Things Grak Hates Read online

  It’s just a large rock. Can’t see how anyone ever compared the thing to a fist. Probably delirious from travel. Or drunk in an effort to relieve the misery. And I imagine no one else gave the name much thought, so it stuck.

  Of course, “Redfist enthusiasts,” as he calls them, regularly attempt to convince him otherwise. But he always finds their reasoning lacking. Especially since their greatest piece of evidence is that the large rock jutting out of the landmark’s base looks like a thumb.

  Such absurdity. Who makes a fist with their thumb out? At best, it resembles a hand. Which, by the way, has a much better sound to it. Redhand. Rolls right off the tongue.

  Although, to be fair, the red is more of a brown really. Even in this early morning light, when it looks the most red, it’s still an obvious brown.

  A reddish brown, I suppose. But if you call this red, you might as well call a number of other things red.

  Grak struggles to think of an example, but comes up empty. He’s certain there are good ones available, though.

  I’m just too tired to think of them. But it doesn’t matter. The point remains. Brownhand is more fitti—

  “Grak?”

  “Yes, I was paying attention.” Grak adds a touch of annoyance to clarify the need for patience when dealing with superiors. “Just thinking about your question. It’s simple really. We name things to tell them apart.”

  Grak adds a fair amount of condescension to make it clear that children generally know such information. “This lets us know which rock among many. What would we be telling the river apart from? Is there a second river we don’t know about?” He’s pleased with the level of sarcasm conveyed just there.

  Brak gives the question his full focus for a moment. “I don’t know. The ocean?” He shrugs. “I suppose.”

  Grak opens his mouth to respond, but words fail. He shakes his head and searches for a new subject. The rock he’s resting his feet on stands out as an interesting alternative. He leans closer for inspection.

  Now that’s a true red. Quite a brilliant red, even. And that protruding section looks a great deal like a mouth. At least more than Brownhand looks like a fist. And the mouth is perfectly positioned too. So it looks as though the rock is drinking from the river.

  Sure enough, Grak’s intent stare soon sparks an interest in Brak. No longer able to contain his curiosity, the man leans in as well.

  “Heh, that looks like a mouth!” Brak’s reaction seems too excited, though. “I never noticed before. We could call it Redmouth. The river, I mean.”

  The conversation still isn’t going in a direction Grak appreciates. He reaches for a new topic to alter it once more. Unfortunately, he’s out of options that carry intrinsic interest.

  Grak does his best. “So, this water is nice.” He splashes gently at the surface.

  Brak nods, unsure how to respond. He settles on a simple, “That’s true,” then goes silent.

  And it is true. True enough at least. Grak certainly enjoys dipping his feet here. Even when the river is cold like this as the heats retreat from the looming snows.

  Of course, it isn’t so nice as to appease Grak in the face of such a dull conversation. Very few things can do that. Thus, he decides it’s time to end this excursion. He pulls his feet out and dries them with a nearby cloth.

  Quick to notice the intended change, Brak tries in vain to spark up a new conversation. “Can you pass that, please?” The look he receives cautions him about his manners. “When you’re done with it, of course.”

  Much better. Far more polite.

  Still, Grak is annoyed by the fellow’s original haste. He splashes his face and hair, then dries them, moving slower than usual to teach the man a lesson. For good measure, he makes an extra round to check for any remaining moisture. Finally, he passes the cloth over.

  “Thanks.” Brak unfurls the wadded tunic before putting it back on.

  I can only hope he learned a valu—

  “Grak?” Sando’s voice calls out from a distance, somewhere up the riverbank behind Brownhand.

  Oh, what does that decrepit fool want now? I swear, he’s incapable of getting anything done without checking in about it.

  There’s a fair bit of truth to that. The man has been hovering the entire trip, perhaps more so than anyone else.

  And now the sluggard can’t even be bothered to use his eyes to find me? Just shouts crudely into the air. As though I should come to him!

  “Grak?” Still the man cries out for him.

  But principle alone demands silence as a response. Grak remains resolute.

  Brak leans in awkwardly. “Grak, I think Sando’s looking for you.”

  Poor fool. The ways of leading are foreign to him.

  Grak puts on his most condescending expression. “I know. I can hear.” He sits down on a wide, flat stone. “I’m teaching the oaf a lesson. He needs to work for things. Can’t expect others to keep making up for his lack of exertion.”

  Brak nods. He’s only pretending to understand, but Grak still appreciates the effort.

  He’ll learn. It just takes time. No one’s born a leader.

  The two drift into silence, listening to the river’s gentle rhythm while waiting for Sando to arrive. But this reverie is soon broken by the sound of the old man’s foot dragging on stone and grass just out of sight around the bend. Grak shakes his head.

  What a fool! To think we’d be duped into believing his story. How would the meal cause lasting problems with his leg? And only his? Lackadaisical beyond belief!

  Grak waits in agonizing frustration for another moment of that harsh scraping noise. Finally, Sando hobbles into view.

  Startled, the man pulls back, catching his breath. “Ah, Grak! There you are! I was calling for you. When I didn’t get a response, I feared the worst. But I suppose Redfist always did play with sound, eh? How are you?”

  Grak has no time for mindless pleasantries. “Yes? What do you need?”

  Sando takes off his hat—pointed, as the trend of recent days has gone. “Well, everyone was worried that you might be testing us in secret.”

  How are they finding time to make the caps while traveling?

  The old man’s words pour out nervously. “And you said we’d leave when the stick’s shadow reached the tree.”

  Sando’s cap especially. It’s surprisingly well done.

  “So everyone else, they’ve started on their way.”

  The point reaches nearly as high as my own. And it’s stiff. Permanently. No need to continuously stand it up throughout the day.

  “But the train is almost gone, and you didn’t show up.”

  Strange that such skill never made its way to my own work.

  “So I got worried that maybe something happened to you. So I came looking.”

  It dawns on Grak what the man has been saying. “Gone?” He scrambles to put on his trousers. “I never said … Why, in all the land, would I want the tribe to leave without me?” He slips on a boot and hops off while awkwardly putting on the other.

  “Wait! Don’t leave me behind!” Brak pleas while attempting to dress himself.

  “The tribe waits for none, Brak!” Grak starts around the rock and calls back, “Be quick to catch up! We won’t stop for you.”

  Sando shuffles after him.

  Decrepit twit. Who even limps like that? Obvious farce. You’d think he’d drop it at a time like this, when we have to move quickly. At least he’s walking a little faster than usual.

  Grak climbs the riverbank and gingerly mounts his horse. He’s never been very enthusiastic about riding. Not horses, anyway. “Give me my two feet any day,” he can often be heard remarking.

  Nonetheless, it wouldn’t be very leaderly of him to walk when so many are up on tall steeds. If anything, he needs the highest vantage point available to keep a better watch for impending danger. At least, that was his reasoning for commanding Cordo to trade mounts with him.

  Unfortunately, this new beast is also mu
ch broader than Grak’s old one, which means a far more uncomfortable ride. And nowhere is this point more obvious than here in the woods where the bumpy ground is proving especially painful on his thighs.

  Perhaps some sort of padding would be in order. Save my legs for more useful purposes.

  Still, in spite of this difficulty, Grak survives the ride and emerges from the trees in decent condition. And that’s when his heart sinks. The river trail is empty.

  Too late. They’ve already passed.

  He turns to the left, then pulls the horse up.

  Which way were we headed?

  He tries to remember, but to no avail. He’s never been very good with directions.

  Grak turns the horse around and walks through the motions he took when leaving for the river earlier. This proves of little value. He can remember the camp sprawled out between the trees, and he remembers entering the woods, but that’s all.

  “Curse those fools for leaving without me!” A slight panic takes hold.

  Calm, Grak. They couldn’t have gotten far. Just try one way for a distance. If you don’t see them soon, head back the other direction.

  Grak nods in agreement and grips the reins. But a second confusion takes hold.

  Which way to start? Argh! Either way could be equally probable. Calm, Grak. Go with your original instinct.

  He turns left and starts into a gallop.

  “Grak!” Brak calls out from behind.

  But Grak can’t wait around for the man. “Hurry, Brak!”

  No time for slow fools. He has to learn to keep up. Life doesn’t wait for imbeciles to get their boots on.

  Brak’s voice carries over the wind once more, now fading with distance. “It’s this way!”

  Grak reins up. To his dismay, turning proves awkward due to his haste.

  He shouts a reply. “I know. Thought I saw a wolf. Just checking it out. Wouldn’t be much of a leader if I didn’t keep the tribe’s rear protected.”

  He gallops the short distance back and quickly passes the other two men. “Let’s go! Hurry up!”

  Ever obedient, Brak kicks his horse into a steady trot, causing Sando to cling tighter to his waist.

  Always weighing someone down, the old log. I’ll probably have to reprim—

  Grak rounds the first bend and pulls up just in time, narrowly avoiding a collision with the tribe’s tail end. Apparently, they weren’t so far ahead as he thought.

  While catching up is a relief, it’s only a small one. The ride to the head of the line will prove far more time-consuming. Carts and horses are crammed to the trees on either side along the trail for as far as he can see.

  This smells like Jafra’s doing. All of it. First she convinced them to leave without me. Then she had them all spread out to stop me from leading. Even though I made it clear how important it is that I ride in front! Or perhaps because I made it so clear. Just to spite me.

  But either way, Grak has no choice. Trying to move through the woods would be unpleasant in both speed and comfort. He’ll have to press his way through the crowd.

  Grak puts on his most authoritative voice. “Make way! Leader coming through! Make way!”

  As he presses through, his people move quickly aside. And to Grak’s surprise, they also take it upon themselves to inform those ahead of his coming. Which he’s quite grateful for, as it allows him to save his voice for more important matters.

  He’s also glad to see so many eyes watching with excitement as he passes. At least, Grak thinks that’s excitement. It could just as easily be admiration. Though a nagging thought points out the similarities between this look and one of basic annoyance.

  Still, regardless of their feelings toward him, Grak is content with having their attention. Well, for the most part. Their caps are certainly proving disconcerting.

  How have so many pointed hats appeared since I left for the river this morning? It’s good that they follow, but I can’t have them usurping. Really must do something about this.

  Grak ponders his options as he rides ahead. Obvious ideas seem too brutal, and yet original ideas seem ineffective.

  Something in between, perhaps. A policy of some sort.

  But Grak has no more time to consider that. His thinking is disrupted when he spots Doran riding just ahead, talking with his new friends.

  He’s spending an increasing amount of time in their company, isn’t he? Not that I mind, of course. I don’t care what he does with his time. At least, I wouldn’t if it weren’t displacing the time we used to share.

  That is, if we’re even friends still. Friends are supposed to talk about each other. That crab’s all he ever wants to talk about anymore. Never shuts up about it. That’s not the friend I grew up with.

  As if to further prove this point, Grak’s approach does nothing to stir the man from his conversation. Doran continues to look intently at the map stone in Kando’s lap, oblivious to everything around him.

  His voice rises above the surrounding din. “If we could find a better way to draw out the areas we’ve visited.”

  Kando nods. “True. Drawing on rock is insufficient. We need to update it regularly with new theories. And compare to previous theories. We’d need a simpler surface for that.”

  Grak ponders the man’s idea. It’s interesting, but ultimately useless.

  I doubt they’ll find something better. I’ve never been able to. But let them try with their nonsense.

  Grak manages to sneak by without being pulled into the conversation. Although, truth be told, he’s somewhat dismayed by his success.

  A simple greeting would be nice. The old Doran would have done that. And more. Would have invited me to ride with him. Before all this crab foolishness. Quite different indeed.

  But Grak is determined not to let that bother him; it would only be a distraction right now. No, he just needs to remain focused and reach the head of the line. Then he can think in peace.

  If these simpletons would clear out of my way!

  The ripple of shouts has made passage relatively easy thus far, but a pack of riders just ahead appears oblivious. They’re conversing loudly, focused on their own subject.

  Unconcerned that their leader needs to pass. Too involved with themselves to bother doing anything for the tribe.

  Cordo’s voice rises above those of the other riders. “I’m just saying, the sea isn’t so deep. Certainly not deep enough for something as large as Doran claims. I mean, at the most, it’s what? How many men?”

  Now Cordo’s caught up in this whole crab business too? No one is safe from this illness.

  “Move aside!” Grak shouts.

  But they show no reaction. Ruch continues their conversation. “Maybe five men.”

  “Exactly. Five men.” Cordo tilts his head back in thought. “Something that large wouldn’t be able to move very well in such shallow waters. Too many rocks. And too much seaweed and the like.

  “Plus, we would have seen it by now. And wouldn’t it have a family? Everything else does. So we’ve got a family of sea monsters, each with incredible size, dipping their feet in the water? And only when Doran’s around? I don’t believe it.”

  Grak raises his voice along with his ire. “Your leader needs to get through!” Still nothing.

  Zacha adds her mind. “Doran says this proves the sea must be deeper. He says he’s going to work on figuring it out. He’s already started on it with several of his people.”

  Perhaps calling by name will do the trick. These are a vain bunch, after all.

  Grak raises his voice even louder. “Cordo!”

  The man turns, revealing a sweatier mole than usual. “Oh, Grak.” He signals the others to give him room. “Didn’t notice you there.” He clears out of the way.

  Didn’t notice me? What utter nonsense! How would you not recognize your leader’s commands?

  Cordo returns to his conversation. “Yes, but have you heard their thinking so far? Kando was theorizing that all the land together must be min
uscule, and the water vast beyond belief. Sounds like more gibberish to me.”

  Grak is thoroughly put off by this neglect. If time weren’t so demanding, he’d deal with them immediately. But the head of the line calls.

  He reaches for a parting rebuke. “Then you’d best work on being more mindful!”

  Satisfactory, but a more thorough reprimand might be needed. Perhaps this evening. If I can find the time. In public would be ideal. A lesson for the whole tribe on being more attentive. A strong one at that.

  Should probably single out Jafra. Just to make it clear what kind of behavior is frowned upon. I’ll need a reasonable connection, though, since she wasn’t in that pack.

  He stores this thought for later and continues pressing forward. Only a few more carts remain between him and his rightful place. Two riders are currently claiming that spot, maybe fifteen horse lengths ahead of anyone else. Grak considers their increased distance.

  Could add to my leaderly look. Far out in front of the tribe. Bravely leading the way, all alone.

  Grak decides it’s worth trying. He breaks free of the throng and picks up his pace, calling out as he rides. “Farzo! Lumo!”

  They both turn in response, but Grak has no time for scolding. A low growl is their only warning as a lion leaps on Farzo, knocking him to the ground. Lumo reacts quickly, but his ax is too slow. A second lion pounces on him.

  Ever quick to identify danger, Grak gives a warning call. “Li …” The crackling in his voice threatens to reveal his fear. He clears his throat. “Lions!” Much more confident. He hopes no one noticed the first attempt.

  An arrow whistles by, an arm’s length away, and sticks into an attacker leaping from his left. The beast goes limp before it hits the ground—the shaft protruding from its neck the only reason Grak remains seated.

  And perhaps alive. Though I’ll have to see who fired it before admitting anything of the sort.

  But Grak can’t think about that right now. With a resolute focus, he looks around, trying to get a grasp on the situation.

  Many of his tribesmen have arrived and joined the fray, adding an extra buffer between him and immediate danger. And as his personal risk fades, Grak finds his fear also dissipating. Just in time, too. He spots Jafra running forward, ax in hand and fury in eye, reminding him of the opportunity to lead here.