I approached the dragon’s dung cautiously, just in case there were more worms hiding inside. The smell was horrible, bad enough to water my eyes and tighten my scalp. The flies loved it though. They were each an inch long and as thick as my thumb. Even from five feet away, I could tell the flies were ugly, little brutes.

I kept my distance and scanned the surface of the dung. There were bits of metal poking through, including what looked like the base of a pommel and some chainmail links. There were bones too--a portion of a skull, the eye socket full of the black flies. Some poor soldier had found their way into the dragon’s belly. Fascinating.

Don’t get me wrong. I was horrified too. But there was a reason I’d ended up working in documentaries. Ever since I was a kid, the things that interested me most were learning about the world, the things in it, and how they worked.

I backed off and circled around the glen to look for a tool for the task ahead. It didn’t take long to find a long branch--straight at one end but with an elbow at the other I could use as a hook to pull and push the dung apart. When I got back, the swarm was thicker than before. There were so many flies crawling over each other, the dung’s surface rippled.

Grimacing, I poked the dung with the hook to clear space around the pommel. The flies reacted instantly--the black wriggling mass lifted into the air and swarmed the hook. The branch shook as bits of wood fell to the ground.

I freaked out and dived for the water, swimming to the other side of the pool. I’d just avoided one brush with death. Why risk another? Besides, if the flies could tear apart a branch, I shuddered to think what they’d do to the soft flesh of my face and neck.

Ugh… what a mess. The flies were safe enough for now at the edge of the glen, but that would change when the flies’ eggs in the dung hatched. Who knew how big the swarm would grow then? Or how it would disperse, if at all?

I needed to regroup. First, I would finish making a knife. I still needed it to gut the fish...the fish...the fish that I suddenly noticed was missing. Did it come loose during the fight with the worms? I scanned the ground but didn’t see it. Maybe in the pool when I dived in?

The otter met my eyes, as she took bite after slow bite of the bass I’d caught.

All at once, the adrenaline keeping me going dissipated, and I sat at the edge of the pool with a thump. My feet dangled in the water. I was exhausted and hungry, but I wasn’t going to begrudge the otter the fish. She’d saved my life twice over. I would just have to try again. Tomorrow. After I rested.

I shook my head at how worn out my eight-year old body was. It was just that morning that I woke up from being poisoned. My mind wanted to go blank from exhaustion, but I forced myself to plan for the next step. I still had some daylight left, so I’d finish the knife tonight and scavenge plums and fennel for dinner.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow is when I would make a new spear, meant just for fishing. I’d start a fire and enjoy a meal of grilled fish. And then, once I had a real meal in my belly, I’d brainstorm solutions to the black fly problem.

All that tomorrow. But first I had a knife to make.

###

I came out of the cave to find the otter gazing at the dragon dung with concern. The swarm had grown overnight, half as big larger than it was yesterday. The flies filled the glen with their buzzing. She looked my way, but only for a moment. It was clear she didn’t expect anything from me. Which was fair. I couldn’t exactly stab the swarm with my spear.

I left the otter pondering the glen’s predicament. I had a new spear to make, one meant just for fishing.

The haft needed to be light enough to be fast but thick enough for me to split the wood into prongs. Half an hour later, I found a pine branch that looked like it’d do. It was about seven feet up, not that high, but climbing was a pain with a flint handaxe in one hand. Half an hour later, I was on the ground wiping the sweat from my forehead, the branch chopped free and in front of me.

After trimming the branch, I split one end four inches in with the ax. Then I split it again, perpendicular to the first cut, making a cross. Wedging a vine into the cuts widened the gaps between the prongs and kept them apart. Then I wrapped the vine around the base of the prongs to keep the wood from splitting further down the haft.

Using my new knife, I sharpened the four prongs into points. Ideally, I’d also harden the points in a fire, but I figured that could wait. The spear would work fine as is.

Back at the shallows, the lighter haft and extra points made a huge difference, and I caught three fish in an hour’s time--two bass and a catfish. I was tempted to catch more, but I was starting to feel woozy from hunger. My hands trembled as I strung a cord through the last fish’s jaw and hung it with the others on my waist.

Almost there, I told myself. Next step is a fire. I can’t eat these sashimi style. Last thing I need is parasites, even if they’re the small kind.

Before leaving, I cut some cattails and brought them with me. Their fluff would catch the sparks I planned to strike from flint and pyrite.

Back at the glen, I found a spot for my fire and assembled a tinder bundle from the stray bits of cedar bark left over from my cord making. Keeping the fish with me, I wandered the surrounding area until I gathered a pile of kindling and dry wood. All that was left was a fire starter.

The first two nodules weren’t useful, but the third cracked open to reveal an amethyst geode. It also wasn’t useful, but the crystals were pretty. I set the two halves of the geode aside for safe keeping.

With the fourth nodule, I struck gold. Fool’s gold, that is. Iron pyrite. The insides shimmered silver and gold.

I knelt beside the kindling and closed my eyes, taking deep breaths to steady my hands. When I opened my eyes, I saw the otter across from me. Her eyes were so clear, I hadn’t noticed that before. Serious too, when she wanted to be.

I thought she’d go for the fish at my waist, but she just watched me with her serious eyes.

“Okay, here I go then.”

It took about thirty strikes of the flint against the pyrite to get a spark in the cattail fluff. I breathed on it, as lightly as I dared, to help the ember grow. When it was well and smoking, I wrapped the ember with the tinder bundle and blew a little harder. Smoke poured out until, all at once, the bundle ignited, filling my hands with fire.

I placed the bundle in a cage of the thinnest, driest kindling I could find. Then it was a matter of steadily placing larger and larger pieces of wood until I finally had a proper campfire. My first on this world. I’m not ashamed to say that I cried. There was just something primal in the comfort and courage a fire gives. I basked in it as I prepared the fish.

The bass were easy to clean. All I had to do was cut open the belly and clear the innards. I drove two thin stakes through the fish lengthwise and stuck them into the ground next to the fire.

The catfish took more work, as I had to pull the skin off, while also being careful of its barbs. A pair of pliers would’ve helped, but they weren’t something I could make from flint. The resulting filets were...let’s be generous and call them uneven. I staked and stuck them beside the bass.

The otter watched the whole process, her seriousness turning into curiosity. Then, when the fish began to grill and their scent to fill the air, her eyes went wide. A drop of saliva hung from her mouth.

“They’re not ready,” I said. “Just give them a little more time. Half are for you. That’s why I caught three.”

The otter glanced up, but my words didn’t register. She went back to staring at the fish, her paws clenching and unclenching.

“Please,” I said. “I need to eat some too.”

She didn’t even look up that time, so I waved my hand to catch her attention and pointed to a bass and catfish filet combination. I gestured that they belonged to her. Then I pointed to the other bass and filet and gestured to myself.

The otter quirked her head, but then she understood and stars filled her eyes. She excitedly gestured to her fish and pointed to herself. Then my fish and myself.

I nodded. “Yes.”

She smiled and patted me on the knee, like a parent proud of her child.

Honestly, I didn’t know how to respond to that. I was sixty-four years old on the inside. But then Ifkael Glen was likely hundreds if not thousands of years old, so maybe the analogy was appropriate after all. I was just glad she understood me.

We both hovered over the fish and waited and waited and waited. And when they were finally ready… oh, heaven. Just heaven. I burned my mouth and hands, but I didn’t care. The fatty skin and the tender, oily flesh were delicious. My belly warmed with every bite. The catfish was drier--the bottom feeders were notorious for parasites, so I cooked them longer--but even they were satisfying to my protein and nutrient-starved body. I would’ve rolled on the ground in joy, if not for the danger of dirtying the fish or setting myself on fire.

The meal was everything I hoped it would be. Don’t get me wrong--I would’ve loved salt, pepper, and butter to go with the fish, but given my circumstances, the meal was as perfect as could be. I ate a whole bass and half the catfish, all on my own.

Afterward, I lay on my back and gazed at the clouds above. The otter lay beside me, watching smoke rise from the fire. All was good with the world.

Well, not all. I turned to eye the black cloud of flies at the far end of the glen. You’re next.