I threw a fresh batch of vegetation onto the fire—thick leaves, soft bark, aromatic vines. They hit the embers with a sharp hiss, smoke blooming upward in pale ribbons, earthy and herbal, laced with a sour-sweet edge that made my mouth water the moment it drifted under my nose.
The scent of monkey wine still lingered—fermented fruit, wild herbs, something heady and medicinal, like jungle sake. Now it mingled with the pork belly fat sizzling on the pan, casting a spell over the whole clearing.
I swallowed hard. My stomach growled.
But I forced myself to wait.
Preservation came first.
This meat was for later—smoked, cured, packed. A journey's worth of food, if I did it right.
I reached down and shooed away a pair of monkeys trying to snatch smoking ribs straight off the rack. One was stealthy, trying to slink by under the cover of a log. The other was bolder, climbing up the tripod as if I wouldn't notice.
I grabbed them by the scruff—gently—and dragged them back to the bonfire. One of them squeaked and flailed, limbs flying in protest. The other went limp like a toddler caught in the act.
The others watched silently, eyes wide, clearly judging their fallen comrades.
With the fire steady and the smoke flowing, I turned back to the pan of pork belly fat, gently tipping the excess oil into my sealed metal container. A golden stream flowed into it, slow and syrupy. The smell alone could haunt a man.
Once sealed, I set the container aside—safe from monkeys and wind. It was time for the experiment.
The theory.
Does boar marrow taste good?
I stepped over to the skeleton I'd tossed into the fire hours ago, now buried halfway under a mound of glowing logs and ash. I dragged it out with a stick first, cautious of sparks, then bent down and carefully picked up the main section—spine, legs.
The bone was steaming, faint tendrils rising from blackened joints. The last scraps of meat I hadn't bothered to strip had crisped into charcoal. Grease glistened along the ridges, thick and slow, mixed with soot and melted fat.
Perfect.
I pulled my dagger, steadying the bone on a flat rock.
With a sharp crack, I drove the blade into the joint where femur met socket, twisting until the brittle bone split.
Steam poured out, thick and fragrant—bone marrow, hot and bubbling inside like molten butter.
The smell hit me square in the chest.
Rich. Deep. Carnal.
I grabbed a pork skin cracker from the plan beside me—a hard, crackling strip left from earlier—and dipped it into the sizzling marrow.
It sizzled on contact. The marrow clung to it like syrup, soaked into the crisp skin.
I brought it to my mouth.
Heaven.
Warm. Creamy. Unbelievably savory.
The marrow soaked into the pork skin, softened it just enough to make each bite a contradiction—crispy and tender, sharp and smooth, fatty and salty, the kind of bite that makes the brain go quiet for a moment.
I licked the marrow off the bone, not even realizing what I was doing.
The moment it hit my tongue, I winced—too hot.
I jumped to my feet, tongue sticking out, huffing and puffing, trying not to spit and waste the flavor. I waved a hand in front of my face like that would help. My tongue throbbed, but the taste still lingered.
Worth it.
When I finally blinked the heat out of my eyes, I realized I wasn't the only one who wanted to taste the liquid gold.
The monkeys had surrounded me.
Even the lightweight kids had snapped out of their food comas. The elder, eyes half-lidded with age but alert now looked.
Mesmerized even.
All eyes were on the marrow bone in my hand. Their noses twitched, hungry for the scent.
Drool lined more than one furry chin.
I raised the bone slightly, then nodded toward the wine.
Their heads bobbed in unison. Even the lazy ones perked up, some bouncing in place like kids.
The elder ones nodded with human posture.
Deal confirmed.
I crouched back down and took my dagger to the main femur, slicing through the charred outer edge and splitting it open with a twist.
A glistening line of marrow spilled out, dripping slowly like honey from the broken edge.
I handed them the larger half, and they gathered around it like it was sacred.
As the marrow dripped, I slid my pan underneath, collecting what I could. Grease, ash, marrow, juice—all of it.
The monkeys didn't wait.
One of them dipped a skewer of pork directly into the marrow, spun it in place to coat every side, and took a massive bite.
He shuddered, dropped the stick, and fell backward into the sand with a content sigh.
Another dipped a banana—yes, a banana—into the pan, rolled it in the fat, and took a bite. Then clapped. Repeatedly. Tail swaying like a happy dog.
More followed.
Banana. Pork. Skewers. Meat strips. Leaves. If it could be dipped, it was. And every monkey that tried it danced a little. Twitched. Sighed. Celebrated.
A few even hugged the bone like a long-lost friend, eyes closed in reverence.
I couldn't help it.
I laughed.
A real one.
Watching a troop of semi-drunken monkeys dance around a bonfire, swaying with meat skewers and banana marrow rolls like it was Monkey Mardi Gras? That'll do it.
The elder monkey sidled up beside me, holding the now half-empty wine gourd.
He offered it without a word.
I took the gourd but didn't take a sip.
The elder gestured: a tilt of the hand, miming a drink.
I didn't.
The elder looked angry. Jaw tight, eyes narrowed—like I'd insulted something sacred.
Lucky for me, I knew how to appease anger.
I pulled the pan towards me as the pork belly was cooked through, its smell downright sinful.
Even the angry look of the elder monkey had gone and replaced with a drooling look.
I dripped the remaining marrow from the bone to the sizzling pork belly and handed the elder monkey the whole piece.
It took it and left me to my own device.
---
I poured another measured stream of monkey wine over the stack of vegetation on the smoking fire.
The flames surged high, catching the fermented liquid instantly, licking up through the layered leaves with a bright whoosh. A wave of thick, bitter, earthy herbal smoke rolled out, wrapping around me like mist on a mountainside.
It smelled like earth, wild fruit, crushed flowers, and ancient things.
Even without drinking a drop, I could feel it working on me. My head buzzed faintly. Not dizzy, just loose. Calm. Like the line between my thoughts and the world had been lightly smudged.
The smoke swirled upward and filtered through the hanging meat. It danced around the slabs like ghost hands. If I kept the fire going for another hour or so, the cuts would be semi-cured—dried enough to carry without rotting, still soft enough to fry later.
I gave the tripod a glance. Everything looked solid. No skewers slipping, no cords sagging. I turned my back to it.
Behind me, at the main bonfire, the monkeys lay in tangled heaps—drunk, bloated, snoring.
Some had passed out with skewers still in hand. Others had rolled away from the heat of the fire and were curled up under banana leaves or inside hollow logs, their arms tucked beneath their heads like little jungle sailors.
The embers of the fire still glowed faintly under ash, a ghost of last night's feast.
Even the breeze smelled like wine.
I inhaled. Deep. Let it sit.
Gods, this was good wine.
I turned back to my ship, walking with that easy, unhurried pace that only comes when there's nothing demanding urgency—no ambush, no storm, no chase.
Just a to-do list and plenty of time to get through it.
---
First, I checked the cabin.
I ducked into the small interior and scanned every corner. No mice. No torn bags, no chewed leather, no scratch marks on the wood. Everything was where I left it—sacks sealed, crates stacked, ropes coiled.
That was good. That was rare.
Every place had mice and they were a menace to both health and storing food.
I stepped back outside and returned to the bonfire, where the last bananas from last night's trades were still in a loosely tied bundle.
Slinging the bunch of bananas over my shoulder, I carried them toward the ship. I sorted them—ripe, overripe, green—and kept just enough for the trip ahead. The rest, I'd leave behind for my party buddies. I had more than enough.
I took the coal next—black lumps left from the embers of last night's celebration. Most had cooled into perfect pieces. I scooped them with a flat piece of bark, selected the densest ones, and carried them back in a canvas sack to the ship. They'd be useful. For cooking. For heating. Even for drawing, if boredom hit hard enough.
The lard from the pork belly sat sealed in its metal container. A scoop of that in a pan would turn any dried ration into a feast. I checked the lid. Still tight. Still clean.
Then came the pan.
It looked like it had survived a war.
Charred fat clung to the edges. Black streaks ran down the bottom like scars. I scrubbed it with sand, grinding the coarse grit into every stubborn bit of grease. Sand and grease turned my hands slick and gray. I rinsed it with saltwater, then added a splash of leftover dish soap and went back in with a cloth.
Still sticky.
I scowled. "I hate doing dishes."
Another rinse. More scrubbing. A shake to test for slickness.
Finally—passable.
Clean enough not to attract bugs. Shiny enough to reflect a little sunlight. I dried it with a strip of spare linen and hung it on a nail by the cabin door.
That was that.
Now it was just waiting.
---
I wandered back to the smoking fire, careful not to step on any monkey tail or snoring face, and plopped down onto the warm sand. The smoke curled lazily, no longer wild but steady now—seasoning the air and the meat in equal measure.
I reached for the ripe bananas, broke one off, and peeled it slowly.
The first bite was soft and warm from the sun, almost too ripe, but perfectly sweet. It melted on my tongue. No strings. No chew. Just fruit.
I closed my eyes and leaned back on my elbows.
The sunrise was stretching over the horizon, all soft gold and sleepy pinks. The waves lapped against the sand. Birds chirped in bursts from high trees. No danger. No noise.
Just this.
I finished the banana. Then another.
By the third, I stopped trying to be neat and just devoured it. Peels dropped to the side, piling like folded paper. My jaw moved slow. Satisfied.
Beside me, one of the monkeys groaned.
The smallest of the bunch rolled over, eyes half-lidded, fur sticking up in messy tufts like a kid who'd overslept. He blinked twice, then looked around.
His nose twitched. He scuttled toward the bonfire ashes, poked through them with a stick, looking for leftover meat.
Nothing.
He stared into the pit like a man who'd missed the buffet.
I chuckled.
Another monkey woke up. Then another.
Yawns echoed like ripples in a pond. One scratched his belly. Another rubbed his eyes with both fists. The elder sat up, stretched, and stared at the horizon like a weathered captain watching for sails.
They searched the fire. Found nothing. Sat down.
Quiet. Mildly disappointed. Sad.
So I passed over the banana bunch without a word.
They took them with grateful chirps and clicks, tearing into the fruit, throwing peels over their shoulders like little kings at a festival.
We sat side by side, watching the sun rise higher. Warm light filled the clearing.
A kid monkey jumped on my shoulder. Another curled up beside my leg, chewing slowly, tail flicking in time with the waves.
It was peaceful as we ate bananas and threw peels as far as we could playing games.
Silly games like these don't survive past the shore.