Day Forty-Four: A String of Good Fortunes (Part One)

The patter of rain throughout the night finally ceased, and the morning air was exceptionally fresh. I stood outside the treehouse, taking deep breaths, letting the cool air, tinged with the scent of earth and flowers, wash through my lungs and intoxicate my whole being.

I cherished these moments, the pause after rain, when every pore seemed to open, and even the pain from my wounds diminished. Brushing the droplets from the swing, I plopped myself onto it—one of the rare leisure moments of the day.

Last night’s lard candle hadn’t been a great success. The trouble was, once lit, the solid lard took time to melt, resulting in an insufficient supply of fuel and the candle would simply go out. However, after some of the lard had melted, this problem disappeared. To use it reliably, I’d have to melt some lard first. There was also a peculiar smell—a mingling of lard’s aroma and a burnt odor, with a bit of black smoke at the start. The first experience left much to be desired. Still, it was barely serviceable; I’d replace it with something better in the future.

On a brighter note, the snake meat I had cured was a great success. Last night, I tried steaming a few pieces atop my rice—the result was astonishingly delicious: fresh, fragrant, and wonderfully chewy, reminiscent of that rubbery fish from the sea—remarkably tasty.

As for the snake skin, I’d left it outside all day in the rain, having forgotten to bring it in. I planned to let it sun-dry a bit more, but as I passed by, a foul odor wafted over—small insects were crawling all over it.

The snake skin still had its uses, certainly not as food. I intended to fashion a holster and a belt pouch from it, so I could carry my important things at my waist. With a skin this large, I might even make a snake-skin vest. The insects, in their own way, were helping me by stripping away the residual tissue, sparing me the trouble. Once they finished, a few days of sun would do the rest, after which I could wash and sun it again, ridding it of all the rank odors and anything unpleasant.

Pleasant moments are always fleeting. The only rest I allowed myself was before the sun had fully risen. I was thoroughly fed up with the two piglets; letting them into my bedroom had been a terrible mistake, leaving the stench of pig manure throughout the room.

Today, I resolved to build them a temporary pen and end the pollution of my sleeping quarters. Constructing a pigpen wasn’t simple—they couldn’t be left in the rain, so the pen needed a roof, and it had to be sturdy enough to withstand their gnawing and rooting. The materials would be vines and branches, as I had nothing else at hand. Perhaps later, when I had the time, I’d search the boat for more suitable supplies.

But that wasn’t feasible now; my wounds weren’t healed, and I couldn’t dismantle or carry materials just yet. So, I’d have to make do with what was available and, while the weather held, drive the piglets out into the yard. I had plenty of branches, and vines were everywhere. These were my best options, and the piglets were still small—such a simple enclosure would suffice to contain them for now.

It was a straightforward fence: branches stuck about ten centimeters into the ground—easily done in the moist earth, then tamped down with my foot. I wove the vines in a serpentine pattern between the branches, binding them tightly together. I tested the result—it was very sturdy, as I had wound several layers of vine, at least five or more times around. The fence stood only about fifty centimeters high, but for now, it was escape-proof.

Though the ground was a bit damp, I had chosen this particular spot carefully—it was the only raised area in the yard and would remain above water even during heavy rain. Once I had more materials, I could reinforce the enclosure and add a small shelter or an open roof inside.

With the basic structure done, I released the piglets inside. After being cooped up in the plastic basket for so long, they burst out running as soon as I let them go, colliding with the branch fence and sending it rattling. Insects were scurrying across the damp ground, but, unfortunately for them, they ran into two hungry piglets. With a snout’s sweep and a quick snap, the insects vanished, the crunching sound marking their transformation into the piglets’ source of protein.

As long as it didn’t rain, the piglets would be fine in this makeshift pen. Dew still clung to the tender grass outside; I had thought of cutting some for them, but, fearing the wet grass might upset their stomachs, I settled for tossing in a few juicy fruits instead.

With this done, sunlight began to filter through the leaves. The piglets seemed wary of the light, but fortunately, most of the pen was shaded. That task was, for now, complete.

The wildflowers I had transplanted were mostly thriving, except for one yellow variety with a faint, cologne-like fragrance—all those had withered. The rest were bursting with life; even the leaves that had curled up two days ago were now completely unfurled. It seemed my efforts had succeeded. The little patch of flowers now perfumed the air for about five meters around; every time I passed by, the rich scent was exactly what I’d hoped for.

There was one more spot I longed to see, though I dreaded the possibility of disappointment.

Yes, my vegetable plot.

I had planted three things: seeds from a drift bottle, potatoes, and garlic. I was afraid they might all have failed, especially the potatoes—if they survived, I’d never have to worry about staple food again.

With anxious hope, I made my way to the garden.

The first thing I saw was the garlic. To my surprise, the cloves I’d planted had put out tiny green shoots. It was only a little, but it was undeniable proof of growth. With a bit more care and time, they would surely mature.

Such joy! The potatoes and the drift bottle seeds, however, showed no signs of life. Unlike the garlic, they were buried deeper. My anxiety eventually got the better of me, and I dug up one of the potatoes.

“Yes!” The potato had clearly sprouted, with two tiny leaves tightly pressed together at the tip.

Excitement! Elation! It was only natural.

I carefully reburied the potato and patted the soil down gently.

And then, the seeds from the drift bottle…