When they brought the local doctor back to the tribe, Bam’s condition had worsened. He was drenched in cold sweat.
The Old Witch Doctor showed no welcome for the doctor’s arrival, and neither did Bam’s mother. They even refused to let the doctor administer any medication, fearing he might poison him.
With no other choice, the doctor could only clean the wound and stitch it up first.
Bam’s mother watched his every move with unblinking intensity.
Once the treatment was done, the doctor snatched up his medical kit and bolted, lingering not a moment longer—as if terrified that failing to cure Bam would bring the wrath of the native tribe down on him.
Before he left, though, he handed over some anti-inflammatory drugs.
Kasi secretly crushed the pills and stirred them into the herbal brew in the clay pot.
Not long after Bam drank it, his condition improved markedly. He could open his eyes and even speak.
Joy returned to the tribe. The men headed out to hunt once more, while the women set about preparing the evening meal. They even began planning a celebratory ritual.
According to Kasi, the tribe always threw a big party whenever they brought down a fierce beast.
Song Yu received an invitation to stay and join in. Thanks to her role in finding Bam, the tribe had fully embraced her. They no longer minded her hanging around with Kasi, either.
That evening, Song Yu got to witness the legendary process of making Masato.
Masato was a fermented alcoholic drink made with saliva.
The women pounded cassava into a paste, then gathered around a wooden trough over three feet long. They chewed the mush, mixing it thoroughly with their saliva before spitting it back into the trough.
The Masato simmered gently in a pot, filling the air with a sweet, fragrant aroma. If you ignored how it was made, it smelled downright delicious.
Kasi kept badgering Song Yu.
“What is it you want, exactly? Tell me, and I’ll get it for you.”
Song Yu pressed her lips together, propping herself up on her hands behind her, deliberately stringing Kasi along without answering.
Kasi pouted, tapping her index finger against her chin as she tilted her head, racking her brains.
“That necklace around Havana’s neck?” She shook her head right away—she’d seen Song Yu’s own necklace, which put Havana’s to shame by a hundredfold.
Kasi knew Song Yu was loaded. She wouldn’t give tribal trinkets a second glance. Frowning, Kasi scanned the village inch by inch, hunting for whatever had caught Song Yu’s interest.
Once Kasi latched onto an idea, she wouldn’t drop it. She kept grilling Song Yu.
“The Old Witch Doctor’s staff?”
“That colorful clay pot?”
Song Yu grew fed up with the questions. She stood from the blanket and plucked berries from the bushes ringing the camp, gathering a heaping handful in the pouch of her coat.
By the time the sky blushed rose-pink with sunset, the men returned from the hunt.
The women set down their tasks and rushed out to greet them.
Song Yu hesitated a beat, then followed suit.
Pei Zhi brought up the rear, ducking slightly under the broad banana leaves. Another fruitless day. He slipped his notebook into his pants pocket.
He looked up and spotted Song Yu, drifting toward her as if it were the most natural thing.
“How’s Bam doing?”
“Much better. Kasi slipped him another dose when no one was looking.” Song Yu peered at him. “Still come up empty on the hunt?”
The man shrugged, his indifference unchanged. “Nah. Takwar bagged plenty.”
Song Yu noted how he’d given up on himself entirely—not even bothering with a quiver anymore. He mooched off the tribe without a shred of guilt.
She held out the berries cradled in her coat. “Here, eat these, then. Took me forever to pick them.” She offered them up like prized treasures.
Pei Zhi’s gaze dropped to the deep purple-red berries, his expression conflicted, words hovering unspoken.
Just then, Kasi came dashing up from behind. “You don’t want Su Su, do you?”
Su Su was the tribe’s pet macaw. Most of the feathers adorning the Old Witch Doctor’s and Takwar’s headdresses had been plucked from it.
The bump jolted Song Yu forward; she nearly spilled her berries.
Pei Zhi reacted swiftly, steadying her shoulders with his hands.
Through the thin cloth of her shirt, she felt the scorching heat of his palms—then they were gone just as quickly.
Her heart pounded inexplicably faster. Her face went still, her ears burning red. She whipped around and hustled Kasi away. “No!”
“Not that either?” Kasi sounded let down. As Song Yu shoved her along, she caught sight of the berries. “Why’d you pick those? They’re poisonous—even birds won’t touch them.”
“…”
Song Yu tugged at her mouth in a wry smile. No wonder no one else had bothered harvesting them right by camp.
“Mind your own business,” she said.
The evening celebration kicked off.
The men donned traditional garb: crescent-shaped necklaces of animal teeth, vibrant feathers bound into their hair.
Poor Su Su ended up with another bald patch.
Takwar led the rites. The men danced around the campfire, their faces streaked with red patterns from cheek to nose.
The women hummed a simple, nameless melody—just a handful of notes, looping tirelessly.
Bam refused to miss the festivities. He lay on a mat in the clearing, his face ashen but beaming as he watched the revelry.
Song Yu perched on a felled palm log, elbows braced on her knees, tossing firewood into the flames now and then.
Kasi, who was supposed to mind the fire, had gone wild instead—chasing the tribe’s macaw to yank out its last tail feather.
The parrot darted from rooftop to rooftop across the camp; Kasi lurched after it unsteadily.
Song Yu prodded the fire with a stick.
The branch and dry leaves crackled as they burned, tiny sparks scattering onto the back of her hand.
The tribe surrendered to the boundless night, warming pot after pot of Masato.
It reminded Song Yu of her own all-night benders amid the city’s glittering excess—but this was different.
Urban decadence was the idle pastime of overflowing wealth. Here, in the humid, sweltering rainforest, this indulgence marked the tribe’s hard-won victory over nature itself.
Drowned out by the raucous din around her, Song Yu’s thoughts drifted far away. She felt like she belonged nowhere in that moment.
Her gaze drifted slowly across the distance, picking out the young, handsome man amid the Native Americans in their traditional attire.
He hadn’t changed into the native garb—just his white shirt. But the ends of his black hair had been woven with gray-blue feathers. An elderly Native woman admired her handiwork, rubbing her cheek against his.
It suited him perfectly. The feathers swayed lightly at his neck, lending a touch of wildness to his usual laid-back air.
Unlike the others, Pei Zhi didn’t circle the campfire in dance. He sat beside the Old Witch Doctor instead.
The Old Witch Doctor was still sour about the outsider doctor they’d brought in. He gave Pei Zhi the cold shoulder, more than usual.
Pei Zhi said nothing, content to silently roll corn husk cigarettes for him.
He spread the tobacco evenly across pale yellow corn husks, pinching and rolling with two fingers. His movements were unhurried, methodical.
One after another.
In the end, the Old Witch Doctor took one.
Pei Zhi lit one for himself, too. He leaned against the steps of the treehouse, legs stretched out straight. He held the cigarette between two fingers, tapping it lightly with his index—such a casual pose, yet effortlessly refined.
His eyes were half-lidded, dark lashes casting shadows, as if he were still half-asleep.
In the dimness, the corn husk cigarette glowed a warm orange.
For some reason, Song Yu sensed that Pei Zhi, like her, was just a passerby in this tribe. He kept everyone at an even keel—not too distant, not too familiar.
Perhaps her stare was too bold, too unguarded. Pei Zhi’s eyelids fluttered up. Across the flickering firelight and milling crowd, their eyes met.
Song Yu held his gaze without flinching.
Time seemed to freeze.
Her eyes shone bright and profound, like a galaxy spilled across the night sky.
The cigarette smoldered on, its smoke curling into the damp evening mist.
Pei Zhi’s index finger twitched. A falling ash seared the pad of his finger.
A long moment passed.
He rose to his feet and flicked the half-smoked cigarette into a corner.
“Tea?” Pei Zhi approached her, his voice low and smooth.
Song Yu shifted her position, bracing her hands behind her to look relaxed. She nodded.
The clay pot baked over the campfire, its water still and serene.
As they waited for it to boil, an uncommon quiet settled between them—a stark contrast to the uproar just a few paces away.
The tribesfolk grew ever wilder, downing cup after cup of Masato.
Takwar’s voice boomed louder and louder until he could barely stand. He wobbled about, hoisting a horn cup high, his words slow and fervent, as if delivering some grand oration.
Kasi heckled him.
Takwar, interrupted, flew into a rage. He hurled his drink to the ground and bellowed at her.
Kasi stood her ground defiantly until Havana dragged her off to the side.
Song Yu couldn’t understand a word, but she knew a farce when she saw one. She shook her head in helpless amusement.
The other tribesfolk rushed in to mediate. The man sitting beside her, however, remained utterly unmoved.
Bubbles rose in the clay pot. He added a pinch of deep green powder, and the sharp scent of yerba mate filled the air.
“I want to try it without sugar,” Song Yu said.
Pei Zhi glanced at her and snapped shut the tin of sugar cubes.
The pot yielded two cups of mate tea. They each took one.
Song Yu cradled her earthen mug, its thick walls warm but not scalding to the touch.
She took a gentle sip. The mate tea, without any sugar, was even more bitter than what she had tasted before, yet its flavor was richer and more full-bodied.
It was as if the entire forest had been distilled into that single cup.
Song Yu wrinkled her brow at the bitterness.
Pei Zhi blew softly on his steaming tea before taking a leisurely sip. His face remained impassive, as though the bitterness had no effect on him at all.
Everyone in the tribe was drinking masato, but in their little corner, the robust aroma of mate tea drowned out the sweet scent wafting through the air.
Kasi came running over at some point and suddenly threw her arms around Song Yu’s neck from behind.
A heart-wrenching wail erupted right by her ear.
“You little pest!” Kasi sobbed, mumbling in anger. “Why won’t you take me with you? What on earth do you want?”
“…” Song Yu was nearly choked by the embrace, her neck smeared with Kasi’s tears and snot in an exaggeratedly wet mess.
She offered no reply to Kasi’s question.
Song Yu was not one to let emotions cloud her judgment. Takwar would never allow Kasi to leave the tribe, and she had no desire to invite needless trouble upon herself.
Kasi was young and bright, her imagination filled with endless dreams and idealizations of the world beyond.
Life in the tribe lacked the moral framework forged in civilized society.
If Song Yu took her along out of kindness, that beautiful wild rose would soon wilt amid the city’s smog.
She couldn’t shoulder that kind of responsibility.
Havana came over and pried Kasi away with some difficulty. Song Yu could only manage a wry smile.
Pei Zhi tossed another log onto the campfire. Glancing at the newly freed Song Yu, he asked indifferently, “Leaving, then?”
Song Yu lowered her gaze. “Yeah,” she said softly.
Their brief exchange ended, plunging them into silence.
Feeling the weight of it, Song Yu changed the subject. “Oh, right—I forgot to give you something.”
She rose to her feet and trotted over to the palm tree at the edge of the camp, slinging the rifle onto her back.
“I can’t take this gun back with me, so it’s yours. I’ve seen you miss hunts more often than not. Next time, give the gun a try and see how it works for you.”
Song Yu cracked a casual joke. “Otherwise, no woman will have you down the line.”
She studied the man’s expression and regretted her words almost immediately.
Pei Zhi’s large hand came to rest on the gunstock. The wood felt smooth and warm, heated by the fire.
He narrowed his eyes slightly. The mate tea’s aroma now carried a seductive, intoxicating edge.
Her voice was warm and languid. She rarely smiled, but when her brows curved upward, it was breathtaking—like a sly, bewitching fox.
In the tribe, someone had kicked over a pot of masato, sending up a clatter and stirring commotion.
He tilted his head back, gazing into Song Yu’s clear, dewy eyes. His chest swelled with a drunken haze, as if from the spilled brew.
“If I can’t hunt, berries will do,” he said.
Song Yu froze, staring at the man in a daze.
He let out a soft chuckle, revealing neat teeth as white as coconut flesh.