The night was deep.
In front of the cabins nad Saturday and Sunday, the campfire blazed brightly.
The bright flas illuminated the faces of the indigenous people, and the aroma wafting from the clay pot made the hungry crowd swallow hard, staring intently at the boiling barley porridge inside the pot.
Saturday brought out a small table he frequently used from inside the house, placing it beside the campfire, and arranged a row of clay bowls on it.
After resting in the afternoon, he diligently completed the task Sunday had handed over to him, burying the three corpses deeply in the forest soil.
Then Saturday herded the sheep for a while, wandered around the fields, and observed how Sunday treated the indigenous people.
Only when Sunday went to the cave, did he manage to take over this group of indigenous people, preparing a al for them that was "neither filling nor enough to cause starvation."
...
Using a wet thick canvas to protect his hand, he took down the clay pot and patiently waited for the barley porridge to cool. Saturday stood in front of the table, inviting the indigenous people to co over for a al.
The indigenous people, exhausted and hungry from spending half a day digging pits with wooden sticks, finally awaited the departure of Sunday, the dreaded presence among them. Even with the seemingly amiable Saturday, they dared not misbehave.
They longingly gazed at the steaming clay pot on the table, cared not to wipe their mud-stained hands, and eagerly grabbed the clay bowl filled with barley porridge, gulping it down into their mouths.
Only Werner, the self-claid Spaniard from the "Civilized World," knew to wipe his hands with his clothes before taking up a clay bowl.
In fact, he wanted to politely ask the young boy who prepared the al for them—
"Could I please have a spoon?"
But considering the indigenous person probably couldn’t understand him, the fierce and brutal deanor of the other indigenous person might return at any mont, and his empty stomach couldn’t afford the luxury of manners, he swallowed the words, taking the clay bowl and squatting in line with the others, eating the barley porridge.
Saturday, out of habit, had sprinkled so scallion leaves and a pinch of coarse salt into the barley porridge, giving the simple al a slightly unique flavor.
The indigenous people, dizzy with hunger, devoured the food hastily, not noticing any difference from what they usually ate.
Having been at sea regularly, used to the "dark cuisine" on ships, Werner did sense sothing different.
"Salt was added? And so other spices...
These indigenous people know how to cook; aren’t they supposed to eat only slightly grilled food?
And the barley, if no other sailors have landed on the island, there’s no barley here at all..."
Thinking as he ate, just when Werner was daydreaming about having another bowl after finishing the current one, the clay pot empty of its contents, the young indigenous boy who had cooked for them took the pot and walked back towards the distant cabin without a backward glance.
Imdiately after, the person Werner least wished to see appeared—Sunday, with a Long Saber at his waist.
...
His young face remained stern, betraying no emotional fluctuation.
No sooner had he appeared than, having just finished their barley porridge with sowhat improved moods, the indigenous people hastily bowed their heads.
In the span of a short afternoon, Sunday had etched deep fear into their hearts.
At least for now, when they had no power to resist, they appeared extraordinarily compliant.
...
"Have they finished eating?"
Sunday walked over to Saturday and asked aloud.
He used Chinese, the unequivocal secret language on this island.
"Just finished."
Saturday placed the clay pot at the cabin door—
This was a ventilated spot, reducing the chance of spoiling food. Chen Zhou regularly cooked barley here as bait, and occasionally they would help Chen Zhou cook so barley as reserves.
Glancing at the line of squatting indigenous people, Sunday continued his questioning.
"Is there anyone who has behaved particularly, or who likes to talk to others?"
"No, they haven’t said anything."
Sunday nodded.
"Fairly honest.
You shouldn’t be the one washing the bowls; this job is not for you. You are now also the Leader, understand?
Assign the tasks to them. You only need to oversee whether they are working well, and punish those who slack off."
At this point, Sunday paused and pointed to the cave.
"’God’ says you are to collect a whip from him. Use it on anyone who disobeys.
Also, these people are not allowed to sleep in the cabins.
Later, move so planks out, lay them on the ground in front of the cabin, make sure the weeds around are cleared, and keep the campfire going.
Make sure you can clearly see everyone.
Tonight, I’ll take the first half of the night watch, and you take the second half.
After moving the boards, get so sleep, I’ll wake you for the second half."
Saying this, Sunday walked into the cabin, dragged out a chair, and walked in front of the indigenous people. He didn’t speak, just sat on the chair, observing them coldly.
...
The indigenous people did not dare to et Sunday’s eyes; they dared not even glance at him out of the corners of their eyes, sitting there honestly, their bodies stiff.
This suffocating silence lasted for a long ti.
Only when Saturday moved the boards and handed over the whip to Sunday did slight fluctuations occur.
...
The campfire continued to burn.
The dry firewood cracked from ti to ti, and the sll of smoke filled the adow surrounding.
Under Sunday’s orders, the indigenous people washed the dishes with clean water and carefully kept the clay bowls beside them—
Sunday had told them if they lost or broke the bowls, they would have to use their hands to receive als in the future.
...
The evening wind stirred the flas, and the distant leaves rustled.
The indigenous people, including Werner, lay straight on the planks, yet no one dared to sleep.
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