When the first real batch of sun-dried salt was ready, I gathered it carefully into a small clay bowl. It wasn't much—just a few spoonfuls—but to the villagers, it looked like treasure. Word spread quickly, and a small crowd gathered near the cooking fire as we prepared a communal meal.
Kehnu brought a piece of freshly hunted meat, and one of the elder women added sliced roots and wild greens. I sprinkled just a pinch of the coarse salt across the surface. The sound of it—tiny crystals tapping on the meat—made the villagers lean in even closer.
We roasted it slowly over the fire, and when the smell began to drift around the circle—rich, savory, completely different from their usual meals—the entire village seemed to fall silent. Even the children stopped playing, noses lifted in curiosity.
When I cut the meat into small pieces and handed them out, one by one the villagers tasted it.
Eyes widened.
A few gasped.
One man laughed in pure surprise.
"It is… good," the elder woman said, the words slow, careful, like she was tasting them too. "Better. Much better."
Kehnu grinned and slapped my shoulder gently. "Your idea changed food," he said proudly.
From that day forward, the atmosphere in the village shifted. People approached me with warm smiles, their earlier caution replaced with gratitude. They began bringing offerings—not because they had to, but because they wanted to.
Every morning, when Kate and I stepped outside, there would be something waiting:
A pile of yellow fruit with thick skins.
A handful of tiny berries in a bark bowl.
Long sweet roots tied together with woven grass.
A handful of nuts.
Even beautiful leaves and flowers for Kate to play with.
Children ran to her calling, "Kate! Kate!" and she ran with them, waving her little hands happily. Women who once only nodded politely now touched my arm gently, trying to show kindness in ways they understood. Men offered to help carry pottery or fetch more water for salt-making.
Even the village dogs followed us around with wagging tails.
It was the first time since arriving in this world that I felt… not just safe, but welcome.
Like Kate and I weren't outsiders anymore.
Like we belonged.
And all of it began from something as simple as salt—from turning sea water into crystals that made food taste better, and lives a little easier.
With more food now, even the sea fish that the men brought back from their long walks, we were better off. Meals were richer, tastier, and everyone ate a little more happily. But it still wasn't enough to keep us safe for the next rainy season. Not even close. If the monsoon lasted as long as the last one… we would need piles of food. Not just what we could gather day by day.
I watched the villagers as days passed. They organized themselves naturally, without needing anyone to tell them what to do—like a river finding its own path. Some made salt at the small drying pits near the sunniest places. Some shaped pottery, their hands slow but careful. Some went to hunt or gather fruits with woven baskets over their shoulders.
Kate played with the children, her laughter rising between the huts like a small bird. I always glanced her way to make sure she was safe, but she was happy… freer than she had been in a long time. She was learning their language even faster than I was, picking up words like she was born for it.
I sat in our hut doorway, elbows on knees, staring at the ground while the village moved around me. My mind drifted back to the caves—how food spoiled so fast, how we had only survived on what little they had. That memory pressed on me now. If we didn't find a way to store food, the next monsoon would be worse.
I tapped a stick on the packed earth and sighed.
How do you store food in a hot and wet place, without refrigerators, without anything modern? How did people do it once?
Smoke rose from a nearby cooking fire, slow and steady. I watched it twist into the air, and an idea formed in my mind—familiar, warm, like something long forgotten coming back.
Smoke.
Salt.
Sun.
If I could combine these… maybe we could make enough dried food to last months. Maybe we wouldn't go hungry again.
But the villagers didn't know these methods yet. They needed to see, like they saw with shells, like they saw with salt. And anything new had to be simple, repeatable, and safe.
I rubbed my forehead, thinking deeply.
"We need to save food…" I murmured to myself.
Kate noticed I wasn't joining in the games and came running back.
"Mama, kaj delaš?" she asked, sitting beside me, brushing sand off her legs.
"I'm thinking," I said softly. "About how we can keep food for the next big rain. So we don't get hungry again."
She nodded with a seriousness that didn't match her small size. "They will help."
Her confidence warmed me. The villagers would help. They trusted us now. And if I could show them something new again, something useful… we would all be stronger for it.
I looked toward the fires, the smoke curling upward, and my thoughts sharpened.
Yes.
It was time to try drying meat. Smoking it. Salting it.
Something—the first step—had to start today.
That afternoon the men returned from the hunt. Voices rose across the village, excited and proud, and children ran to meet them. When they reached the fire circle, I saw they had done well—two small animals, enough meat to feed everyone at least a little. Kehnu handed me a share wrapped in large leaves. I thanked him with the few words I knew, and he nodded, pleased.
Some of the meat I cut into chunks for cooking. We shared a meal with the villagers, all of us sitting on the packed earth, passing pottery bowls from hand to hand. Kate sat between me and the elder woman, grinning with greasy fingers as she tore at a piece of meat.
But I kept one portion aside.
I stared at that meat for a long moment, my heart humming with nerves. If this worked, if even one strip of it lasted longer than a day… it could change everything.
I moved to the side of our hut where the sun reached and sat down with a flat rock across my lap. The meat glistened red and warm in my hands. I needed thin strips—thin dried better, smoked better—but thin strips were hard to make with only sharpened stones.
Still, I tried.
The stone blade dragged and slipped; the cuts were uneven, some thick, some thin. Sweat gathered on my forehead as I forced myself to be patient. The villagers occasionally glanced my way, watching but not interrupting. They were used to my strange experiments now.
When I finally had a small pile of rough strips, I sprinkled salt over them—carefully, almost reverently—using what little I had scraped from the last batch. The crystals stuck to the meat, melting slightly in the heat.
Kate approached, crouching beside me.
"What are you doing, Mama?" she asked, tilting her head.
"I'm trying something new," I said. "If this works, we can keep meat for the rainy season. For a long time." I showed her the salted strips.
Her eyes widened. "For a long time?"
"Yes," I smiled. "Maybe."
We carried the strips to the fire. It was burning low, perfect for smoke but not too much heat. I fixed the meat above it using sticks—awkward, unstable, but it would hold if I watched it closely. Thin smoke curled around the strips, carrying the scent upward.
A few villagers came closer, murmuring among themselves. One young woman asked something I didn't understand. I only pointed at the meat and said the words I had learned:
"Keep. For rain."
She nodded slowly, curiosity replacing skepticism.
As the smoke wrapped the meat, I felt a flutter of hope. I had no idea if this would work. I had no idea how long it needed or how it should look when finished. This was all from faint memories—old documentaries, survival shows, things I never imagined using in real life.
But it was something.
I sat cross-legged beside the fire, watching every flicker of smoke, ready to adjust the sticks if flames rose too high. Kate leaned against me, warm and quiet. The village moved around us—children laughing, pottery clinking, men sharpening spears—but this small experiment consumed my whole world.
I whispered under my breath,
"Please work…"
Because if it did…
we might finally be prepared.