Day Forty-Two: Buy One, Get Two Free

"Damn it! Will this ever end?" I cursed under my breath after being woken up for the Nth time.

Fortunately, I had treated my wounds very promptly yesterday. I used boiled water with a bit of salt to wash my badly injured left hand, as well as my chest and back, several times over. Maybe I had added too much salt, because when it touched the wounds, the pain nearly made me faint—it was every bit as excruciating as being bitten by the wild boar in the first place.

My teeth clenched so tightly they ground against each other, but there was no other way. If my wounds became infected in an environment like this, I would likely die. I was unwilling to give in, so I could only grit my teeth and endure.

After washing the wounds, I sprinkled some of the white medicinal powder I’d found in the crew’s cabin evenly over the injuries on my left hand and chest. I also poured some into my right palm and smeared it across my back. The medicine didn’t sting much, but it did leave a fiery, burning sensation. I’d used this remedy many times before—it was a staple back home—so I applied it without hesitation.

Apart from the wound on my back, all my other injuries were punctures from the wild boar’s teeth. My left arm was utterly useless now, covered in deep purple bruises. Even recalling the scene makes me shiver—the pain was a hundred times worse than pinching the tender flesh of your inner thigh.

I have no idea how long it will take for my left hand to recover. All I can hope for now is that the wounds won’t become infected. I also hope the wild boar wasn’t carrying rabies; I remember reading that most mammals can carry the rabies virus.

But that’s a concern for another day. For now, I must survive the threat of infection.

As it stands, I’ve been rather lucky. After a whole night, the bite wounds on my chest and left arm have already scabbed over. There’s still pain, of course, and a bit of swelling, but no signs of pus or festering.

This cheered me up considerably, and the anger from being woken faded away somewhat.

The culprits making so much noise were two little wild boars.

When I returned yesterday, Blackie discovered them. They must be the piglets of the wild boar that attacked me. They’d been hiding in the nearby bushes and were chased out by Blackie.

The two piglets were still very young, probably just weaned. Their bumbling, adorable appearance actually made me quite fond of them. But I was too exhausted yesterday, with too much to do, so I simply tied them outside the door with vines. But from the early hours of dawn, they’d been raising a constant racket.

Maybe they were hungry? I guessed as much.

Sure enough, when I walked over to them, they pressed their long snouts insistently against my feet.

“Alright,” I muttered—clearly, they were starving. I went back inside, grabbed some fruit, and gave it to them. It was gone in no time. Shaking my head, I fetched another big handful.

Their slender bodies were covered in striped markings, and they munched away with relish. Compared to their mother, these two were irresistibly cute.

I’ll need to find time to make them a little nest...

Today was another fine day. Though my left hand was still far from healed, there was much to be done.

The wild boar carcass I’d dragged back yesterday was still untouched and needed to be dealt with quickly before it spoiled.

I untied the boar hanging from the big tree. Blackie, seeing I was about to start, leapt and bounded about in excitement, as if he’d soon be enjoying a feast.

The first step was to boil water for scalding; only after several rounds could I conveniently scrape off the bristly hairs.

I dragged the boar outside the yard, scalded it with boiling water several times, then used a knife to easily scrape off most of the hair.

After more than an hour, I’d dismembered the entire animal. Maybe because I hadn’t bled it properly, the meat was dark red and a bit tough, but I couldn’t be fussy.

Then, with my gun slung over my shoulder and Blackie at my side, I loaded the pork into a plastic crate and hauled it down to the river to wash.

Washing the meat was far more laborious than I’d imagined, especially with only one working hand. It took nearly two hours.

The intestines, large and small, were particularly troublesome. I had to use up some of my precious salt, scrubbing and rinsing them thoroughly. It pained me to waste the salt, but if I wanted to preserve the pork properly, I had no choice.

Back in the treehouse, I knew time was of the essence. Blackie kept sniffing around the pork, and honestly, I was desperate for a taste myself.

I cut about five pounds of pork into cubes, threw them in the pot with plenty of water, and set it over the fire.

While the pork simmered, I began chopping meat for sausage filling. With so much pork, there was no way Blackie and I could eat it all before it spoiled. Making sausages was the best way I could think of to preserve the meat for longer.

But I quickly hit a snag: I had no funnel. Stuffing the meat in by hand was far too slow.

As I paced back and forth, pondering the problem, I spotted an old plastic bottle I’d found by the sea long ago and almost forgotten about. With that, the issue was solved.

I cut the bottle in two with my knife, inverted the top half, and—voila—a funnel.

Suddenly, the job became much simpler. I tied off one end of the pig’s small intestine with dried grass, attached the other to my makeshift funnel, and filled it with the meat mixture, already seasoned with sugar, salt, and soy sauce.

I would have liked to add spices like fennel, chili, or green onions, but I had none.

Soon, the small intestine was stuffed full, and the rest was even easier. I tied the sausage at intervals to create links, then hung them from the eaves of the treehouse.

Meanwhile, the pork in the pot had cooked until it was perfectly tender, its aroma filling my lungs with every breath.

After skimming off the scum and foam, I was rewarded with a pot full of beautiful meat.

This pork was nothing like rabbit—rabbit has scarcely any fat, but pork, after cooking, leaves a layer of fat floating atop the broth, and the fragrance is so much richer.

Blackie was beside himself with excitement. He reared up, supporting himself on my leg and stretching his neck to peer into the pot.

Amused by his impatience, I shook my head, picked up my chopsticks, and fished out a piece of pork. Poking it, I saw the fat ooze out, the chopsticks sinking in easily.

“It’s ready!” I divided the meat into two portions, setting the larger one in front of Blackie. The meat was still a bit hot, so he sniffed at it, didn’t gulp it down immediately, but circled anxiously, gazing at me pleadingly for help.

Tonight’s dinner was truly memorable—it had nearly cost me my life! I felt as if I’d almost forgotten the taste of pork. Though I hadn’t added any spices and only dipped my meat in soy sauce, it was still unimaginably delicious.

Before bed, I kept back one piece of pork and hung the rest over the fire, hoping to smoke it for preservation.

Lastly, I simmered the remaining piece of pork with the pig’s head, intestines, liver, and other organs.

Otherwise, by tomorrow they’d surely be spoiled.

Once cooked, they should keep until tomorrow.

As for the two piglets, I untied them, placed them in a plastic crate, covered it with a wooden board, and slid it into the treehouse…