Things Grak Hates Page 14

  Grak looks to the others, hoping someone paid attention. Nothing. Only empty stares and timid shoulder shrugs.

  “Does anyone know any signals?” He’s almost pleading now.

  Frolan perks up. “There’s the one where you point at your ear.” He tends to be the most attentive during classes, though that isn’t saying much. “Was that the signal to listen?” It really only serves to show how poorly the rest of the group focuses.

  “No!” Grak takes a calming breath. “There’s no signal to listen. That should be natural to you by now! What else would you be doing while hunting?”

  He clenches his fists in frustration. “I give up! You see? This is why we can’t have nice hunting strategies!”

  Grak takes another breath. While he finds his anger understandable, he’s worried that getting too riled will give away their location.

  After another moment, he proceeds in a calmer tone. “Alright, I’ll go over it one more time. Please pay attention. The signal to attack is if I clap.”

  Cordo looks confused. “But wait a moment.” He’s always had a nice whisper: clear, crisp, and quiet. “How will we know if you’re telling us to attack or if you’re just applauding something?”

  Grak is amazed by the question. “Why would I start applauding in the middle of a hunt?”

  “You started chuckling for no reason just a bit earlier.” Sabo brings up a decent point. As much as Grak hates to admit it.

  “Also, what if you only have one hand free?” asks Cordo.

  Grak rubs his brow in frustration, desperate to find a resolution before the strangers arrive. “Alright, fine. Attack will be … if I start snapping my fingers. You can’t possibly confuse that. Everyone got it?” This time the nods seem genuine.

  “Should I rise first?” asks Frolan. “To draw their aim? If they attack us, I think it’s better if their arrows are pointed at me rather than at you.”

  “Whose arrows?” comes a strong, throaty voice.

  Grak reels about, prepared for the worst. But the newcomers only appear confused. And none have weapons drawn. Plus, the strangers are outnumbered fourteen to eight. Quickly taking all of that into consideration, Grak opts to restrain himself for the moment.

  Still, best to keep a watchful eye. These people are far too silent in their movements. Could be surrounding us as we speak.

  “Oh my, there are quite a few of you crouching down there. And you all have pointed hats,” says the voice, now connected to a man with blond hair and a harsh, thick face. Harsh except for the man’s eyelashes, that is. Those are long and delicate, contrasting sharply with his other features.

  Like a woman’s lashes. Still, a striking effect. Almost enviable.

  The remainder of the group looks much the same. Minus the luxurious eyelashes, of course. And they’re dirtier than Grak’s people, though he can’t tell if that’s grounds for suspicion. Nonetheless, he feels more comfortable taking his “suspicion is the best policy” approach.

  The stranger appears confused at the lack of a response, but quickly forgets in favor of a new focus. “Those are nice. Your hats, I mean.” He adopts a look of confusion. “Um … might I ask … what are you all doing? Crouching down like that, I mean.”

  Grak stands cautiously. “We were hunting. Hunting our herd.” He motions for the rest of his team to rise. “Might I ask what you’re doing following our herd? And what you’re doing so close to our campsite?”

  “Oh, was that your herd? I apologize. I thought it wa—”

  “Kunthar!” interrupts a woman with a wide, flat nose. “Where are your manners?” She turns to Grak. “Please forgive him, friend. He can be forgetful. I am called Dernue.” The broad-nosed woman gives Grak a crushing hug.

  Kunthar wears obvious annoyance. “Yes, Dernue, I was getting to that. If you had just let me finish, you would have known.” He moves in to embrace Frolan. “I am pleased to meet you, friend.”

  Frolan forgets his training and returns the embrace. “And the same to you! Wow, we haven’t met another tribe in … well, in a very long time. I can’t even remember how long it’s been. Can you remember, Grak?”

  Grak puts on the most annoyed face he can muster. “No, I can’t.” He increases the disdain in his voice. “A long time, indeed.”

  It’s too late now. The flood can’t be stopped. Each stranger approaches, announces his or her name, and gives a strong hug.

  But Grak isn’t fooled. He finds their close mannerisms suspect. Also, the way they avoided his question leaves something to wonder about. Though posing it again should clarify the matter. “So … Kunthar … you were saying? About our herd?”

  The man responds with exuberance. “Oh, yes. Your herd. Again, I apologize. Things have been rather off lately.

  “Some days ago, our own herd changed their usual travels while heading south. Then they just stopped and waited around Redhand for days on end. As though afraid to cross the trail. We almost set up camp there, but then they set off again. Entirely new path. Not sure what’s gotten into them.

  “But these ones, we thought they were from our herd. Just more of their strange behavior. Didn’t realize they belonged to another tribe in the area. Our apologies once again.”

  Grak finds the stranger’s groveling nature endearing. Still, he steps back in hopes of avoiding the spit being propelled by the man’s powerful inflections.

  After a moment of consideration, Grak decides to avoid conflict at this time. “Well, I suppose it’s not a problem if you didn’t kill any.” He realizes something. “Although, are you the reason for that stampede that wounded some of my team and nearly killed me?”

  “Oh my, I’m afraid we are. We were trying to make a kill—a real beauty of a male—and he got wind of us. He took off running back to the others and got the whole group spooked.

  “They tried to run west, but there were spikes in the ground … so many spikes … and many with deer heads on them. Very strange.”

  Grak feigns ignorance.

  “That spooked them even more, so they turned east. But then they ran into this whole series of ropes. You wouldn’t believe how extensive it was. They couldn’t get through. So they headed north. And into you, it turns out. We’re so sorry for any trouble caused. I hope the injuries weren’t serious.”

  While pleased at the effectiveness of his traps, Grak refuses to drop suspicion toward these people. “So how do we know you were actually hunting?”

  Kunthar looks around at his tribe. All are lost for answers. Dernue even sets down her deer while she thinks. But no ideas appear forthcoming.

  After another moment of this, Grak finally takes pity on them. “Your kills would be a good way to prove it.”

  Kunthar gets excited. “Oh, good point.” He grows confused again. “But wait, if you knew that, then why did you ask?” His eyelashes flutter wildly as he blinks in confusion.

  Grak is unsure how to answer that, but settles on simplicity. “I just wanted to see if you knew.”

  Kunthar smiles. “Oh, I see. That makes sense.” He shrugs. “I suppose.”

  Grak presses on, eager to resolve his remaining suspicions. “I’m curious about something, Kunthar. Like Frolan mentioned, we haven’t seen strangers in a long time. And yet, you weren’t surprised to meet us. In fact, you almost seemed to be expecting us. Why is that? How did you know we’d be here?”

  Kunthar shakes his head. “Oh no, we weren’t expecting you. But we did see one of your people several days ago. Called out to him, and he got real skittish and ducked out of sight. Pretty sure we saw him running away a few moments later. So we assumed we’d bump into the rest of your tribe before long.”

  Grak feels the need to refute that. “No. Wouldn’t have been us. Our people never run. Maybe you saw a deer. Deer run. Or maybe a bear.” This brings his earlier thought to mind, and he fights the oncoming grin.

  Dernue cuts in. “No, it was a human. Had clothes and everything.” She thinks for a moment. “But his hat wasn’t poin
ted like yours. Thin fellow. Older too.”

  “Ah, there you go. All our people have pointed caps. Couldn’t have been one of us. Must have been one of yours, then.”

  In truth, Grak is pretty sure they’re describing Sando. Though why the man would change his hat and go for a stroll is baffling.

  Might be losing his wits. Well, no matter. The cause is moot. The old fool’s in for a scolding tonight. Both for not informing me of these events and for making the tribe look feeble by running like a coward.

  Fortunately, Kunthar accepts Grak’s answer. “That’s possible. I suppose. Don’t know why we wouldn’t have recognized him. Or why he wouldn’t have recognized us. But maybe.”

  Grak is getting uncomfortable with this subject. And with these people. “Hmm. Well, who can know. Anyway, if you don’t mind, we really must get back to our hunting. I hope you find good fortune with your own.” He tries to casually look from them to the tree line as a suggestion that it’s time to part ways.

  But Kunthar doesn’t get it. “Oh we have! Great fortune, in fact. Some in the tribe even think we have too much meat right now.” He slyly motions to Dernue. “They think we won’t be able to use it all before it spoils. Or before we have to move again.”

  Dernue cuts in. “Hey, there’s an idea. Would your people like to come for a feast? We’re camped not far from here.”

  Grak is wary of that offer. The strangers are still far too suspicious for his liking.

  And yet, the tribe’s hungry. And irrational. I could see them getting upset at me for rejecting this offer. Although … if there’s a reason beyond my control, then they can’t blame me.

  Grak thinks quickly. “Ah, well, I believe we have something else planned for tonight. We’re pretty busy much of the time. Usually need several days’ notice to adjust for something as time-consuming as a feast.”

  Frolan shakes his head eagerly. “Oh, no, there’s nothing planned. Not for the tribe at least. You had me schedule a foot rub, but that shouldn’t take long. We could easily attend the feast.”

  Grak leans in to the brute and whispers a reply, once again oblivious to his limits with that skill. “I cleared my schedule for the purpose of relaxing! And this feast won’t be a relaxing event. I’ll thank you not to volunteer me for such idiocy in the future!”

  Grak dons a pleasant facade and turns back to the strangers. “Actually, I just remembered something else. We’re quite low on meat at the moment. Dangerously low, in fact. Certainly can’t spare anything for a feast right now. So we’ll have to decline. I hope you understand.”

  Dernue waves dismissively. “Oh, don’t worry! Like I said, we have plenty. We can provide enough meat for both tribes. Would your people be able to bring fruits? Perhaps some olives? Those are always a treat.”

  Frolan leans in and whispers, “Brak says we’ll need our olives if we’re to survive the winter.”

  Grak nods to the brute, then turns back to the strangers. “No, sorry. None of those either. It’s a shame, though. That would have been great. Maybe next feast.”

  “Oh, well don’t let that stop you from joining us.” Dernue seems overly eager. “We can provide olives too.”

  Grak is out of ideas. “Oh, so good … I’m glad this is all working out … Nothing’s stopping it … Good …”

  Kunthar grins. “Wonderful! Then we’ll see you at dusk. Well then, if you’ll excuse us. We need to go prepare.”

  With that, he gives quick directions for finding their camp, and the strangers head back toward the tree line.

  Once Grak is certain they’re out of earshot, he checks his shadow. “Not enough time left if we’re to gather the tribe for a feast. I suppose that’s the end of our lessons for the day.”

  At least the strangers are helping me get out of that. Which gives me a chance to think up more strategies. Or excuses. Whichever comes to mind first, I suppose.

  Grak claps his hands together. “Alright, let’s be off then.” He turns to Jafra and gestures toward the deer. “Well?”

  She silently picks it up, and the team starts for home.

  “That was pleasant,” says Frolan.

  Grak shrugs. “I’m not so sure. I still wonder if they were actually hunting.”

  Frolan grows confused. “What? What do you mean?”

  “Just think. They were a bit too slow to respond when I asked about it. And really, we don’t know where they got their kills. What if they keep a supply of animal corpses on hand for deceiving unsuspecting strangers?

  “Might have been after our supplies, for all we know. They were awfully quick to invite us back for a ‘feast,’ after all. It’s possible they just go around tricking other tribes like that. Then they invite them to a meal and kill them.”

  Frolan’s face shows astonishment. “Wow, that’s a pretty smart trick.”

  Grak shrugs. “Sure, I suppose. But it takes a smarter mind to see through it.”

  “Well, good thing we have you, Grak.” Frolan suddenly grows confused again. “So, how do you suppose they keep the dead animals looking like fresh kills?”

  Grak thinks on that one for a moment. “I don’t know. Perhaps the trick is so elaborate that they make fresh kills before beginning the day’s treachery.”

  “Oh.” Frolan ponders the answer. “So then why wouldn’t they just live off of those kills? They wouldn’t need to take our supplies.”

  Grak hadn’t considered that aspect. “Good. You’re starting to think for yourself. That was a test. You’re learning.

  “And you’re right. It would make more sense that they’re telling the truth.” Grak thinks on it further. “But we should still be careful. Just in case. We should go to the feast armed.”

  9 - And Strangers

  Grak has never trusted strangers. Or liked them. But before today, he was content with only having encountered them on six occasions in his life. Well, according to his public count, that is.

  When going by his private tally, the number jumps to six and a half, reflecting the time he saw people in the distance, but never met them. “Wouldn’t be accurate to consider it a full meeting,” was his conclusion on the matter.

  And while each situation bore a unique flavor, they routinely inspired in Grak a deep enmity toward all outsiders. Even the partial encounter left him outraged that anyone could be so rude as to shun him and his people. And true to form, today’s experiences show little promise of achieving a more favorable result.

  “This way.” Frolan leads the group down into a sparsely treed dell.

  Grak and Doran follow close behind while the security team maintains a protective circle around the pair.

  “So, as you can see, by this map … no …” Doran shuffles his stack of clay tablets. “Ah, here it is. By this map theory, our southernmost campsite wouldn’t be far from the ocean.”

  “I see.” Grak nods in an effort to appear attentive.

  Truth be told, he rarely takes interest in Doran’s ramblings these days. Nonetheless, he still tries to at least mimic the actions of one listening. By Grak’s estimation, this is a necessary sacrifice for the man’s ongoing support. And in turn, for the support of Doran’s devoted followers.

  Indeed, Grak finds the group’s unquestioning loyalty to be quite useful. And their unbridled enthusiasm is even more advantageous. In fact, they consistently prove themselves irreplaceable when he needs a crucial policy implemented.

  Of course, the security team’s powers of persuasion are equally effective at such times. Perhaps even more so. But Grak finds it beneficial to transition between fear and popular endorsement to achieve his goals. “More sustainable over the long term,” he reasons.

  Grak attempts to stifle a yawn, but fails. Drowsiness seems to be sneaking up on him more often these days.

  Doran grows concerned. “Is everything alright, friend?” He looks at his maps. “I must be boring you. I apologize. I get too carried away sometimes.”

  Grak had hoped to avoid offending the man, but a littl
e honesty can’t hurt. “Well, no. I wouldn’t say you’re boring me. It’s just … well, you’ve grown so distant. We used to be friends.”

  “We still are. Aren’t we?” Doran responds hastily.

  Grak doesn’t know how to answer that. “I suppose.” No, that might be interpreted negatively. “I mean, I want us to be. And I think of you as a friend.” Relationship salvaged. “But you only ever talk about that thing you saw … and the ocean … and now your map theories. You’re different.”

  Doran ponders those words for a long moment. “Perhaps I am different. And perhaps I do talk too much these days. I apologize, friend. I never wanted it to harm our friendship. I just find the topic so … exhilarating. And I want to share that with you.

  “I mean, what do we ever have in the tribe that’s worth exploring so deeply? And if this all means what we think it means … well, it could mean so much more. Imagine what else is out there.”

  Grak is confused now, but considers it less than prudent to admit as much. “Hmm, I see,” he says, then withdraws into thought, determined to figure out what the man meant.

  But his moment of reflection is short-lived, brought to an end by Frolan’s sudden raised hand signaling a halt. Everyone in the immediate area comes to an abrupt stop, setting off a series of hushes louder than the voices they seek to quiet. This is followed by sounds of repeated bumping and occasional surprise. Finally, after several long moments of this, the tribe manages to cease all noise and motion.

  Clearly, they need that lesson again. And probably several whippings. Just to ensure the point is understood this time.

  Frolan beckons for Grak, then motions for his team to ready their bows. The immediacy with which they carry out the order is impressive.

  Grak tiptoes to the front, staying squarely behind Frolan’s large frame for safety. He peers over the brute’s shoulder at the strangers’ encampment just ahead in the next clearing.

  After a thorough search, however, Grak can’t spot anything out of the ordinary. Mostly just deer skin tents, simple wooden carts, and crooked mud paths. And, of course, people meandering about on their evening routines. No different from his own camp in most respects.