As we watched, more villagers slowly emerged from the huts. A small group of children, their feet bare and faces streaked with dirt from the storm, giggled quietly as they approached the fire. A few adults followed, some elderly with bent backs, some middle-aged, moving carefully over the uneven ground.
They didn't approach too close at first, simply forming a loose circle around the fire, some sitting directly on the ground, others on logs or flat stones. Their movements were deliberate, unhurried, as if nothing could be rushed in this small, self-contained community.
The villagers began sharing what they had: chunks of fruit, roasted meat, and small bowls of something that smelled earthy and sweet. They handed items to each other with long, thin sticks—roughly carved, yet functioning like chopsticks—and each exchange was accompanied by soft murmurs, laughter, and occasional gestures.
I observed closely. No one rushed us, no one stared aggressively. Their eyes flickered toward us, curious, but not threatening. I tightened my hold on my daughter, who sat silently beside me, still tense but watching in fascination.
The old woman who had first approached us leaned slightly forward, gesturing toward the shared food, then to us. I understood her meaning: eat, share, belong here for now.
Carefully, I picked a small piece of fruit and handed it to my daughter. She hesitated for a moment, then bit into it, eyes widening at the sweetness. I tasted a piece myself—ripe, juicy, and a reminder of the rare abundance of this tropical mountain.
A middle-aged man offered me a bowl with the roasted meat, gesturing for me to try it. I nodded and took a small piece, chewing slowly, grateful that it was safe and cooked. My daughter peeked at it curiously, and I gave her another small bite.
As the villagers continued their quiet, rhythmic sharing, I began to notice subtle patterns in their conversation. They didn't speak our language, but their gestures, expressions, and tone conveyed a surprising clarity. Laughter meant play, pointing meant attention, and the way they handed food showed care.
For a long while, we simply observed and accepted the offerings. The children nudged each other, whispering in their language, occasionally peeking at us and giggling. The elders murmured to each other, their eyes never leaving us, protective yet gentle.
In that moment, surrounded by firelight, the smell of roasted meat and tropical fruit, and the quiet chatter of people living in harmony with the mountain, I realized something important. For the first time in days, I felt a small, cautious hope.
We were alive. We were safe. And maybe—just maybe—we were not entirely alone.
After they ate, the old lady motioned toward the largest hut in the circle. She went inside and returned with something resembling a scroll. She held it out for us to see. The surface was covered with primitive drawings, but the story was clear. It depicted people on a beach, then climbing a mountain, and finally a massive wave crashing down. There were groups of figures—some fighting, some fleeing, some falling.
I stood there, holding the scroll carefully. My eyes traced the crude lines, trying to make sense of it. Was this a record of what had already happened, or a warning of what might come? The scenes mirrored what my daughter and I had lived through—or what I had dreamed. My pulse quickened. Could these people have survived a similar disaster? Or was this an ancient story of a catastrophe long ago?
The old lady pointed to various figures on the scroll and then at us. Her words were incomprehensible, but her gestures conveyed urgency, importance. Even without understanding her language, the message was clear: she wanted us to grasp the meaning of these drawings.
I glanced at my daughter. She clutched my arm, wide-eyed and silent. The story on the scroll connected us—strangers brought together by echoes of a shared experience. Somehow, these people understood the danger, the struggle, the path to survival.
The villagers leaned closer, pointing out details—the climb up the mountain, the wave consuming the land, the people fighting and fleeing. I followed their gestures, trying to piece together the story. Was it their history? A prophecy? Or guidance for us?
I traced the sequence with my finger—beach, mountain, wave—and a chilling realization struck me. This was real. Someone had endured what we were facing now. Perhaps, if we learned from them, we could survive too.
The old woman guided us into the largest hut, the daughter clinging to my side. Inside, the space was dim but filled with fascinating sights—scrolls and paintings hung from the walls, each covered in primitive drawings. Despite their simplicity, the stories were clear: these people had survived events remarkably similar to what my daughter and I had endured.
It became obvious that this history wasn't just about a single event. Generations before, perhaps even several, had faced the same trials—waking up on a beach, struggling to survive, and splitting into different groups. The ones who had endured, or whose descendants had endured, were this group.
I moved slowly through the hut, studying each scroll, tracing the lines with my eyes. How had they survived here, without modern tools, without anyone searching for them? How many hardships had their ancestors faced to keep this knowledge alive? My mind buzzed with questions, but for now, language stood as a wall I couldn't cross.
Still, amidst the curiosity and awe, I felt a cautious sense of safety. This place, these people, had endured. Perhaps, if we stayed and learned, we could understand their history and methods. More importantly, we could learn to communicate, to piece together the meanings of these images, and ensure that we—and my daughter—could survive in this transformed world.
For the first time in a long while, I felt that maybe we weren't alone. Maybe here, in this hut, we could find guidance, protection, and the knowledge to carry on.
The old woman smiled gently at us and led us out of the giant hut. Her voice was soft, almost soothing, though we couldn't understand the words. Step by step, she guided us to another smaller hut nearby. Inside, she showed us the simple wooden beds, a crude table, and bowls filled with fresh fruit. Her gestures were clear—this space was for us.
I understood. She wanted us to use it. I sat down on one of the beds, and my daughter clung to me, her small face pressed against my chest. "Mom, are we safe now?" she whispered.
I hugged her tightly, pushing down my own lingering fear. "Yes, Kate, love. We are safe. You can rest here now."
For the first time in days, we allowed ourselves to settle. We rested in the hut, feeling a small measure of safety that had been absent for so long. There were no signs of aggression from the villagers, and we slept more soundly than we had in days. I still kept my crude spear close, my body tense with caution, but it was a lighter vigilance. For the first time in what felt like forever, we could breathe, if only a little, and rest.