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.
6
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.
It is not until I am directly upon the fire that I realize it is my Har-loh.
She has fallen asleep sitting up, a stick in her hand as if she drowsed while poking the fire. Strips of meat are spread atop the surfaces of many rocks and hung carefully from the shaft of her spear high above the flames. There is a great deal of meat, and all of it smells good. A short distance from the fire, however, I see crabs and crawlers and all kinds of things waiting to snatch a bite. That must be why she has stayed out here.
Her eyes do not open when I approach, nor when I set my two kills down. Her face is drawn, with dark circles smudging her face. She is dirty, too. Dried blood crusts her clothing and there are rings of grime underneath her nails and smears of blood on her face. This is not like my Har-loh. She loves to be clean. It was one of the first things she taught me, and she is always quick to bathe.
Why has she not bathed now? Is she injured?
Worried, I drop to my knees at her side and study her face. Her speckles are as bright as ever. That is a good sign, I think. But she is thin, and I do not like how she has not roused even though I am in camp, making noise. "Har-loh," I murmur, brushing my fingers over her cheek to wake her. "Har-loh."
She jerks awake with a funny little snort, her eyes unfocused. Her gaze settles on me, and her mouth parts in surprise. "Rukh. Yerbak." Then, she bursts into noisy tears. "Wydijooleaf me?"
"Har-loh?" I caress her cheek, worried. She weeps at the sight of me? Is she tired of having me for a mate because I cannot provide enough for her? The thought is like a blow to the chest, and I suck in a miserable breath. I wish I had the words to ask what is wrong, but all I can offer is a simple one. "No?"