Things Grak Hates

  .

  Copyright 2014 by Peter J Story

  All rights reserved. Published by Paper Newt. PAPER NEWT and associated logos are trademarks of Paper Newt.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Paper Newt at info@papernewt.com.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014949488

  Smashwords Edition

  This book is available in print at most online retailers.

  Text type set in Adobe Garamond Pro

  Book design by Marie T Story

  .

  To Alvi.

  If it weren’t for you, this book wouldn’t exist.

  Things Grak Hates

  1. Olives

  2. And Lago

  3. And Apparently Cooking

  4. And Lazy People

  5. And Packing Day

  6. And Obviously Traveling

  7. And Subsequently, Unpacking Day

  8. And Hunting Strategies

  9. And Strangers

  10. And Their Strange Maps

  11. And How There’s Always a Group of Whiners Any Time the Air Turns a Little Cold

  12. And the Devious Jafra

  13. And Her Devious Schemes

  14. And Sore Losers

  15. And Rebels

  16. And Water Shortages

  17. And Nosy Tribes

  18. And Those Seeking to Steal What’s Rightfully His

  19. And Hotheads

  20. And Resolutions

  Epilogue - But Not Olive

  1 - Olives

  Grak hates olives. Truly. If there were one point of supreme importance to understand about his habits or character, this would be it.

  Admittedly, a detail of this sort appears on the surface to be a mere quirk. Thus, one might feel tempted to dismiss it as an insignificant ingredient in Grak’s nature. But that would be an erroneous assumption.

  Only upon closer examination can one discover the trait’s true value. Much like a root, it both feeds the man and reveals a profusion of information about his very essence.

  Perhaps greatest among these insights is the rationale behind Grak’s antipathy for the fruit. His chief source of complaint stems from the berry’s abundance. As is often the case with things of plenty, olives have become routine. And Grak does not like routine.

  Though, to be fair, he does appreciate certain routines. If circumstance prevents his evening dip in the hot springs, he gets cranky. This is especially true if that day consisted of hunting or some other equally taxing activity. Grak describes his “hot spring dip” routine as “enjoyable.”

  But some routines only bring grief for Grak. Whetting his toenails falls into this category. And yet he finds the practice as unavoidable as rising from sleep. And nearly as deplorable, which is saying a lot. He would do away with waking if it were possible, but has yet to find a suitable approach.

  Likewise, as much as he disdains crafting his toenails before the day begins, Grak finds the chore inevitable. And not because it reduces the occurrence of torn nails. While a pleasant benefit, that was never his aim.

  No, his purpose has always been for the sharpened point itself. By his estimation, it provides a hidden advantage should he find himself in an unfair fight without the upper hand.

  Needless to say, the tribe does not ask this of him. In fact, when others noticed the habit, they agreed without dissent that they considered it “rather queer.”

  But Grak is not keen on sharing the reasoning for his secrets with the camp. He fears that doing so might rob him of that needed edge. Thus, the tribe has no choice but to assume the practice derives from his “rather queer nature.”

  And, of course, comments such as these only serve to renew his determination (and bolster his contempt) for the task. Grak describes his “toenail whetting” routine as “regretfully necessary.”

  But olives … now there’s another beast altogether. Grak has never liked olives. Even as a boy, he found them “awfully bitter” and “poorly textured.” And if that weren’t bad enough, they also had a cruel way of leaving his face in an abnormal puckering state.

  The other children would, of course, make matters worse by calling him names. “Puck” was their first choice, and perhaps the least derisive. In fact, Grak’s longing to be considered “good natured,” even led him to occasionally admit it carried a ration of humor.

  But when they began to address him as “Tum-Tum,” that poured a sadness into his being. It whispered, “Your friends are looking down on you. They think you’re weak,” and Grak considers that to be cruel and unfair. Especially since he finds himself faultless in the circumstances surrounding the name’s origin.

  It grew from the handful of incidents where his stomach turned when he spotted the vile berries being served. On the first of these occasions, after a public display of vomiting, Grak became embarrassed. Attempting to redirect blame, he pointed toward a spreading illness as the cause.

  And much to his surprise, that approach found success. But only at first. By the third occurrence or so, it had been some time since anyone else was unwell, and his guise crumbled. The name began soon after.

  Grak believes this series of events was also responsible for the development of his most hated nickname: Olive. The constant reminder of something so despised was bad enough. But when one mother heard the teasing, she liked the name so much that she bestowed it on her soon-to-be-born daughter.

  Within a few snows, the moniker became a trend among girls. Though none call him by the name anymore, he still hears it often, and his heart twinges ever so slightly.

  But even a tragedy like that might have been bearable were it not for the fruit’s unrelenting presence. No matter where his people set up camp—olives! Several times he thought he had a run of fortune, but then a foraging party would return days later and suddenly—olives!

  And not just a few olives turn up, but an overwhelming supply. “Yay! We have so many olives to eat!” the tribe declares giddily. But this only drives another pin into Grak’s soul.

  Even when the days turn cold, he finds no relief. Hysteria drives his clan to gather every olive they can find and submerge them in clay jars filled with brine. “We don’t want to run out of olives!” whimpers the worried bunch. And Grak feels alone in his knowledge that this only makes the things more repulsive.

  No. No escape from olives for him. Grak describes the “forced olive consumption” routine as “appalling” and “abominable.” But most often he simply refers to it as “depressing.”

  Of course, there’s much more to know about Grak than his contempt for olives. Such as his love of the color blue. Or its connection to his roughly equal feelings of fascination and fear toward the sea.

  Or his guilty pleasure of seeing children scolded, embarrassed, or falling down. Though if they’re more than mildly hurt, he does feel concern; he’s not a monster.

  Or his love of ponies. Grak does love ponies.

  Or his hyper focus on every detail, especially ones he deems unpleasant or disruptive of the few pleasures he does find. Like when someone reprimands a pony for biting a child.

  Or the collection of leaves he keeps stashed away in a leather pouch under his pillow. While they tend to get damaged there, it’s the only place he’s found that’s so secret even Doran won’t stumble upon them.

  Or his best friend, Doran, who was the only one to resist calling him anything other than “Grak.” Although, the man did privately express a concern for his friend’s “severe and unusual hatred of olives.”

  Because that
’s what it always comes back to with Grak: olives. Really, that just sums him right up. More than anything else. By far. He hates them. A lot.

  But while this period of Grak’s life begins with olives, this day’s events do not. They start with a chair. A plain, unadorned, wooden chair.

  And though it lacks the usual flair and quality of other chairs in camp, Grak doesn’t mind. He’s looking at his new chair with an odd sort of delight that he doesn’t normally derive from such things.

  And that’s because this chair is different. It’s the first one he’s made successfully. Which is to say, it can support his weight and doesn’t wobble too much.

  Admittedly, it’s a limited definition of “successful.” Especially since Grak bestows this description on all his handiwork. But he’ll usually admit to himself that it’s an exaggeration (however slight), and he’s not doing so here. No, he’s quite proud of this chair.

  Even qualifies as a masterpiece, I think. Can’t imagine I’d be alone in that thought, either.

  Grak opens the tent flap for more light. Not too wide an opening, of course. He has a fear that if someone were to see his work before its completion, they might think it inferior. Then the resulting humiliation—while entirely unfair—would be too much to bear.

  Grak sits on his bed roll and leans against the deerskin wall with his hands behind his head. This immediately causes a fairly uncomfortable bend in his back, given the wall’s slant.

  Why do I always sit like this when I think? It’s rather painful. What other options are available?

  Grak leans forward, resting his elbows on his crossed legs.

  Much better. No pain, and I have a closer view of the chair. Remember this posture, Grak. Remember this posture. Remember this posture.

  This is his personal memory trick. He finds three times is sufficient. Four is just excessive.

  With that important detail out of the way, Grak returns his focus to the matter of inspection. Spotting a small bump on the otherwise smooth chair leg, he attempts to scrape it down with his fingernail.

  Grak surveys his finger, wrapped with a suspiciously discolored scrap of cloth found under the foot of his bed roll. The bleeding appears to have subsided, so that’s comforting.

  He looks around for the splinter. This proves a challenging task, given the clutter of dirty garments and useless items strewn about his tent. Grak opts for a different approach and attempts to retrace his movements.

  Would be a shame if it ended up in my foot later.

  Given its size, the thing could cause serious damage if left to its own devices. Then he’d have to hide an embarrassing hobble, and that wouldn’t do.

  Ah, there it is.

  The splinter is resting just next to his bedding. Though in all honesty, that could describe any location in the tent. Size constraints limit his decorative ability.

  He picks up the sliver and holds it close for further analysis. The dried blood and bit of nail stuck to it must have acted as a camouflage of sorts. Nonetheless, Grak’s keen eye proved superior once again.

  Not this time, splinter. Not this time.

  He tosses the sliver outside, taking care to ensure it lands far from the entrance.

  Now where was I? Ah, the chair.

  Grak settles back into his new thinking posture. On further inspection, he’s undecided whether the new gouge is too noticeable. He settles on leaving it be.

  I suppose it adds character. Well, quite a good job, I must say. The tribe would probably want to see its quality.

  Not enough good chairs in camp and all.

  But last time I showed a chair around, everyone was so critical. Probably just jealous. Probably just wanted to find something to hate about it. Yes, I’m sure that’s all it was.

  I imagine I could avoid that by not directly asking for opinions. If I simply act like I don’t care. Yes, that makes sense. So how would I do that?

  An instant later, Grak’s mind clicks. He rushes into action and throws on the nearest of his three tunics, leaving it open due to the heat.

  Some continue to question the need for so many garments, but Grak has responded to them so many times that he’s run out of patience. “You wouldn’t understand,” is his only reply these days, accompanied by a shake of his head and a pitying smile.

  The reason is simple enough, though. Having several on hand not only provides greater variety to choose from, but also makes it possible to find one when in a hurry.

  In fact, Grak’s trousers are currently demonstrating this point. He only has one pair of those, and he’s certain that’s the reason they’re proving so elusive at the moment. But he’s not losing hope. In a tent this small, they can only stay hidden for so long. Sure enough, a bit more digging soon reveals them beneath his pillow.

  Unlike the tunics, Grak didn’t make his trousers. Padded leather is far too tricky. Instead, he convinced Doran to do it for him. In secret, of course.

  And while Grak suspects that no one truly believed he was responsible for such fine work, no formal accusations were ever made. Several individuals posed questions, but more out of curiosity than suspicion.

  Besides, Grak managed to put those to rest with relative ease. He persuaded Doran to claim witness of the event, and that did the trick. Shoulders were shrugged and the matter was soon dropped.

  Fortunately, Grak’s cap requires no searching. It’s crumpled there where the trousers recently lay, just next to the soup bowl. This reminds him, and he finishes the broth.

  Despite the day’s warmth, Grak dons the head covering. No matter the occasion, he always makes sure to wear it when stepping out. He has to show the thing off, after all, since it’s the best example of his handiwork. Which is to say, the hat fits, more or less, and doesn’t have too much of a point at the top.

  But he’s certain that part isn’t his fault. “Fitting cloth to the shape of a head is simply a difficult task,” he reminds himself often. Though he has to do so while ignoring the rounded caps all throughout camp.

  And it’s not like he didn’t try to do away with the point. He put sincere effort into it. The one he’s wearing now is the best of thirty-two attempts. But by the time he reached that count, realization hit that he would soon run out of room to hide the mistakes.

  Thus, he opted to refocus his efforts. Which is to say, Grak then tried to convince everyone that the point made for a more comfortable fit. But that never caught on. Neither did his insistence that it added character.

  Still, aside from the comparison some draw to female anatomy, he’s quite proud of the thing. “My good hat,” he calls it.

  Armed with the added confidence his cap provides, Grak steps outside, chair in hand, and sets off toward Groka’s tent. He feels that’s the best place to begin his plan, given her expertise in crafting wood and the central location of her dwelling.

  Of course, it doesn’t hurt that she’s his second favorite person in camp after Doran. But that’s no surprise, since they have so much in common: their names are similar and they both make chairs.

  Plus, she’s pretty, so that’s three. Especially her neck. So long and elegant. Quite fetching. And not too thin, either. Very graceful overall.

  Grak hides a smile upon finding her home. “Hello, Groka!” The tone betrays his concealed excitement. He tries for something more nonchalant. “How are you today?” Much better.

  She looks up from her woodwork, glancing at the hat before settling on his eyes. That hardly bothers him anymore. Now he just attributes it to habit.

  “Oh hello, Grak!” At least her enthusiasm matches his own. “I’m doing well, thank you! And you?”

  “Just fine, just fine.” This seems like a decent time to introduce his strategy. “Sorry, I can’t chat right now. I’m looking for Doran. Have you seen him?”

  Groka stares at the ground in thought for a long moment, scratching her neck enticingly. Finally, she looks up and shakes her head. “No, I can’t say I have.”

  She isn’t mentioning th
e chair. Grak didn’t expect his plan to fall apart so quickly. And try as he might, no alternative ideas are coming to mind.

  “Alright … Well, I’m looking for him … If you see him, I’ll be walking around … looking for him …”

  “Sure, I’ll send him off to you. But wait, if you’re walking around, how will I know where to send him?”

  Grak is confused now. He’s not sure how this went so wrong. It seemed like such a simple plan initially.

  “I guess … I don’t know … I guess I’ll just keep asking around …”

  He chides himself for not preparing a backup strategy. In his defense, he didn’t think it would be necessary. He usually finds it simple enough to think on his feet.

  Must be Groka. I’m too distracted by her.

  That’s truer than Grak realizes. His wits have a habit of napping when she’s around. Even more so when her neck glistens with sweat like this. Unfortunately, her charms also impair his ability to overcome the problem.

  Grak opens his mouth in a daring attempt to speak whatever comes to mind. Nothing does, however, and the two stand in awkward silence for a moment longer.

  “Hello, Groka. Grak.”

  Grak is caught off guard by the newcomer. She must have sneaked up from the side. “Oh … hello, Jafra.”

  He finds himself strangely relieved to see her. Under normal circumstances, Grak loathes the woman without remorse. But in this situation, he’s glad for the third person to help ease the tension. So much so that her uneven eyebrows are hardly bothering him right now.

  An idea pops to mind and quickly takes shape. He usually tries to exclude her from his plans, but she might serve a purpose here.

  “Jafra, have you seen Doran?” He makes a show of looking uncomfortable, and switches the chair to his other hand.