Katia began her day by spearing a fish for breakfast. Having small fish and berries can keep her going for hours. Using two rocks to start a fire, Katia made a spit roast with sticks to cook her fish.
During the morning Katia would gather berries to crush into juice. The trick is to examine each and every berry to check that it isn't poisonous. On islands it is very common to hear about people being poisoned for simply not knowing if a berry was poisonous or not. After living on the island alone for eight years, Katia knew the island like the back of her hand, it helped that the island was small, so she knew the signs of poison and which areas to dodge.
With a reasonable collection of berries stored in Katia's hand-woven bowl, Katia moved on to hunting before lunch. She had seen a deer earlier which will last about a week. With a bow slung on her shoulder and a bag of arrows around her back, Katia set of for the woods.
The deer, or any animal, was nowhere to be seen. The best way to hunt is to squat half way up a tree. That way spotting is much easier staying still instead of sneaking around, making noises stepping on twigs or leaves and scaring off prey. Killing itself was a lot less difficult seeing as the ground was in range of a darting arrow.
Katia found herself a sturdy branch which she could jump off with no injuries in case a quick escape was needed. She waited and waited. And waited.
There it was. A beautiful deer had just slowly approached the area. Carefully, Katia loaded the bow, took her aim and...
Miss! The direction of the wind pushed the arrow to hit a tree. Fortunately, the deer had not heard the break of a twig. Katia aimed at her target once again. Released...
Hit! The arrow scraped across the deer's back. However the arrow did not cause enough damage to injure the animal severely, it ran towards a clearing but taking its time. Obviously the back had been hurt.
Katia took one last shot at the deer before she would decide whether to get closer with her knife or to leave the poor creature be. Another miss. "What is wrong with me?" Katia whispered. "I can't give in, I can't starve and I can't let it suffer."
Katia placed her bow and bag of arrows against a tree before tip-toeing towards the delicious creature. Knife in hand, made of stone from the rock, she bent under low branches and stepped over old tree trunks until she was inches away from the deer. Katia held her arm up...
Smack! Right in the face! It was the perfect hit, for the deer. Katia's knife flew out of her hand as she fell down. The earth crumbled beneath her as she crashed.
She wasn't that far underground but enough to know it would be difficult to get back up. Katia lay there for a second before pushing herself up. After recovering and catching her breath after winding herself, Katia made an effort to pull herself up the hole. She failed miserably. Finding herself falling again told Katia that she'd have to crawl through a small opening beside her. She found it hard to see due to the fact that her eye must be swelling up.
It was a tight squeeze but Katia managed to get through the gap. There were lots of old antiques in the cave but the room was so dark, only light came from the opening. Katia felt around to find a lighter or a match. She could make put a torch on the wall. Katia had never lit a match before, being eight when she arrived. All of the fires she had started were from small rocks. She managed to find a match which she would light on the wall.
Unfortunately, the inexperienced match-lighter held the match on a slant. As it tilted the flame rose and hit Katia's thumb. Her natural reflex was to drop the match which consequently set the cave on fire by landing on some dead leaves which happened to be on a wooden crate.
As the cave ignited, Katia ran to the opposite side of the room to a trap door. She slid further underground knowing that she would not be able to climb up where she entered the cave.
Katia stood still for a moment. Suddenly she had a thought. A memory of her childhood. A memory of the shipwreck. A memory of her parents.
A memory of her father’s death.
