second, ‘twill all be for naught,
End before the twelfth bell, from the curse you’ll be spared,
Not so lucky, your partner—so best not tarry there.

Aye, I do have the gift for memory. But when an aged wizard shares the secret to reclaim your life, you listen. Now I must go. I hope you were listening. I don’t have time to repeat it.

Ye are not looking so healthy, friend. Did my libation disagree with you? Not every man can handle his blood wine and moonshine—and all the rest—I suppose.

I hope you remember the ingredients. Otherwise, you’re doomed to ravage unsuspecting drunkards on the outskirts of our village every full moon—like the one tonight.

Don’t snarl at me, friend. I paid for my drinks with a tale. ‘Tis only fair.

I do feel awful. But remember that odd toast? It translates: Moon bite, go to the right. Sorry, friend. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time last month. Tonight, it seems you are, too. And the magician spoke true. I’m still damned, but at least I won’t be hunting and howling tonight. Remember: you’ve four weeks to gather the components. Then find an unsuspecting drinking partner, and share with them this tale—and your brew.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Joseph Sidari writes from outside of Boston. He has published more than twenty stories online and in print. He is a member of SFWA and Grub Street of Boston. As a practicing physician, he works hard at caring for his patients while trying to kill off his protagonists. This story is just one more reason why studying Latin could one day save your life.

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