Chapter 7 - Wilf #2
I take a second to think about how to answer that. I'm very aware that what I say next is going to land in a way I won't be able to take back.
"That'll have been Cheslem," I say. "Or someone like them. Rogues. Not all shifters do things like that."
"That's what you’d say, though, isn’t it?" Her voice cracks. "Every one of them I’ve ever seen or met has been the same."
I lean back in my chair slightly. “Well, you’ve met me now, and all I’ve done is make you some bad coffee.
Silvercreek runs its territory well, for everyone, and that includes humans.
Caleb's wife is human. We've had humans living and working in the town for two generations, not many, but more so these days. Cheslem is a problem we’re dealing with. They aren't all shifters."
"You'd say that. You're one of them."
"I'd say that," I agree, "because I am one of them."
She doesn't have anything for that. She returns to eating, and I let the silence settle again, filing away the information she gave up. I can see why she doesn’t trust shifters, that’s for sure.
When she finally puts the spoon down, she's eaten about two-thirds of the bowl. I clear it away without comment.
“You said your father set the hut networks. I stayed in one once during a snowstorm,” I say when I’m back at the table.
“Well, I guess they were meant for anyone in need.” She replies.
"How many are there? I only knew of a couple before finding the one you were in."
She looks at me, and there's a fraction of a second where I can see her deciding whether to give me an answer at all.
"Forty-three across this stretch of country, but he didn’t manage them all," she says, finally. "He started in the seventies, after his own father was killed. The network grew from there."
"Whoever stripped the one I found you in didn't strip all of them, I’m sure," I tell her.
"Let’s hope not for anyone else who needs them." She replies.
We fall into silence again as she holds her coffee and seems to be studying the contents carefully, no doubt hoping I’ll disappear.
I need to ask her about the rogues and the camp itself, and try to ascertain how many there are and its location.
But instead, when I open my mouth, something entirely different comes out.
“You moved through the forest well; you obviously know what you’re doing out there,” I say, cursing myself for not just cutting straight to it.
She glances up. “I’ve been raised here; it’s my home.” She says simply, “Well, not this side of the mountain, but the land, it’s the same.”
“Do you like it? The forest, I mean.” I ask.
“What kind of question is that?” She laughs.
“A real one. I just want to know.” I reply, surprised at my own honesty.
She pauses, studying me for a moment, and I try to pretend I don’t notice how beautiful those eyes are. Just when I think she’s going to tell me to get lost, she does something I least expect as she softens slightly.
“Yes,” she says, “I still love it. I used to sit on the porch with my father watching the sunrise. We sat with our tea, not even saying anything, just watching the valley come to life. He taught me everything about the forest…it’s my home.”
I let the silence settle for a moment; it feels weighted because I know that memory obviously means something to her.
“What about you?” She asks after a few minutes.
I consider the question for a moment. I probably shouldn’t have asked her if I didn’t know how to answer it myself, but I’ve never really thought about it.
“There’s a ridge northwest of where I found you; it’s solid granite.
” I tell her, “About eight or so miles. We call it the spine. There’s a bank of rock about thirty feet wide at the top, and you can walk it for a mile and a half, totally exposed.
I go up there when everything’s going wrong, and just sit, watching the weather roll in. I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”
“It’s alright, I don’t mind.” She replies quietly.
“I don’t sit around much, so it’s strange I go up there to sit and watch,” I tell her, the words feeling strange even to me.
“My father would have said the same sort of thing.” She says and then looks away quickly, color flashing across her cheeks, and I realize she’s mildly horrified to have said anything remotely positive by her own measure about me. “Sorry, I don’t know why I said that.”
I laugh, finishing my own coffee. “Don’t apologize; your father sounds like a man who knew what he was talking about, so maybe he’d be right to like me.”
She shakes her head but doesn’t have a retort. She watches the fire instead of me, and we both seem to listen at the same time as the wind picks up outside. I glance out the window and note the turn in conditions; if I’m not mistaken, we could be in for a late snowfall.
I turn back to her. “What did you do to me on the way here?” I ask quietly, “I was carrying you, and you told me to stop. It did something.”
She goes unnaturally still.
“I’m not pushing you,” I say, “I just want some answers. I think that’s fair enough. I felt something strange when you spoke; my wolf felt it too, but you’re no witch.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She says. “I barely remember anything, but I don’t have special powers or anything; you must have imagined it.”
“Ok then,” I say and get up to clear the table. It’s bullshit because I know what happened, but perhaps she doesn’t even know what she did. I think about what she said about the forest; I think about what I told her, too, and file it away under things to think about later.
She goes to try and help, but I signal at her to stay seated and grab her bowl too.
The last thing her ankle needs is more strain, and although the cabin is reasonably safe, with the rogue still out there, it’s no good for anyone to be lame for long.
My phone vibrates on the table; I ignore it because I already know it will be patrol updates and I’ll look through them in a minute, but I see her watching the phone.
“You don’t need to get that?” She says, eyeing me carefully.
I shake my head. “I’ll check it later. Patrol updates, that kind of thing.
“Is that what you do? Patrol?” She asks, and I nod.
“I watch this section of the forest, I patrol, I protect the line,” I tell her. “Bit like your father and the huts, I guess.”
At that, she scoffs, “Yeah, just the same.” She replies, her voice dripping in sarcasm.
I shake my head, knowing there’s no point arguing the point.
I’m not sure I blame her for harboring a grudge against shifters; she was clearly very close to her father, and now he’s dead.
I don’t need her to like me; I just need her to be useful and tell me about the rogues, the camp, and those talismans.
And I need to know I’m not going crazy and that her voice really did affect my wolf.
Then I’ll help her get back to wherever she lives and be done with it.
That’s what I tell myself anyway as I put a fresh pot on and watch the first snowflakes fall among the trees.