The days when the rain eased—even for an hour—became precious.
Whenever the sky grew lighter and the dripping slowed, the cave stirred with sudden movement. The men were the first to slip outside, grabbing spears and stone tools, walking carefully along the wet mountain paths. They moved quietly, hoping to spot a small deer, a rabbit-like creature, or even a large bird. Anything was welcome now.
Most hunts ended with only a little meat, but even a small success lifted everyone's spirits.
The women used those short dry moments for gathering. They headed toward the nearby cliffs and narrow forest trails, picking fallen branches, stripping bark, and searching for fruit that hadn't been washed away. They worked fast—rain could return at any moment—and they carried everything back wrapped in leaves or balanced on their heads.
She often joined them, Kate too, both helping where they could. They learned which branches burned longer, which fruit tasted sour but safe, which vines made good rope. The women showed them how to shake water out of soaked wood and how to trim it so it could dry faster near the wall of the cave.
Sometimes, when they came back from gathering, the men were just returning too, soaked but smiling, carrying a small animal or a bundle of herbs the shaman valued. Even on days when they returned empty-handed, the tribe still greeted them warmly—failure wasn't shame here, just part of life.
Inside the cave, fires burned small and steady, fed with every bit of wood the women had brought. Smoke drifted up toward the natural cracks in the stone ceiling. People worked quietly, grateful for every scrap of food gathered under the shifting sky.
And every dry day felt like a gift—a chance to breathe, to refill their stores, to keep going until the rains truly passed.
At last, after what felt like an endless stretch of darkness and dripping stone, the monsoon ended.
The air softened. Light filtered through the trees again. The cave mouth no longer echoed with the roar of rain.
They stepped outside more often now—testing the trails, stretching their legs, feeling sunlight on their faces for the first time in many days. The world looked washed clean, every leaf shining, the earth steaming gently under the warmth.
But with the new light came something else.
Bugs.
Thousands of them.
Mosquitoes, tiny biting flies, strange winged insects that buzzed close to ears and left stinging red marks behind. The tribe barely flinched—they slapped them away, muttered something, and kept walking. But she and her daughter… they suffered.
"We need armor," Kate whispered dramatically after the tenth bite on her ankle.
They scratched, complained, tried covering themselves with cloth—but the bugs crawled under everything.
Seeing their misery, a few village women laughed softly, the patient kind of laughter that didn't mock. One of them beckoned them over and pointed to a small cluster of plants growing beside a fallen tree. The leaves were broad, smooth, with a faint strong smell.
The woman crushed a handful between her palms, and a green juice dripped out.
She rubbed it on her own arms and then gently onto Kate's.
The smell was sharp, earthy, almost minty.
Within minutes, fewer insects landed on them.
Another woman brought a clay bowl filled with mashed leaves and oil—prepared earlier, it seemed. She motioned for them to rub it along their legs, necks, and ankles. It felt cool against their irritated skin.
Kate grinned. "Finally! I'm not food anymore!"
They walked back toward the cave with the tribe, smelling strongly of the plant but blessedly bite-free. It was one more small lesson, one more piece of survival knowledge the tribe gifted them.
And as she looked at the green-stained palms of the women helping them, she felt again how deeply these people lived with the land—not fighting nature, but learning it.
With the rain finally stopping and the air settling into its warm, humid stillness, we gathered our things and began the slow walk back to the huts. The ground was still soft under our feet, the paths slippery, but compared to the storm days it felt almost peaceful.
The caves were left behind—quiet, dark, and still smelling faintly of smoke and damp furs. But they were not abandoned entirely. Many villagers pointed back toward them with excited gestures, speaking in words we were just beginning to understand.
Fermenting cave.
Or, as they called it with their unique rhythm of speech: "fruit-water cave."
It made perfect sense. Down in the cool, steady cave air, the fruit fermented evenly. No sun to spoil it, no insects to crawl inside, no sudden heat to ruin the taste. They laughed and patted the clay jars they left behind, as if the jars themselves were old friends left to quietly work.
Kate giggled.
"Mom… they have an actual juice factory."
Not far off.
As we walked the last stretch toward the hut village, I could see the huts gleaming slightly in the sunlight—still damp, but standing strong. Children ran ahead, splashing through shallow puddles. Women carried baskets of wet laundry to dry. Men examined tools and checked traps.
Life returned quickly, like the forest had exhaled.
When we stepped inside our own hut, it felt almost strange to see its familiar, simple walls again. The leaves on the floor were replaced. Someone had cleaned out the fire pit. A few clay bowls—our bowls—were stacked neatly in a corner.
Kate stretched and dropped onto the woven mat.
"Home," she whispered.
For now, at least.
Outside, a few villagers carried more clay jars up toward the hill, half-laughing as they talked about future batches of fruit water. It seemed a new tradition had quietly begun.
A fermenting cave.
Born from a season of hardship.
And somehow, we had become part of this rhythm.
The next days felt calmer. People repaired roofs, cleaned the river edges, checked the new clay bowls drying in the sun. Life slowly settled back into its usual circles.
But as we cooked our first proper meals again, something bothered me.
The food still tasted… flat.
They used herbs, leaves, roots — wonderful flavors, actually — but something was always missing. I thought about it while preparing a small pot of meat and roots for Kate and myself. And then, as I chewed the bland stew, the idea struck me hard:
Salt.