Day Fifty-Three: Relentless and Unceasing (Part One)

I can no longer recall exactly when I fell asleep last night. Through the entire night, I hardly slept at all, repeatedly awakened by the thunder and rain, but in the end, exhaustion overcame me and I drifted off. So many times I woke and slept again, until my head now feels as though it’s being pricked by needles, my eyelids heavy and reluctant to open.

Outside, the wind and rain still rage, the little hut shudders, and the creaking noises repeat in an endless cycle. Strangely, come daylight, much of my fear and anxiety have faded; they are nothing like the overwhelming terror of the night. It’s almost laughable: last night, when a stick in the fire snapped with a sharp crack, I was so startled I nearly lost my mind.

It isn’t that I lack courage, but rather that the sense of helplessness, loneliness, and fear is so much more intense at night. To survive here, I must rely on myself, making every step count; any small mistake could cost me my life. With no one to consult, every decision falls to me alone, and so each one is made with great difficulty.

My treehouse hasn’t turned out as well as I’d hoped. A night of storm and rain soaked several parts of it. The small branches I wedged in yesterday were blown out by the gale, and even the vines that held them in place had snapped.

Now, two things worry me. First, the leaking has worsened—two walls in the upper level where I sleep have begun to let water in. It’s not much yet, just enough to dampen the bedding a bit, but if it continues, by nightfall my bedding will be completely soaked.

Suddenly, a dreadful thought flashes through my mind: if the upper level is being penetrated by wind and rain, what about the fire on the lower level?

My heart leaps in alarm. The fire is vital to me—I can’t afford for anything to happen to it. I rush downstairs. Thankfully, the fire is still burning. Though not blazing, the embers are alive and strong. I quickly add more twigs and branches, coaxing the flames higher.

The rain is definitely intruding, running down two of the walls without pause. The corner where I keep my stash of wood is now claimed by a pool of water.

Outside, the storm shows no sign of letting up; if anything, it’s fiercer than last night. The wind tries to rip the roof away, intending to flood the entire hut, its force pressing down with relentless creaks and groans. Peering through the door’s crack, I see a white blur in the distance, green leaves swirling madly, while branches on the nearby trees crash and jostle each other in the gale.

This storm is unlike any I’ve seen before on this island—more savage, more merciless. I can’t imagine what I’d do if this lasted three days. Or a week? The thought chills me to the bone.

I have faith that my treehouse can withstand a storm like this for now, but with the wind and rain growing stronger than last night, it’s only a matter of time before the hut succumbs. What will I do then?

Yet, in the midst of my worry, a strange feeling of relief arises. Relief! Even I find it absurd, but I can’t help it. I’m relieved, at least, that I didn’t encounter such a storm when I first arrived on the island. Back then, my so-called shelter—barely fit for a dog—would surely have been swept away by now.

Hunger returns, gnawing at me amid the thunder and lightning. I’m in better shape today than last night, so I must eat something. I have no desire for anything complicated; I just want to fill my stomach.

So I decide to make a simple dough-drop soup, adding a bit of cured meat for flavor. It’s so easy—once you’ve seen it made, you’ll never forget how. Just spoon the prepared dough into boiling water, add a few leafy greens and strips of meat, and it’s done. The only thing missing today is the greens. I’ve seen plenty of fern-like plants on the island, but I restrain myself; alone as I am, I lack both the courage and knowledge to sample unknown plants as the legendary herbalist once did. I only want to avoid starving.

I crack the last few bird eggs into a bowl and beat them well, mixing in two turtle eggs as well. When the water boils, I pour in the egg mixture. The pot, bubbling with air, suddenly forms a layer of foam as the eggs hit the surface. As the pot heats, the foam rises, and I quickly stir it down with chopsticks. Once it settles, I remove the pot from the heat.

This humble dough-drop soup is transformed by cured meat and eggs; the aroma alone tells me it will taste different.

Of course, Little Black is already sitting nearby, waiting. After I comforted him yesterday, his fear vanished and he slept soundly all night. Now, at the smell of food, he’s gone from lazy to lively in an instant.

“There’s enough for you too, what’s your hurry?” I say with a smile, teasing him. He seems to sense it, panting with his tongue out, fawning, rubbing his head against my feet, his tail wagging as usual.

“Eat up!” I say, handing him the cooled soup. He spins and pounces, lapping up the soup with eager slurps. His tail, which had been wagging, now halts the moment he starts eating—“Greedy creature,” I laugh, shaking my head.

This soup is both convenient and delicious. If I could, I’d eat it every day, but flour is in short supply. Though not as chewy as hand-pulled noodles, each bite offers the pleasure of soft, delicate dough enveloping my teeth. It’s simple, filling, and so easy to make that its convenience covers all its shortcomings.

I’m not even finished eating when I hear a sharp crack, and the small sapling serving as a wall to one side collapses backward. I leap up and rush over, hoping to keep it from falling.

Fortunately, this sapling is tied with three vines, not just one. The topmost is now snapped, but the others hold. The strain on the middle vine increases sharply, so I grab the sapling and hold it with all my strength.

Rain pours in through the breach, breaking through at last.