Things Grak Hates Page 2

  Jafra’s eyes follow his movements. “Oh look, you made a chair! Not bad.”

  Fortune! She walked right into that one. Though she almost seems too excited.

  Grak is unsure whether to be suspicious. He decides against it for the time being, focusing instead on how pleased he is with the plan’s current success.

  “Oh, this? Well, thanks. It’s really not finished yet, but that’s nice of you.”

  Jafra grows confused. “Oh? What’s left to do?”

  There’s another angle he failed to foresee. “You know … just … chisel … level … wood …” Grak hopes that if he mumbles enough chair-crafting words, she’ll just nod and return to her day.

  Fortunately for him, Groka interrupts. “Yes, it’s very nice, Grak. Well done!”

  Jafra adds her mind. “Definitely better than your last one. Oh, what’s that gouge there?”

  Grak fervently looks for a way out. He never meant for this to become a lengthy conversation. “Oh, you know, makes the chair look aged … anyway, Jafra, have you seen Doran? I wanted to get his opinion on it.”

  “Yes, I have. He was heading down to the shore. The view’s lovely today. Even more than usual. I think you’d enjoy it.”

  Grak resents the woman assuming she knows what he’d enjoy. Though she did compliment his chair. He decides that earns her a crumb of courtesy.

  Not too much, of course. Can’t have her thinking everything’s better between us.

  “Well, I wouldn’t be so sure of that if I were you,” he replies.

  Jafra is confused once again, but says nothing more. Her furtive eyes seem to be searching for a way out, but finding none. Groka looks much the same.

  Though prettier, obviously.

  Finally, Grak musters up the courage to break the awkward silence. “Alright, I’d better go and find him. I’ll see you later, Groka!” He decides to give the other woman a little more courtesy. “And you too, Jafra.” Compliment or no, she’ll have to earn the cheer he uses when addressing Groka.

  Grak heads for the path that leads over the hill and down to the shore on the other side. He’ll have to abandon the plan for now. If he keeps asking around, Groka and Jafra might realize what he’s doing. And besides, all the questions they posed are making him rethink the brilliance of his strategy.

  Perhaps they’ll spread the word for me. Tell everyone how wonderful the chair is. Yes, I could see that happening. They seemed excited enough about it.

  That’ll have to do until he can come up with something else. Grak ponders alternative ideas as he walks. Much to his dismay, the thick, moist air is making both tasks more difficult than usual.

  Hmm, perhaps after I talk to Doran, I can head over to the hot springs. Yes, definitely in need of a dip. That should clear my head right up.

  Grak reaches the hill, and his pace slows. The slope seems steeper than before. And the chair seems bulkier than a moment ago. He begins to regret having made it so heavy.

  Grak sets his chair down with an exaggerated breath. No response. Too far away. He moves closer and repeats.

  Doran’s head turns, his face mimicking an abrupt waking. “Grak!” He relaxes. “Good day! I apologize. I didn’t hear you approaching.”

  Grak tries to hide his annoyance. “Apparently not,” he grumbles.

  “The sea has that effect on me. Mesmerizing, isn’t it?” Doran’s gaze follows his attention back toward the horizon. “How far do you suppose it stretches?”

  Grak is too annoyed to discuss the view at the moment. “Well, I didn’t mean to interrupt your reverie with my silly chair.”

  Doran’s focus returns. “Oh, of course. You’re right. I apologize for that too. Here, let’s see your latest work.” He bends over for a closer view. Not once have his eyes grazed the cap.

  Good man. Absent-minded at times, but a good man.

  “Yes, please do. I’m interested to know your opinion.” Surprised by his own sincerity, Grak reviews the statement in his mind.

  Hmm, I suppose I am. Well, he is a good man, after all.

  Doran squats down to inspect the chair’s seat. Grak finds his posture quaint, but suppresses a smile so as not to offend the man.

  After a long moment of careful examination, Doran stands with a look of wonderment. “I’m impressed, Grak. This is almost up to Groka’s standard.” He furrows his brow in confusion. “But tell me, why do you insist on perfecting your chair crafting? Some say we have too many as it is, moving around as often as we do.”

  Grak’s ears are still buzzing with the compliment. “Groka’s standard? You think?”

  “Oh yes, I thi—” Doran squints and bends over. “Oh, what’s this gouge here?”

  Grak is quicker this time. “And what of this seat? How does it compare to hers?”

  Doran tests it. “Hmm. Regretfully, not as good. Perhaps if it didn’t wobble so much. Hers usually have fewer splinters too.” He pulls one out of his thigh.

  “Fewer, you say?” Grak wonders if he can pass it off as intentional. “So you believe I should make it like every other chair? You think that would be an improvement?” He’s feeling a little offended now. “Who would want a chair like that?”

  Doran nods as he mulls it over. “Well, I suppose that’s one way to look at it. Though, I wonder if comfort is more important in this case.” He shrugs. “Either way, excellent crafting. Definitely your best yet.”

  Grak inspects his friend’s face for traces of evasion. While undoubtedly well-intended, it’s still important to be aware of.

  None … None!

  He scrambles to fill the silence before more problems can be identified. No need. Doran’s mouth hangs open, his eyes wide and distant.

  Grak follows his friend’s stare to the rippling water beyond the shore. “Wh … what are we looking at?” Part of Grak hopes the man might just be in awe of his quality woodwork.

  Doran’s focus returns, dashing Grak’s optimism. “Did you see that? What was it?”

  Grak rolls his eyes. “Again with the sea, Doran? It’s water. We drink it. Well, not saltwater … but you know what I mean. Anyway, it’s not very interesting.”

  That last bit wasn’t true, but Grak doesn’t care. He’s too upset right now. And hurt, if he’s being honest. But mostly upset.

  “No, it wasn’t just the ocean! How did you not see the thing? It rose up as tall as the sky! Way out in the distance. And it splashed back down with such force!”

  Grak’s keen empathy catches a whiff of frustration in his friend, which he considers more than a little unfair. “Well, I was kind of looking this way at the time. Toward you. So, I didn’t turn my head until you said something. But I will point out that I’m the only one who seems committed to our conversation right now.”

  “Grak, man! Are you listening to me? I saw something out there! At sea … on the horizon! Something incredible … and terrible!”

  Grak sighs and looks again. Nothing but waves. And one sad cloud. And a seagull. Grak hates seagulls; he hates anything loud and bossy.

  “Well, it’s gone now, Doran. Whatever this thing was. Though I can’t imagine it being worth the fuss you’re making.”

  “Can’t … not worth the fuss?”

  Yes, definitely frustration. Best to try a new approach. “Well, do you think it’s dangerous? This …” Grak attempts an awkward hand gesture, but nothing relevant emerges. “This thing … you saw?”

  “I … I can’t say. How would I know? Maybe? Maybe not. Either way, it’s fascinating. And important! I have to tell the tribe!” Doran races off along the path back to camp.

  Grak isn’t sure how to categorize his friend’s reaction to the chair. On the one hand, he approved of it, but on the other hand, he clearly wasn’t in awe. Grak ponders the matter for a moment longer before settling on “positive.” He smiles.

  All in all, a good day so far.

  “No … please … look …” Doran sighs in frustration.

  Grak sympathizes with his friend’s a
nnoyance now that it’s channeled at the surrounding crowd. And quite a large crowd at that. Grak was shocked to see such a gathering on his return from the hot springs. And even more surprised to learn what they were gawking at.

  Doran takes a deep breath and tries once more. “Please, listen carefully. I’ll attempt to explain it again, but as I do, please keep in mind that I have seen waves. I am aware of their usual shape and potential sizes. This was not a wave.”

  While Grak initially found it amusing to watch the tribe getting so confused, that enjoyment is already waning. His hunger is demanding too much attention now. Which reminds him. The sun is already setting. He should get going.

  Grak slips out of the crowd and heads for his tent. If he acts now, while most of the tribe is distracted, he won’t have to wait in line.

  Through extensive testing, he’s found that food has a far greater tendency toward flavor when warm. Unfortunately, everyone else seems to have discovered this too.

  Thus, since the serving pot gets fired up once more just before dusk, this proves an especially busy time on most nights. But not this night. No, this is Grak’s opportunity to eat a truly hot meal. He allows himself a chuckle.

  Fools.

  Grak enters his tent and squints through fading light. The dish hasn’t moved. He grabs it and sets a quick pace toward the cook site, sniffing the bowl as he walks.

  Should be good for another day. Maybe even two if I’m fortunate.

  Grak arrives at his destination. He was correct: no lines. And the stew looks as appetizing as it smells. He serves himself.

  A successful chair, a dip in the hot springs, and now a hearty meal with no wait: a very good day indeed! If I can manage to keep this goin—

  Grak gulps and stares at his food. A smooth, black lump just surfaced. He may have been premature in his excitement.

  He plucks out the olive and tosses it to the ground, sucking his fingers to cool the burn. But the stirring surfaced another lump. And another. And … He moves the bowl closer to the fire for better light.

  Chunks too! And finely chopped! Meant as a personal insult, I’m sure. I knew he was offended yesterday. No matter what he said to the contrary. Foolishly offended. And unfairly!

  Grak sips at the meal with a heavy heart, attempting to filter the proper from the wretched. His teeth squish a flavor he knows too well … and again … and again … Grak sighs.

  No hope for this meal.

  And again … and again …

  He makes his way toward Doran’s gathering.

  And again … and again … He resigns himself to swallowing each sip as quickly as his valiant stomach can manage.

  Grak reaches the crowd’s perimeter and scans the faces for his foe.

  Doran rambles on in the background. “No. Much bigger than that.”

  Grak spots the cook. Lago is standing nine feet or so to the left, scratching his generous stomach absentmindedly. The man’s attention is split between Doran’s words and his own conversation with Jafra.

  What is this deviousness? Was she a part of this? Did they plan it together … out of their mutual resentment toward me? Would she do that to me? After everything she’s already put me through?

  While that much is unclear right now, Lago’s culpability is obvious enough for the moment. Grak reaches deep and channels the sum hatred of his existence at the man.

  But it doesn’t last long. Jafra spots him and waves. This alerts Lago, who turns to follow her gaze. Upon recognizing Grak, the man raises his cap with a slight nod and a broad smile.

  The audacity! Rubbing it in, is he?

  Grak grits his teeth, appearing controlled only in his mind.

  Vengeance will require something particularly inventive.

  Doran’s excitement is on the rise. “Here, follow me to the cliff face, and I’ll draw it for you.”

  The crowd obeys without fuss, accompanying him to the rock wall on the edge of camp. Grak joins them, but only to keep an eye on Lago.

  So, how to get my vengeance? It has to hurt. Deeply. What does he love? A shame he never had any children of his own …

  Grak quickly shakes that one off. Not even in his current state.

  He loves cooking! Of course he does. He never has to lift a finger on hunts. Just sits back, filling his belt while we do the hard work!

  As Doran finishes the drawing, a question is shouted out. He looks at the torch-lit wall in confusion. “Well, sort of. But it’s not.”

  Perhaps I could replace Lago as cook. That would have a just sting to it!

  Doran rubs his brow in frustration. “Well, because I know what a crab looks like, and this wasn’t a crab!”

  But the tribe loves Lago. No one would just stop eating his food in favor of mine.

  Doran holds his hands up in appeasement. “Alright, look … I admit the drawing is lacking …”

  Perhaps if I can rile the tribe against him. Get them to hate Lago with me. But how, without revealing my intent? The idea can’t come from me. They’d catch on. They might not be sharp, but they’re smart enough. Is it even possible?

  Grak surveys his clansmen. A nearby woman shouts above the other voices. “I believe you! I’d like to see it! Will you show us tomorrow? At first light?”

  It’s one of the Olives: Olive Thirteen, if Grak’s not mistaken. Of all the names on his list of the daft, hers is near the top. He feels that she too often dribbles words out of her mouth with no thought for sense.

  Certainly true here. Too eager to follow—that’s her problem.

  An idea hits. Grak looks around once more.

  They all are, aren’t they? Indeed. Abundantly eager. Given proper motivation, of course …

  2 - And Lago

  To say that Grak hates Lago would be an understatement. It’s not a greater loathing than what he feels for olives, of course, but close. And, to no surprise, this disdain stems from a longstanding disagreement on the fruit.

  What Grak has always asserted is that olives should be avoided in meals. At the least, he reasons, they should be served on the side for those in camp who choose to forgo them.

  Lago, on the other hand, has always held the opinion that he doesn’t care about Grak’s opinion. Or at least, that’s Grak’s understanding of the cook’s feelings. He often finds it difficult to interpret the man’s meaning.

  Yet throughout their regular disagreements, the conversation has always been tame. Matters have never escalated into anything more than a mild argument. That is, until several nights ago.

  That evening, after serving himself and finding olives once again, Grak approached the cook. While he feels his own demeanor during their subsequent discourse was calm and rational, he can’t say the same for Lago. The man’s response was bitter and frigid. Some vague reasoning having to do with “not enough food” and “everyone else likes olives.”

  Of course, Grak felt forced by the man’s provocation, and had no choice but to escalate the matter by presenting a new solution. He suggested that Lago should consider suddenly ceasing to live.

  His proposal reasoned that this would be more beneficial to the tribe than any alternative. Fewer olives, to be sure, plus none need be offended any longer at the sight of such greasy neck rolls.

  Grak also pointed out the added benefit of losing the man’s pungent odor. He estimated it would improve the camp’s smell by nine times or more. “Clearly the superior choice,” he summarized.

  But to Grak’s annoyance, Lago was not only unwilling to try the proposition, he also appeared unbothered by it. Still, Grak wasn’t fooled: it must have had an effect. From that point on, he began watching for the impending retaliation.

  But Lago’s reprisal last night was far more blatant than expected. The cook managed to work a record number of olives into every part of the stew. Worse yet, many were diced so small, they proved nearly impossible to remove.

  And Grak is certain that’s the cause behind his growing illness this morning. It seems reasonable to him that hi
s body was simply disgusted at having to eat the vile berries. So repulsed, in fact, that it’s now fighting him in an effort to prevent repetition of the heinous act.

  At least that’s the gist of it. He’s still working on the details. Primarily how the pieces being so small might have contributed.

  Size definitely had a hand in it. Just have to deter—

  Grak sneezes. That was the most violent one yet. His arm is even tingling from it. He takes a moment to recover.

  All this sneezing is getting annoying. He’s certain that’s his least favorite part of this sudden illness. That and the rampant coughing.

  Though far more horrible than either is the way in which his sense for strategic scheming is so dulled at the moment. Just yesterday he pulled off an exquisite plan involving a chair. But today … well, nothing really. That is to say, plenty of scheming but nothing strategic.

  His best idea yet involved a fish and Lago’s bed roll. Something to do with worsening the man’s stench, though details are hazy due to Grak’s current state of minor delirium. And while it may seem like a mediocre plan, the other schemes were far worse. “My good idea,” he calls it, though with understandable hesitation.

  But, despite the sickness and its accompanying miseries, the morning isn’t all bad. Grak is glad for the rain at least. Not only is it cooling the air, but the sensation as it dances on his face is comforting.

  Grak removes his cap to give his hair a greater drink. His heart yearns to stop and sit for a while. To ponder the rain and nothing else.

  This has always been one of his favorite pastimes. As a child, Grak would spend whole days with almost no activity aside from watching the drops fall. He finds it a shame there’s so little time for simple pleasures these days. Too busy honing his crafts and all.

  Grak’s thirst beckons to him from a nearby puddle: the one with a particularly refreshing look just ahead and to the left. He walks over to it and squats down for a sip, but the sudden appearance of his face causes him to stop short.

  The reflection reveals that his beard has taken a wild turn since he last noticed. So wild, in fact, that Grak is finding it difficult to spot any two hairs growing in the same direction. He leans in.