Day Sixty-Six: Food Delivered to the Doorstep, Part One

I knew the rain would not stop so quickly. Fortunately, the wind had died down a little, and that was some comfort.

The lower level of the treehouse had already taken in a great deal of water. Though the treehouse was still fairly sturdy, it could not hold back these days of relentless wind and rain. Still, there was one more line of defense inside. Any rainwater that surged in was guided away by a small drainage channel, so it did not all pour in.

The upper level was not so fortunate. Water had gotten in, and because it ran so quickly across the wood, I had to move the grain to several different spots. Even so, the effect was not very good. More and more places began to seep, and even the bedding I had laid down was soaked through in a large patch by the trickling rainwater. Fortunately, I discovered it in time; the top quilt was still dry. After that, I could only carry the dry one down as well.

Little Black had made a good choice too. Its nest was in an open suitcase, so no matter how much water seeped in here, its bed remained completely unaffected. There it was now, lying comfortably in its nest, asleep.

Perhaps it would not be long before the grain was also dampened by the seepage. After thinking it over, I had no choice but to haul all of the grain, sack by sack, down to the lower level of the treehouse. I cleared out a patch of open ground beside the pile of firewood and moved everything there. Dozens of trips nearly exhausted me.

You have to understand, even though my cold was a little better than yesterday, I was still sick, and I was worried it might get worse. But there was no help for it. If I did not move the grain down and it got wet, I would never be able to bear the consequences myself. Such a huge stockpile was enough to feed me for a year. It was the most valuable thing I had right now.

Once I was done, I noticed a benefit I had not expected: the blocked nostril that had been bothering me had somehow cleared up like magic, and I instantly felt much better. Of course, that was the extent of the benefit. My arms, legs, and feet ached terribly, especially my hands. I had no strength left at all; I could not even clench my fist. I simply collapsed onto the floor by the fire and did not want to move another inch.

This time, though, I was not thinking of sleeping. I only wanted to recover a little strength. I was truly exhausted.

I had not rested for long when a wave of dust and ash blew toward me. No need to guess—it had to be Little Black. Its tail must have swept up the dust beside the fire.

"Ugh, cough, cough."

The smoke choked me into several fits of coughing, and I had to shake my head and sit up. This fellow never came without trouble. He must have been hungry and come looking for food. After eating nothing but fruit for so many meals, he was probably sick of it too. Yesterday's flatbreads were still hanging from the vine above the fire, drying there. When I made them yesterday, he had not come, so I had not given him any.

But since he was here, I might as well give him two flatbreads. I also wanted to see how they had turned out, whether they had dried properly after hanging over the fire for so long.

After untying the vine, I took one flatbread down, and the moment I held it, I was slightly surprised. Corn flatbread was naturally rather hard; I knew that. Yesterday, when it was still warm, it had been acceptable to eat, but now that I had it in my hand, it was extremely hard, as though it had been baked in an oven. If used to strike pots and bowls, it would probably produce a fine melody.

Hard. Truly hard.

I broke off a piece and tried a bite. The taste was still all right, a little like a dried flatbread that had been left out in the air for a long time. Even so, once I chewed it properly, it was not bad at all. Unfortunately, I was a bit congested, and I could not even tell whether it had any saltiness. All I could say was that the texture was still acceptable.

Afraid Little Black might not like it, I tossed two pieces over first and, while I was at it, set out a bowl of plain boiled water for it. If it ate both pieces, it would surely get thirsty.

Unexpectedly, Little Black loved the flatbread. Perhaps that was part of why it had survived in the first place: it was not picky. In my view, it would eat anything, and it ate with obvious relish. It pinned the corn flatbread under its forepaws, tore at it with its mouth, chewed a few times, and swallowed. The whole motion flowed without a pause. In about a minute, the two flatbreads were gone.

As expected, it did not come asking me for more. Instead, it immediately rushed to the bowl of water I had prepared for it, lapping it up with a flickering tongue until the bowl was empty. Then it came back to my feet and looked at me pleadingly, asking for more.

Helpless, and worried it would drink too much and feel bloated, I only gave it one piece. It never relieved itself inside the treehouse, and during these rainy days it had been holding it in the whole time. Later, when the rain let up a bit, I planned to let it go outside and relieve itself. After all, holding it for too long was not good.

After preparing another half bowl of water for it, I began eating the flatbread as well. I do not know whether it was because I had worked up a sweat carrying the grain, but I felt as though my cold had improved a great deal. Even I found that a little surprising.

By the time I had eaten half, Little Black had almost finished too. It turned and headed for the upper level of the treehouse. No need to guess—it was definitely going there to sleep again. I had no idea how this fellow could love sleeping so much, and the most maddening part was that he could actually fall asleep. I could not help but envy that.

Suddenly, Little Black let out a sharp series of howls. The sudden outburst startled me so badly that I nearly dropped the corn flatbread in my hand.

I turned at once and saw Little Black growling low in its throat, facing the pile of firewood. It looked as though it had seen something unusual and was furious.

"Could it be the thing that bit Little Black last time?" My best guess was that it had been a rat. It might also have been some small wild creature I had never seen before, or perhaps a lizard or something similar, but fortunately it had not been poisonous.

I had looked at Little Black's wound before. It had long since healed, leaving only a few small scabbed marks. Even the scabs had lifted at the edges and were almost falling off.

As I was thinking this, I had already reached the firewood pile, but I could not see anything. People always say black dog's blood can ward off evil; could Little Black have seen something unclean?

That thought struck my heart like a hammer. My scalp tightened all at once, and cold sweat nearly broke out on me.

But then I immediately cast the idea out of my head. I had read too many novels before, and things without proof could not be thought of at a time like this. Scaring myself was no fun at all.

Little Black was still barking at the firewood pile. When it saw me nearby, it charged forward again. Following the direction it lunged in, I understood more clearly: whatever it was had to be hiding beneath the firewood.

Afraid Little Black might get bitten again by accident, I picked up the axe from beside me. Axe in my right hand and a branch in my left, I began to pry the pile apart little by little.

Perhaps I had frightened it. I heard rustling sounds from underneath, and it did not sound like there was just one.

At the thought that a whole nest of rats might come shooting out from below, my scalp went numb all over. The image was far too horrifying...

With my nerves on edge, I peeled away a small pile of firewood...

Suddenly!

A head shot out. Oh no...