I wasn’t a good butcher.
Not by any margin.
The fur I peeled from the boar’s thick hide was a testant to that—torn, ragged in places, with deep knife marks where there shouldn’t have been any. So patches still clung stubbornly to the flesh, and others ca off too quickly, dragging muscle with them.
It was ugly work.
But I was improving.
I had learned that the blade worked best not with brute force, but with angle—a whisper of steel sliding just beneath the surface, where skin and flesh t in an invisible seam. That’s where I buried the point of my dagger now, carefully easing it into that tight boundary before I started to cut.
The first few strokes were halting. Tentative. But muscle mory was starting to form.
So I kept going.
Bit by bit, I slid the blade, letting it work—not against the boar, but with it. The resistance changed with each inch, depending on thickness, on tension, on how deeply the beast had been layered by nature.
I cut with increasing tempo. Still clumsy, yes, but more certain. Cleaner cuts ford between the tough outer hide and the at underneath. I pulled the hide taut with one hand and worked the knife with the other, easing the skin off like peeling back wet bark.
By the ti I had removed the entire hide, I was soaked in sweat.
I laid the fur on the ground, inside out—fur down, skin up.
It wasn’t perfect. So flesh clung stubbornly to the underside. So spots had knife gouges I knew would lower its value. But for soone with no formal training?
I could live with it.
Then ca the hard part.
I took a deep breath, then sliced a clean line up the belly from groin to sternum. The skin split open with a thick, wet sound. The scent hit imdiately—a mix of blood, bile, and sothing heavier beneath it all.
I didn’t flinch.
I reached in, careful not to rupture anything, and pulled out the intestines first, slick and heavy, looping in my arms. Then the stomach, the liver, the lungs. The heart ca last—small, hard, pulsing no more.
I didn’t have the tools or resources to make use of them, even if I knew they could be turned into sausage, broth, or alcohol. I set them aside for now, placing them on a flat patch of earth away from the at. I’d deal with the disposal later.
The carcass, now gutted, was lighter—emptied of everything but its form.
I flipped it and threw it over the laid-out hide. It landed with a fleshy thud, like a puppet without strings. The skin would serve as my wrapping. I couldn’t carry raw at in my arms without drawing every predator in the jungle.
I started with the legs—each one thick with muscle, dense and heavy. My knife cut down through the connective joints. I twisted the bones gently until they popped loose. The hooves I removed entirely and tossed aside. The legs I stacked neatly.
The ribs were next. I didn’t want the full rack—it would be too unwieldy, too heavy for what I had planned. So I cut between every third rib, taking manageable pieces. The sound of bone giving way to steel was clean but jarring, like snapping thick twigs.
A short stack of ribs began to form.
Then ca the pork belly—the gold of the animal. I made slow, careful incisions across the midsection, cutting deep enough to capture the alternating layers of at and fat, but shallow enough to avoid ragged slices. It was tricky. My cuts weren’t beautiful, but they were functional.
I trimd what I could from the shoulders, flank, and rump—scraps in so places, but still edible. Still worth taking. My dagger moved slower now. Not out of caution, but fatigue. My hands were cramping. My forearms burned.
I glanced at the pile beside .
at.
A heavy mound of it. Roughly packed, unevenly cut, and laced with small strips of sinew I hadn’t had the finesse to avoid. But it was food—days’ worth of protein, more than enough to get through lean stretches at sea.
I sat back on my heels for a mont.
What remained of the boar was a skeleton, still partially clinging to scraps of at and stringy sinew. A jawbone jutted at a wrong angle. The ribcage was splayed like broken wings.
I stared at it for a mont. Thought about stripping it completely.
But I was tired. And it wasn’t worth the trouble. The bulk of the useful cuts were already bagged.
That was enough.
I beca aware of my surroundings again—the way the rustling trees had grown quieter. The way the monkeys above had begun to edge closer.
They weren’t stupid. They knew what at was.
I looked up to see three of them perched on a branch, tails curled around each other, eyes locked on the pile of intestines I’d cast aside.
They wanted it.
I didn’t.
I grabbed a chunk of intestines and hurled it.
The mass flew through the air and landed with a splat farther down the trail. In seconds, the monkeys scrambled after it—hooting and squealing in competition.
I kept tossing the rest—organs, entrails, lungs, whatever I hadn’t touched for myself. Every throw was followed by the jungle coming alive again—chirps, growls, rustles of hidden predators too cautious to approach until now.
Let them clean up the ss.
I took the hide and wrapped it around the at like a bundle, tying it tight with spare rope from my satchel. The legs stuck out awkwardly, but I adjusted them. I hefted the whole thing in one hand.
Then I picked up the skeleton in the other.
It was light now, brittle and hollow. I had no real plan for it, but I wanted to test sothing. I had a conjecture. A theory I needed to confirm.
I turned back toward the shore.
My arms throbbed from the effort. My hands slled like death and iron.
But I walked.
The ship ca into view—my small, reliable vessel bobbing gently with the tide. The beach was silent, save for the lap of waves and the wind in the trees.
I stepped aboard and entered the cabin, setting the at bundle inside the storage hatch where it would stay cool until night and hopefully not rot.
Then I reached for what I needed—the essential supplies.
Supplies I needed for the night.
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The tree creaked once, twice—and then with a final snap, it collapsed to the forest floor, sending a soft plu of dust and old bark into the air. A dull thud rolled through the jungle like distant thunder.
I rested the axe on my shoulder, catching my breath as the sound settled. The air was still.
The tree was a good one. Not too wet inside. Dry, solid. Seasoned just enough to burn slow and hot.
I rolled my shoulders and gave the axe a small spin—nothing fancy, just a turn to reset my grip—and I got to work.
Each swing landed with a heavy thunk, sending wood chips flying. I worked in a rhythm. Cut. Pull. Breathe. Cut again. The grain of the tree split slowly, stubbornly. But with every strike, the mark grew deeper. The trunk surrendered in thick, cracking layers.
Once the main limbs were manageable, I chopped them into sizable chunks—not logs, but sections I could dry or split further later. A full fire would need several hours of fuel, and I had no intention of being out here in the dark, scrambling for twigs.
With arms full, I carried the wood down to the beach, bare feet sliding slightly in the sand. The salt air stung faintly where bark had scratched my forearms.
I dropped the first load onto the growing pile with a soft thump.
By the ti I was done, I had enough for the night—and then so.
---
I began by collecting tinder—dried grass, bark shavings, and fine wood scrapings I’d prepped earlier and kept sealed in a wax cloth. I built a small cone in the center of my fire ring.
Then ca the kindling—thin, dry twigs no thicker than a finger. They would catch fla from the tinder and feed it upward. I stacked them loosely above the cone, leaving air channels open for oxygen to move freely.
Rocks ford the fire ring itself. I’d taken my ti selecting them—flat stones, none of them porous or from the riverbed. Exploding stones weren’t worth the risk. The ring was wider than most would build, but I liked space between fla and tools. It also doubled as a windbreak.
I positioned the flint at a downward angle, holding the steel striker just above the tinder. A sharp scrape—once, twice—until the sparks flew.
One caught.
The dry grass smoked. I leaned in and gently blew, fanning the ember. It glowed, crawled, spread.
Then fla.
It licked up the bark shavings, found the twigs, and began to grow.
I fed it slowly. No rush. One piece at a ti. Bigger sticks as the fire found its rhythm. The flas stretched upward, then inward, then roared to life.
Beside the fire, I laid a few freshly cut logs—just close enough to start drying. When it ca ti to burn them, they’d light easier. Wet wood was the enemy of good fire, and I wasn’t about to waste the boar on unclean heat.
When I was sure the fire would hold, I made my way to the cabin.
Inside, the boar at waited—wrapped in its own hide, tied with cordage. I grabbed the bundle, along with tal hooks, a few longer pieces of vegetation I’d gathered for smoke flavor, and my tools.
Back at the fire, I got to work on the smoking rig.
Three strong, straight branches ford a tripod—lashed at the top with thick rope I’d braided from jungle fibers. I drove each leg into the sand, spacing them wide enough to hang at securely over the fla.
From the top, I strung a crossbar—sturdy and smooth—then hooked the boar legs and rib sections to it, letting them hang evenly spaced. The at swayed gently above the fire, high enough not to cook, but close enough to the heat for curing to begin.
Smoke would preserve it—slowly. Carefully.
I took out a small burning log from the main fire and placed it in a smaller pit nearby. On top of that, I added bundles of green vegetation—leaves, herbs, stalks—all slightly damp.
When they hit the embers, they sizzled and smoked, releasing thick white plus that drifted upward, curling around the at. The scent changed—no longer just char and wood, but sothing herbal and earthy. The at would absorb that over the hours.
Preserved at ant freedom. It ant longer travel, less reliance on imdiate hunts. It ant survival beyond just today.
Satisfied with the setup, I used the main fire to cook dinner.
I split logs into coals, letting the fire die down in the center. I skewered cuts of boar at onto sharpened sticks—small chunks from the flank and shoulder—and placed them across the heat.
Each piece began to sizzle and pop, juices running onto the wood. I could sll the fat cooking, see the fibers tighten. The air grew rich with scent—smoke, spice, at. My stomach growled in response.
I placed a tal pan onto a flat bed of hot coals and set a few pork belly slices down—skin first. The pan hissed in reply.
The fat rendered quickly, turning the skin golden and crackling. I tilted the pan to gather the oil, basting the at in its own flavor.
The boar at cooked slowly, rotating over the fire as I turned the skewers by hand. The belly crisped in the pan, releasing a mouthwatering aroma that drifted far into the night.
The smoking tripod stood solid, holding its weight. The green vegetation continued to smoke, releasing fragrant clouds into the at above.
This was thriving when surviving. Not scrambling in the dark. Not chewing half-raw at beside a dying fla.
By the ti the first round of at was ready, the sky had turned indigo. Stars were pushing through the canopy. The jungle had quieted down—less alarm now. The predators, if any, had moved on. Or were waiting for my fire to die.
But they’d be waiting a while.
The fire was well-fed. The wood dry. The circle sturdy.
I bit into the first piece of at—juicy, tender, a little charred on one edge. It was wild boar, not fard. Stronger flavor. Less fatty, but full of depth.
It tasted like effort.
Like earned survival.
Sowhere in the tree line, I felt eyes on .
Reflections in the shadows. Slow movent behind the brush.
Predators?
No.
Monkeys.
Watching. Waiting.
Drawn by the sll of sothing their forest never cooked this well.
I raised a hand, not threatening—just a casual wave.
Can’t have a banquet all alone now, can I?
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