Page 2 of Wild Life (STEAM-y #2)

Hide the Salted Fish; A Storm is Coming

Aleki

The full moon had proven to be generous. The two baskets I had weaved from banana leaves were already filled with fish of all sizes.

My shoulders ached from spearing for longer than I could recall ever doing, and my eyes burned, in need of rest. For some reason, I wasn’t tired. My mind matched the shifting winds, restless. A storm was coming, and it would be a big one, from how still the beach air had been hours before.

I gathered my spear and baskets and trudged through the sand, making my way to the thicket ahead. I barely registered the underbrush pricking the soles of my bare feet. They bore years of scar tissue to pad my discomfort.

As easy as it would have been to use a net for fishing instead of spearing, I opted for the more cumbersome option because it exercised my mind through strategy, anticipation, exhilaration for my success, loss for my failure, and mourning for the life that perished for my survival.

The moon was bright enough that I didn’t need to bother with a torch in hand to light my way.

Branches and thorns whipped my broad shoulders, but I had grown accustomed to their lashes, too. I had been much smaller when I’d first landed on this island and had been able to weave through the trees unscathed. Over time, both the jungle trees and my body had grown unapologetically large, as if fighting for dominance over each other. I was one man, alone in this wild place, among many trees. Most days, I was fighting a losing battle. Yet, somehow, I was still here, nearly twenty-four years later.

How did a ten-year-old boy retain a sense of time after being shipwrecked on a deserted island without a watch, a calendar, or the guidance of his parents? By carving tallies into trees.

I passed the grove of barks that bore witness to my solitude, each covered in grooves as if infested with termites. Eight thousand eight hundred and ninety-one ticks—one for every sunset I had seen. The gashes varied: some were deep because they had been carved in anger; some were shallow because there hadn’t been hardly enough time in the day to waste recording the date. And some ticks, especially the earlier ones, held traces of the tears that had fallen from my face as I mourned my parents. These marks were the only evidence of my history.

I slowed my stride as a deep grunt sounded from beyond the trees. Leaves rustled violently, warning me that I had company. Frenzied wheezes grew louder as the source neared. I braced myself for an attack.

Swift like a lightning bolt, a giant ball of fur barreled into my shins, nearly knocking me over. I crouched to the ground to welcome my visitor.

“Nice to see you, too, Poaka,” I said, rubbing behind his floppy ear, which elicited a delighted wriggle out of him. For a hefty adult pig, he sure did act like a baby.

It had been many lifetimes ago when Poaka had first approached me one night when I had been trying to assemble a tent, and he had never left my side since. He was my only friend and confidant who never abandoned me—except to forage for mushrooms.

I ran my hand under his belly, measuring how full it was. “Looks like I wasn’t the only one who was successful in my catch. Hope you left some mushrooms for me.”

Poaka rocked on his hooved toes impatiently before shoving his hairy face into one of the baskets. His eager nose huffed at the pile of fresh fish.

I patted his head, then stood up and gathered my catch. “Not yet. Got to clean them first.”

Together, we made our way back to the hut. The four-walled cube covered with a triangular roof made of mud, wood, and palm fronds seemed humble at first glance, but it was ample in terms of shelter. I had built it from the ground up with my own two hands. It had taken years of trial and error and many unsuccessful attempts before I created a dwelling strong enough to shield Poaka and me from the rainstorms and heat.

Over the years, I had collected various materials that had washed ashore, like teak wood and plastic ship sidings, and added them to the structure. And what I had eventually ended up with was a solid hut with stairs below the modest front deck. It was completely furnished inside with a bed, one sitting chair, and a dining table, all made by me. They weren’t beautiful to the eye, but they were sturdy enough for my needs.

There was also plenty of room to store my father’s collection of books that had washed up, completely safe and dry in the trunk it had originally been packed into. I had studied every word within the collection, particularly the hefty dictionary, learning each one’s meaning and practicing its pronunciation . Ironically, that had been a difficult word for me to learn to say correctly. I still wasn’t sure I had it right, but there was no one around to correct me.

As good of a friend as Poaka was, English certainly wasn’t his strong point—granted, he understood much of what I said to him.

I started a fire in the pit and got to work on the already gutted and descaled fish. Poaka danced around me, kicking his hooves excitedly as I extracted a few bony spines that I had saved for him. He chomped on them, grunting his appreciation between bites.

Working like a one-man assembly line, I set to curing. Using salt I had boiled out of seawater, I smeared a generous amount inside of each fish, as well as on the body, before resting the prepared ones in a basket filled with more salt.

Fresh seafood was more delicious, but it spoiled too quickly in the humidity and attracted pesky flies. Curing was the only way to prevent a large catch like this from going bad. My supply had run out, and this batch would last me another month, provided hunting went smoothly, too.

I covered the basket with more banana leaves, then wrapped a scrap of a plastic tarp over the top—another thing from my collection of items washed ashore—and lowered the bundle into a hole in the ground. The basket had small gaps that would help to drain the water drawn out by the salt. The tarp over the top and sides would help keep the fish clean from any ground matter. I covered everything with dirt and packed it tightly to protect it from the expected rainfall. I’d check on it again after the rain passed.

Poaka rolled onto his side and let out a sharp grunt. He was tired, and I couldn’t blame him. On most evenings, I fell asleep soon after the sun set, but tonight, my body had been too restless to stay still. However, I could feel myself slowing down. “Alright. Let’s go to sleep.”

I washed my hands with the rainwater I had collected in the barrel next to the hut. I had engineered a system to rig an outside shower made of old tubing that I had found, but I was too exhausted to use it now.

The cool water was the perfect relief as I splashed it onto my face, sighing at the tiny rivulets that dripped down my beard. I kept my facial hair short to avoid bugs and other particles from getting caught in it. It was uncomfortable to have little things crawling around your face especially when body hair grew like weeds in the humid weather.

I slurped some water into my mouth and swished it around, then spit it out and grabbed a twig from the collection I had left on the side of the water barrel. I chewed on it, making sure to touch each tooth. The ritual reminded me of brushing my teeth with Ma every night before bed. Round and round and up and down . My chest still ached for her as if she had died yesterday.

I tossed the stick into the pit and put the fire out. Poaka trotted by my feet as we made our way to the hammock strung up between two trees. I usually slept inside the hut, but the air was different, and something about it beckoned me. I would stay out until the rain started before moving inside.

I helped my buddy up into the heavily reinforced sling, and he curled into my underarm, nuzzling my side.

I chuckled. “Okay, I’ll sing your song.” He loved when I sang him the lullaby Ma had always sung to me. Every time I recited the words, I felt closer to her, if just for a moment.

“Close your eyes, child.

Let the winds be and the stars shine.

In your dream, your hand will find mine.

The splendor we’ll see.

Sleep, my boy, and fly free with me.”

Poaka’s breathing slowed to a steady snoring, and I exhaled deeply, allowing my aching limbs a chance to relax.

The moon was certainly brighter than I’d ever seen it, despite the storm clouds hovering nearby, ready to stifle its brilliance. I rarely found time to enjoy nature. My day was filled with chores to keep the pig and myself alive to see another sunrise.

However, I couldn’t help but savor the fleeting peace of the rustling leaves and the fragrant jungle air.

My eyelids drooped, yet I was aware that I should move us to shelter. Perhaps I could wait a little longer.