Next evening, I realized the first batch had mostly failed. The meat that survived was small and dry, enough to taste, but not enough to last. I felt a mix of disappointment and determination. This was how it had to be—trial, error, learning from mistakes.
I whispered to Kate as she leaned against me, "We'll do better next time. We have to."
The villagers slowly began to understand what I was attempting, and even their curiosity turned into cautious respect. They had seen me fail before with pottery, clay, and fermented fruit juice. Maybe they would watch, learn, and help next time.
I gathered the unusable strips to feed to the fire, keeping the small, surviving pieces as examples. Tomorrow, I would adjust—more salt, better spacing, slower smoke. It was only the beginning.
...
The next morning, I woke early, Kate still curled up beside me. I glanced at the remaining strips from yesterday's attempt—small, hardened, and only barely usable. They reminded me of how much I still didn't know.
I gathered more meat from the hunters' fresh catch, carefully inspecting each piece. This time, I sliced slowly, trying to make even strips, thinner than yesterday but not paper-thin. Kate watched with fascination, holding her tiny hands over her mouth so she wouldn't giggle.
I took the salt I had, still only a small handful, and measured it carefully, rubbing it into each strip more thoroughly than yesterday. "This time," I murmured, "we do it right."
Then came the tricky part—the fire. I built a low, controlled flame in the pit near our hut, keeping it smaller than usual. Smoke drifted upward, curling around the wooden posts and the walls of our hut. I hung the meat carefully on sticks above the smoke, making sure the strips didn't touch and the heat wasn't too strong.
Villagers watched from a distance, whispering among themselves. Kehnu crouched nearby, observing, occasionally pointing or gesturing questions I didn't understand. I simply nodded or showed him the strips, hoping he could see the difference from yesterday.
Hours passed. The fire smoked gently, and the strips slowly changed color. Some edges curled slightly, but the majority looked promising. I turned them periodically, careful not to let the thin ends burn. Kate occasionally tugged at my sleeve, asking if they were ready. I shook my head. "Not yet, love. Patience."
By late afternoon, the aroma had changed—smoky, savory, and earthy. I cautiously tested one strip, touching it to my tongue. It was dry, firm, and smelled good. I chewed slowly. Not perfect, but far better than yesterday.
I held it up to the villagers. "Eat?" I said, pointing at the strip and then at them. Slowly, a few stepped forward, tasting it. Their eyes widened. They nodded, murmuring excitement. One elder clapped her hands softly, smiling at me. Others came closer, picking up small strips to taste.
It wasn't perfect. A few pieces had burnt edges, and some had dried unevenly. But most were edible—and most importantly, they could be stored for a few days without spoiling.
Kate hugged my side. "Mama, it works!" she whispered.
I smiled, feeling a surge of relief. "Yes, love. We're learning."
As the sun dipped behind the mountain, I looked at the villagers. Their curiosity had turned into quiet admiration. Some even started collecting small sticks and preparing their own strips to try the same method.
It was far from perfect, but the second attempt had succeeded enough to show the tribe a new way to preserve food—and with that, the beginnings of a longer-lasting winter supply were taking shape.
Each morning became the same quiet ritual.
Before the day truly began, before Kate ran off to play, I went to the hanging strips. I touched them one by one, pressing gently, smelling my fingers afterward. Some were firm and dry, others still soft in the middle. I rotated them carefully, moving the thicker pieces closer to the smoke and pulling the thinner ones farther away.
A few strips worried me.
One smelled wrong — sour, heavy. I didn't hesitate. I took it down and threw it into the fire. The smoke carried it away, and I felt that familiar knot in my stomach. Food lost always hurt.
Another strip had dark spots forming near the edge. I showed it to Kehnu, pointed, shook my head, then tossed it aside. He watched closely. After that, he began checking the strips too, mimicking my movements.
Not everything survived.
But most did.
The tribe started hanging the meat in small batches, never too much at once. They learned quickly that meat placed too close to strong flame hardened on the outside and stayed wet inside. So they kept low embers, just enough heat to dry and smoke slowly. Smoke became more important than fire.
Children were warned away. The jerky was no longer treated like fresh food. It was guarded.
When a strip was fully dry, I wrapped it in leaves and handed it to the elder woman. She chose what would be eaten that day and what would be kept. No one argued. Even hunger learned patience.
For the first time, food was rationed with intention.
A few pieces, rubbed well with salt, were placed into small clay jars. The jars were sealed with leaves and clay around the rim, set high on the shelves we had built. Those were not for now. Everyone seemed to understand that without words.
For bad days. For sickness. For rain that might return.
Kate watched me one evening as I sealed a jar.
"Is it for later?" she asked quietly.
"Yes," I said. "For when we need it most."
She nodded, serious, like she understood more than her years.
Days passed. Fewer strips spoiled now. The tribe learned the smell of good meat, the feel of dryness, the patience required. What had once been uncertainty became routine.
And in that slow rhythm — checking, rotating, protecting — I realized something had changed.
We were no longer just surviving day to day.
We were planning for the future.
But future had other plans for us.