And it turns out that finding clay is easy. Very easy.

After I identified a reliable source (along the banks), I told a cat washing by the stream to help transport some back to the clearing when they had finished. I wanted a small pile of the material formed before I returned to hasten the construction process.

"Okay," She agreed, glancing at the section of the stream I had specified with visible confusion, "Why do we need so much mud, is everything alright?"

"Of course. But do try to use a bigger gourd, it'll save more time," I advised and she made another sound of understanding.

Before I left, I helped bring back a cub who was speedily crawling away from the group in an attempt to escape being washed. Cat cubs from a young age could be very mischievous. Normal human babies were troublesome enough, but imagine them with heightened senses, speed, and appetite. They were adorable little bundles of trouble. Almost as troublesome as they were adorable, if not even more.

In the scant times of the day the cubs were awake, their screams could give everyone nearby a migraine. The first month after the birth of our first cub we tried to raise him organically; no sleeping draught and all, fearing that it might impact his development. But he never stopped crying. He kept us awake at night, morning, and afternoon. And I couldn't really blame him, we were on the road and the conditions he was born in were hardly ideal. We had bought a cheap cart to help transport Mom, trying to ease her confinement; but it wasn't as effective as we'd hoped and was only really bumpy.

"Gyaa!" The cub gives me a toothy grin as I pick him up, silver-furred tail waving excitedly at the sudden spike in elevation.

I raised him even higher, as high as my hands could stretch. Then I mimic dropping him a few times, y'know, just for fun. He clearly loved it, giggling merrily in absolute glee.

"Up."

"Gya!"

"Up!"

"Gyaaa!!"

"Up!!"

"Gyyaaaa!!!"

When I placed him back on the flat basket with the other cubs, their envious eyes and extended arms pleading to be picked up were just--too adorable to be refused. Much too adorable!

"Txiv you really don't have to-"

I clearly had to.

What sort of vaguely parental entity would I be if I showed such clear favoritism? That was the fastest way to sow discord and brew discontent.

So I repeated the action for the other nineteen cubs being washed, before exchanging pleasantries with the cats present and assigning some more tasks I just realized I wanted to be completed.

"—sixty logs twice as tall as you but just about the width of your waist. I don't mind if they have branches on the sides but I'd appreciate it if you'd cut them off. Do you remember that really big basket Mother made last week? Yes? Okay, so I want five of that basket's worth in stones, smooth stream stones, not regular ones. They should be about this large and roughly the same size and width. I'd also appreciate it if you chopped some straw—"

"How much straw would be enough? also, should we pause the fence and do this or should we finish the fence then do this?" Someone asks.

"Pause the fence. But I want four baskets of straw. If you all finish early, you could chop down more trees to pass the time or resume the fence. I really don't care which. I'll be back soon."

Then I was off on my journey.

I followed the trail of the stream until I left the periphery of the trees and made a few more detours until the area around me became a vision of pure, untamed grassland, untouched by the cruelty of civilization and speckled with the occasional deciduous tree. The sun shone down on my face without mercy as I observed the environment I stood in. Around me, a small herd of bison grazed peacefully on the yellowed autumn grass, their actions mirrored by the antelopes, zebras, wild horses, and other animals that were dotted across the land as far as my eyes could see.

A part of me marveled at the absolute beauty of nature; gaped at the peacefulness of it all, and relished the comforting feeling of the wind and mana billowing across my exposed skin and the grass caressing my legs as if dancing in joy; The other part took aim with my harpoon, intending to exemplify the cycle of life as also clearly, intended by nature. Survival of the fittest and all that jazz.

I give two short prayers before releasing my weapon.

One in thanks for the food that has been placed on my palms and the other in the hopes that this animal would experience a peaceful reincarnation following their death, one undisturbed by the memories of the life it had once lived but blessed by the merits it had unknowingly accumulated.

Then my harpoon pierces into the lungs of a bison grazing some distance from my location and it screams from the sudden injury, sprinting off into the distance and disrupting the peaceful calm that had befallen the herd.

Others follow on its hoves as if perceiving a threat, leaving the area nearly empty by the time the commotion receded. While I wait for the wounded bison to peacefully embrace death, which might take up to half an hour, I walk further into the grasslands to begin my other reason for this journey; harvesting sorghum.

Like wheat, oats, rye, and other cereal grains, sorghum was part of the list of crops that commonly grew in temperate grasslands organically. They had a flavor similar to wheat berries and were a good source of fiber.

However, while most grains matured in the summer months, sorghum ripened in autumn, often fluctuating between September and October, sometimes in November.

I had set my sight on this location when creating our first rudimentary map of the area, which was over two months ago in late July. I usually checked up on them each week to keep track of their maturity. last week they had developed a reddish-brown coloration so I planned a trip this week for harvesting.

The plants were a common feed for some herbivores and their fibrous stalks stood uptight at a tall height of over seven feet. The red color of their seeds was also rather visible in the ocean of greenish-yellow, and before I knew it, I had harvested several small patches of the crop.

In the process, I also foraged some lemongrass, sweetgrass, sage, soapweed yucca, and a few other herbs we frequently used in our daily lives. Especially sweetgrass, winter was impending and no amount of preparations seemed to be enough.

When my rattan basket, in its over 1-meter height and width, overflowed with the stalk heads of sorghum and my arms had reddened from the constant friction of thin grass slicing against my skin, I knew I had harvested enough.

So I carried the basket on my back using the straps on the sides and began my journey in search of the bison I had speared earlier, hoping that it hadn't already become some wild animal's easy meal for the day. That would be an unfortunate waste of my time unless the predator feasting on it was also edible. And large.

I followed the trail of blood it had left behind, aided by my sense of smell, and soon found it collapsed on its side about half a mile away from the first location.

Blowflies weren't yet present, which was a very good sign since blowflies could smell death, literally. As early as five minutes after they would besiege a fresh carcass like a hound sensing bleeding meat. A synonym that rang true in more than one way.

I walked around the carcass and theorized how to move it back to the clearing with the least effort possible, subconsciously excluding the obvious option of actually moving it away.

I had walked about an hour to get here and walking back to get some help would take more time in consideration of the added weight of the basket. A journey back and forth could take up to three hours.

By then blowflies would be the least of my concerns as I would now have to fight the multiple predators attracted to the scene by the smell of fresh blood.

.....

Damn it.

============

In the end, I had no choice but to drag the creature by the horns across three miles of land.

In addition to the predators I still had to fend off, the steaming sunlight threatening to burn off my skin, and the unpleasantness of my hair sticking to the nape of my neck, the journey was without a doubt, bad. Just--- really really bad.

I don't regret hunting the bison, but I do regret doing it alone. And with a basket of sorghum. A deer would have probably been less trouble

...but would've not been enough for our quota, damn it all.

Quotas.

Qoatas.

Don't we all love quotas?

I mean, when had quotas ever harmed their creators?

Never.

And do you know why? because they weren't usually the ones trying to fulfill them.

Two years ago I thought that creating a small quota that would ensure we always had more than enough food would increase our chances of survival.

And it did.

I calculated the quota using headcount so assuming one cat ate two pounds of meat per day, our settlement would need at least ninety pounds of meat to maintain day-to-day operations. This was of course supplemented by foraging since hunting wasn't our only main source of food. And although we each really didn't eat two pounds of meat per day, ninety pounds was the goal I had set and most times, we met them.

When the hunters fulfilled this quota I keep forty for daily use and processed any extra for storage. Two large deer were usually more than enough but on special occasions, we hunted larger prey.

Today was one of those 'special occasions'. This bison weighed over a thousand pounds so I could expect a yield of 400-500 pounds of meat after removing the bones and intestines, enough to fulfill our required quota for a whole five days.

These five days would ensure the hunting group could be temporarily disbanded to work on other projects; like building mud huts, a fence, or restocking our wood supply. Maybe burning charcoal. The labor force of ten people should not be underestimated. We could also work at night too, darkness wasn't a limiting factor for us.

Nevertheless, my breakfast had been fully digested by the time I reached the clearing, and I can comfortably admit to regretting my decision of eliminating lunch.

Puberty has given me an appetite rivaling my growth sprouts and I have some very valid complaints to make about it.

Don’t get me wrong.

I like being tall.

Most of the hunters in my old tribe regardless of gender grew over six feet and possessed muscular physiques, and so did my parents.

Even in our small clearing, a good percentage of the adults were over six feet with the exception being descendants of immigrants or other breeds.

Second mom and Mom were only stationed at the camp in consideration of their short height and slender bodies. But even then, they were mildly muscular.

I'm not as tall as I once was, but I am muscular enough to make guessing my age difficult. And my occupation.

I usually find it much easier to convince others I'm a seer since the preconceived image of a Txiv Neeb most people have is of a wise elder with a hunched back and wrinkled features.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Which I do not fit in more ways than one.

And my eyes do not help my case at all. Since it turns out that looking blind and telling people you can read their fortunes automatically makes they assume you’re a seer.

"Txiv?! Are you alright?!" Mom interrupts my mindless ramble with an exclamation, alerting the other cats in the clearing of my presence.

....Okay, so maybe I had overstated my situation when I said I reached the clearing.

I meant I was far away on the outskirts behind the oddly extended wattle fence, hidden from sight. Mom found me collapsed over the bison as my body refused to move from exhaustion.

"Mph." I grunted in reply.

"Heavens he's dying!" She shrikes in fright.

The others gathered around and attempted to help, with varying degrees of success.

"Somebody get some water—Calm down Tiva he's fine—"

"Txiv? Can you hear me? Move your tail if you want—"

"Get some food, he looks really hungry. Are you hungry Txiv?—"

"Should we place him in the stream? Txiv? Should we place you in—"

"Open up."

Someone (Mato) feeds me some water and I finally feel alive.

"I'll…" I wheezed, staggering to my feet and pushing my sweat-soaked hair away from my eyes. Good lord, that stings. "I'll be at the stream.”

More wheezing, “Someone skin the bison before it rots. And please for the love of all gods above, bury the intestines in a deep hole far, far, away from camp. Last time I could smell the stench for two.whole.weeks.”

Then I took my supplies and wobbled downstream for a refreshing dip to wash away the heat.

The joy I get from submerging myself in a cold body of water on a hot day is an emotion that can never be replicated.

Unless by another body of water, or ice cream.

Ice cream would work just as well.

So I place it on my list of future aspirations. Nothing too complicated really. All I need is a cow for milk, vanilla beans, sugar, chickens for eggs, and an ice cream maker.

So….about three hundred more years of technological progression, if we're lucky. Some civilizations outside of the grasslands were already very advanced. Even more so in other continents, they already had machines. Traders flocked to this area because they could sell unwanted and common materials for ridiculous prices. It also didn't hurt that our biome made it quite difficult for sentient beasts to build homes, a lack of abundant forests and all. The grasslands were usually very safe, in comparison to the rest of the continent, that is; which made the demise of our old tribe even more ill-fortuned.

When I finally began to feel less like cat jerky, I placed my cleaning supplies back in it’s wooden box and walked back to the clearing, humming a jaunty little tune.

"Txiv, please stop walking around naked, we have cubs at camp." Second Mom says, hands on her hips and tone rebuking.

"Un-huh." I agreed absentmindedly, searching the clothes hanging on the clothesline for something I could potentially wear. Putting on my sweaty hides after a bath would upend the entire point of my bath. So I washed them.

Aha!

I pulled off a set of ponchos and pants. This was…probably mine, I think. Excluding some very specific small pieces like Mom's dresses, name-stitched under clothes, and a few skirts, everyone's outer clothes at the camp were made of the same material and looked the exact same. Fashion was basically nonexistent and we all wore layers of ponchos and loose pants.

Fully clothed and feeling like the freshest grass on the field, I could finally spare some time to observe the progress my tribesmen had made to complete the tasks assigned earlier. And I was pleasantly surprised.

First was the emu cage. As I walked around the enclosure of about 4x4 meters in dimension, I wondered if we should fill the gaps in the wattle walls with mud to create better insulation. And also why the roof was still in progress, with only one small section completed like it had been a few hours ago the last time I checked.

So I asked Carol, the cat I had placed in charge of the project.

"We don't know how to make bigger roofs," Carol replied, blaming the lack of progress on our low, low technological progression.

Understandable.

"I could try if you'd like, but be aware that it might be a waste of time and resources. I took the team to work on the fence instead and we just finished the northern section." She says, shrugging.

After some thought, I reach the conclusion that this small chunk was suddenly good enough.

"Great job." I beam back, nodding in appreciation.

The clearing was about an acre in size and was longer than it was wide. Although north and south were the shortest sides, completing a whole section in a day was rather impressive. East and west would take three times as much time.

And emus probably didn't need shelter all that much, anyway.

They’ve survived previous winters just fine in worst conditions and now they had half a shed, which was already better than before.

An emu walking inside the cage makes a sound akin to a beating drum and others begin to copy its actions, melding into a symphony of odd, strange, drumming sounds resounding aloud in the relative silence of our clearing.

“Grrrrttttdddddtttdddd.” It booms.

…I'm sure they'll be fine. Yeah.

In regards to the other tasks, everything excluding my request for wood had been completed. Maple had accumulated forty-three logs with the help of some cats and their heights was roughly uniform. Their width fluctuated quite a bit but nevertheless, I was pleased.

While four cats busied themselves processing the bison, I pulled the sixteen others left available to begin the mud hut.

Preparation, as they say, is truly the key to success.

With everything already prepared all I had to do was find a ratio of mud to clay and straw that seemed suitable and we could begin.

I broke the earth using a pickaxe and dug a hole with a sturdy piece of wood. We didn't have shovels or spades since they never seemed quite as necessary as they did right now. And they were a bit expensive. Our funds were the farthest thing from ‘abundant’.

While others worked to expand the hole and two cats were tasked with bringing back water from the stream, I tried different ratios of cob in search of the right one.

Clay is the binder, sand gives it strength, straw provides tensile strength, and water helps activate the clay to hold the mixture together. They all had different parts to play so after some testing I went with...

.... 1 part clay to 3 parts sand to 2 part straw, and an unidentified amount of water. Yeah, that seems about right. After dumping the dry materials into the widened hole, I add water in small batches and we mix repeatedly until the mixture gains a sticky consistency that was neither too dry nor thin. Just right.

I had sectioned off an area behind the southern tents to build our new hut. The square space was 6x6 meters and was a bit ambitious considering our general inexperience in building similar structures. And the fact that as Carol stated, we didn't know how to build large roofs.

But we'll cross the bridge when we get there. I'll probably have some tents demolished and use freed-up hides as a roof.

Thirty-six posts of more than 3 meters in height were put into the ground at about 0.5 meters depth. Twelve horizontal roof beams were attached to these posts using Morris and tenor joints carved using a stone chisel. To ensure stability we made sure to tie these joints on all sides using sturdy cordage. When we were done the shadow of a flat-roofed home could already be seen from the sturdy wooden structure.

Then, the truly messy step of the plan began.

"Copy what I do," I told the cats next to me, earning sounds of agreement.

I first laid a handful of cob on the ground then I placed a long slab of stream rock over it, before molding around the rock with more cob and placing another handful of cob next to it, then rock, then cob, then rock, over and over again until I had a short layer of cob and stone about thirty centimeters thick. Then I began laying cob over the stones then another stone and repeated until another layer of cob and stone was made.

"Our goal is stability, not length. Tauri, you were present when I mixed the cob, yes?"

"Yes." He nods.

"Great. I want you to make another batch. Nuka and Miwok, you’ll both be responsible for bringing back clay and rocks from the stream.” I turn my attention to the other cats, "While they replenish our supplies we'll have to work fast and hard to finish early, understood?"

"Understood." The group echoes.

And work, we did.

==========

Good news!

We finished—

—our goal for today.

A wall of approximately a meter tall on all four sides with two half-a-meter-wide chimneys on the west and east walls and a door on the north. We would need to make multiple windows to ensure sufficient ventilation, but that was a step for later. It was already looking great.

Resources were also being used up faster than they were made so I had to assign four more cats to bring back rocks, and clay, and make cob. Two on collecting rocks, we never seemed to have enough.

Nevertheless, despite working all day and being stained with mud, everyone looked more excited than tired. They knew this was for the good of the tribe and would be a big step forward from our usual living conditions when finished. They could see this building as hope for our future, just like I did.

This didn't mean they had fewer questions, though.

No.

It really did not.

"How do you know how to build a house? Even in our old tribe, we lived in tents, where did you learn this?"

"Are you sure this won't dry and crumble? How long would it last in rainfall?"

"Why are we using grain straw? What does it do?"

"Why are we making new houses, what's wrong with the tents?"

"These holes are for fire, right? Why do we have this many? Won't it get too hot?"

"How long would this take to dry? When can we live in it?"

And I made sure to answer every question to the best of my ability. Even when it was long overdue, like;

"Why did you hunt a bison, this over-fulfills our quota."

Or

"I've been thinking of what you mentioned earlier, about the stream freezing over. We're at a different location than last winter, would it be much colder? Should I make thicker gloves?"

Or

"Where did you harvest sorghum? The batches I've seen haven't yet ripened. I really prefer their taste to wheat berries. We should go there tomorrow."

Or

"Do you want the blood in a gourd as usual, or should we keep the heart instead?"

All of which I also answered to the best of my abilities since they were truly valid questions.

At dinner, as a reward for working so hard, I decided we should have a treat. A small feast, if you may.

We cleaned up the scene, washed ourselves of mud, and fed our cubs rye paste porridge before putting them to sleep.

Then we ate bison strew and roasted sweet potatoes while chatting under the moonlight, it was nice.