Page 19 of The Wulver's Bond
Arran quashed the thought. That way lay peril.
Chapter Seven
Wrapped up all snug in his dashing new coat, Weed felt unexpectedly light as he departed the cave with the Wulver. Before leaving, he’d watched the wolfman pack his red rucksack with hard tack and a homemade trail mix, along with a canteen of water. He’d then retrieved a large quantity of smoked fish from the pantry and wrapped it all up in old newspaper, tying it into a neat parcel.
This was so large he carried it under one arm as they set off, with the backpack slung over his other shoulder.
Weed dawdled at first, dragging against the Wulver’s swift pace over the rocks. But it was boring to be on his own at the back.
Weighing the urge to drag his heels against the urge to be nosy, Weed’s curiosity won out and he hurried to catch up to the Wulver’s side. ‘Where are we going?’
The wolfman slowed his pace to match Weed’s. ‘To see a friend. It is not too far, but she lives on an isolated part of the island.’
‘And why are you going to see her?’
The Wulver tilted his parcel. ‘To deliver fish.’
‘What are you, the local fishmonger?’
The Wulver huffed, a sound that might have been a wolfish chuckle, and proceeded up the steep bank alongside the river. He forged a path up and out of the ravine onto higher ground,offering a steadying hand to Weed over a patch of loose scree. The wind, which had assumed a muted quality down among the sheltered willow trees, regained its battering force on the exposed moorland of the northern peninsula.
The Wulver stopped often for Weed to catch up, but it was clear he wanted to make a quick march of it and Weed felt strangely compelled not to slow him down. Besides which, it was tremendously difficult to exchange satirical remarks while being physically assaulted by a weather system. After an hour of fighting through the Shetland gust, Weed just wanted the journey to be over.
They eventually climbed a cliff, where the whistling wind shared its cacophony with the roar of waves crashing far below. In the distance was a tatty brick cottage. Its roof tiles were clearly regular victims to the gale, and its window frames were sorely in need of a fresh lick of paint. But the narrow strip of garden surrounding it was obviously well-tended and fairly neat despite being blown about: a few dense shrubs sheltered prettier flowers and what appeared to be a valiant effort at a vegetable patch in a raised bed.
The Wulver beckoned Weed to duck behind a jutting grey stone a little distance from the house.
‘Stay here,’ the Wulver urged, perhaps forgetting Weed had no choice but to obey. ‘I think it is close enough that you shall not be pulled to me. I shall be quick.’
He loped off, covering the distance quickly in long strides. The Wulver had not told Weed that he needed tohide, however, so he peered around the stone and spied on what the wolfman was up to.
The Wulver crept to the back of the house and, after a quick check through the glass, levered open a ground floor sash window. He placed the fish parcel on the sill and gave the glass a rap with his knuckles. Then he stooped out of sight and skulkedaround the side of the cottage, ears pricked in the direction of the window.
Before long, a pair of frail hands lifted the parcel away. Weed heard a faint voice that said, ‘Long time, old man. Worried, I was.’
The Wulver stayed in place. Weed wondered what on earth he was waiting for.
He was about to call out to get his attention when the hands appeared again. They placed a paper carrier bag on the sill—or attempted to place it, as their owner fumbled and the bag spilled down over the wall into the garden below.
‘Buggeration,’ said the voice.
The Wulver had moved when he heard the bag drop, like a reflex to go and catch it, but he stopped himself and retreated again. After more waiting, the back door to the cottage swung open and a grey-haired woman in a dressing gown and slippers limped over the step, supported by a cane.
She puffed and swore as she bent to pick up the spilled items. Then she dumped the bag haphazardly by her back doorstep. She turned and waved her cane at the cliffs—Weed dropped behind the rock again, though he suspected he was safe from whatever state her eyesight might be in.
‘You look after y’self you ol’ bugger!’ she shouted to the wind. ‘And don’t be so long next time!’
The door slammed shut behind her. The Wulver waited another minute before retrieving the paper bag, and was at Weed’s side again so fast and silently that it made him jump.
‘Thank you for waiting,’ the Wulver said. ‘We shall go home now.’
Weed squinted pointedly at the bag. ‘What was all this for, then?’ Up close he could tell the bag didn’t have much in it. He wasintenselycurious as to what could be so small and also worthy of an exchange for all that fish.
‘She lives alone and has no one left to help her,’ the Wulver explained, starting down the path. ‘I try to drop off food once a week to ensure her larder remains full. Of course, I have been gone a long time. I am glad she seems well.’
‘Right. Sure.’ Weed gestured to the bag. ‘But what did she give you?’
The Wulver’s eyebrows raised. ‘I’m not sure. We can find out.’
