Page 14 of The Wulver's Bond
The books all had very practical and boring titles, covering subjects as dull as predicting the weather, coastal foraging, and maritime sailing. An oldShetland Almanacwas particularly well-thumbed with lots of hand-written notes scrawled in the margins. The notes Weed could decipher related mainly to vegetable growing seasons and island topography.
Weed replaced the volume with a yawn. What silly lengths humans had to go to just to understand the particulars of growing their food. But then, he supposed, they couldn’t go ahead andaska carrot what its preferred soil conditions would be, or what its favourite music was. (As a rule, anything with a heavy bass tended to go down well with root vegetables, as Weed had learned during his many scattered conversations with them.)
Weed’s mind wandered to Logan’s rucksack, and the radio hidden at the bottom of it. The Wulver still appeared to be busy. What harm would come from messing around with it for a while?
He grabbed the bag and lugged it to the cave entrance. Being around a corner, it at least afforded him some small measure of privacy.
First, he opened one of the protein bars and took a small, deeply appreciative bite. His stomach gave no complaints this time. Weed wrapped it up carefully and tucked the rest away for another time. Next, the radio.
At first glance the dials and buttons were just as impenetrable as before, but now Weed had the time to examine it properly. By merit of randomly pressing and twisting, he hit upon the volume dial which turned it on. It blasted static into his face.
Weed snickered, quickly turning it down. Next, he tried messing with the channels, or frequencies, or whatever they were called. All it seemed to do was change the texture of the static. Fleetingly he thought he caught a fragment of speech, or a note of music, but it was gone just as quickly. He tried pressing the button on the side and speaking into it, but if anyone heard him, Weed was none the wiser.
Eventually the cold evening air drove him to put the radio away. Weed retreated into the living space and sat musing on the absurdity of a communication device that wouldn’t let him communicate.
How interesting that humans were listening to each other all the time, and yet their network of conversation was virtually impenetrable to him. Perhaps that’s how it was for them with plants. The world was constantly abuzz with information, in even the quietest winter meadow, when all seemed dry and dead above ground. But roots continued striving. Beneath, the earth was raucous with the sounds of survival.
Weed was lost in such thoughts when the Wulver served a steaming plate of fish in front of him, alongside a cup of nettle tea—and in fact, he’d been so peacefully distracted that the interruption gave him a shock.
‘What’s this?’ Weed snapped reflexively, to cover the way he’d jumped away from the Wulver’s paws.
‘Dinner.’ The wolfman gave him a shrewd look. ‘I’m sorry I disturbed you.’
‘You sneak around,’ Weed muttered. ‘On those soft paws of yours.’ He shot a glare at the Wulver’s feet: big, padded thingscovered in shorter, velvety fur. With claws retracted, they looked as soft as a gigantic bunny’s.
‘I shall try to sneak more loudly in future,’ the Wulver said wryly. He retreated with his own plate to the opposite corner of the cave.
Weirdly, with no one looming over him, Weed struggled to enjoy his food. He picked at the meal half-heartedly, even though for such an ugly fish it tasted beautiful on the inside. He wasn’t used to havingspace. Or the option to eat as slowly or as quickly as he liked.
He snuck a glance at the Wulver, who appeared to be enjoying his fish and paying Weed no mind whatsoever. After he was finished, the wolfman selected a book from the shelf—Weed made out the wordsJams, Pickles, and Preserveson the faded spine—and proceeded to lounge on his bed, nose-deep in its pages.
‘What should I do?’ Weed spoke, breaking the silence.
The Wulver turned a page. ‘Whatever you like.’
Weed pouted, finding this unhelpful. He groped for the comfort of nearby florae, but the chatter of plants and their roots was distant, obscured by the thick walls of rock. Nearest, he felt the presence of the honeysuckle hanging outside the cave entrance.
If he’d been in a more impish mood, Weed might have taken liberties with the Wulver’s answer and used it as an excuse to call the creeping plant inside to wreak some mischief.
But something about the calmness permeating the cave was oppressive. Weed couldn’t shake the tension that clung to him like a fine mist on his skin.
Eventually he went and lay down on his fleece pile by the fire. Weed stared at the cave ceiling for what felt like hours, until he heard the soft snap of the Wulver’s book, and then sounds of himraking the fire to spread the ashes. The lanterns were turned off, and Weed was left to stare into the dark.
Chapter Six
Arran struggled to sleep, sensing Weed was also still awake. It put his animal instincts on edge to know there was another creature sharing his cave. Especially one that might prove dangerous.
He wasn’t sure what Weed might be capable of. How far did Weed’s mastery of plants extend? Did he have access to other magics he hadn’t divulged? Just how ‘creatively’ could Weed bend the rules of his curse?
Despite these reservations, so far Arran had observed nothing to suggest Weed meant him any harm. Weed mostly gave the impression of a scared rodent: just as likely to nip with its teeth as to totally freeze in response to a threat.
And if that’s all Weed really was—a cornered mouse in a wolf’s house—then it was also clear that he was an outrageouslyexhaustedone. Arran had never known anyone to sleep so often and so deeply, aside from those he’d witnessed return from war. From devastation.
Perhaps Weed himself wasn’t aware just how far past the brink his human body had been pushed. He constantly woke up surprised, like the act of sleeping itself amazed him. Arran stealthily added more fleeces to Weed’s bed and tried not to stare at how peaceful he looked when he slept.
The fact that Weed was struggling to sleep now was like a warning bell to Arran. Something was wrong.
He’d noticed that Weed seemed fretful over the course of the evening and not so responsive to the prospect of food or rest. But, to be fair, it had been a tumultuous day for him. Arran needn’t look any further than Weed’s chaotic jumble of emotional reactions to be certain the young dryad was feeling unbalanced.
