Beach Walk (2)
Crack!
The ant-wolf struck by Chester’s wooden spear went flying. He slipped past the next one that lunged at him, set his stance, and swung the machete to kill one, then thrust the spear at another to keep it at bay.
It was the second day since they had returned from the lake, and the three of them were under attack by ant-wolves.
Whether the pack had lost a territorial fight or been wiped out after a failed hunt, no one knew—but roughly five ant-wolves had suddenly appeared and charged them.
Ant, however, had caught their scent long before and warned them, so they turned the ambush around with ease and brought the beasts down.
“The clothes Monia made are really helping.”
“Huh? Really? You mean it?”
“Yeah. The protection’s a lot sturdier than before. Makes it easier to fight without worrying.”
In the old days Chester had fought in little more than a single layer of cloth, and without sleeves his arms had been completely bare. One careless bite could turn fatal in an instant; that constant fear had kept his body tight and cautious.
“Back then we didn’t even know about the mysterious water.”
Chester finished the last ant-wolf with a downward chop of the machete and smiled.
“We’ve got a sudden mountain of meat!”
“True. Shall we eat a little more generously today?”
“Yay! All thanks to Ant for warning us!”
Monia threw her arms around Ant, showering the creature with praise and kisses. Chester loaded two of the ant-wolves into Monia’s basket and the remaining three into his own.
“Let’s head to the river, process them, then go to the villa.”
“Okay!”
If you asked what part of Chester and Monia’s day involved the least actual work, it would be the hours they spent at the Seaside Villa, watching the ocean for passing ships or any glimpse of a continent.
“Did you make this yesterday?”
“Yeah. We never know when a continent might appear and we’ll need to set out on a raft.”
Monia was examining the raft Chester had built alone the day before, while Chester, with nothing urgent to do, was braiding spare cord and rope. When she finished looking over the raft she came and sat beside him, taking up a simple task of her own and gazing blankly out at the sea.
“Chester, have you decided what to do about the ore?”
“Hmm. First I need to build a facility that can melt it. I tried with a campfire, but it wouldn’t melt.”
Chester knew nothing of blacksmithing. All he remembered was the image of smiths sweating as they hammered iron into shape.
“A craftsman’s skill is the accumulated knowledge and know-how of generations, plus a feel that only people who live that trade can have. So I’m going to keep it simple.”
“How?”
“First I’ll make a mold in the shape of whatever I want. Pour molten metal into it to get the form. Then grind it on stone to put an edge on it.”
It would be crude compared with anything a real smith produced, but it would still be genuine iron tools.
“The problem is the facility to melt the ore.”
“If a campfire won’t do it, doesn’t that mean it just can’t be done?”
“I want a stronger fire… but I don’t know how to make one.”
Ordinary people could live their whole lives with a fire hot enough to boil water and cook food. Anything hotter was unnecessary. Even in a survival situation, knowing how to light a campfire was enough; no one needed more. So this was one thing Chester simply did not know. He had never once in his life considered how to make a fire burn hotter than it already did.
“Magic would be convenient right about now.”
“There’s no such thing in this world.”
“I know. I was just grumbling.”
“Ah—when the two of us hug really tight, our bodies get hot, right? What if fire works the same way?”
“Hmm…”
At Monia’s words Chester fell quietly into thought.
Living things have heat.
Heat meeting heat made things hotter.
If I bring two campfires close together? That’s just one bigger campfire. Not it.
Living creatures produced heat. In the dead of winter, when you opened a freshly killed animal, hot steam poured out—just like hot water steaming in the cold.
Then why doesn’t a living creature feel that hot when you touch it?
Because the heat was inside.
Inside. The inside is hot. Fire is hotter on the inside too. Why is the inside hotter?
Because the outside lost heat. When he made a sleeping place, Chester always worried about heat being stolen by the ground and arranged things so he could sleep off the earth. He always built houses up in the trees, and even on the lake expedition he had gathered armfuls of grass to make a rough bed so his body would touch the ground as little as possible.
When two people pressed tightly together and grew warm, it was simply because the surface area losing heat had grown smaller. Each could pass heat to the other.
Heat reflects.
On snowy winter nights outdoors he had set rocks or logs around a campfire and used the heat bouncing back from them to stay warm through the night.
“…Let’s build a kiln.”
“What?”
Monia looked up as Chester, still deep in thought, suddenly spoke.
“A small kiln. We trap the heat inside it. The heat of the burning flames, the heat that escapes outward and then bounces back off the walls—we use all of that to melt the ore.”
“…Will that be enough?”
She could understand that it would get hotter, but whether it would be hot enough to melt ore was another question.
“Yeah. So first we try it. If it doesn’t work, we add something else. We just have to try.”
Should I put the ore in a clay pot to melt it? What if the heat is so fierce the pot cracks? I should test the pots first. And if it works, I need a way to put them in and take them out easily… If it’s hard to remove them, I might spill the molten ore after all that work.
Monia watched Chester thinking and thinking, then quietly unrolled a piece of leather she had kept rolled up in her basket. Ever since she had seen him writing on leather, she had been making this in secret to surprise him.
He’s completely focused right now, so he won’t notice, right?
She had sharpened the tip of a stone knife to a fine point. Bringing it to the leather, she began drawing from where she had left off last time.
It had started with two dots. Then a line between them—not a straight line, but one that twisted and bent this way and that. Around it she filled in all sorts of things: here a forest, there a river, and elsewhere…
Heh. He’s definitely going to be shocked!
Imagining the look on Chester’s face when she finally showed him, Monia kept the stone knife moving diligently. Today a new corner of the broad leather filled in. Beside a small drawing of a house she carefully wrote the word “Villa.” From there she drew a line and wrote “Salt Farm,” then sketched a jagged shape and labeled it “Pointed Rock Field,” adding the note “source of trap bait.” Piece by piece, with the care of someone carving a work of art, she scored the thin leather.
And so the map of the Floating Island gradually filled its empty spaces.
After returning from the lake, Chester and Monia’s life did not change.
They woke each morning and went through their usual routine. When the routine was finished they decided what still needed doing that day and set about it. If plants in the fields had grown enough, they harvested and replanted seeds. If the pepper or chili had finished drying, they ground it into powder for storage. They shaped needed clay pots, and any that had dried thoroughly went into the kiln to be fired. Among the finished pots, those meant for chili-powder bombs became chili-powder bombs. They prepared preserved food against the winter that would come someday, even if not yet.
By the time the necessary work was done, lunch had long since passed—somewhere around three or four in the afternoon by feel. Some days finished earlier, some later. Firing the kiln, which needed constant watching, could swallow an entire day.
Once that was finished and there was no more work that required their hands, they moved to the villa. There they passed the time with small tasks while watching the sea. Chester fretted over how to melt the ore; Monia, without his noticing, continued drawing her map.
When the light began to fade they returned home, ate supper, and slept. Night was dark and dangerous. On the Floating Island there was nothing that needed doing outside after dark, and even if there were, the risk made it unwise.
Until they slept they pursued their hobbies. Chester carved wood or played the simple instruments he had made—little more than sticks of different thicknesses struck together. Crude as they were, the plain tones blended with the sounds of the forest into something surprisingly beautiful: the crackle of the fire, the cries of insects, the sounds of beasts hunting, the song of leaves and grass when the wind rose, and, mixed among them, the faintly clear notes of wood striking wood.
Monia did simple exercises that fit the small space, or pondered how to make their meals more refined with what they already had, or crushed flower petals into dye and painted pictures around the house for pleasure. At first she had drawn her father, Jordy, and Tiara—the people she wanted revenge on. Then she began painting places that had left a deep impression in the kingdom, and little by little the pictures shifted to the landscapes of this island: delicious fruit they had eaten, fish caught in the traps, a lake whose dye had not yet fully dried, snakes, ant-wolves, bears, and the brave, beloved warrior who hunted them all.
Ant wandered between the two of them as they enjoyed their quiet hours, or simply went to sleep a little early on its own.
How long did those peaceful days continue?
One ordinary afternoon at the villa, Chester suggested a walk along the beach.
“A beach walk? All of a sudden?”
“Yeah. I thought a little different stimulation might get my head working better.”
Monia hastily stuffed the map deep into her basket and nodded.
It was a walk begun without any special purpose—yet there, Chester and Monia discovered something that left them stunned.
“This is—?!”
Even Chester, who was rarely surprised by anything and who had kept a cool head even when Black Wind first appeared, felt his mind go completely blank before something so shocking and overwhelming.