Within a few days, both mother and daughter had grown accustomed to moving with the women to gather food. They learned which fruits were safe, which leaves could be used for cooking, and how to carry everything efficiently in the woven baskets. The routine became natural, and slowly the girl even started pointing out edible plants on her own, her small face lighting up with pride each time.
Meanwhile, the men had been working steadily on the hut. By the end of those days, it was finally complete. The mother was amazed—not just by the speed of construction, but by the care that had gone into every detail. The roof was tightly thatched, the walls sturdy, and the interior surprisingly spacious.
The man who had first appeared at their cave—the one who had brought them fruit and meat—approached to guide them to the finished hut. She felt a surge of gratitude and instinctively bent into a deep bow, trying to show respect and thanks.
But he stopped her, placing a strong, steady hand on her shoulder before she could bend fully. Instead of any formal gesture or words, he simply smiled—a warm, reassuring smile—and gestured with his hand for them to enter.
Inside, the hut was modest but comfortable. Two beds awaited them, arranged neatly with layers of dried grass and leaves. A small table stood in the center, large enough to hold a bowl of food or other supplies. The mother let herself take a deep breath, letting the relief and gratitude wash over her.
Her daughter's eyes sparkled as she explored the space, touching the beds and the table, while the mother followed slowly, still holding the girl close. They were safe. They were cared for. And for the first time in a long while, the mother allowed herself to imagine a life that was not just about surviving—but living.
As she settled into the new hut, her mind wandered to practical matters. She looked around at the central fire the villagers used—large, open, and perfect for the clear skies—but what would happen when the rain came? The tropical storms could strike suddenly, and without shelter over the fire, cooking meat would be impossible.
Her thoughts drifted back to their cave high in the mountain, where she had fashioned a small fireplace from stones and mud. It had taken effort to build and maintain, but it had kept the fire protected from the wind and rain. Perhaps she could show the villagers a similar design—simple, functional, and adaptable. It wouldn't be permanent; it would need upkeep, but it would allow them to cook safely no matter the weather.
And then there was another matter that tugged at her mind: salt. The meat they had eaten so far had been flavorful from the wild spices and plants they used, but without salt, preservation and taste were limited. The sea was not too far away, and she remembered how easy it was to gather salt from seawater or from certain mineral deposits. If she could teach the villagers to extract and store it, their cooking—and survival—would improve drastically.
She imagined it all in her mind: a small, protected hearth in each hut or communal area, meat roasting safely even in the rain, and a modest supply of salt stored for future use. Perhaps she could start small, one hut at a time, showing the men and women how to make a simple protective circle of stones, fill it with fireproof mud, and keep a cooking fire burning safely.
Her daughter peeked at her, curiosity in her eyes. "Mom… what are you thinking?"
"Just ways to make life here a little easier, love," she whispered, brushing a strand of hair from her daughter's forehead. "We can eat safely, even when it rains, and maybe even make the food taste better."
Her heart swelled with a mix of excitement and responsibility. For the first time in weeks, she felt not just like a survivor, but like someone who could contribute, who could help this tribe grow and thrive—even if only a little at a time.
She looked around, scanning the rocky slopes of the mountain. The terrain was rough, but that meant plenty of stones—perfect for building a protected fireplace. She began gathering rocks of all sizes, dragging and carrying them toward the new hut, stacking them into a rough pile.
"Go play with the other children, Kate," she said, brushing her daughter's hair back. Kate hesitated, but then ran off toward the group of kids, chattering excitedly as they explored the village.
As she bent to lift another heavy rock, she heard a voice call out. "Kehnu!"
She froze for a moment, then turned to see him—Kehnu, the man who had first appeared outside their cave—approaching. He stopped a few steps away, eyes scanning her work with that same precise, careful gaze she had noticed before. For a moment, he simply watched, his expression unreadable.
Then, without a word, he began helping. He lifted heavy stones with ease and carried them toward the pile, arranging them almost instinctively. She blinked in surprise, unsure how to respond. Words failed her—how could she explain her gratitude, her intention, in a language she did not know?
All she could do was smile, and Kehnu nodded once, simply acknowledging her gesture. He didn't ask for thanks or explanation; he didn't seem to care. The action itself was enough. Together, silently, they worked—stone by stone, shaping the beginnings of the fireplace that would make cooking possible even when the rains came.
For the first time, she felt a flicker of reassurance. Trust, she realized, could be built through deeds as much as words.
She began her work next day early in the morning, scanning the slopes of the mountain for more suitable stones. Loose rocks were treacherous, and she moved carefully, testing each step before putting her weight down. Her arms ached from lifting, dragging, and stacking, but determination pushed her onward.
From the nearby soil, she dug mud and carefully mixed it with handfuls of sand and scraps of dry grass, creating a rough but sturdy compound. This, she thought, would help hold the stones together when building the fireplace walls.
Step by step, she shaped a low-walled structure in a corner of the hut, leaving a small fire pit in the center. She angled the walls and partially covered them so that even if rain fell, the fire would remain usable. Smoke rose gently from the pit, escaping naturally through a small gap at the top. To prevent water from pooling, she dug a tiny trench around the base, leading toward the edge of the hut, where it could drain harmlessly away.
From the shadows of nearby huts, some of the tribe members began to gather, watching curiously. A few approached, carrying stones or offering guidance with hand gestures. Kehnu came by again, lifting heavy rocks and placing them where her arms could not reach. With each stone they set together, the structure took shape, and she felt a small spark of pride—and connection.
Her daughter peeked in, wide-eyed, as the smoke spiraled upward. "Mom… it looks… strong," Kate whispered.
"Yes, love," she said, brushing ash from her hands. "We'll be able to cook safely even in the rain."
The others observed silently, occasionally pointing, nodding, or moving a stone for her. Though words were absent, a quiet understanding passed between them—this was her knowledge, her craft, brought into their world. And slowly, the hut, the hearth, and the smoke became a symbol of cooperation, bridging their two ways of life.