I did it in the presence of Borgol the Elder. He didn't say anything, but the fact he saw it made me feel very good indeed.
It was near the end of that morning's training that I noticed a severe-looking orc in a heavy military costume approach Borgol the Elder and whisper something in his ear. That in itself was not noteworthy—there were always important-looking orcs coming to tell him something or another—but the moment the soldier finished speaking, Borgol signaled for me to join them.
"What did you do with the Nannak when you were there?" asked Borgol, frowning.
"I read to it. Why?"
"It asked for you."
My stomach dropped. I'd assumed I would never have to see it again, but I was mistaken. And so we returned home to pick up my storybook before climbing into the wagon to make our way back to the mammoth stone building on the edge of town.
The compound seemed especially busy, with dozens of soldiers gathered in front of the big iron door, their grim faces betraying a sense of unease that I didn’t remember the first time I was there.
We pulled to a stop and I followed Borgol to the entrance. The giant orc from last time was gone. In his place were two smaller orcs, and together they managed to open the door wide enough that I could walk in.
I was terrified, and I took a moment to close my eyes. It didn't help that those around me were nervous themselves, yet somehow I was able to bring myself to a place where I could walk inside.
They closed the door behind me and almost immediately I could hear a grinding sound coming from further in the shadows. It sounded like a dog gnawing on a soup bone. Trembling, I waited until my eyes adjusted, and what I saw nearly caused me to cry out in horror, for lying on the floor was the half-eaten corpse of the giant orc that used to guard the door. Perched beside him, looking like some huge vulture with horns, was the Nannak. The fiend's eyes were closed, and it chewed on the deceased soldier's severed leg like it was a piece of chicken.
It was sickening, and I was seriously considering bolting for the exit when the Nannak stopped to sniff the air.
"Lolo?" it asked.
I didn't answer. The Nannak kept sniffing, eventually opening its silver eyes to look straight at me.
"Lolo."
Lolo. That was what my brother David called me.
Still clutching the orc leg, the Nannak motioned for me to sit on the floor.
"Rabbit," it said.
I exhaled and closed my eyes. Prior to that point I wasn't certain if I’d been summoned to be eaten, but knowing it wanted to be read to filled me with relief.
And so I lay my book on the stony ground and read out loud while the Nannak absently chewed on his piece of orc. I don't know how I did it. The air smelled of blood, and every time I looked up I could see the giant orc's mutilated body, its lifeless eyes staring at the ceiling. But somehow I blocked it out, reading aloud not only “Timothy the Naughty Bunny,” but “The Three Llamas” as well, and when that time came and the Nannak signaled it'd had enough, I was so overcome with relief that it took all I had not to break down crying. It didn't say anything; all it did was point at the door before grabbing hold of the dead orc's head and dragging it further into the shadows.
I can only imagine what those on the other side thought when they heard me banging on the door. Once outside I dropped to my knees and for the first time in my life I gave thanks to whatever it was keeping me alive.
Little did I know that it would be a scene that would repeat itself many times over the coming weeks. Seemingly every day I was summoned to read to the Nannak from my big book of children's tales.
I thought at first it was only interested if the story had pictures, but I eventually discovered it liked any story. Soon I was telling it about summers on my uncle's ranch and being chased by cows. I even invented stories. As long as it was simple and had easily identifiable characters, the Nannak was happy.
I, on the other hand, was feeling increasingly desperate. Though the Nannak never hurt me, I always sensed I was one boring story away from getting my legs pulled off.
I remember reading a newspaper article about the roads the Good Kingdom was building to connect the northern lands with the ports to the south. To clear boulders, the workers would sometimes use explosives. It was extremely dangerous, and one man in the article was quoted as saying he woke up every morning wondering if that day would be his last. That's exactly how I felt.
The only positive was the change in the orcs. Their relationship with the Nannak was a complicated one. Though it was kept in a bunker and surrounded by soldiers, I never got the feeling it was truly a prisoner. Those walls couldn't hold it; I was certain if it wanted to it could have ripped the door from its hinges, yet for whatever reason, it was content to live in the shadows, feeding on whatever wandered its way.
It was almost as though the orcs viewed the Nannak as a holy figure, and my ability to come and go caused them to see me in a whole different light. Oh, they still mistrusted me and worked hard to beat me up during training, but I didn't hear the catcalls anymore, or the snickering behind my back.