Page 20 of The Wulver's Bond
Once they’d descended the cliff and could enjoy a reprieve from the worst of the coastal wind, the Wulver passed the bag to Weed. Weed opened it warily.
It contained three slices of stale bread, a pathetically small stalk of rhubarb and an apple that was turning brown. Also, confusingly, there were three loose batteries, a plastic sandwich bag, and a page from a newspaper.
‘Oh, puzzles!’ the Wulver exclaimed, plucking the newspaper and shielding it from the wind. ‘She’s left me the crossword and the number problem.’
‘Are you serious?’ Weed shook the contents of the bag as though they’d reveal some hidden secret. ‘What is all this shit?’
The Wulver carefully folded and placed the page back in the bag. ‘She puts in things she thinks I will find useful. Like the batteries. Many years ago she gifted me a radio. I think she has forgotten it was a wind-up one. Sometimes she will give me the end of a box of matches, or a good length of string, or—’
‘A plastic bag?’ Weed held up the crumpled sandwich baggie, which had clearly been used before—evidenced by crumbs in the bottom.
‘Very useful for preserving food. Or keeping things dry,’ the Wulver replied matter-of-factly. ‘Anyway, it does not really matter what she puts in.’
‘But that’s not a fair exchange!’ Weed wrinkled his nose, looking at the food again. ‘You gave her a week’s worth of fish, and she’s given you some mouldy table scraps.’
‘It shall make a pleasant tart. You will see.’ The Wulver plucked the bag from Weed’s hands and began walking again. ‘The value is not important.’
‘Yes it is!’ Weed insisted, stamping along beside him. He couldn’t explain why this bothered him so much. ‘You spent time and energy catching those fish. And she’s repaid you with her rubbish!’
‘It is not important.’
‘Butwhy?’
The Wulver shrugged. ‘Not everything is a transaction.’
Weed’s feet slowed. He dropped behind the wolfman, watching his tail bob with each loping stride. The Wulver cast a glance over his shoulder, which Weed refused to meet. He was too busy chewing over the absurdity of the Wulver’s actions.
The Wulver chuckled, which caught Weed’s attention. ‘You do not agree with me,’ the wolfman stated.
‘Well observed,’ Weed replied snidely.
‘It does not translate well to fae values, does it? I suppose eighty years is not quite long enough to let go of them.’
Weed stopped suddenly like a stubborn mule. ‘This has nothing to do with being fae! How many trades do you think a dryad makes, for fuck’s sake? All I ever wanted was to live peacefully in my grove. Surely that’s somethingyoucan relate to.’
The Wulver turned around. His mouth hung slightly open in surprise, but it curved at the edges into an almost-smile. ‘I apologise. I should not make assumptions.’ He cocked his head. ‘What was your life like, before this?’
The question caught Weed off-balance. ‘Before being trapped for eternity in a human meat sack, you mean?’
The Wulver didn’t reply, still waiting for a real answer. Perhaps it was Weed’s imagination, but the wind seemed to have calmed down around them, as if to let him speak.
‘I… It was both quiet, and loud,’ Weed said, reflexively feeling for the roots beneath his feet. ‘It was many beautiful things living, all at once. All I wanted was to make things green. We—…Itended my garden, and the grove flourished.’
‘How were you captured?’ the Wulver asked. ‘You mentioned Bryce the hunter, before.’
The memory stung, and Weed retreated from it. ‘Not important,’ he mumbled. The grass stretched up to curl around his feet, offering comfort. ‘A stupid mistake.’
The Wulver hesitated before prying deeper. ‘A transaction?’
‘Fuck off.’
‘I didn’t mean—’
Weed stomped away before he could get the apology out. He was sick of the wolfman’s apologies. As if he gave a damn how Weed felt.
Even now, as they trudged in silence, the Wulver left a respectful gap between them, trailing several yards behind Weed and calling out only to direct him when necessary.
Pretending to let me lead,Weed sulked.He doesn’t care about me. Hepitiesme.
