Chapter 3 : Twig
Summon Manor Gardens — September 15, 1987, 1:47 PM
Cork returned with a jar of woodlice and a deeply confused expression.
"Cork found them under the garden shed," the elf announced, holding the jar at arm's length as though it might bite. "But Cork does not understand why Young Master wants bugs."
"It's a gift," Matt said. "For someone I'm trying to meet."
Cork's confusion deepened. He glanced at the oak tree, then back at Matt, then at the jar. The calculation behind those enormous eyes was almost visible — bugs plus tree equals no one Cork can see — and the elf apparently decided that eccentric behaviour from the young master was simply the natural order of things.
"Cork will bring sandwiches," Cork declared, and vanished with a crack.
Matt unscrewed the jar and shook a small pile of woodlice onto a flat stone three metres from the oak. Close enough for the Bowtruckle to see. Far enough not to threaten.
Then he sat back down in the grass and waited.
---
Nothing happened for forty minutes.
Matt didn't move. His lower back protested. His left foot went numb. A midday drizzle started, light enough to ignore but persistent enough to plaster his hair flat against his forehead.
The Creature Sense held the Bowtruckle's signature steady — pressed tight against the oak's bark, radiating caution. Not fear, exactly. Wariness. The creature was watching him with whatever passed for Bowtruckle attention, and it was not yet convinced.
That's fine. I've got nothing but time.
He ate one of Cork's sandwiches. Ham and mustard, slightly crushed. The Bowtruckle's signature flickered when the food appeared — interest, maybe, or just reaction to movement.
Matt chewed slowly. Kept his eyes on the middle distance. Didn't stare at the tree.
At the fifty-three-minute mark, the signature shifted. Moved, fractionally, down the trunk.
Matt's chest tightened. He kept chewing.
A sliver of green appeared against the grey bark. Stick-thin limbs, no larger than Matt's index finger, clung to a ridge in the oak's surface. Two dark pinprick eyes peered out from a body that looked exactly like a twig with opinions.
The Bowtruckle studied the woodlice. Studied Matt. Studied the woodlice again.
It retreated into the bark.
Matt exhaled through his nose. Okay. Day one.
---
He came back the next morning with fresh woodlice and a new spot — two metres closer to the tree.
The sky was clear, for once. September in the Highlands could go either way, and today it had chosen blue with high white clouds. Matt sat on the damp ground and placed the offering on the same flat stone, then pulled out his grandmother's creature guide and started reading.
Not a performance. He genuinely wanted to read. But the stillness of reading — the lack of sudden movement, the quiet page-turns — served double duty. He was being boring on purpose. Boring was safe. Boring was nonthreatening.
The Bowtruckle took twenty minutes to appear.
It crept headfirst down the trunk, pausing every few centimetres to press flat against the bark when the wind gusted. At the base of the oak, it stopped, one twig-arm extended toward the woodlice pile.
Matt turned a page.
The Bowtruckle scuttled to the stone, snatched three woodlice, and bolted back up the tree in under two seconds.
Matt didn't look up from his book. But the grin he was fighting made the words swim.
Day two. Progress.
---
Summon Manor Gardens — September 17, 1987, 2:22 PM
Day three, and Matt broke the pattern.
Instead of placing the woodlice on the stone, he put them in his open palm. Left hand, resting on his knee, fingers relaxed. The woodlice crawled between his fingers in slow, aimless circles.
The Bowtruckle appeared in eleven minutes.
It descended the oak with less caution than before — still careful, still stopping to assess, but the pauses were shorter. At the base of the trunk, it hesitated. The woodlice were not on the stone. The woodlice were on the large creature that had been sitting quietly for three days.
Matt kept his breathing shallow. His hand didn't move.
The Bowtruckle crept across the grass. Each step was deliberate — one stick-leg forward, pause, another, pause. Up close, the creature was remarkable: a body of articulated bark segments, joints that bent with organic smoothness, and eyes like drops of dark sap, ancient and watchful.
It reached his knee. Stopped. Its head tilted.
Matt stayed still.
The Bowtruckle climbed onto his hand.
Every instinct from his veterinary career fired at once — the fierce, protective joy of an animal choosing to trust you. Not forced. Not bribed, exactly, though the woodlice helped. Chosen. The Bowtruckle sat in his palm and ate woodlice, and its tiny bark-fingers gripped his thumb with a strength that surprised him, and Matt sat in wet Scottish grass with tears prickling behind his eyes because this ridiculous twig of a creature had just made this impossible world feel like home.
[BOND ATTEMPT: GIFT TAMING METHOD — IN PROGRESS]
[BOWTRUCKLE WILLINGNESS: SUFFICIENT]
[COMPATIBILITY: 72% → 78% (POSITIVE INTERACTION MODIFIER)]
[INITIATE BOND? Y/N]
Yes.
Warmth pulsed through his palm where the Bowtruckle sat. Not painful — more like holding a cup of tea, a spreading heat that travelled up his arm and settled behind his sternum where the system lived. The Bowtruckle went rigid for a heartbeat, then relaxed, pressing closer against his hand.
[BOND SUCCESSFUL]
[GIFT TAMING METHOD: COMPLETE]
[CREATURE: BOWTRUCKLE — UNNAMED]
[STARTING AFFECTION: 220/1000]
[BOND RANK: E (ACQUAINTANCE)]
[BOND SLOT: 1/1 OCCUPIED]
[NOTE: BOWTRUCKLE IS SUBOPTIMAL FOR COMBAT PURPOSES. HOST'S CHOICE HAS BEEN LOGGED.]
I don't care.
The Bowtruckle finished its last woodlouse and looked up at him. Its twig-arms spread wide — a stretch, or maybe a question.
"Twig," Matt said. "Your name is Twig."
The Bowtruckle — Twig — cocked its head. Then it climbed up his arm, across his shoulder, and burrowed into his hair.
Tiny bark-fingers gripped strands near his left ear. A faint pulse of warmth radiated from the contact — the bond, alive and new, threading itself between them.
[CREATURE NAMED: TWIG]
[+150 SYSTEM POINTS — FIRST BOND BONUS]
[HOST LEVEL: 1 → 2]
Matt sat in the grass for a long time after that. The sky shifted from blue to amber as the afternoon drained westward. His back ached. His trousers were ruined. Twig had fallen asleep in his hair, a barely-there weight behind his ear, and occasional dreams rippled through the bond — green canopy, warm bark, the taste of woodlice.
Not the most glamorous start. Not the most powerful creature. Not what the system would have recommended.
He didn't care. He was a veterinarian at heart, and this was what veterinarians did. You didn't pick the animal that made your career impressive. You picked the one that needed you.
And right now, Twig needed him. A Bowtruckle alone on an empty estate, guarding a single oak tree with nobody to guard it for.
We'll figure out the rest together.
---
Summon Manor — 7:18 PM
Pip saw Twig first.
The old elf was setting the dinner table when Matt walked in, and Pip's eyes went to the green shape nestled in the boy's hair with the speed and precision of someone who had served the Summon family for sixty years and knew a bonded creature when he saw one.
The plate in Pip's hands trembled.
"Young Master," Pip whispered. "Is that —"
"His name is Twig," Matt said. "He lives in the garden oak."
Pip set the plate down carefully. His enormous eyes glistened. "A creature bond. After two hundred years." The elf's voice cracked on the number. "Mistress Cordelia would have... she would have..."
"I know," Matt said quietly.
Twig poked his head out of Matt's hair and regarded Pip with open suspicion. The Bowtruckle's twig-arms folded across its bark-chest.
"He's protective," Matt said. "Give him time."
"Of course," Pip said. "Of course, of course." The elf was crying openly now, tears tracking down leathered cheeks. "Pip will prepare woodlice. Does the Bowtruckle prefer garden variety or the ones from under the shed? The shed ones is bigger."
"Shed ones. And Pip — thank you. For keeping this place standing until I was ready."
Pip straightened. Drew a ragged breath. "Pip always knew a true Summon would come. Always."
Twig chittered once — a tiny, territorial sound — and retreated into Matt's hair.
Dinner was roast chicken with potatoes. Twig ventured out long enough to inspect a roasted parsnip, reject it with visible disgust, and accept a woodlouse from the emergency supply Cork had been dispatched to gather. Matt ate with one hand and held the other near his shoulder so Twig could grip his finger when the unfamiliar surroundings made the Bowtruckle nervous.
Afterward, Matt climbed the stairs to his bedroom. The Manor was quiet around him — the deep, breathing quiet of an old house settling into night. Moonlight pooled on the stone floor.
He stopped at the window. The same view as the first night: the Highlands, rolling silver, the creature reserve stretching into darkness.
But the weight in his hair was new. The bond hummed low and steady, a thread of warmth connecting him to something alive, something that had chosen him.
[BOND STATUS: TWIG — STABLE]
[AFFECTION: 224/1000 (+4 DAILY INTERACTION)]
[NEXT BOND SLOT UNLOCKS AT HOST LEVEL 5]
Four levels away. Months of work, probably. Training, studying, building the bond. No shortcuts.
Twig shifted in his hair, settling deeper. A tiny bark-hand patted his scalp twice — absentminded, possessive.
Matt leaned against the window frame. Outside, the first stars of evening burned above the Highland ridge.
He pulled his grandmother's creature guide from the shelf and opened it to the chapt er on Bowtruckle evolution paths. Twig climbed down to sit on the book's spine, examining the illustrations of his own species with what Matt could only describe as critical interest.
"Alright," Matt murmured. "Let's see what you can become."
He turned the page. Twig turned with it, tiny feet braced on the paper.
Outside, an owl called across the empty reserve — a sound that had gone unanswered for two centuries.
Not anymore.
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