Things Grak Hates Page 4

  Grak realizes this might be seen as a direct challenge. The number of onlookers has already doubled, and it continues to grow. Such a large crowd could just as easily be used against him if he’s not careful.

  He struggles to sound indignant. “Are you calling me a liar?”

  Frolan steps closer to Lago. “Yeah, are you calling Grak a liar? After all the man has done for the tribe? His new hunting strategy will change the way we live! He deserves respect, not accusations!”

  Every eye is now focused on Frolan’s disturbance. While Grak is happy about that, he’s also worried that this “hunting strategy” is getting far too much attention. He sets it aside under “important, but not urgent” for review at a later time.

  Lago’s emotions melt into a pitiful fear soup. “Liar? I … no … I didn’t mean that. I just didn’t remember. But now something … yes, yes, I think I remember it now. That’s wonderful! I mean … thank you, Grak!

  “And as it so happens, I was just getting herbs for you. I know how you don’t like the flavor of olives.

  “But I can put that aside. I can go make something to welcome home our hunters. Something to revive your energy?”

  Although Grak finds Lago’s groveling satisfying, Frolan may be unstoppable at this point. The brute presses even closer. “It’s too late for you. No one wants your cooking anymore. Grak is going to replace you. Immediately. You’re just fortunate he was kind enough to agree.”

  This new information doesn’t sit well with Lago. In fact, it even appears to be inciting something akin to anger in the man. “But I like cooking, and I do a good job, and …” Fear slips back in. “And what else would I do? I don’t know any other skill.”

  “I suggested you might join us on our hunts instead.” Jafra must have followed them.

  Always sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong, that one.

  Frolan is outraged with her suggestion. “No! That’s not an option. Our kills are heavy enough as it is; we don’t need to drag you around too. I don’t care what you do, but it won’t be hunting.”

  Jafra persists. “Well, then maybe you could do something else for the tribe. Surely you must have other abilities.”

  Grak finds her angle murky and suspicious. He opts to let it develop for the moment, but prepares to act should she try something.

  Lago, however, is unwilling to let it go any further. He’s growing more indignant by the moment. “No, I can’t do anything else! And why should I? I haven’t done anything wrong! I forgot something Grak told me. That’s it!”

  Several in the crowd voice quiet backing of the cook. Cordo—Grak was indifferent toward him—speaks up from their ranks. “Friends, this may have gotten out of hand. Let’s talk about it further. Lago’s done a fine job so far. Perhaps we should calm down for a mome—”

  “Calm down?” Frolan’s quick response pleases Grak. “I’m perfectly calm! And no! I refuse to discuss this any further! Lago hardly lifts a finger around here. The rest of us toil to provide for one another, and he complains at having to cook meat! Says he’d rather do something simpler!”

  The tribe rumbles in disdain. Lago’s mouth gapes at the accusation. His eyes are full of fear and disbelief.

  Frolan rides the momentum. “So why should we allow a man who speaks openly of hating the tribe prepare the very food we need to survive?”

  Several in the crowd grow more vocal in their disgust toward Lago. Comments of “fat pig” and something unidentifiable having to do with grease are among the loudest.

  This prompts Jafra to attempt a rescue. “Wait a moment. We haven’t even given Lago a chance to say anything in his defense. I’m sure we’ve blown this out of proportion.”

  All eyes turn to the sweaty cook. He gulps. “I … well … no … I …”

  Grak can’t risk losing support. He decides a killing shot is needed. “You also made me ill.”

  The crowd falls silent. Confusion dances on every face.

  Grak rolls his eyes. “You put something in my food last night to make me ill.”

  Sudden gasps show understanding. Even Jafra is taken aback. Murmurs of anger grow louder and voices shout several forms of “How could you?” Grak has never seen the tribe this upset.

  Frolan takes over. “I thought you looked ill on our hunt.”

  His eyes grow more intense with each breath. He turns to Lago. “Grak is a hero. And a better friend to the tribe than you’ve ever been. And you? You’re too lazy to do anything, so you chose cooking! And now you’re even too lazy for that!

  “What good are you to us? If you hate the tribe so much, why don’t you just leave? I think we’d all be happier.”

  A hopeful agreement erupts from the crowd, solidifying Frolan’s idea. “So go on! Get out of here! We don’t need you. And we don’t want you anymore either.”

  He pushes Lago toward the path. The man pauses in bewilderment. Full of sorrow, he looks around at his people, tears welling. Frolan shoves him again, much harder this time. The cook yields and stumbles toward camp.

  The tribe follows with shouts of encouragement as Frolan hustles the man along. Lago attempts to plead with them, but his words bumble out onto deaf ears. Grak can’t help but feel a shred of guilt.

  And yet, this is what Lago forced me to. He struck first. Besides, he was never there for the tribe. Only for himself.

  And I’m really not responsible. The others obviously hated him more than I ever did. That’s so true. Look at all the anger they were holding just below the surface.

  Very well then. Chin up, Grak. This is what the tribe wants.

  They arrive at Lago’s tent. The man's sobbing prevents any further pleas as he packs his few effects into a sack: a tattered, old, sad thing, much like himself.

  The crowd grows quieter. They’re softening from the display. Several sniffles are audible.

  Grak feels a twinge of pity too. He reconsiders his rationalization from a moment ago. After all, this isn’t what he was aiming for.

  And yet, to back out now might rob me of my purpose. Perhaps if I could somehow keep their anger while convincing them to let Lago stay.

  Grak strains for a way to do that. Nothing comes. Except a lump in his throat. He attempts to clear it. That only causes a short burst of coughs.

  Grak composes himself and glances around. Every eye is watching him, and they’re all dry now. The tribe turns back to stare at Lago. They’re angry again, reminded of Grak’s illness at the man’s hands. Angry at their trusted cook and his act of malice.

  But Lago can give them nothing else. Even his tears have run out. He shoulders his belongings along with their hatred, then looks around. With a heavy heart, he gives each of his people a silent and pitiful farewell.

  When the cook reaches Grak, he pauses. This look is something new, something Grak hasn’t seen before. There’s a touch of anger in the man’s brown eyes. But his graying eyebrows betray a sadness too. And not a simple one, but deep and complex. The tiny twitches in his facial muscles also tell of hurt. No, more than that. Betrayal. And it’s all aimed at Grak.

  Definitely not the goal I set out with … But the goal is achieved, nonetheless … A good day … I suppose.

  Lago looks to Frolan with a final, speechless request.

  The brute returns only a cold resolve. “Go,” he says.

  The tribe watches in silence as Lago climbs the path leading over the hill and down to the shore beyond. His back is slumped and his step is shaky. As he reaches the top, he stops for a last, remorseful look at his former people. Then, Lago turns and descends.

  In this somber moment, a realization hits Grak. Well, three to be exact. Realization of the need to be more precise in his schemes. Realization that the tribe takes some prodding, but quickly becomes unstoppable. And realization that he’s responsible for the tribe’s meals now, but lied about ever having cooked before. This last one consumes his thoughts as he walks to his tent.

  How does one turn an animal into food?

&
nbsp; 3 - And Apparently Cooking

  Grak never knew he hated cooking until yesterday when he prepared a meal for the first time. His decision was not made in haste, however. Numerous elements contributed to the sentiment.

  What he found most annoying was that the choice to cook was not his to make. At least, not in the strictest sense of the word “choice.” Or rather, not according to Grak’s definition of it. He felt the responsibility was forced on him. “No other option” was his analysis of the matter.

  And yet, despite this abuse, he approached the duty with a willing mind. After all, the process seemed simple enough at first glance:

  1 - Put food things in the pot

  2 - Start a fire

  3 - Serve

  But step one proved more challenging than it let on. Of course, as is usually the case in situations of this sort, the first two legs weren’t the problem. They folded easily enough into the pot. The last two, however, those were the real challenge.

  I wonder how Lago always did it. Ah, of course! The deer last night must have been larger than usual.

  Perhaps we just need a bigger pot, then. Yes, that’s it. Lago must have been using inferior tools. Would be just like him, wouldn’t it?

  Though, I don’t know why the fool couldn’t even mention it to me on his way out. Probably wanted me to have a difficult time. Just so he can rub it in if we ever meet again. ‘Not so easy, after all, is it, Grak? Not so fun, is it?’

  No. Far from it. In fact, around the time he began cutting into the ears, Grak realized this job wasn’t for him. More than that, he decided the task belonged on his list of hates.

  Grak is fairly certain this is the fastest anything has ever joined the list. Fairly certain, though not absolutely. He’s beginning to have trouble keeping track of all that the list holds. In fact, he often finds himself remembering only too late that he hates something.

  Perhaps I could write it down. Would take a great deal of stone, though. Hmm, yes. Too heavy during a move.

  Also, it’d be difficult to hide. Someone might see their name on it, and of course, they’d get offended. Then everyone would coddle the sensitive fool while ostracizing me. No, that won’t do.

  I suppose I could just write down the tasks I hate. After all, the people are easier to remember. Still, the weight of it. No, wouldn’t do.

  Grak uncrosses his legs and stretches them. The new thinking posture is good, but not great. It tends to cause a stiffness in his legs and a tingling numbness in his feet. Also, he only has two options for his back: hunched or straight. Either way, soreness always sets in before long.

  What other options are available? Of course!

  The answer is right in front of him. Grak steadies his chair, then timidly sits on it. He manages to keep from toppling over this time, and soon gets the wobbling under control.

  That’s a good deal better. Now I can think in comfort. Though what to do with my arms?

  Grak tries hanging them at his sides, but that feels awkward. It also throws off his balance, which takes longer to regain than previously. He tries folding his hands on his lap.

  I suppose that’ll do for now. Remember this posture, Grak. Remember this posture. Remember this posture.

  The memory trick undermines his balance again, but Grak recovers with ease. He congratulates himself for making such an improvement.

  And a better posture found at the same time. Excellent progress so far.

  Now, where was I? Oh yes. What to do about this whole cooking ordeal?

  Despite sincere effort, Grak is at a loss for ideas on that subject. But this comes as no surprise. He often finds his creativity stifled when dealing with disagreeable circumstances. And “the meal,” as it’s now being called, clearly falls into that category.

  Though I don’t see why everyone’s making such a fuss over it. Certainly wasn’t as repulsive as Lago’s cooking.

  His stomach turns in apparent disagreement. Grak tries to ignore the feeling. He isn’t ready to admit that the meal might be the cause of his current nausea.

  I imagine Lago’s poisoning the other night is still having an effect. That bears the real blame for my stomach’s condition.

  While far-fetched, this theory does bear a resemblance to reason. After all, Grak has yet to experience any of the more serious symptoms currently plaguing everyone else. Of course, he ate very little in comparison, but he considers that point moot.

  I’m sure I ate enough to become ill from it. If the food caused all this, I mean. Which it didn’t.

  By “ate enough,” Grak means three bites. At that point, the sound of vomiting had grown so loud that his appetite abandoned him. Then he had no choice but to pour his bowl back into the pot and retire to his tent.

  Of course, it never occurred to him that he might hear more of the matter. Indeed, Grak expected a peaceful night. And he likely would have achieved as much, if not for the occasional trips to relieve himself. But alas, each outing revealed worsening conditions and greater animosity coming his way.

  Still, Grak didn’t let that get him down. He just learned to use the cover of darkness, blending into shadows or getting lost among those who still had use of their legs.

  And it worked. For a time. But by his last excursion of the night, Grak was the only one not on the ground, writhing or unconscious. Thus, attention became unavoidable.

  That’s when those still able to speak began shouting to him from their sprawled positions. But only a few retained civility in their communications. The rest were just screaming crass accusations.

  Of all things! At me! As if I bore some responsibility in the matter!

  Nonetheless, Grak was in a forgiving mood, and opted not to scold them for their boorishness. Instead, he thought it better to mimic them in hopes of throwing off suspicion. To his disappointment, this proved unsuccessful. Still, at least it provided momentary freedom from their bitter allegations.

  Awful how people become so spiteful in such a hurry. Completely unfair too. After all, I’m new to this whole cooking thing.

  Grak shakes off this thought. It makes him feel like he’s accepting blame, and it’s become clear that even a hint of admission would invite trouble. After all, those who have regained consciousness are mad enough already. It’s doubtful they would exercise restraint if he confessed.

  Especially given some of the threats he’s received. Cordo’s, for example, sounded particularly gruesome. It involved a glowing hot blade and areas of the body that would be considerably more useful if left undisturbed.

  But, he might have just been in the dementia stage of his illness. Yes, probably didn’t even mean it. Though his wording choice was exceptionally robust. And it certainly seemed lucid. And yet, it was just before he entered the fever-screams stage. Yes, I’m sure I’m worrying for nothing.

  The other threats, however, came from individuals in clear control of their minds. They included acts of a more specific and achievable nature, which Grak found to be an even greater cause for concern. While none were as terrifying as Cordo’s pledge, their potential for realization made up for it.

  But, truth be told, Grak would prefer not to experience any retaliation if he can help it. Though this again brings him back to the pressing issue.

  What to do about this whole cooking ordeal? And why can’t I think of any ideas? Perhaps my approach is too vague. Yes, that’s it. So, what does the ordeal consist of?

  Surely, the immediate danger to my body is an important part. Also, I’d like to be free from having to cook again—very important, to be sure. And I’d like to eat well again … or uh … rather, eat better than my food or Lago’s bile.

  Of course, these points would all be resolved if I could trade duties with someone. Someone who possesses greater skill, that is.

  But I can’t just stop cooking. Might be seen as an admission of guilt. And I’d be deemed lethargic on top of it. No, can’t do that. I’d wind up in the same position as Lago. And some might even realize that I had a
small hand in his banishment.

  So how to do it without seeming lazy? And without getting blamed for the meal?

  Something tickles the inside of his cheek. Grak maneuvers his tongue into action, but the rogue object is lodged in his teeth. He reaches two fingers in and, with minor effort, pulls out a clump of matted fur and skin.

  Hmm, thought I had gotten it all.

  Grak has learned not to swallow these. Instead, he tosses it out the tent flap. After allowing a moment for the chair’s wobbling to subside, he summarizes his analysis of the problem.

  Cooking ordeal. Avoid blame. Get new cook. One that makes good food. And don’t end up like Lago in the process. Of course! The fat man is the solution!

  Grak stands and pulls a splinter from the back of his knee. Under normal circumstances, this might cause further introspection, but not now. He’s too giddy about his idea.

  I worked alone. The events are mine to reshape.

  He grabs a tunic and searches for his trousers.

  So how to get the word out?

  Grak rushes along the empty path, trying in vain to contain his excitement. He can’t remember the last time he felt this much enthusiasm for a plan, but there’s no doubt it’s deserved.

  In every aspect. Pure brilliance.

  So ingenious, in fact, that nothing seems capable of deterring his zeal right now. Even the otherwise chilling absence of people in normal daily routines. Even the odor of bodily fluids mingled with a delicate undertone of decaying flesh that now pervades the camp. Even the death tents. Well, almost.

  As he approaches that area, Grak once again feels the tug of intrigue. Slowing his pace, he stares in guilty curiosity at the invalids moaning in the dirt.

  Needless to say, Grak considers “death tents” a hasty and unnecessary term. First of all, only one was ever completed, as those working to erect them fell ill while doing so. Secondly, and more importantly, no one has actually died from the meal yet. In fact, quite a few of them can still move their heads a little.

  Grak shudders at the sight: their dull, milky gray eyes following his every move. Truth be told, they’re probably just drawn to any shape that distorts what little light they can still see. Nonetheless, he’s certain they recognize him.