The Grinding Hall

“Gragatha, can you please go in the kitchen and check on it again?!”

“Gungor can do it himself,” Gragatha roared back from the other end of the grinding hall, “Gragatha isn’t Gungor’s… uh… kitchen person!”

The grinding hall was what any average person could only describe as enormous. It spanned a couple acres, with a ceiling as tall as fifty grown men standing on each others’ shoulders (inadvisable though that may be). The floor was paved with flagstones the size of cottages, and the door was fully seventy feet tall. There was a drain the size of a carriage in one corner of the room, where a millstone sat idle. Nearby, hundreds of shelves were filled with bones in various states of dessication. The shelves had labels that pertained to the bones’ countries of origin.

Gungor was currently not using the hall for grinding. He was pursuing one of his other hobbies: ships. Currently, he was holding several tiny planks in place on the captain’s quarters of one of his ships, waiting for the glue to dry. His glue. The glue he had made using the ground up bones of Frenchmen. French bones make the best glue, after all. At least that’s what Oggragar had told him, and Ogg knew a lot about bones!

“Grag, please just check on it,” Gungor whined. “Gungor’s hands are busy with the little ship!”

“No,” insisted Gragatha. “Gungor can check it himself when the glue dries! No hurry, Gungor! Hurry makes…”

“Slurry, I know,” finished Gungor. He remembered back to the last time he had tried to grind bones that weren’t yet fully dessicated. It had been a total waste! The bones of four Norwegian explorers had turned into a chunky paste rather than the fine dust he needed to fertilize his tiny trees. He had tried to use the fertilizer anyways, though Oggragar had said not to; three trees had died, and the fourth hadn’t borne fruit in the two years since.

Gragatha finished… whatever it was she was doing, and crossed the room in 6 enormous steps to look at Gungor’s work. “Looking good,” she murmured thunderously. “You’ll have this ship fixed by next week maybe.”

“Or maybe not,” rumbled Gungor, “the French bone glue takes ages to dry, and then is not very sticky!”

“Maybe French bones are not the best for glue,” suggested Gragatha. “Oggragar—”

“- is very good at bones.” Interrupted Gungor. “Gungor trust him.”

“And what about the baking?”

“Baking will work. Gungor just bad at.” 

Gragatha discerned that Gungor was becoming discouraged again. His little baking project had been a failure three times in a row, and the fourth attempt didn’t appear to be going any better. Gragatha didn’t need to walk to the kitchen and check the dough to know it would be flat as a corn cake.

Not that she blamed Gungor for these failures. In truth, she suspected that Oggragar was giving bad advice to Gungor. Ogg was very competitive, especially when it came to the bones. She wouldn’t put it past him to mislead Gungor, giving himself the advantage.

And poor Gungor, always taking the bait; always comparing himself. Gragatha knew there was no sense comparing their life to Ogg’s, but Gungor was always looking over his bone collection, worrying if it was as big as Ogg’s. Last week, Gragatha had even caught Gungor tossing more magic beans off the edge of their cloud, trying to lure more Englishmen up to their castle.

“Gungor,” Gragatha growled lovingly, “Take a little break. From bones. Gungor needs to focus on what Gungor does best.”

Losing his patience, Gungor dropped the captain’s quarters onto his table. The cabin landed with a crash, splintering some of the planks and breaking the windows. “Gungor want to be best at bones! Not magic beans, bones!”

“But without the magic beans -” started Gragatha.

“Grag,” interrupted Gungor, “Gungor know there can be no more bones without beans. But beans is boring, and Gungor is so bored! Gungor can make magic beans in sleep!”

“Can Ogg make magic beans in sleep?” Gragatha gently asked, touching Gungor’s enormous ear with her fingertips. “Gragatha not love Oggragar, Gragatha love Gungor only. Gungor is very good at beans, hugs, kisses… Gungor good at what matters most.”

Gungor’s mind was suddenly focused much less on bones, and much more on flesh. He put his arms around Gragatha and held her close in a gigantic hug, taking in the scent of her hair. “Grag always know how to cheer Gungor up.”

“If Gungor needs a little more cheering up,” said Gragatha, impishly, “Gungor could come up to the tower with Gragatha?” She broke their hug, stroking his beard with the back of her hand and looking dreamily into his eyes.

“Gungor can glue another time.” Gungor’s hoarse whisper was as loud as a hurricane, but fell sweetly on Gragatha’s ears. “Go up and wait for Gungor. Gungor will get magic harp from kitchen.”

Gragatha batted her eyelashes sweetly, and then turned from Gungor, lightly trampling her way to the hallway outside the grinding hall.

Gungor looked back at the captain’s cabin on his table with regret. He would probably need to go down the vine to get another ship sometime, to replace the splintered pieces. Luckily, his castle was right above the harbor.

Gungor pounded out into the hallway, closing the door to the grinding hall behind him. Even as he walked down the enormous staircase to the kitchen, he could hear the harp softly plucking away. She was always so happy with what she did; why couldn’t Gungor be like that? Maybe bones didn’t need to be his thing. Oggragar was good at bones, but bad at beans. Maybe Gungor could be just the other way around.

Gungor lumbered into the kitchen at last, where the harp had been left on the counter top next to his baking project. But immediately upon entering the kitchen, he completely forgot his original purpose. The bowl that had been left above the oven, covered in an enormous patchwork quilt, was no longer flat as a corn cake. Rather, the blanket above it was bulging with risen dough.

“Graaagathaaaaa! Gungor did it! Gungor did it! Gungor finally raised the bones!!” His voice shook the castle and the clouds.