Day Thirty-One: When Misfortune Comes, It Never Comes Alone

I have no idea when I fell asleep last night.

The torrential rain, accompanied by fierce winds, raged outside for who knows how long. I didn’t know when it would end, and I began to feel restless. I detested this kind of weather; it confined me to my little cabin, making me reluctant to step outdoors.

The sky was oppressively gloomy, so much so that I couldn’t tell what time it was. Morning? Noon? Night? I couldn’t say, because, through the door made of woven branches, all I could see was darkness.

As I mentioned, the wind was strong, and the rain was driven against my cabin incessantly. The water ran down the branches and dripped inside, so that the windward side of the cabin was already under siege by the rain, and water was beginning to flow under my little bed.

Little Black, that fellow, probably also found the rain tedious. Usually an early riser, he was still curled up asleep in his suitcase.

I sighed, helpless. If I didn’t do something, my cabin would eventually be completely flooded.

The fire inside was beginning to die down, so I first added some of the branches I’d stockpiled, then started digging a drainage channel on the windward side.

The dampness was truly unpleasant. I dug a trench about five centimeters wide on the windward side; I figured that would suffice. The trench was about ten centimeters deep at one end, which should keep the wind-driven rainwater at bay.

But just digging a trench inside wouldn’t carry the water away—it would only collect it. So, there was no choice; I had to go outside.

As soon as I opened the door, the wind flung raindrops as big as beans into my face—cold and stinging. I almost turned back. But I knew better. If I didn’t deal with the overflowing water, there would be serious trouble, more than I could bear. If the rain lasted much longer, my fire and my stockpile of dry wood would eventually be ruined—my greatest concern.

If I ran out of food, I could always find more, but if the dry wood was soaked, I would lose so much: warmth, light, hot cooked food…

So, I charged out into the rain, never looking back.

In mere seconds, the domineering rain had drenched me to the bone.

I worked quickly, wielding my Swiss Army knife as rain streamed down my hair and blurred my vision. Water in the outside ditch flowed swiftly as I finally connected the newly dug trench inside to the drainage channel outside.

Of course, this so-called drainage channel was hardly worthy of the name—it was something I had dug on previous days, almost as an afterthought. Still, I had to admire my own foresight.

Through the gaps in the branches, I linked the inside and outside trenches together. The moment they were joined, water surged out in a torrent.

“There, that's solved,” I murmured.

But to be safe from the lingering threat of persistent rain, I dug another trench on the opposite side of the cabin and connected it to the inside as well.

With that done, I didn’t linger. As I said, I hated the rain now, and hated being in it even more. I dashed back inside.

My soaked clothes clung to my skin—cold.

Without hesitation, I stripped off every wet thing and moved straight to the fire to warm my chilled body.

The weather on this island was truly perverse. The nights were usually quite cool, the afternoons unbearably hot, and when it rained, it turned cold again. Especially now, with the strong wind—though it only hit one side of the cabin, I felt drafts everywhere, and a shiver ran through me.

Facing the fire was blissful. The flames danced, radiating warmth evenly over my body. The sensation was so pleasant that I closed my eyes, savoring this marvelous comfort.

For a moment I forgot my troubles, my hunger, the storm raging outside. It felt as though I’d returned to my mother’s embrace—so warm, so safe. The crackling of the fire was music to my ears.

I was almost lulled to sleep by the comfort, but my clothes still needed drying. I found a few branches from the woodpile and propped my garments near the fire.

My movements weren’t exactly gentle, so Little Black had long since been awakened, though he didn’t bother to get up. He just lay there watching me, tail flicking, tongue occasionally licking his lips.

From his behavior, I could tell he was hungry. Though our time together hadn’t been long, I’d come to understand his little mannerisms well enough.

Today, I decided, he’d have seafood soup.

“Little Black, do you want seafood soup?” I called. Perhaps because every time I’d made his favorite fish soup before, I’d always say, “Little Black, your soup…”—just hearing the word “soup” made his ears twitch and his head shoot up.

I couldn’t help but laugh. He was as guileless as a child.

I brought out dried kelp, a small octopus, oyster meat, and sea fish—all at once. Not everything, of course; apart from the dried kelp, the others weren’t completely dry yet, not truly preserved.

They didn’t smell spoiled, just a faint hint of an off-scent. But what did it matter? With such a big pot of seafood soup, plus some leftover rabbit from yesterday—what more could one ask for?

Since I couldn’t go outside, I might as well indulge.

The skillet was already searing hot above the fire. I poured in water from my bottle; the pan hissed and steamed.

Without soaking the seafood, since it wasn’t fully dried, I tossed everything straight in.

The fire blazed, and soon the water began to boil. Tiny oysters tumbled in the bubbling broth, the little octopus drifted side to side as though alive.

After about five minutes, the unique aroma of seafood filled the air, and the broth turned a milky white.

Turning, I saw Little Black watching with a dazed look, his tongue moving even faster. Clearly, his longing for this delicious meal could not be concealed—drool was already dripping from the corner of his mouth.

Once the soup was ready and cooled slightly, I took a small portion of broth and the fish for myself, leaving the rest in front of Little Black.

He dove in like a starved beast, nearly burying his entire face in the pot. His tongue worked like a little motor, scraping the pot clean in no time. Still unsatisfied, he looked at me with pleading eyes.

Only after I presented him with a roasted rabbit leg did he finally return to his suitcase.

Lying back on my bed, I began to feel a headache coming on—dizzy, my face burning…