Things Grak Hates Read online

  Grak looks about for the best way to manage his fighters. The answer quickly presents itself. Cordo appears to be in a desperate situation, swinging at a monster of an animal while narrowly avoiding its claws.

  Grak puts on his brave voice. “Cordo! Kill that lion! It’s a large one! Jafra! Help him!”

  Jafra flows into action. She leaps and descends on the beast with a fierce blow to the skull. It collapses instantly, blood squirting a wild red. With no further thought for the fallen creature, she turns to face another nearby attacker.

  Well, Cordo had it distracted. She had the easy part. Good thing I was here to tell her what to do.

  Grak looks about for more available commands. He notices Zacha stringing an arrow from her saddle. “Zacha! Shoot that lion!”

  She glances around in confusion, then lowers her bow. “Which one?”

  Grak recognizes a good question when he hears it. He scans the area. Most of their assailants are dead now. Or being finished off. No threats rema—

  Wait! Two are fleeing back into the woods.

  “There!” He points. “Get the one on the left!”

  Zacha fires. Her shot lands in the hind leg of the trailing creature, causing it to tumble through leaves and dirt. It attempts to get back up, but a second arrow follows fast and pierces its chest from the side. The cat collapses, twitching. Life ebbs out.

  “I said, ‘the left’!” Grak shouts. “How are we supposed to accomplish anything if you can’t follow simple directions?”

  “Sorry. I was aiming for it, but the other one got in the way.”

  While Grak finds her penitence satisfactory, he feels a reminder is important here. “Well, do better next time!”

  An ample warning. Short and to the point. Well done, Grak.

  He surveys the area once more. The remaining beasts are all dead, leaving the trail a haunting, bloody mess.

  How should I lead now? Injuries, perhaps? Yes, that seems like a reasonable next step.

  “Is everyone alright?” he calls out. “Are there any wounded?”

  But Grak is too late with that one. Groka is already checking on them.

  Too slow, Grak! Have to be faster in situations like this. Nothing to lead now. She already knows what to—

  Grak’s heart sinks as the woman’s face goes pale. He follows her stare to the far edge of the carnage. Two human bodies lie there. Neither one is moving. A pool of blood steadily grows larger around them. Groka starts into a frenzied run.

  Farzo … Lumo … No …

  Grak remembers to lead, clearing his throat before speaking. “Groka, check on them. Will they be alright?”

  She kneels to inspect. But the grisly mess all around leaves little doubt. Silence falls as hope fades.

  Groka huddles lower. The tremble of her weeping body is unmistakable. The injured forget their wounds. All present hang their heads. “Sorrowful” would be Grak’s description.

  If anyone bothered to ask.

  After a long moment, Cordo breaks the silence. “We’ve lost two of our brothers. The tribe needs to know. I’ll inform them.”

  “No! I’ll do it.” Grak almost missed that opportunity to lead. “They’ll want to hear it from me.”

  Cordo shrugs in agreement.

  “We should bury them,” says Jafra.

  Grak rolls his eyes with incredulity.

  Trying to take attention for herself. And at a time like this. Only Jafra would do such a thing.

  “Yes, we should,” he replies with a mild chiding in his tone. “And I was just about to tell you who should do it. Have patience.

  “Cordo, I need you to handle that. Jafra can assist you.” Grak looks around for other candidates. Proximity decides. “Ruch and Zacha, you can help too.”

  He turns to leave, but remembers something and pauses. “Groka, please see to the other wounded.”

  Jafra cuts in. “Groka, would you mind helping me bandage up my arm first?”

  How egocentric! Astonishing, really. Others need help too, and all she can think about is herself. Well, at least it was a public display of her selfishness.

  Grak takes a calming breath so as to appear controlled when scolding her. “Again, Jafra. Patience. Your arm doesn’t look so bad. Be glad you didn’t end up like Farzo and Lumo.” While he regrets the comparison, its necessity can’t be denied.

  Jafra averts her eyes and frowns. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I just didn’t want it to get infected. It’s a deep wound, and I’d hate for my arm to rot and need to be removed.”

  Hmm, so would I. Then we’d have another useless person to care for. Not that she’s useful now, of course. But she’d be of even less value.

  Besides, mercy would look good here. Especially in contrast to her self-serving requests.

  Grak gives his most benevolent nod. “So be it. Groka, please stop tending to those in greater need so you can fix Jafra’s scratches.”

  Groka nods and gets to work. Jafra simply submits, hanging her head in even greater shame. With a smug satisfaction, Grak turns and rides back toward the tribe.

  That certainly knocked her down a peg or two. Well done, Grak. A resounding win.

  But he has no time to enjoy the victory. As Grak makes his way down the line, it becomes obvious that the news has already spread. A few are weeping. Some ask pitiful questions about whether the danger has passed. Most simply wear mournful expressions.

  That’s when Grak notices Farzo’s family just ahead. The man’s mother is wailing on the ground among the trees. His widow is wearing a brave, yet lost look while trying unsuccessfully to console her young son in his tears.

  A lump forms in Grak’s throat. “Unfortunate” would be his description of the day’s events. If he felt comfortable talking to those in earshot.

  And foolish, I might add. The foolishness of Farzo. A wasted life.

  Grak clears his throat. He passes a quick hand over his cheeks, feigning as though they’ve remained dry the entire time.

  If I had been in the lead, I would have warned everyone. None needed to die. The leader should always be at the head. I’ll need to make this even clearer.

  Grak decides against approaching the grieving family just yet. He turns his horse around and makes for the front of the line.

  Although … If I had been in the front, I might not have had enough time. I could be among those lying on the ground right now while …

  He struggles for a name. Any name.

  Well, I’m sure many would grieve my loss. And why not? The leader dying at such a desperate time? Would be tragic for all.

  So, perhaps I should be front adjacent instead. I can keep an eye on the way ahead, but don’t need to be in immediate danger.

  Still might be too dangerous, though. I’d need personal protection too. A guard of sorts. A buffer between me and the wil—

  Groka! She would definitely be weeping right now if I had been among the fallen. And probably Doran. Certainly Frolan. Once he returns.

  An idea snaps into place.

  Now there’s a good solution. Perfect, even. Would also serve to keep the big oaf nearby. So that’s a double win for me. And for the tribe, really.

  7 - And Subsequently, Unpacking Day

  Grak finds that his contempt for packing day pairs nicely with his nearly identical hatred for unpacking day. The only real difference is that the latter isn’t followed with travel, but rest. Or a semblance thereof. At the least, he’s always been adept at finding original ways to sneak off before the work is completed.

  But that’s not the case this time. The promise of relaxation on this particular day is disrupted. And all due to the events that transpired on the trail.

  The two deaths aren’t sitting well with most. Truth be told, it’s doubtful they’re sitting well with anyone. Grak even feels a twinge of sorrow. Which, he points out, disproves the popular belief that his is “the hardest of hearts in the entire tribe and possibly in all the land.”

  Obviously, he resents thi
s saying. To start, he finds its long-winded nature troubling on a deep level. But more than that, he feels the idiom lacks veracity. Grak prefers to describe his demeanor as “resolute,” citing the gentle nature he exerts with friends as proof of this.

  Everything else is merely for the comfort of onlookers during troubling times.

  He also points to the near certainty that Jafra’s heart is truly the purest iron ever known. Unarguably more impenetrable than his own, he elaborates.

  Of course, he only reveals this sentiment in the presence of trusted company. Though he’s noticed they’ve been receiving it in a less-than-desirable manner of late. He attributes that change to the uncanny cohesion currently running through the tribe.

  If only I could direct that energy.

  True. Harnessing such camaraderie does promise a sizeable amount of power. So much, in fact, that it would eliminate any possibility of ever losing his place as tribe leader. Alternatively, lack of intervention could result in a wild growth beyond his control. Or worse, a growth exploited by another. Even a foe.

  Jafra! Always with her schemes! Surely this situation is no different.

  Then it’s decided. She’s forced my hand. I’ll have to find a way to turn this to my advantage. Even if only to keep power out of her greedy claws.

  Unfortunately, the inherent obstacles are all too prevalent. It’s not just that two deaths occurred in the same day. That would be bad enough, considering that deaths are so rare among Grak’s people.

  And it’s also not just that the deaths were untimely. Sure, neither of the men saw more than twenty-five snows, but they weren’t exactly young either.

  And it’s not even just that they died in a lion attack. While rare, such incidents aren’t unheard of.

  No, it’s the combination of these events all happening under Grak’s command. That’s the prickle in his boot here. None have said as much yet, but the look on their faces gives him surety that talk will turn this direction before long.

  Though perhaps worst of all, Grak finds the deaths a bit too upsetting on a personal level. He was the closest when the lions pounced. He saw the blood. And the fear. That’s what sticks in his mind more than anything else.

  Determined, yet terrified. Even resigned.

  Grak shakes his head, and the memory slips away. Not completely, but out of his immediate focus at least. The thought promises to return, though. Always does. It’s inevitable, really. And it’s proving a thorough distraction. In fact, he can’t remember the last time he’s lacked so much focus for his plans.

  Perhaps the incident with Groka’s mother. Refused to believe I wasn’t peeking. Such gall. And so self-absorbed. Sure, her neck was decent, but—

  Ah, never mind that. It was long ago. As an adult, I’ve never seen such difficulty. As though my mind refuses to focus on anything else. Although … perhaps I could use that feeling. My own difficulty could make me appear sympathetic.

  But that’s not enough. It would help me connect, but wouldn’t grab hold. So then what?

  Perhaps Lago again. Lago, lions, security. True enough. We’ve grown lax. I could see that working. I’ll need a visual reminder, though. Comfort and fear at once. And perhaps that would suffice.

  Would help if I could include Doran too. Benefit from his influence. Show that I’m not alone in this thinking. Worth a visit, at leas—

  “Grak?” Frolan calls from outside, disrupting any further thoughts.

  Grak sighs, resigned to the distraction. “Yes?” He searches for his trousers. “Come in.”

  Frolan ducks through the flap and pauses. His gaze falls on Grak’s bare legs. “Oh … sorry … didn’t know you were thinking.” He turns away awkwardly.

  “No, no, come in. I’m through.” Grak pulls up his trousers. “Did you finish my cap?”

  “Ah, yes. Here.” He passes the hat. “But more importantly, Brak’s asking for you. There’s a bit of unrest. People are frightened. Or upset. Or both. He thinks trouble’s coming if you don’t put minds at ease.”

  Grak inspects his new cap. Much finer quality, to be sure. The point is nice and firm, even when given a hard flick. But the height, that’s the real beauty here. It’s a good hand taller than his previous. Or any in camp, for that matter. He puts it on carefully, scarcely succeeding in hiding his joy.

  “Well, this is good news.” Mostly the hat.

  “Oh …” Frolan’s confusion is unmistakable. “Alright, I’ll let Brak know. I thought you’d be concerned about the trouble.”

  “Yes, I am.” Grak gives a quick show of emotion. “I’m very concerned. But it’s good, because I was just thinking of how to improve security. So it’s perfect timing.”

  Grak finishes dressing. “Let’s see to the people, then. Though I think a quick stop is due first. Shall we?”

  They exit the tent with Grak in the lead and Frolan close behind, looking around earnestly. This is part of the training Grak has been giving the brute on the desirable way to protect a leader from danger. It’s just one of many lessons designed to make the man more suitable in his company.

  And the training has proven useful so far. Frolan’s imposing presence has made every order over the past few days significantly smoother. And this, in turn, has resulted in far more getting accomplished. Which, of course, all serves to improve Grak’s stature among his people.

  All the more reason why announcing this security team is so vital.

  They arrive at Doran’s tent. As is the man’s custom, he has the flap pinned neatly to the outside, ensuring fresh air within. In fact, he’s received such success with this approach that many in camp have pointed to it as a useful habit for Grak to pick up.

  Of course, Grak wouldn’t normally see fit to alter his mannerisms for the whims of the masses. But, on the other hand, Groka has recently taken to mentioning it as well. Thus, he feels a certain desperation to master this convention. In fact, several times already he’s attempted to commit the thing to memory, but it inevitably seems to slip his mind.

  Remember this routine, Grak. Remember this routine. Remember this routine. Once more couldn’t hurt here. Propriety be shunned! Remember this routine, Grak.

  Surely it should stick this time.

  With that out of the way, he peers inside. To his dismay, he finds that Doran isn’t in. Grak looks around.

  “Don’t forget to add squiggles.” Kando is leaning over the rear of a nearby cart. “What we’ve already mapped has squiggles. The rest must too.” He scratches the ridge of his nose.

  Hmm, look at that. Never noticed how prominent that thing is. From this angle, almost looks like his nose is bent.

  Opa is sitting next to the man, working a sharpened stick against wet clay. This strange behavior piques Grak’s curiosity, and he moves in for a closer view. To his astonishment, she’s quickly reproducing the map stone, though with obvious additions.

  He rarely looked at the old rock, but the difference is hard to miss. Their travels are consistent. Almost painfully so. As a result, the map has been the same since he first laid eyes on it as a young boy. Not coincidentally, that was also the point when he decided mapping was a waste of time.

  And the feeling has only grown since. Although, he will admit that he’s always admired Opa’s proficiency. And this is especially true now that it’s enhanced by this new medium.

  It’s the fingers. Must be. Long and bony like that. A bit too thin, if you ask me. Almost grotesque. Still, much more nimble. Well suited for detailed crafts like this.

  He looks at his own fingers, thick and strong from so many snows of hunting and heavy labor.

  There’s the problem. Too much time spent on useless tasks. Never had the opportunity to work this kind of skill.

  Sando’s fault more than anything, really. He gave me these stubby fingers. And lacked the ability to teach me the finer proficiencies.

  Opa looks at Kando. “Like that?”

  “It’s good, but maybe … I feel like it should have more. Can you do
more squiggles? But don’t undo what you’ve already made. Just enhance the detail further.”

  Opa alters her grip on the stick, moving her fingers with uncanny finesse. “Spidery,” Grak would call it. She delivers a series of slight twitches at the wrist—softer and faster now—and the map takes a more detailed shape.

  But in spite of his fascination, Grak soon tires of watching this. Truth be told, he’s also annoyed with the pair for wasting so much time on senseless activities. He decides to act on it.

  “Why aren’t you two unloading? Have we run out of work?” Grak turns to Frolan, hoping to share in the sarcasm’s true value. But despite the layers of meaning, it’s lost on the man.

  Poor, simple fellow. Missing the complexity of the humor. We’ll have to go over that lesson again.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Grak.” Doran approaches from the left. “I asked them to work on that since their immediate duties were completed. Did you need them further?”

  Grak decides mercy might be beneficial here. “No, that’s fine. If they’re working for you. But I did need to ask something of you, Doran.”

  The man appears eager. “What can I do for you, friend?”

  “I don’t see how it could have been Lago,” replies Jafra. “Wouldn’t the lions just attack him instead?”

  “Perhaps you didn’t hear the earlier announcement, Jafra.” While Grak is annoyed by the intrusion, he also relishes the opportunity to shame her in front of the gathered tribe. “Again, please remember to raise your hand and wait to be called on. If everyone just speaks whenever they want, we’ll have nothing but chaos.”

  Jafra’s face shows a semblance of remorse. “Sorry.”

  Satisfied, Grak continues. “So, as I was saying—before that rude interruption—Lago’s treachery knows no bounds.

  “He started with an obvious attempt to kill us all by poisoning the meal. And now that he knows I’m watching for him, he can’t get close. That would force him to look for an alternative means of revenge. And I wouldn’t put it past him to try something like the lion attack.