The dawn that followed the storm broke cool and clear, the sky a pale, promising blue scrubbed clean of clouds. Elias lay for a moment, the rough bark of his lean-to a familiar pressure against his back. His shoulders ached with a dull insistence, his joints stiff as he pushed himself up. The air still held a damp chill, but the oppressive humidity was gone. He methodically stoked the embers of the fire pit, coaxing them back to a fragile life. His gaze fell on the one successfully fired pot from the previous day. He picked it up, running a calloused finger over its surprisingly smooth, hardened surface. It was crude, undeniably lopsided, but it held water – a small, tangible miracle he himself had wrought.
One is a start, not a solution, he thought, the practical engineer in him asserting itself. For a journey, water is life. I'll need to carry days' worth, and another pot sturdy enough to cook in over open flames without shattering. The memory of SAGE's advice on tempering agents, previously an abstract concept, now resonated with new significance. The single success fuelled a focused determination.
"SAGE," Elias said, his voice raspy from sleep and the lingering smoke of yesterday's desperate fire, "where would I find the best sand or grit for the clay?"
"Searching the stream bed further downstream, where finer sediments might collect, or examining nearby rocky outcrops for weathered, easily friable stone that can be crushed, would be your most promising options," SAGE's calm voice replied in his mind. "Look for angular particles, Elias. They create a stronger structural matrix within the clay body during firing than rounded grains."
Leaving his precious fired pot carefully within the lean-to, Elias set out. He followed the stream, its gentle gurgle a counterpoint to the forest's quiet attentiveness. He waded into the cold, clear water where SAGE indicated, sifting through handfuls of silt and smooth pebbles, his eyes scanning for the right texture and colour. The initial search was frustrating; the stream bed yielded mostly fine mud or stones too large and rounded. He moved to a nearby outcrop of weathered rock, trying to break pieces off, testing their brittleness. Finally, tucked into a crevice where a smaller rivulet joined the main stream, he found a deposit of coarse, sharp-edged sand, its grains glinting faintly in the morning light. He gathered a substantial amount, using a large, tough leaf folded into a makeshift pouch.
Back at camp, SAGE guided him on the ideal ratio of clay to his newly found tempering agent. "Too little temper, and the pot may crack from excessive shrinkage during drying and firing. Too much, and it will be weak and porous, prone to crumbling." Elias knelt and began to knead the gritty sand into a fresh batch of clay he'd kept moist. He could feel the texture change under his hands, the smooth plasticity giving way to a rougher, more robust consistency.
His aim today was specific: two or three pots designed for the rigours of travel. He focused on making the walls of one thicker, its base more stable – a dedicated water carrier. SAGE had explained the concept of adding small, perforated clay extrusions – lugs – near the rim before drying. "These will allow for cordage to be threaded, creating a carrying strap, improving portability." His fingers, still clumsy with this new art, fumbled with the small additions, but he understood the logic and persisted until two crude lugs adorned the pot's shoulder. He then shaped another, wider and shallower, intended for cooking. His technique was improving; he was more patient, more attuned to the evenness of the walls. Still, one attempt at a third, smaller pot went awry, the clay tearing as he tried to thin the rim too quickly. He grunted, squashed it back into a lump with a frustrated sigh, but didn't dwell on the failure. He carefully set the two successful greenware pots in a safe, sheltered spot on a flat stone, warmed slightly by the distant fire, to begin the long, slow drying process crucial for their survival in the kiln.
His attention then turned to the gnawed vine from the failed snare. He picked it up, the severed ends a stark reminder of his vulnerability. This flimsy stuff won't secure a meal when I'm on the move and every calorie counts, he thought, a familiar unease tightening his chest. I need something that can hold, something an animal can't just chew through in minutes.
"SAGE, what plants around here provide the strongest natural fibres for cordage?" he asked, already scanning the nearby undergrowth.
SAGE directed him to a stand of tall, straight plants with tough, reedy stalks growing near the damp edge of the clearing. "The bast fibres are known for their exceptional tensile strength when properly processed, Elias. The outer layer of the stalk must be removed to access them."
Elias carefully harvested a bundle of the plants, their leaves slightly rough against his skin. He then began the laborious process. SAGE guided him: "Traditionally, these fibres are separated by retting – soaking the stalks in water to allow microbial action to break down the pectins. Given your timeline, a more direct method of scraping and manually separating the fibres will be necessary, though it will yield a slightly coarser product." He found a flat rock and, using the duller edge of his flint knife, began scraping away the outer green layer of the stalks, revealing the pale, tough fibres beneath. It was repetitive, demanding work, and his hands soon grew sore. Once he had a good pile of fibres, he began to twist them, rolling them against his thigh, then plying strands together. The resulting cordage felt significantly different from his vine attempts – rougher, yes, but far stronger, less prone to snapping, with a resilient, almost wiry texture. He tied a loop and pulled on it with all his strength. It held. A grim satisfaction settled in him.
With a small stockpile of meat from his previous trap checks Elias decided to attempt preservation. The thought of carrying spoiling meat on a journey was unthinkable. "Smoking meat over a slow, cool fire not only dries it but also imparts compounds that inhibit spoilage," SAGE advised. "However, Elias, the longer the meat is smoked, the further and more intensely the scent will permeate the surrounding forest. Prolonged exposure significantly increases the probability of attracting opportunistic predators. Complete the process as efficiently as possible and then extinguish the smoker thoroughly."
A prickle of unease ran down Elias's spine at SAGE's warning, but the need for preserved food was paramount. He set up a crude smoker a little away from his main fire pit, digging a shallow trench to channel smoke from a small, smouldering fire of dampish leaves and green twigs towards a hastily constructed rack of forked sticks. He carefully hung thin strips of the precious meat on the rack. The air soon filled with a rich, savoury aroma. He was focused on tending the smoker, adjusting the meat, adding more damp material to the fire, his mind already picturing himself on the trail, this preserved food a vital part of his survival.
He stepped away from the smoker for only a moment, heading towards his lean-to to check on his drying pots, ensuring they were still sheltered. That's when he heard it – not the familiar rustle of a squirrel or the distant call of a bird, but a sudden, heavy snuffling sound from the direction of the smoker, followed by the distinct clatter of his makeshift rack.
He spun around, his heart leaping into his throat.
A large black bear stood where his smoker had been, its broad back to him. It was bigger than any black bear he'd ever seen in pictures, its fur a deep, glossy black, powerful shoulders bunching as it boldly pulled down a strip of his smoking meat with a swipe of a massive paw and began to gulp it down.
"SAGE! Bear!" Elias hissed, his voice a choked whisper, raw anger warring with a sudden, drenching fear. That was his journey food, painstakingly prepared.
"Confirmed, Elias," SAGE's voice replied, calm as ever in his mind. "Ursus americanus, adult male. Black bears are typically non-confrontational if an escape route is available and they are not cornered or protecting cubs. However, this individual is exhibiting high food motivation and a notable lack of wariness."
"It's a black bear, SAGE," Elias muttered, trying to keep his voice steady, his eyes locked on the animal. "Can I scare it off? I need that meat." He fumbled for his improved digging stick, propped near the lean-to, and his stone hatchet.
"Aggressive displays – loud noises, appearing larger – can deter a black bear. Success rates vary depending on the animal's hunger, prior experiences, and individual temperament. There is a risk of an aggressive counter-response if it perceives you as a persistent threat to its acquired food source."
Clutching the digging stick in one hand and the hatchet in the other, Elias took a deep breath and stepped forward. "Hey! Get out of here!" he yelled, his voice cracking despite his efforts. "Bad bear! Go!" He banged the flat of his hatchet against a nearby large stone, the sharp clang echoing unnaturally in the quiet forest.
The bear, visibly annoyed at the interruption to its meal, dropped the piece of meat it was chewing. It turned its massive head slowly, small, intelligent eyes fixing on Elias. It let out a guttural huff. Instead of retreating, it flattened its ears against its skull, lowered its head slightly, and with a speed that belied its bulk, it charged.
"Warning! Aggressive charge initiated! Defensive action imperative!" SAGE's voice was a detached alarm in the sudden, terrifying rush of adrenaline.
There was no time to think, only to react. Pure, primal instinct took over. As the bear closed the distance with horrifying speed, its open mouth revealing rows of teeth, Elias braced himself, planting his feet, and thrust the fire-hardened point of his digging stick forward with all his strength, aiming for the centre of the charging black mass.
The sharpened wood met thick fur and muscle with a sickening thud. The bear let out an explosive roar of pain and surprise, the sound ripping through the air. The impact of its charge, though somewhat broken by the spear-like stick, sent a jarring shock up Elias's arms. The stick had punched deep into the bear's neck, just below the jaw, a dark stain already blooming around the shaft.
The bear's momentum carried it slightly past him, but not before a powerful foreleg, claws extended, swiped out. Elias tried to twist away, but he wasn't fast enough. Razor-sharp claws raked across his left forearm, tearing through his flimsy bark tunic and biting deep into flesh. Searing, unbelievable pain lanced through him. He cried out, stumbling back, clutching his arm as blood welled, hot and slick, between his fingers.
The bear, hampered by the digging stick protruding grotesquely from its neck, thrashed its head from side to side, trying to dislodge the impediment or reach its attacker. Its roars were deafening, filled with fury and agony. Its movements were now somewhat encumbered, its usual agility compromised by the impaling wood.
Elias, gasping from the searing pain in his arm and the desperate exertion, saw his chance. He still had his stone hatchet in his right hand. Dodging another clumsy, pain fuelled swipe from the bear, he lunged forward. With a desperate cry, he brought the hatchet down with all the force he could muster on the other side of the bear's exposed neck, aiming for the base of the skull, trying to sever something vital. The stone bit deep, a horrible, wet crunch, but it wasn't a clean blow.
The next few moments were a chaotic, terrifying blur. The forest clearing became an arena of brutal, close-quarters combat. There were the bear's enraged, gargling roars, its desperate thrashing; Elias's ragged, grunting breaths, fuelled by pure adrenaline and the will to survive; and the sickening, repeated thud of the stone hatchet meeting flesh and bone. The bear was immensely strong, its power terrifying even when wounded. Elias had to keep moving, dancing just out of reach of its flailing claws, using the embedded digging stick as a sort of horrible lever when the bear tried to turn fully towards him, all the while landing desperate, hacking blows with the hatchet whenever he got a sliver of an opening. He focused every strike on the neck, knowing it was his only chance.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity of brutal effort, one of his desperate swings with the hatchet landed with a sickening finality, deeper than before. The bear shuddered violently, a tremor running through its massive frame. Its struggles abruptly weakened, its roars fading to a choking gurgle. With a final, gasping sigh, it collapsed onto the forest floor, a dark pool of blood quickly spreading beneath it. The digging stick remained embedded, a macabre flagstaff. His hatchet was still lodged deep in the wound.
Elias stumbled back, his legs threatening to give way. He was panting, covered in sweat, dirt, and spatters of the bear's blood. His own blood streamed from the deep, ragged gashes on his left arm, dripping onto the leaf litter. The adrenaline began to drain away, leaving him shaking uncontrollably, a wave of nausea washing over him.
He stared at the massive, still form of the bear. Disbelief warred with a grim, horrified triumph. He had actually killed it. He had faced down a charging bear and survived.
"Threat neutralised, Elias," SAGE's voice cut through his daze, startlingly calm. "You have sustained a significant laceration to your left arm, likely involving muscle tissue. Immediate medical attention is required to control bleeding, thoroughly clean the wound, and mitigate the high risk of infection. The carcass, however, represents a substantial caloric and material resource."
The word "resource" barely registered. Elias clamped his good right hand over the bleeding gash on his arm, pressing hard. Pain, which had been distant during the fight, now surged to the forefront, sharp and insistent. He tore strips from his old, relatively cleaner inner layer of bark tunic with his teeth and good hand, trying to create a makeshift pressure bandage. Blood still seeped heavily between his fingers.
"SAGE," he gasped, his voice trembling, "infection… what can I do? It needs to be clean!"
"Optimal immediate action: Irrigate thoroughly with any boiled and cooled water you have remaining," SAGE instructed. "This will help flush out contaminants. Lacking that, even fresh, flowing spring water is preferable to leaving it as is. Following irrigation, a makeshift antiseptic wash can be attempted. Wood ash mixed with a small amount of water to form a thin paste creates a mild alkali solution which can aid in debridement and has some limited antimicrobial properties. Apply gently, then rinse again if possible."
Gritting his teeth against the waves of agony, Elias stumbled to where his precious, small store of boiled water was kept in his one good pot. Using his good hand, he poured it over the deep, ragged claw marks, sluicing away dirt and bear fur. The sight was gruesome, but the cleaning, however painful, felt vital. He then painstakingly scooped fine, cool ash from the edge of his main fire pit, mixing it with a few drops of the remaining water in a large leaf. The greyish paste stung fiercely as he gently applied it to the mangled flesh, then rinsed it off as SAGE advised.
"Now, a clean, compressive dressing is crucial," SAGE continued. "Use the cleanest material available. The inner layers of certain barks, if pliable, or broad, freshly picked leaves that I can identify as non-irritant, can serve as a primary wound contact layer after being quickly rinsed. Secure this firmly with your strongest, cleanest cordage or more bark strips to maintain pressure and immobilise the area as much as possible. The dressing will need to be changed and the wound inspected for signs of infection regularly"
His head swimming from pain and blood loss, Elias looked around wildly. SAGE identified a nearby broad-leafed plant as suitable. He plucked several large, smooth leaves, rinsed them with the last of his water, and laid them carefully over the cleaned wound. Then, with his new, strong cordage and more strips of bark fibre, he bound his arm tightly, from wrist to elbow. The pressure was excruciating, a deep, pulsing ache settling into his limb, but the bleeding finally seemed to slow to a sluggish ooze.
Exhaustion, absolute and profound, threatened to overwhelm him. The adrenaline was long gone, leaving behind a bone-deep weariness and the sharp, throbbing reality of his injury. He had won, but the cost was already apparent.
The sun was beginning its descent, casting long shadows through the trees, by the time Elias could even contemplate the next crisis: the massive bear carcass lying a few feet from his lean-to. "Butchering a large mammal efficiently requires a systematic approach, Elias," SAGE stated, oblivious to his near-collapse. "Prioritise the removal of hide, then sectioning the meat. The fat can be rendered for tallow. Organs offer immediate high-nutrient value but spoil rapidly."
One-armed, his body screaming with protest, Elias retrieved his bloody stone knife. The thought of processing this entire animal was monumental, almost impossible. He started with the hide, the work slow, agonising, and gruesome. He could only manage to begin the process, freeing a section of the thick pelt, before darkness began to gather in earnest and his strength gave out. He focused on hacking off a few manageable chunks of meat from an exposed thigh, dragging them closer to his fire. The rest of the carcass he attempted to cover with branches and leaves, a futile gesture against determined scavengers, but all he could manage.
The fight, the kill, the sight and smell of so much blood, his own throbbing injury – it all took a heavy psychological toll. As he huddled by his fire, every snap of a twig in the surrounding forest made him jump. The bear's dying roar seemed to echo in his ears, the feeling of its hot breath, its tearing claws, seared into his memory. This was not a clean, distant trap kill; this was a brutal, intimate, life-or-death struggle, and the rawness of it left him shaken.
"SAGE," he asked, his voice low and hoarse, "why was that bear so aggressive?"
"Several factors could have contributed, Elias," SAGE replied. "Extreme hunger due to seasonal food scarcity in this specific territory, a learned boldness from prior successful scavenging encounters – though unlikely in an area without previous sustained human presence – or an individual atypical aggressive temperament. Your successful defence, though costly, may deter other predators from approaching this specific site in the short term due to the lingering scent of conflict and death. However, be aware: the carcass itself will now become a powerful, widespread attractant for scavengers of all sizes, from insects and birds to larger carnivores."
The thought sent a fresh chill through him, colder than the evening air.
SAGE, ever practical, tried to steer him back to preparation. "Elias, despite your current condition and the immediate need to process resources or secure this site from scavengers, it is pertinent to continue foundational learning for your intended journey. You often observe the night sky."
Elias, wincing as he shifted his injured arm, looked up. The first stars were beginning to prick the darkening canvas above. "The stars..." he managed, his throat dry. "They're different here, but they move. Predictably, like ours did."
"Correct," SAGE affirmed. "Your consistent nocturnal observations have allowed me to catalog several prominent constellations and track their apparent motion relative to this planet's axis and your latitude. I can now provide rudimentary directional guidance based on these celestial patterns, supplementing solar and landmark navigation. For instance, that bright star formation, which I have designated 'The Hunter's Spear' due to its distinct linear shape, can serve as a reliable poleward indicator." SAGE provided a key reference point, a pattern of light in the alien sky. Elias, despite his pain and exhaustion, tried to fix its position in his mind. The thought of navigating by those distant, cold stars was both daunting and strangely compelling, a thread of discernible order in the overwhelming chaos of his existence.
He finally collapsed within his lean-to, his injured arm throbbing violently, his entire body a symphony of aches. His small camp, usually smelling of woodsmoke and pine, now reeked of blood, raw meat, and the faint, musky scent of bear. His carefully crafted greenware pots, still drying under the eaves, were almost forgotten in the brutal aftermath of the day's battle.
He had an unimaginable bounty of resources – meat for weeks, perhaps months, if he could somehow process and preserve it; a huge, thick hide for shelter or warmer clothing; rendered fat for fuel or waterproofing. But it had come at a steep physical and mental price. The god had wanted progress. He had received a savage lesson in the food chain, and a chilling revelation of his own capacity for violence when pushed to the absolute limit.