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Parton drew more water from the well to scrub the dishes and then left them to dry in a patch of sunlight. He returned to the cabin and left the door open for more light while he went through his belongings and organised them into neater piles, arranging the food and cooking implements around the fireplace so it would be easy to reach them when preparing meals. It seemed a very meagre amount, barely enough for a few days. The garden would help, but it wouldn't be enough to eat well on, and that was assuming Cull let him stay and make use of it.
Eager to earn his keep, and to be out of the musty cabin, Parton went outside again and sat in the morning sun while he twisted together the strands of nettle stalk into lengths of cord. He was thoroughly bored by the activity very quickly and his fingers were soon aching from the repetitive motions, but he made enough cord to serve his purpose and returned to the beans and the sticks he'd planted earlier. The beans were not particularly cooperative, but he managed to get them tied to the sticks so that they appeared to be climbing upwards. Every one of the frustrating plants clearly wanted to fall over again, and he suspected he would need to make a lot more nettle cord before he could get them to behave, but it was a start.
A lot of bean plants were growing in the patch. Parton could only assume that over the years beans had fallen from older plants, only to sprout and grow into new ones, until the whole thing was a chaotic mess, each plant fighting with its neighbours for light and water. He considered digging up and replanting some of the plants so that they would have more space, but his body seemed to ache anew at the very prospect. He felt the same way about attempting to weed, every bruise and sore muscle reminding him of the previous day. Anything involving digging seemed out of the question right now.
So he sat for a bit on an old tree stump, resting his body and considering everything he would like to do to this garden. He wondered about attempting to make nets to protect some of the fruit bushes from birds. There were patches of currents and berries that looked set to produce a huge harvest, but unprotected as they were, Parton knew that very few of those berries would make it inside the cabin.
He was still sitting there when Cull returned, carrying a handful of small fish. Cull glanced at the beanstalks but said nothing, and it was impossible to tell from his face if he was upset or pleased.
They fried the fish, using a small amount of fat from a clay pot Cull kept tucked into a shadowy corner. Parton started to wonder if the whole day would go by without Cull saying a word to him, and he decided to do something about that. He had so many questions, and one in particular had been burning inside him since the first time he'd woken up in this cabin. As they sat down to eat, Parton broke the silence.
"How did you end up like you are?" Parton asked.
Cull shrugged, face shifting into a frown.
"Is it a curse? Did the spirits punish you for something?"
"Spirits?" Cull gave a derisive snort. There was something so sacrilegious about the tone that Parton tensed, almost expecting the spirits to send some sign of their anger at being so dismissed, perhaps even a lightning bolt out of the summer sky. But no sign came, and Cull said, "Never saw any trace of the spirits."
"You don't believe in the spirits? But you turn into a creature each night. There's got to be magic involved in that."
"Doesn't mean there are spirits. If you've got a problem, you can beg the spirits for help or you can do something about it. I know which one works. Never seen the spirits do a damn thing."
Parton wondered how many times Cull had prayed to the spirits before he'd decided they weren't going to answer. Had he prayed to have the spirits undo whatever it was that made him like he was? But perhaps the spirits hadn't answered specifically because he was cursed. The idea that Cull could simply not believe the spirits were there seemed ridiculous. Everyone knew that the spirits were there, watching them, listening to them, and guiding the world around them.
But following straight on the heels of that thought was the memory of Lucion praying to the spirits, asking them to make him normal, to get rid of the desires his father told him were wrong and wicked. The spirits had never answered those prayers either. Parton stopped those thoughts before they went any further, feeling decidedly uncomfortable at having one of the foundations of his worldview take a blow like that, and one for which he didn't have a satisfactory answer.
"If it wasn't the spirits who made you this way, what did?" Parton asked.
Cull shrugged again. "It's always been like this. Same for my mother and uncle, my grandfather, cousins." He waved a hand, encompassing a whole family tree in that gesture. "Maybe someone centuries ago got on the wrong side of a witch. All I know is that this is how I am. All I can do is deal with it."
"But if you could find out how it happened, maybe that would help you fix it."
"Fix it?" Cull's expression darkened and there was a definite anger in his tone.
Parton knew he'd made a mistake in saying it, but he couldn't understand why Cull wouldn't want to be normal. As he was now, he was an outcast, stuck out here in the middle of the forest because people thought he was a monster. If he were fixed, he would be able to live among normal people again. Surely it would be better to live like that, able to speak to neighbours, not being forced to rely solely on himself and scraped by a survival from whatever he could get out of the forest.
Parton tried to find a way to say all that he was thinking without coming across as insulting.
"If you didn't transform each night," he said, "people wouldn't judge you and think you a monster. You could be part of a town or village."
"I could be part of a town or village now if people could look past their own stupidity," Cull said.
"But you..." Parton cut himself off before he said something that would get him kicked out of yet another place.
Cull's glare was fixed on him. "I'm what?
Parton didn't answer. He looked away, but it seemed Cull knew exactly what he was thinking.
"You think I'm a terrifying monster who needs fixing, but did you ever think about fixing your mouth to stop all that stupid falling out of it? You should stop talking before I reach down your throat and rip your voice out."
His words had become something close to a growl, but Parton realised he didn't feel afraid. He probably ought to. Even in human form, Cull was larger than him, taller and far more muscled, and right now Parton was still hurt and wouldn't be able to put up much of a fight. Cull could easily hurt him, but Parton didn't think he would. His words were a stark contradiction to his actions, and every action Parton had seen from him was kind and gentle. The threat was as insubstantial as mist, but the anger behind it was real, and behind that anger was pain. Parton knew the hurt of being cast out of his home, of having people look at him like he was evil when he hadn't done anything wrong, and he could only guess how many times that must have happened to Cull in his life.
"I'm sorry," Parton said.
Cull gave a little grunt that might have been a dismissal or an acceptance, and then he walked out of the cabin, leaving Parton to clean the dishes with only the weight of regret to keep him company.
