Page 31 of The Wulver's Bond
In fact, Weed turned out to be incredible at foraging. He had a natural advantage, seeing as he could hear where all the best leaves and berries grew within the ravine. It was joyful to submerge himself in the underground conversation, to be allowed to follow its threads at his own pace and direction.
Weed effortlessly sought out banks of nettles and clumps of dandelions, swathes of chickweed and tufts of sweet red clover. He bounded excitedly ahead, racing to point out patches of edible plants before Arran could spot them, then preened like a prized terrier when the Wulver expressed amazement at his proficiency. All the while the warm summer wind whipped merrily at his face and the sun peeked in and out of clouds above them.
The Wulver seemed content to follow. If Weed was teaching him to suck eggs, he didn’t show it. He nodded along asWeed babbled about the rapport of plants, and met each of Weed’s discoveries with quiet appreciation and gratitude. Arran arranged the foraged florae delicately inside his backpack, handling them like treasures.
This attention was a novelty to Weed. It made him feel valuable.
He didn’t trust it.
But he also kind of liked it.
When their path turned towards the coast, Weed’s expertise diminished. He didn’t know the language of seaweed or of limpets.
Perhaps sensing his uncertainty, Arran slipped easily into the lead and began offering small titbits about what he was looking for. Weed learned that bladderwrack and gutweed were easy to find in the rock pools high on the shore while the tide was out, and that both could be eaten raw or boiled and were particularly good in soups, and that properly dried seaweed could last a whole year in the Wulver’s pantry. He learned how to knock a limpet off its perch with a stone, and watched with fascination as Arran prised the yellow foot of one out of its shell—before holding it out for Weed to taste.
Weed wrinkled his nose, for the first time faced with food he didn’t want to eat. ‘Not likely, wolfie. Looks like a glob of phlegm you’ve hacked up.’
The Wulver huffed and popped the limpet in his jaws. ‘I shall cook some for you tonight. Perhaps you will change your mind.’
Not likely,Weed reiterated. It wasn’t like him to change his mind on things. He knew what he liked, and what he wanted.
The stream of thought that Weed had been avoiding all day finally came rolling into view, splashing a big old wave of cold water right in his face.
Last night, after he and the wolfman had smashed uglies just the way he’d wanted, his body seemed to have changed its mind just moments after the fact.
This was obviously an anomaly. A defect of his human skin. As a dryad Weed would shag twice as hard and for thrice as long and be happier for it.
Of course, that had been with his previous consort, in the peace of their grove…
‘What’s wrong?’ Arran asked, eyes sharp with concern. Weed flinched, unaware that anything had changed in his behaviour. How did the Wulver do that? Perhaps his body was betraying him again.
‘Nothing,’ Weed said loftily. ‘Just thinking of limpets for dinner.’
The Wulver cocked his head, ears twitching.He’s not buying it.Weed reached for an easy deflection. He found one in the matted roots of marram grass calling to him from a nearby sand dune.
Weed bid the long blades of grass to uproot and twine together, forming a continuous rope as they snaked along the ground and crept up behind the Wulver.
The wolfman looked as though he was about to press Weed with a question—but he detected the rustling rope an instant before it lunged for his legs.
He leapt out of the way with a growl. ‘What’s that in aid of?’
‘I think you know,’ Weed hummed, slinking forward. ‘Want another go at me, wolfie?’
‘I request that you stop.’ The Wulver side-stepped another swipe from the marram rope. ‘Please.’
There weren’t many plants out here that Weed could put to use, and he had the feeling that the Wulver would be capable of ripping through grass bindings, anyhow. He’d have to wait untilthey were back in the ravine. The roots of willow trees were much stronger.
‘No fun.’ Weed stuck out his chin in a pout, but called the marram off. He skipped further along the shore, trying to ignore Arran’s stare boring into the back of his head.
‘Do you really wish to lie with me again?’ the Wulver called after him.
Weed smothered a chuckle.Lie with him. What a polite way of saying ‘get fucked like a wild animal’.He tossed a response over his shoulder. ‘It passes the time. What else is there to do on this island?’
After no reply was forthcoming, Weed groaned when he realised the wolfman was taking his time to formulate one. That meant he was going to say something serious.
Weed longed for cutting banter instead. He ran through a list of insults the Wulver could throw back at him. He came up with at least three different variations on how foraging and other tedious island pursuits were more fun than enduring Weed’s company; how the grating call of seagulls was more pleasant than Weed’s squawking pleasure-moans; how passing the time scraping rotten guts out of a diseased fish would be more enjoyable thanlying withWeed again.
The Wulver missed every one of these opportunities, and instead opted for words that Weed found far more biting.
