Over the next week, the huts filled with the smell of drying fish. Anna and several villagers carefully hung fish on sticks and twine inside their homes, spacing them just right so the warm air could circulate. Each string of fish swayed slightly above the floor, catching the light of the small fires flickering in the center of each hut.
Villagers worked together quietly, their faces bright with satisfaction. Even when a few pieces spoiled, it didn't matter—there was enough stored to feed the group through the uncertain days ahead. Laughter and conversation bubbled up as more people joined in, some adjusting the sticks, others helping tie the twine.
Kehnu checked on the hanging fish and gave Anna a brief nod, signaling his approval. She smiled back, proud that her simple experiments had grown into a practical system that the tribe not only understood but embraced.
For the first time in weeks, a sense of stability settled over the village. People moved with purpose, sharing the tasks and enjoying the small victories of survival. The drying fish weren't just food—they were proof that careful thought, teamwork, and patience could turn uncertainty into security.
Anna glanced at her daughter playing nearby, holding a tiny basket of leftover scraps, and realized that this was more than just survival. It was the start of a community learning to thrive together.
Mike returned the next day, this time carrying several more axes of different sizes and designs. Some were small, perfect for chopping kindling or smaller branches, while others were larger, meant for heavier wood or even hunting purposes. The edges were carefully flaked, sharp and sturdy, showing he had been practicing and improving his technique.
He laid them out on a flat rock near Anna's hut, his eyes bright as he gestured to each one, demonstrating how it could be held, swung, or used. Anna nodded, impressed with his dedication and skill. She translated his words for the villagers, showing them that Mike was now a useful member of the tribe, contributing in a way that could help everyone survive.
The villagers inspected the axes, tapping the edges lightly, testing weight and balance. A few younger men tried swinging the lighter ones under Mike's supervision, and a subtle approval spread through the huts.
Soon, Mike joined the men on another hunt, carrying one of the larger axes with confidence. Each day, he became more useful and more accepted, steadily earning the tribe's trust. Anna felt her shoulders relax; with Mike contributing positively, she and her daughter could feel safer, and the tribe's growing efficiency in gathering food and preparing for future rainy seasons improved.
Peace didn't last long.
The morning air was heavy and humid, the huts quiet except for the occasional cough that pierced the stillness. Anna moved carefully from one hut to another, her eyes scanning the faces of the villagers. Fevered cheeks, red eyes, shallow breathing… one by one, they were succumbing to sickness. Even Kehnu, who usually moved with quiet strength, was pale and tired, sitting against the wall of his hut.
She sank onto the floor of her own hut, breathing deeply, trying to think clearly. How could she help them? There were no pharmacies here, no antibiotics, no temperature monitors. Just herbs, clay pots, and her own careful observation. She recalled the small bundles of leaves and roots she had gathered over the weeks — some for pain, some for fevers, some for calming stomachs. She had never used them like this, not on so many people at once.
The elder woman appeared at her doorway, motioning for her to follow. Anna rose and stepped beside her, careful not to stumble over the scattered mats. The elder led her to a small corner of her hut, where bundles of dried herbs hung from the ceiling, their scents faint but sharp. She pointed to a few, nodding in a slow, deliberate way. Anna understood — this was her guide, but it was up to her to figure out how to use them.
Back in the main hut, she worked methodically. She boiled water over a small fire, crushing leaves and roots into powders and teas. She tested the temperature carefully before offering it to each villager, watching for reactions. Some accepted the cups willingly, sipping slowly. Others turned away, their pride or fear keeping them from taking help. She coaxed them gently, using the few words she knew, pointing, smiling, showing the mixture was safe.
As the day wore on, she rotated through the huts. A poultice on a fevered forehead, a weak tea for a cough, warm broth to keep bodies nourished. It was slow work. Some villagers improved slightly — the redness in their cheeks faded, the coughing eased. Others still moaned, weak and trembling. She noted each reaction, remembering which leaf seemed to soothe which symptom, which blend caused no change, which might have been too strong.
Kehnu checked on her periodically, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder, but letting her take the lead. Anna felt the weight of responsibility pressing down. She could not cure them all, not entirely, but she could give them a fighting chance. Each small improvement — a sip of tea accepted, a fever that broke, a cough that softened — was a victory.
Night came and with it a heavy silence. The villagers rested in their huts, some murmuring weakly, some asleep. Anna sat outside her hut for a while, rubbing her sore arms, her hands stained with crushed herbs, and staring at the dark forest beyond. She felt a strange mix of exhaustion and resolve. Survival here wasn't about magic or instant solutions. It was about careful observation, patience, and hope — the hope that she could guide this tribe through sickness just as she had guided them through hunger and rain.
And slowly, she realized, they were trusting her. Even in their sickness, their eyes followed her with quiet faith. That alone gave her strength to keep going.