On the fifty-eighth day, the house was repaired and reinforced. (An additional chapter for Yunqi Youran)

These past few days have been spent in constant activity, and the fair weather almost made me forget the need to repair and reinforce my house. The main reason, of course, is that the house, though battered by the recent storm, had suffered no fatal damage. Yet when I saw, just last night, that fallen tree trunk—still fastened to the wall with vines—I began to plan in earnest to strengthen the treehouse as soon as possible.

I have no idea when the next storm will return. Perhaps tomorrow? The day after? Or even tonight? I do not know, but I must prepare in advance. My food reserves are still a far cry from my expectations, but what I lack most at present is time and energy—an unavoidable reality. Every choice leaves something unattended; I can only do what seems most important at any given moment.

Life is more comfortable now than in those early days when I first arrived on the island. The pressure is not as great, so my daily schedule is not as meticulously planned. I simply do whatever comes to mind, taking a rather casual approach.

Because of this, many plans still linger unfinished in my thoughts: exploring the island, searching for new food sources, looking for traces of human activity, stockpiling seafood. These all remain on my list of unfinished tasks. Even the method for refining salt has taken shape in my imagination. I sometimes picture myself finding large boulders to build a real house or crafting a more perfect treehouse from stone, but time does not permit such luxuries. Every day is spent tending to the essentials.

I have often contemplated cutting down the branches on the large tree by the treehouse. If I did, the tree would sway less violently in storms. But those branches are thicker than my thigh, and the mere sight of them makes me hesitate; I doubt I could manage to cut them all even if I had a week to spare.

So all I can do is reinforce my dwelling. I brought out the many dried vines stored on the lower level of the treehouse and used them to bind the fallen trunk firmly in place. Then, I reinforced all the walls with another layer of vines.

But this was only the beginning—my plans for reinforcement are far from simple. I would need many more materials, so today would certainly be a busy day.

Breakfast was, once again, flour dumplings. The reason is simple: convenience. If I hadn’t needed so much strength for today’s work, I might have settled for fruit as my morning meal.

After breakfast, Little Black dashed out of the yard and disappeared from sight. I have no wish to confine him—he needs his freedom, so I let him roam as he pleases.

As I have described before, I climb coconut trees using a vine ring. By tightening the ring around my body, I can ascend slowly, pausing to rest whenever needed. It is slower than free climbing, but much less strenuous.

I was not after coconuts. I had eaten so many when I first arrived that I’d grown tired of their taste. Today, I needed a great many coconut leaves. With the aid of the fire axe, lopping off the leaves was much easier—two strikes on average and a frond would fall.

All morning I hacked at the coconut leaves, only stopping when the sun hung directly overhead. To say I wasn’t tired would be a lie. My hands were so sore I could barely lift them, trembling even when empty, and my neck ached terribly. Chopping leaves overhead is no easy task—I managed at first, but soon even my shoulders were burning with fatigue.

I knew I needed to rest. From the pot beneath the treehouse, I filled a bottle with boiled water, lit a cigarette at the fire, and settled on the swing beneath the shade of the trees. I kicked off the ground, sending the swing gently rocking. After gulping down several mouthfuls of water, I took a long drag of the cigarette, exhaling thin streams of smoke that calmed me and brought a certain pleasure, tinged with bitterness and its unique aroma.

A single cigarette later, I felt my exhaustion ease a little—though I am unsure if it was real or just in my mind. I used to smoke back home, but since coming here, I’ve tried hard to curb my cravings, fearing that if I indulged too freely, I’d quickly run out and suffer all the more when the supply was gone.

I must have rested for about an hour, though it was hardly enough. In weather like this, a nap would have been ideal, but I still had work to do. I dragged all the coconut leaves back to the house—there were many, and they would be invaluable for the new outer walls I planned to build.

But it was not as simple as tying the leaves to the walls. I gathered some dry branches from the lower level of the treehouse and, together with the coconut leaves and vines, I used the branches as a framework. I layered leaves on both sides, binding everything tightly with vines, and affixed these panels to the walls. Though they could not cover every surface, they would add a waterproof barrier and an extra layer of protection.

I also cut down several small trees to serve as supports for the new outer wall. With these added to the supports already in place, the treehouse would be anchored even more securely. Last time, I merely propped the base of each supporting tree on the ground, but this time I set them into deep pre-dug holes, packing earth and stones around them and tamping the ground firmly. Now, at least, they would not shift.

At last, I could catch my breath. Now, eight small trees supported the four sides of the treehouse—two per wall. The stability of the house had surely improved.

I checked as well the connections to the large tree. Thanks to the ropes, there was no sign of wear and tear as there used to be with vines; ropes are much stronger and more durable.

When all was done, hunger crept in. Luckily, I still had honeycomb to enjoy—both yesterday’s comb, pressed for honey, and a remaining piece heavy with pollen and honey.

Sitting at the treehouse door, bowl in hand, I savored the sweet treat in perfect contentment, unable to keep from smiling. The honeycomb, like chewing gum, left my jaw tired after a while. The piece with pollen was soon gone, and I continued to chew on the comb I’d squeezed honey from the day before; there was still some honey left in it, making it delicious in its own right.

The leftover bits of honeycomb I spat out at my feet, like scattered little mothballs dotting the ground.

At some point, gazing at the pile of remnants, a thought occurred to me—could these scraps be put to use? Might I try making beeswax? If it worked, it would be a windfall, opening up all sorts of possibilities for me.