I used the quiet days to check on the jerky again. Some strips had dried well, tough and dark, while others worried me. I kept turning them, touching them, smelling them, trying to remember everything I knew—or thought I knew—about preserving meat.
A thought kept returning to me.
The caves.
"Maybe we should try storing some there," I murmured to myself. "Just a little. See what happens."
We packed a few of the driest pieces into clay jars and carried them up into the cave systems the tribe used during the rainy season. The air there was cooler, darker, still—but not truly cold. It was a gamble, and I knew it. Still, doing nothing felt worse.
The fermented fruit jars were already there. Some we checked often, opening them carefully, tasting small amounts. A few had turned into something surprisingly pleasant—strong, sharp, almost like wine. Others leaned toward vinegar. And some… some were clearly bad. Those we threw away without hesitation.
The cave betrayed us more often than I hoped. It wasn't cold enough, and spoilage came quickly. Mold crept in where it wasn't wanted, smells turned sour overnight. Still, a few jars survived. Not many—but enough to matter.
I reminded myself that this was not failure.
This was learning.
The villagers still gathered food daily, and the jungle was generous—roots, fruit, leaves, small animals. The stored food wasn't meant to replace that. It was insurance. A fragile buffer against the future.
As I sealed another jar and set it carefully against the stone wall, I felt the familiar mix of hope and restraint settle in my chest. We weren't safe yet. Not truly.
But we were preparing.
Over the next days, she returned to the caves again and again.
Not often. Not hurried.
She treated the jars like something fragile—like answers that would disappear if she rushed them.
She always checked with her nose first.
One jar she opened only slightly. A dry, salty smell escaped it—still good. She nodded to herself and closed it again, moving it a little closer to the cave entrance where the air moved more freely.
Another jar told a different story.
She uncovered it and stopped at once. The smell was wrong—not sharp, not clean. Just… heavy. She didn't taste it. She never did when the smell felt wrong. She tilted the jar and saw faint pale threads creeping along the meat's surface.
Mold.
She sighed, not angry, just thoughtful. She took the spoiled pieces outside and threw them far from the cave, marking that place in her memory as a warning.
The third jar surprised her.
The meat inside was darker, harder. One piece had softened slightly but still smelled clean. She rubbed more salt into it with her fingers, slow and careful, then placed it back—but this time she didn't seal the jar fully. She covered it loosely, letting air touch it.
She noticed she wasn't alone anymore.
Two women stood near the cave entrance, watching her hands. Not speaking. Just observing. One of them pointed at the jar she had moved closer to the opening and made a questioning sound.
She gestured with her hands—air moving, water creeping in, meat going bad. She shook her head at the sealed jar and nodded at the one that breathed.
They didn't understand her words.
They understood her choices.
The next day, she found someone else had moved another jar closer to the entrance.
She smiled quietly.
Over time, patterns became clear.
Meat stored too deep in the cave softened and spoiled faster.
Meat that was very dry survived longer.
Meat rubbed again with salt lasted better.
And hanging strips near low embers—slow, patient smoke—worked better than pots for longer storage.
Still, nothing was perfect.
One strip went bad overnight.
Another lasted several days longer than expected.
A third developed surface mold but stayed usable after trimming.
Each failure taught her something.
Each success stayed small—but real.
The tribe began copying without asking.
Small batches only.
Never all at once.
Checking smell before taste.
Moving food when conditions changed.
She saw it happening everywhere: people touching food more carefully, protecting it from damp air, choosing patience over hunger.
At night, sitting by the fire with Kate leaning against her side, she felt something loosen inside her chest.
"We're learning," she whispered to her daughter.
"Even when it doesn't work?"
"Especially then."
Kate nodded, serious, as if she understood something much bigger than jerky and jars.
The caves remained imperfect. The jars remained risky.
But knowledge was growing—quietly, steadily.
And in a place where survival depended on memory, observation, and restraint, that knowledge mattered more than any single piece of food.
She watched the fish come back to the village each day—never many, never enough to waste, always divided carefully. That was the problem.
Testing meant risk.
And risking the tribe's daily food was not an option.
The thought settled quietly in her mind, firm and clear: If I want to try this, I must do it alone.
So that morning, she took a basket and said nothing.
The path down the mountain was familiar now, though no less tiring. Wet leaves still clung to the ground from the rains, and the air smelled of salt long before the sea came into view. She moved carefully, choosing her steps, aware that a fall here would mean far more than bruises.
By the time she reached the shore, her legs burned and her breath came shallow, but the sight of the water steadied her.
The tide was low.
Small fish flickered near the rocks, quick flashes of silver in the shallows. She stood still for a long moment, watching them, remembering how Kehnu had missed again and again before catching one. Spears were effective—but she didn't have one.
She waded in slowly, basket held low in the water, moving it the way she had seen others move nets in documentaries long ago. Slowly. Patiently. No sudden motions.
The first attempt failed. The fish scattered like sparks.
The second was no better.
On the third try, she trapped one small fish against a rock with the basket's rim. It flailed wildly, splashing water over her legs, but she pressed down and reached in, fingers closing around its slick body.
She laughed quietly—half relief, half disbelief.
It wasn't much.
But it was hers.
By the time the sun climbed higher, she had three small fish. Thin. Bony. Not impressive—but enough for a test.
She rinsed them in seawater and sat on a flat rock, working slowly. Her hands hesitated as she cut them open with a sharp stone, careful to remove the insides the way she remembered from watching fishmongers back in her old life. She rinsed them again, rubbing salt into the flesh—more than felt reasonable, because she knew now that caution mattered.
Too little salt meant rot.
Too much could be scraped away later.
She laid the fish flat in the basket, spaced apart, and covered them with large leaves to keep flies away. The smell of salt and sea clung to her skin.
As she started the climb back up, the weight of the basket was light—but the weight of the decision felt heavy.
This was still an experiment.
It might fail.
The fish might spoil.
She might learn the hard way again.
But as she reached the higher path and the village came back into view, she felt something steady beneath the uncertainty.
Progress didn't come from certainty.
It came from trying—carefully, respectfully, and without taking from others what they needed to survive.
If the fish failed, she would throw them away and say nothing.
If they survived…
Then the tribe would gain something new.