I'm moving quickly beyond hurt into anger. I realize he's used to being on his own, but what the fuck? Did I say something to make him angry? Or is this just him needing even more space? How long will this go on for?
I have no answers. I can't even write him a note in the sands. We can barely talk to each other, much less communicate in other ways. I have no choice but to wait this out. I can't even go and find him now, because the meat he's bringing in has to be processed. I have to chop it up, remove all the usable bits, cut it into strips, smoke or dry the meat, and clean the usable organs. The hides are sitting rolled up, and I need to scrape those, too. There's not enough hours in the day, and I worked until I fell asleep by the fire last night.
And now I get to do it all over again.
I stare, exhausted, at the kills. The sa-khui have caches in the deep snows where they keep their meat. I can't drag these things into the mountains, though, and a pit here on the beach would just get eaten up by crabs. It wouldn't stay cold enough, either. It all has to be cooked and processed and…I just want to cry.
With a weary sigh, I drag them toward the cave.
Another problem crops up, of course. I run out of fuel for my fire. The dung chips that are so plentiful in the mountains are non-existent here, and there's nothing for me to burn. All of the meat is going to go to waste unless I figure out something. I gaze at the charnel house of my cave around me, looking for something to burn. There's bloody meat everywhere in varying stages of drying. There's long chains of intestines hung, and the stripped animal heads glare at me from nearby, waiting for their brains to be used to work the skins. Six months ago, the sight of this would have made me run away screaming at the horror. Survivor me knows it's all useful, though. Messy, but useful.
I'm fucked if I have no fire, though.
I drum my fingers on my filthy hip, trying to think. Okay, if I don't have fire, how else can I handle this? How did old timey humans preserve meat?
Salt. Salted meat.
"Bingo," I say to no one, and head down to the shore. I can wet one of the furs in the ocean water and lay it out to dry, I think, and scrape the salt off of it as it dries up. Not the fastest method, but maybe there'll be a salt deposit of some kind on the beach that I'll be able to use.
There isn't, of course. But there is a gigantic, half-rotted log.
I stare at it in wonder as it lays at the edge of the tideline. The trees here are all flimsy, ridiculous little things that can't be used for regular wood. The only real firewood grows high, high in the mountains, I'm told, and it's so remote that going there for wood isn't even an option. But this hunk of wood looks like a chunk of tree you might find back on Earth. It's thick…and with luck, it'll burn.
Ignoring the sand-scorpions scuttling nearby, I move to the tree trunk. It's still a little wet, but with luck and some quick thinking, maybe I can make it burn. It's too heavy to lift, though, so I spend most of the afternoon rolling it, little by little, toward the cave. When it's close enough, I dig a fire pit, use my precious dried out seaweed reeds as starters, and start a slow, smoky fire on the beach and drape meat nearby to dry.
I'm exhausted, but I'll have to stay up and watch so predators don't come steal the food. Maybe I'll even catch a glimpse of my mate.
18
RUKH
Two more dvisti are mine by the time I decide to head back to the beach, where my pretty mate is safe. There is a large herd of the fat creatures tantalizingly close, but I can only handle so much as I am alone. I haul the two carcasses back with me—one over my shoulders and another in my arms.
I am tired and I have not slept in days, but every kill I bring in is more meat for my Har-loh, more furs to warm her. So I must keep working. Two more, I think. No, four. Better to be safe and have extra furs in case the weather is exceedingly cold.
As I approach the beach, however, I see an orange, flickering light. A fire. It is outside the cave instead of inside, and my heart pounds with worry. Why is the beach on fire? I move closer, rushing, and it is only by sheer stubbornness that I do not fling down my kills and race toward my mate. I know if I put them down, some scavenger will come along and snatch them. It is a fire pit, I realize, as I jog toward the light. A fire pit with someone sitting in front of it.