As the days passed in the damp cave, she began to notice the subtle signs of trouble. Fruits that had seemed fresh a day before now smelled faintly sour, their skins softening under her fingers. Tubers and roots, left carelessly on the large leaves she had gathered from the forest floor, started to sprout small shoots or darken at the edges. Even the smoked meat, once a small luxury, began to smell faintly of decay in the humid air.
She sat on a stone, watching her daughter play near the cave entrance, and sighed. "If we don't do something soon," she murmured to herself, "we'll have nothing when the next rain comes." Her mind raced through memories of survival manuals, her own experience in the wild, and her careful observations of the tribe's methods.
Her gaze drifted over the rough walls of the cave. They were solid, cool, and shaded from the sun. Perfect. She could carve shallow shelves into the stone, she realized, creating dedicated spaces for fruits, roots, and preserved meat. The air would circulate between them, and they would be off the damp floor.
But even as the idea formed, she knew the limitations. She had no idea how long she would stay here, and venturing through the jungle was still too dangerous—not with a small child, and not knowing the lay of the land. The tribe's caves were far safer than the wild forest. Any journey without knowing the trails, the hazards, and the predators would be foolish.
Her thoughts grew practical. Perhaps she could build hanging storage too, she mused, using vines and baskets. She could wrap roots in large leaves, stack fruits carefully, and even use small fired clay pots for water and nuts once she had more reliable pottery. Each storage method would help ensure that, even if the next rains came and kept them trapped in the cave, they would have something to eat.
She set to work immediately. Gathering a few sturdy branches and long, flat stones from the slopes outside, she began constructing the first crude shelves against the cave wall. Her daughter watched curiously, picking up small stones and mimicking her movements. Sweat beaded on her forehead as she worked, careful to carve shallow depressions in the stone and secure each shelf with mud and clay as adhesive.
By the time the sun began to drop behind the mountains, several small platforms were completed. She arranged the remaining food carefully—roots and tubers on the lowest, fruits on middle shelves, small bundles of dried meat on the uppermost shelf, out of reach of curious hands and potential pests.
As she stepped back, her chest heavy but proud, she realized she was thinking beyond survival. She was planning for months ahead, for rainy days she might not yet live through. And in this quiet moment, she allowed herself a small breath of relief: in this high cave, she and her daughter would at least have a fighting chance.
Over the next few days, she worked steadily, carving more shelves into the cave walls and reinforcing them with mud, stones, and dried vines. Each shelf was carefully organized: fruits on top, tubers and roots in the middle, small bundles of smoked meat on the higher ledges where the cool air would help preserve them. Her daughter, Kate, helped in small ways—handing her stones, pressing mud to secure edges, and occasionally stacking leaves for padding.
Every time she finished a section, she would step back and study her work. "We're making it a proper home, Kate," she said, smiling down at her daughter. "A place where we can stay safe, and where our food will last longer."
Kate nodded, excitement lighting her eyes. "Can I put the berries here, Mom?" she asked, pointing to a small ledge.
"Of course, love," she replied, letting her daughter place the fruit carefully. "Every little bit helps."
The cave slowly transformed. It was still primitive, but the shelves and organized storage made it feel more secure. They could see exactly what they had, and even a small routine began to form: checking the shelves, rotating food, and carefully rationing what they used each day.
One evening, as the last light of the sun touched the mountain peaks, she sat on a ledge and watched Kate arrange small fruits and roots. She realized that beyond survival, this was a lesson for both of them: patience, planning, and preparation. And in the quiet, she felt a small warmth of hope—here, in this high cave, they were building not just safety, but a home.
As she worked, the other villagers watched closely. Some, inspired by her organization, started carving small shelves of their own, though clumsily at first. She noticed some digging too deep or too hastily and quickly realized the cave walls could weaken if overdone.
"We need support," she muttered to herself, gathering long, sturdy sticks from nearby trees. She began placing them vertically along the walls, wedging them carefully under ledges, and weaving smaller sticks horizontally around the shelves for extra stability. Mud and clay filled gaps to keep everything snug.
She gestured to the villagers, demonstrating how to reinforce their own shelves. They hesitated at first but quickly mimicked her movements, placing sticks and weaving them around their own crude storage spaces.
Kehnu came by, observing, and gave a quiet nod of approval. He even helped slide a larger stick into place for her, his hands steady and strong. Though she couldn't say "thank you" in words, she smiled, and he simply nodded, returning to his own tasks.
By evening, the cave looked more organized and sturdy than ever. Shelves were reinforced, food was elevated safely off the floor, and everyone seemed to understand the importance of balance between storage and support. Kate clapped her hands, delighted with the neat rows of fruits, roots, and dried meat.
"See, love? Now our food won't fall or rot so fast," she whispered, ruffling her daughter's damp hair. Kate smiled, proud of their small but meaningful achievement.