Tui limped slowly back to his camp. In one hand he carried some fresh meat. In the other was a cord running to a piglet who did not know how to walk on a leash. The little beast ran in random directions and tangled himself every few steps, slowing Tui’s progress.

His wounded leg hurt abominably. It throbbed in time with his steps. The day had gone on forever, and he was absolutely wrung out.

Chasing the piglet through the brush had not been fun or easy. He was a nimble little thing, with a good sense for when to dodge Tui’s increasingly wild grabs. In the end, Tui had given up and laid down on his back to catch his breath.

Curiosity seemed to have overwhelmed it because, after a few minutes the piglet approached him and snuffled his hair.

Curiosity was the little pig’s dominant trait. As Tui walked, it scampered back and forth, first smelling a bush then running to a flower. After eating the flower, it ran ahead to snuffle the base of a tree. This behavior continued the whole way back to camp.

He knew the meat would spoil quickly, so he prepared it by wrapping it in breadfruit leaves. Then he buried it in a shallow trench, and covered the trench in a thick layer of burning coals.

With the meat taken care of, Tui hobbled down to the beach and scrubbed his whole body, scraping at the dried blood that caked his leg. He carefully rinsed filth from the cut on his thigh, hissing with pain as it started bleeding again. The sow's tusks has been so sharp the his leg looked like it had been slashed with a razor.

He had been lucky a few times through the hunt. He had made mistakes. Tui didn’t think hunting an animal should be a life-or-death situation for the hunter, yet here he was with a wound that could have killed him if it had landed a few inches over.

The presence of a piglet was a worry. It meant there was at least one other pig in the area. Something had fathered it with the sow. Just how many pigs were there? Was a peaceful coexistence with them possible? Tui was not at all keen to go on another hunt.

Tui began to feel better once his wound was cleaned and bound tightly in scraps from his old robe,. On his limping journey back to camp he picked some long, curved thorns from a bush. With his knife, he shaved the back of the thorn, then pierced a hole through it to make a horrifyingly fat needle.

At the camp, he threaded a long hibiscus fiber through the needle. He needed to close the cut on his leg for it to heal properly. He had seen more than one person crippled by a bad scar and didn't want that in his own future.

He slowly lowered himself to the ground with his leg extended, then unwrapped the bandage. The cut gaped open, allowing him a disgusting view into the muscle of his thigh. Tui did not like dealing with medical issues, especially issues involving blood. They repelled him, nauseated him.

For that matter, he didn’t like experiencing pain either, and this is going to hurt.

He pressed the needle straight through the skin on one side of the cut, about a half inch from the end of the cut. The thickness of the needle meant that he had to push very hard to force it through his skin. As the tip of the needle went through the skin, it skimmed over the thin layer of fat and emerged into the valley of the wound. The agony was unbelievable. He tried to control the trembling as he pulled the thick needle through the first side of the cut.

He practiced a meditative mindset, acknowledging the pain, and trying to set it aside. He needed to finish this job. He swallowed sudden nausea.

When he pushed the needle into the other side of the cut, spots bloomed in front of his eyes. He let out the scream strangling his throat. It hurt so bad.

He tied the first knot, pulling the skin together over the cut, bringing the two sides to touch, but not bunch up, and sliced the threads with his knife. One down.

By the time he had finished the eleventh and final stitch, he was shattered. He stumbled to his bed and fell into it, shaking. Black oblivion welled up, and Tui willingly allowed it to take him.

The sky was pitch black when he woke. The wound was hot and swollen. Every time his leg moved, a lightning bolt shot through his whole body. His body was covered in sweat, yet he was chilled to the bone and shivering.

Tui forced himself to relax and meditate. It was difficult to concentrate through the throbbing ache of his leg. He considered the pain the way a spider considered a fly. As something separate to him, something removed. He pushed it down, to the edge of his awareness. Then he ran a pipeline from his dantian to the fifth meridian, strengthening his concentration.

This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

His mind was a tiny boat, driven by a storm on a vast sea of suffering. It raged at him, seeking to capsize his concentration. But he was an experienced hand at navigating these waters.

He ran another pipeline to his third meridian and the fiery qi surged through his heart, burning its way through his veins. There was a brief battle between qi and the impurities in his body, then the impurities were burned away in the flood of fire.

A thick liquid dripped from the stitches on his thigh, and the angry, swollen feeling began to subside. Tui held the meditation until his focus began wavering, letting the purifying qi circulate.

He opened his eyes in the darkness of the shelter. He was tired but not sleepy, so he got up. The camp was quiet. The birds were still asleep. On the horizon, the sun was just beginning to show color, and stars twinkled across the sky.

Tui stoked the fire and warmed himself as he watched the sunrise. When the flames died down, he laid another layer of hot coals over the buried ham. He hoped the meat was still ok even though the previous layer had gone cold at some point in the night.

The piglet uncovered one of the buried breadfruits and was busily making a mess. He chuffed happily as he consumed his weight in fruit. He flopped over onto his side, with his belly hugely distended.

Tui sliced off the top of a coconut and thirstily drank the water inside. Now that the stream had dried up, it was time to move to the lake.

Tui packed, rolling unused obsidian chunks into scraps of his robe, and tying it with string. He gathered his tools and spears.

He dug the ham up with a stick and left it to cool, keeping a sharp eye out for opportunistic thieves.

By the time he cut open the packet of leaves, he was salivating. It smelled so good. He picked up one end of the leg and the meat slid cleanly off the bone. The pork was tender and juicy. It needed salt. It tasted a little like burnt leaves, but it was delicious. His body had been depleted after being sick, but he could feel the vigor returning after eating the hearty meal.

Tui didn’t come close to finishing the whole ham, but he really tried. Licking his fingers, he noticed his belly was sticking out almost as much as Piggy’s.

There was a flutter above him. When he looked up, four parrots were giving him side-eye from the tree. With a shrug, he left them the remainder of the ham.

Carrying his pack, spear, and Piggy-on-a-string, Tui limped back to the entrance of the caldera. His leg felt strong. The stitches were pulling a little with each step but held solid. As he entered the jungle, the familiar tingle of fear ran up his spine. This jungle was dangerous.

Before entering, he activated his meridians. With the pack and leash held in his off-hand, he stepped carefully. Spear at the ready, eyes open wide.

Despite the anxiety, he reached the lake without issue. There was no sign of a boar. He set his gear down, had a drink, and rested for a bit. Piggy pranced in the wavelets, dashing back, then pounced on a floating leaf.

Piggy was a terrible name. It would never be able to respect itself with a name like that. It needed a name with gravitas, something imposing…

Nothing came to mind.

Tui gathered his things and began to hike around the lake, looking for a good place to camp. He wanted a place where he could sleep securely, where he could feel safe.

He was halfway around the lake when something out of place caught his eye. He dropped his pack and tied up the pig.

Between two trees, almost out of sight was a hut.

Tui felt his hands go sweaty.

Should he call out? There had been no sign of anyone, no smell of smoke, no sounds… It was too small an island for two people to not bump into each other!

“Hellooooo!”

He approached the hut, listening intently for any sound. But the closer he got, the more it became clear it was abandoned.

A surge of disappointment washed over him. The hut had not been lived in for some time. The door was smashed in and there was a bed visible inside. A rusty iron pot lay in the long-dead remnants of a cookfire.

It was dark and cramped inside. The bed and a small, overturned table were all that fit. Searching carefully, Tui found a tin cup where it had rolled under the bed.

An animal pen with a broken fence was behind the hut. It was the right size for pigs. Beside it was a large, overgrown garden.

Tui had no idea why the hut was there, but he hoped the owner wouldn’t mind a squatter.

He brought his possessions over and began cleaning out the hut. He stood the door back up and tied it back in place with a string hinge.

The table and bed were simply made and sturdy. The same approach was displayed in the walls and cleverly thatched roof. A craftsman had built this place.

The piglet was rooting up the garden, and Tui quickly shooed it out. It snuffled in the direction of the three sweet potatoes it had dug up. He hastily fixed the pig pen and put the animal in there.

The rusty pot scrubbed up fine. With the firesticks, Tui started a small blaze and filled the pot with water to boil.

That night he had a small dinner of boiled sweet potato and turned to bed.

It was darker under the jungle trees, and night fell more quickly inside the high walls of the caldera. He couldn’t hear the ocean from here either.

He could hear something. A little snuffling noise from right outside his door. That little brat! It had escaped his hasty fix. Tui got up and let the piglet into the hut where it curled up under his bed.

Moxie. Not really a name with gravitas, but fitting.