Chapter 13: The Return of Kreen
"Cowabunga!" screams Kim and John's son.
Greg grabs a wide plank and nimbly gallivants past grazing Glump. Grandstanding for his girl Tana, he goes like get-out along the great gradient.
Engrossed Tana grouses, "Greg, stop! You'll get hurt!" Sometimes, girls have greater common sense than gosling ganders.
Father John gyres around, and he grabs for galloping Greg. But, the jovial juvenile jukes, and he journeys on toward jeopardy. The steep slope aids Greg's foot speed, and the bounding boy grins. Ahead, Gorak's eyes go wide and his mouth agape. He gestures for others on the work gang to check the charging child. On the left, Orlo (E15) only gawks and gives no assistance. To the right, Trow (E9) throws gear aside and greyhounds for Greg. But, the "grid iron" to cover is too wide. Likewise, tribesman Tibor (E4) guns for Butler, but gains insufficient ground. Apparently, you can stop neither the gingerbread man nor Greg Butler. Finally, only Yayuk yet stands between the fool and his goal. The galoot outstretches his arms. However, the nimble numbskull evades the whole gauntlet of guardians. A gleam in his eye, Greg greatens his gait. Like a grasshopper, Greg leaps gracefully up.
For one second, the scamp suspends in air. Greg grabs the plank beneath him like a skateboard. The show-off scans the treacherous slope onto which he has launched. Thirty-seven rollers—tree trunks of equal girth—garb the gulch incline. From prehistory to the present, primitive people sometimes produce a non-powered conveyer belt called a rollers and sledge system. First, they harvest trees of similar size. Then, they lay the trunks in a long row like a road with each unit abutting. These are the rollers of the system. A person can propel a package or other weight downward at great speed over the rollers. They spin like the cylinders that they are and have much less resistance than, say, hillside ground. A person can also easily haul a heavy load up the rollers, for their friction is less than the rough earth. Upon this "slippery slope", one can set a sledge—also called a sled or sleigh—to convey freight in a contained way.
The above paragraph is the engineering science lesson that John Butler might give you, were he not a construct himself. Mr. Butler has supped-up an existing roller system that the tribe already knows (E8). His advanced set-up sends supplies down to a barge bobbing in a flooded gorge. The flooded channel conveys supplies to a different spot on the map. There, other rollers and another sledge take the haul overland.
The rollers and sledge system before Greg is an egregious temptation to a ten-to-twelve-year-old goaded by ego to impress his "girlfriend" and gripped by adventurous ague to show true grit. Besides, a guy's gotta have a little fun like the surfers at Laguna Beach. Greg beheld them once and wanted to imitate. With Greek hubris, he alights like an agile grimalkin. He glosses the thirty-yard drop. Surely, the solid sledge at the bottom will stop him from spilling into the raging river below.
With great gumption, Greg cruises the log rollers, glorious as Icarus, son of Daedalus, his dad. As Icarus, the elementary intellectual glides free through the air and glamorously stretches his wings, a glib disregard guiding him. As Icarus, he gladly escapes Crete (or the Valley) for one golden moment under the glaring sun. Greg feels giddy riding his gig. He feels gratified to be, in his mind, gone of the Valley. His grandiose gambol and gamble have paid gorgeously.
And, like with Icarus, gravity grabs Greg. It gifts his speed and aggrandizes his acceleration (earthward). The young gent jets like greased lightning over glaze ice. He goes like the proverbial bat. Granted, his acceleration remains constant, but his speed grows grievously. Thus, in his gut and globe, Greg begins to glom that this won't be a bonny, gradual descent, for aggregated force now governs him.
"Good grief!" blurts the boy Butler, "I'm a goner!"
Indeed, this gambit is not a game. Greg goes like a grand piano in some gag show. This l.l. pitcher's eventual "grand slam" could emulate Grand Guignol. Gulping, the goofy kid gets the gravitas of the situation, and a grain of sense germinates into growing pains. Gaffe apparent, Greg cogently gauges that things could get ugly and that his genealogy could end with his gravestone. Or, he may not die. But, the incautious athlete does imagine the agony of defeat, from a '70s sports show, and the gratuitous pain promised thereof. Germanely, Greg guesses that one had better negotiate his dilemma.
Gabbling Greg grabbles thin air. But gosh, there is nothing to grasp! He glances aside and glimpses the Three Giants granite. He could leap. Where is Gleep the Herculoid when you need him? Maybe, God willing, Greg can gracefully glissade off the board and go into a roll. There is no guarantee of success. However, his dad did the like in the Navy, and his father once explained the physics.
The ungiving ground greets Greg hard! He clownishly crashes like the Great Grape Ape, and that cartoon does not premiere for four months. Greg may have a concussion. And a hurt hide. The granulose earth grates his sweater. Gravel gravely grinds the skidding kid to a halt. Then, his limbs generate no motion.
"Greg!" John grasps his gray mane.
No geezer, the good dad dashes down the slope. John jumps down the shoot like the side of a Giza pyramid, were it ungraduated. His greater kilograms also clip along. However, John has judiciously removed his belt. Not to whup his unruly kid. But rather, the looped girdle, like a garotte, grabs the track at injured Greg's precise location. The godsend springs to his son's side. Behind Mr. Butler, the other guys follow goat-footed.
Papa Goat Gruff imperturbably gazes upon and grades the grim scene. He sees no gray matter oozing like gruel, so that is good. Likewise, only limited gore garnishes the grass around Greg's head. Blood is not gushing, so that's agreeable. Furthermore, Greg's neck is not gruesomely goosenecked, and all his gristle seems in-place. His features have not grown grotesque, indicative of skull fracture. And, he is not green around the gills as though his breakfast grist would asphyxiate him. So, be not glum. The gross anatomy looks fair for this consistently errant offspring.
Still, Greg lies still. His face grimaces. Genuinely concerned, John genuflects beside his son. Gentle hands gradually heft the boy upright. Ideally, there would be a neck brace in place on Greg, but John Butler has not built one yet, here, in the Valley of the Dinosaurs. So, the dad relies upon his unwavering hands.
Dad grumbles, "Goodness, I am goldarn grateful that you didn't bust your gourd, son. You only have a gigantic gouge, and you are certainly knocked ga-ga."
Also, Greg's back resembles a grill under gnarled sweater. A grid of embedded grit and grime shows in skin glowing and greasy with abrasion. Guaranteed, Greg will gripe, just a little, when guardians scrub the dirty scrapes to prevent gangrene.
John shakes his jaw and judges his patient. What he wouldn't do right now for a Gladstone bag containing gauze, surgical glue, and antibacterial gel. However, the Butler first aid gear (E13) is used up. It is garbage at this point. Instead, the Valley offers a gris-gris and some gramarye, if that does anything for you. Kim has concocted some graham crackers and gin. And, Gara can gather galenical ingredients—garlic, ginger, gewgaws, and probably guano—for her elixir glubos (E6). John just shakes his head. Guided by modern medicine, he starts making an Arabian agal band to bind a bandage to his child's hemorrhaging head.
All of a sudden, Greg awakens. He grunts. Gnashing his teeth, he grimaces hard. Shaky fingers grope his head and get glossed with blood. He gobs in some sort of disgust. Then, glassy eyes with googly pupils look at Dad.
"I crashed like Super Grover," Greg groggily gabs, "But, I ain't learning no lesson from it. And, I ain't learning no proper grammar neither."
"Okay, Oscar the Grouch," John jokes, a jot relieved.
"I don't know who that is," Greg rejoins.
"He is like Grelber from the Broom-Hilda comic strip," John educates, "except he is in a trash can instead of a hollow log."
The concerned parent continues assessing his child. Greg may have a grand mal seizure yet. With a brain injury, there are a lot of things that may or may not happen. Inside, John experiences anguish. Outside, he stays steady as Gaia's granite.
Along the escarpment, Gorak conducts his quartet of cavemen. The Valley VIP converses, "Agog Greg moves glacially and goonishly like Goko the Big Gopher."
"Actually, Goko is a different great granivore: a giant sloth," John grandiloquently admonishes.
"Either way, Greg's banged his gong. Get this on. He's banged his gong," Gorak offers a grass cloth, a "loosely woven fabric made with grass or vegetable fibers" (per the American Heritage Dictionary).
The modern medic wrests the reed weave from Gorak while Orlo offers his agal as though he can read minds. Trow thoughtfully throws coagulant gossamer into the grass cloth. Against grisly boo-boo, the basic bandage grafts. Gangly Yayuk lopes uphill toward Tana and Glump. Truly Gara's girl, Tana titanically takes things in hand. The "tyke" has a bucket of water under one arm and Glump's tether around the other. Yayuk yanks the gallon away and gets it to Greg. Tibor tips some clean aqua over the grungy graffiti galling Greg's back, and some scuzzy gunk washes away. Then, Tana offers a gourd of water to drink. Greg gobbles the water without gargling. That is good. He is alert enough to do that.
"We've got to get Greg out of here, Gorak," John adjures.
Ever gregarious Gorak agrees, "Yes, John, we must move the boy the many miles to the village at once. Medicine women there could. . . . ."
"Actually," the outsider interrupts, "an ingenious idea would be floating him down the flooded gorge in the same manner as we transport the timber! Why, I could cleverly construct. . . . ."
"Actually, John!" forgiving Gorak kindly interrupts, "We Valley people have a system in place. You see, the village existed before you got here, and it will exist after you gratefully leave, God willing."
"I understand. I guess," Mr. Butler allows.
"Until the next episode, John," rejoins Gorak beneath his breath.
Tana takes over, "Golly, guest John, my dad Gorak told you early on 'You know things we do not. We listen. We know things you do not. You listen' (E1). Please listen. Maybe, you'll learn something."
The grown man graciously grins and nods. But, he does not grovel to a precocious girl—or to Gorak.
"Go on," Butler bids.
Again, Tana takes the reins, "I guided Glump down here to help Greg. We can put him between Glump's plates, gird him down, and get him all the way to civilization. I'll drive. Behind me, you can aid our injured patient. If our mount makes high-pitched noise, other animals—from predators to herd beasts—should clear a path. Sometimes, we hunt them. But, in this case, no gnus is good news."
John Butler just says nothing because, well, modern man could have suggested that system.
Greg gives a grim groan, and greasy sweat glistens on a grave face. John greenlights the jornada. He gainsays no one. Expeditiously, the cavemen load the cargo.
"Giddyap, Glump!" the little gal growls.
With gusto, Tana, John, and Greg go, go, go for their goal. The ambulatory gig carries Greg away over gravelly gradation, gurgling gully, and the variegated geography beyond. The good pet's peds are perfect for overland evacuation.
As Glump gallops off, Yayuk looks yon in angst. Likewise, Orlo ogles trepidatiously the transport. Too, Tibor and Trow take a moment to be compassionate cavemen. However, with a grunt, the group's general, Gorak, still regathers the crew to complete their work. He goes over the truth. Every Valley villager knows life on the grange. It is not always gay, gravy, great, glamorous, or groovy. Any day has a touch of gray, as the grateful dead would tell you. But, Gorak does not begrudge the group its reaction. The four are young, and greener cavemen have gentler hearts that get gloomy more easily than those of grizzled old men not so easily gobsmacked by the gothic and life's little gremlins and gordian knots.
At their elder's age, a cave-guy has seen a few things: gross physical trauma, greedy brigands, warfare galore, ghastly plague, geologic upheaval from volcanic geysers to earthshaking groundswells, glacial encroachment, the great flood, ubiquitous gingivitis, intergalactic engineers, false gods, gargantuan proto-gerbils, garden-variety velociraptors, one-thousand-kilogram gators, aggrieved Gargoyleosauri, hungry Gorgosauri, flatulent Gasosauri, soaring sauri sore over something, sorry growing seasons generating only the grapes of wrath, low glucose, Greer Nelson in a bikini jaunting through the jungle, gastropod gumbo for weeks, guileful tall tales, gullible audiences, and even grieving parents, such as John and Kim could be. At Gorak's age, life goes on until it doesn't, and all is fair game. "Fossil" fogies know grits from granola, and they know that good men must gather goods for the group's greater good, in agape. Otherwise, the tribe suffers and starves. The show must go on, in the Valley of the Dinosaurs.
So, Gorak reconvenes the hunter-gatherer guild and assigns them work. He tasks Tibor and Orlo with regaining the sledge from slope's bottom. He tells Trow and Yayuk to attend to the guarana grove uphill. The former gladly go get the gadget. The latter giddyap to the green undergrowth, without giving Gorak guff. No navel-gazer himself, the organizer opts to assemble cargo at the midway point between his workers.
An hour passes, and Sol slips slightly west.
Under the sun, Gorak and Tibor tuck the last load of loot into the sledge. They have ample supplies from this sylvan spot. Perhaps, they have even taken some excess for a rainy day. With a grunt, Gorak sends the sledge over the rollers and down the slope to a raised stop below. Over the stop, a raft barge bobs in the strong current; John Butler nicely showed how to build it. The caveman quintet will offload the sledge onto the barge. Then, the freed float can follow harvested timber downriver, for there is a healthy load of chopped wood sailing along the stream's surface. Earlier today, John had mentioned something called lumberjacking and somewhere called Minnesota. The scene reminded him of those things. But, the Dinosaur Valley denizens had never seen St. Paul on a snowy day or anything like that.
From the canteen gourd, Gorak sloshes some water over his sunned face and then sips some refreshment. It will be good to get home to Gorak's grotto before tonight's gibbous moon. Everyone is tired. And, they have to both hike home from the Three Giants and haul these supplies on a different set of mobile rollers overland. The river does not quite reach the Black Lagoon or, even more conveniently, the village.
Tibor utters, "It is too bad that the boy hurt his head. John and Glump were supposed to help haul our heavy load. Heaven knows when we will get home."
"What can you do?" Gorak grins, "Kids take tumbles. Sometimes after causing their own troubles. But yes, I am sure that my child Tana would have also been an able assistant." Gathering vim, Gorak guzzles water and gnaws a grain snack secreted in his garb.
"I hope Yayuk, Orlo, and Trow hurry up," utters Tibor.
"Take it easy," encourages the wise elder, "They just need to fetch harvesting tools such as rope and blades."
"Well, they've been a while, and I'm starting to get a bad feeling," Tibor toothily teases.
Gorak gibes back, "You have been listening to too many ghost stories around a campfire."
Suddenly, swift specters spring and sprint throughout the trees that contain three troglodytes. Two on-lookers startle and speed to aid their fellows. They run toward the thicket where shades and shadows scream like incensed spirits. They hear some (unseen) assailants overtake Trow. He hollers for help. Through the thicket, they hear Yayuk yell and then yelp as guerilla "ghouls"—gutturally howling—get another one. Gorak and Tibor crash through foliage. In the thicket, they see obscured "gorillas" grab Trow and haul him up a genipap evergreen where hirsute hands, possessors disguised in dark, stretch his bound arms along a bough as along a gibbet.
Into sight, Orlo pops. He hollers, "Gorak, get the glaive from the glade!"
From out of vision, a gammoning goblin throws a coconut "grenade" that takes out Orlo, gashing his temple. Gallant Garok makes for the glade, the clearing that they cut. Tibor trails him. But, like a wind gust, some wraith tackles Tibor and wrathfully wrestles him. The two grapple grandly, and Garok discerns a Jebo jumping his brother-german. Tibor gives a good, brief fight, but the pongid beast, with purloined rope, gyves him like a boar. He hogties him.
Gorak runs the gamut through the gate to the glade. There, a great "ape" breaks a glinting gypsum glaive over its knee. Lip curling, Kreen casts the geminated gadget aside. Infuriated Kreen cries fiercely across the glade's clear-cut ground, and Gorak gazes upon fearsome canines and craw. The petulant primate flexes his pecs and extends his strong arms in ominous, offensive display. Ululating, the hefty hominid hellaciously howls from his head hair to his yellow eyes to orange (furry) chest to stomping (chimp) feet.
Unflinching, Gorak glowers right back. His gut has butterflies within, of course. But, the brute must not know this. Sometimes, body language sways a Jebo greatly. Lok and Katie successfully learned that a bit ago (E5), and they handled a hostile encounter because of it. Like "silly" monkeys, they aped aggressive bodily display and vocalization. They were kept from being torn limb-from-limb—or otherwise molested—because of it.
Within, the remaining caveman hopes the past strategy is still cogent. You see, he has noticed that today's attackers are arboreal. Last time, Kreen and the Jebos were no gymnasts. Ironically, the ape-men could not climb. So, Gorak observes that they have evolved. Hopefully, not monolithically. Gorak gladly would live another twenty-six years post-glade.
Angry Kreen closes the gap between Gorak and him. A circle of shaggy supporters surround the two chiefs. With stature like a golem and breath like a geek, the pugnacious primate stands pounding his sternum—before speaking, sort of.
"Gee gee!" calls Kreen down on Gorak's crown. Titano (the Superman foe) towers over troglodyte.
Tramping forward, Gorak guesses, "You got something on your mind?"
"Gee gee!" generates the Jebo jerking his head side-to-side.
"Gee, I get the gist that you are grumpy," Gorak admits, "But, your argumentative goo-goo is gibberish after that." Just call the (comparatively) glabrate guy Gorgias, the great rhetorician.
"Gee gee!" Kreen corrects.
Gorak gives some ground to perhaps produce some good will. A tense silence follows. The surly sasquatch snorts and sets his shoulders wide.
"Gee?" Gorak scratches his chin.
Suddenly, the joyless Jebo juts a finger like an evil monkey. The digit indicates the glen just beyond the glade. With the Grim Reaper's gravitas, the gesture suggests some great sin unreconciled. Apparently, the grounds for a grudge lie over there. With fists like gavels, the judging Jebo jarringly jabs the earth and assumes an aggressive stance. All around, the galvanized tribe terribly howls like a garrulous gale.
Cagey Gorak knows which way the wind blows. Bowing, eyes averted, he queries Kreen, "What lies past those trees?"
Kreen calms the minutest crumb. He conveys himself over yon and casts a look over his shoulder. Are you coming, you cur? His glare asks. An upright man moves toward his guide. The groundling goes ahead and crashes through the hedge. Feeling a wee gullible, Gorak follows.
In the glen, there is magnificent greenery surpassing the adjacent section harvested by man. Vines are verdant, and trunks are thick. Flora is dense, healthy, and bearing fruit. And, precious fauna flits over the flora and speaks throughout it. Piquant pollen perfumes the passing breeze. For a moment, Kreen carries on quietly amongst the idyllic. Under golden rays, those passing through the heavens' treetops, the beast looks not belligerent but beautiful. He fits this Eden even more than Gorak garbed in another animal's fur and gussied up with rudimentary tools.
Of course, Kreen is not actually an innocent Adam, adorned in only nature. Rather, this essential man knows wrath, having been disturbed. He is an angry animal as all primates, Goraksons and Butlers included, sometimes are. Thus, the furious Jebo jerks around to face and confront the composed caveman.
As in mummery, the semi-mute "monster" makes hand gestures and murmurs sounds. Big clawed hands arc wide as though to indicate "this place", so Gorak attends to his surroundings. One pointed finger fixes upon a tree, and the Villager notices that is of the type that his men and he hewed all day. Lowing, Kreen escorts Gorak to the jatoba locust. Before it, Kreen's chin points, and Gorak eyes gobs of grubs gripping the branches in groups and scurrying up and down the bark. The wise wight knows that these caterpillars become abundant this time of year. Gorak guesses that he also knows that they grow gratuitously on this sort of sylvan.
Making eye contact, Kreen gleans grubs from the standing, living wood, and he gulps them with superb pleasure. He savors the flavor, and his furrowed brow softens slightly. Gorak gasps in realization.
Around him, other Jebos pick juicy fruits from plush boughs high and low. They relish each bite but are not rapacious in what numbers they take. The circle of apes show restraint and practice a reverent stewardship, whether consciously or not. They still give Gorak surly looks though.
However, Gorak gets it. He is not dumber than a box of rocks. And, he does not see the Jebos as jackanapes as his friend John sometimes sees him. Simple Gorak sees. Stupid Gorak now sees.
"Forgive me," the man solicits the circle, "Gorak has been a glutton. Any Valley dweller should know better, for he is brighter than John Butler. Whether Jebo or Village Person, he counts the growth rings of every tree and takes only what he needs. He grooms the forest so that it grows forevermore from highest treetop to lowest gherkin. What God has granted is a bountiful gift but not gratis, and a man shall be no grifter of the Almighty. Rather, it is his glee to tend the great garden. No gimmick—even from an amiable outsider—should ever blind him to this gospel. And, Chief Kreen, I am sorry."
Gorak feels like a goober and a degenerate in the gallery of judging Jebos tippling fruit juice and trying the termite. However, Kreen only quietly regards the repentant guy for a moment. A naked nervous heel cuts a groove in the grassy ground. Then, Kreen speaks some garble and waves his grubby hand: "git 'cause ya got the point".
Gorak does get going. And, he gets his guys from the groin of a tree, the rough gravel, and around. They take their gauche treasures, already harvested. Resources are resources that must not go to waste. Slightly degraded, they expeditiously cross the gulf between lumber camp and home territory. Three Giants and some Bigfoot (today, bigger than them) watch them leave.
At home, Greg has a graphic injury but not a grievous one. John jokes that the boy has a head like Magilla Gorilla. It is thick.
Gorak does not have a word for the concept, but he thinks about groupthink—and how it goes. Greg is not alone in having a thick head.
