Chapter 24: Grey's Cavern

Joan understood what Grey intended and smiled at him in gratitude.

“I just want to build a small fire to keep warm; I don’t need such a big tree,” he added. “Thank you, Grey, you did this in a very ‘Mote’ way.”

Hearing himself praised as “Mote,” Grey grinned widely, squatting at the cave entrance and watching Joan’s busy hands with curiosity.

Joan opened his backpack, took out a tightly tied leather pouch, and, after loosening the string, produced a flint and some tinder paper. He struck the flint to ignite the paper, then used it to light the wood, soon coaxing a campfire to life.

Though flames weren’t rare in the wild, Grey only had a simple understanding of “fire.” As the blaze rose, he became nervous, stepping back two paces, afraid that the glowing red “monster” might burn him. When he saw Joan stretching his hands toward the fire, Grey let out a desperate roar, seizing his shoulder to “rescue” him from the flames just in time.

Joan couldn’t help but laugh, pointing to the fire and reassuring him, “Mote!”

Grey shook his head with a grave look, pointing at the fire to correct him, “Mog!”

“No, Grey, fire isn’t Mog... well, not entirely Mote either. This kind of searing energy isn’t good or bad in itself—whether it’s Mog or Mote depends on how you use it.”

Joan chuckled inwardly as he spoke—after all, simple-minded Grey couldn’t possibly grasp such complex explanations.

Grey truly didn’t understand, but he wasn’t entirely inflexible. Since Joan insisted repeatedly that the fire had a “Mote” side, Grey reluctantly let go, allowing Joan to approach the flames under his watchful eye. If the red monster should attack Joan, there’d still be time to save him.

Joan used the remaining branches to fashion a crude rack and hung his damp cloak to dry over the fire. Once his body was warmed, his stomach began to rumble in protest.

He hadn’t eaten since morning. Though there was still some dried food and water in his backpack, he thought better of it and picked up the large chunk of crocodile meat Grey had tossed aside. He took it out to the pond by the cave, cleaned it thoroughly, then sharpened a stick with his knife and skewered the raw meat, propping it over the fire to roast.

As the pink crocodile meat sizzled over the flames, fat began to drip, turning the surface a crispy golden hue. Each time the fat hit the fire with a hiss, a mouthwatering aroma wafted through the air.

Grey sat beside Joan, chin resting in his hands, watching the roasting meat with alternating confusion and wonder. He couldn’t understand why fresh, good meat was being fed to the “red monster”—licked again and again by that glowing, heat-radiating creature. The once hefty piece of meat had shrunk, its color dulled, and Grey thought it a shameful waste of good food.

Once the meat was nearly done, Joan took out a portable spice bottle from his bag and sprinkled salt evenly over the crispy golden crocodile. He stabbed the meat with his knife; the juices that seeped out were nearly free of blood. Satisfied it was thoroughly cooked, Joan drove the stick into the earth, watching the fragrant, glistening roast drip with fat, his mouth watering uncontrollably.

He sliced off a strip with his knife and popped it into his mouth, chewing with satisfaction. His stomach, tortured by raw meat, was finally soothed, and his appetite revived.

Grey gazed at him incredulously as he devoured the roast.

“Want to try?” Joan lifted a piece with his knife and offered it, giving a thumbs up to praise his own roasting skills as very “Mote.”

Grey took the piece, turning it over suspiciously in his hands, then tossed it into his mouth for a cautious chew.

Joan watched him expectantly, hoping for a favorable review.

Unfortunately, he was sorely disappointed. Grey spat out the chewed meat with a disgusted “Mog!” making no effort to hide his disdain.

Joan could only shrug. Clearly, cooked meat didn’t suit Grey’s taste; only fresh, raw meat was his favorite.

Despite their sharp differences in taste, Grey didn’t object to Joan preparing his food in his own way and no longer feared the campfire outside the cave. In fact, he seemed to enjoy the cozy warmth enveloping his body.

That night, Joan spent in Grey’s cave. He had planned to slip away while Grey slept, but the grey giant was extremely vigilant. Even when dozing, at least one of his three eyes remained half-open, and at the slightest disturbance, his golden gaze would dart over, chilling and menacing in the darkness.

Joan was confident Grey meant him no harm under normal circumstances, but who could say whether this wild creature might suddenly turn violent? So he remained cautious, avoiding any action that might provoke Grey.

Man and monster thus maintained their strange cohabitation, spending a peaceful night. Grey wouldn’t let Joan out of his sight, and Joan, resigned, passed the time by reading the “Beginner’s Manual of Alchemy and Pharmacy” given to him by Dr. Kelandir.

Comparing the herbal illustrations in the book, Joan was delighted to discover that the marshes near the cave were home to many of the medicinal plants Dr. Kelandir had recorded, some of them quite valuable. If he could collect them, it would be far more profitable than catching leeches. But given his current status as a virtual prisoner, such thoughts were premature.

At dawn, sunlight dispersed the mist above the marsh, streaming through the slanted cave entrance. Joan squinted to adjust to the change in light and slowly stood.

The campfire at the entrance was now just crimson embers, the ashes giving off their last warmth, warding off the dew and dampness creeping into the cave. Joan walked over and took down his cloak from the makeshift rack, pleased to find it completely dry.

Seemingly roused by the commotion, the grey giant Grey also climbed up from his bed of straw, stretching his massive, fang-filled jaws in a great yawn. He strode out of the cave, knelt by the pond on all fours, and plunged his head down, gulping water in noisy draughts. After slaking his thirst, Grey wiped his dripping face and let out a contented belch.

Watching Grey drink made Joan’s own throat parched. Yet he had no wish to imitate Grey’s animalistic way of drinking, nor did he have Grey’s iron stomach—drinking untreated water would likely give him diarrhea.

Joan tossed a few sticks onto the embers to rekindle the fire, then fetched his iron mess tin from his backpack, filled it with water, and set it over the flames to boil. Once the water cooled a bit, he filled his leather flask for drinking and used the rest for washing up.

Grey squatted beside the fire, his huge hands resting on his knees, watching Joan’s busy preparations with a surprisingly docile air. He didn’t really understand why Joan needed to place a water-filled container on top of the “red monster” until it bubbled, but the whole process struck him as novel and fascinating.