Chapter Three
A New Day Dawns

Elizabeth Cutler

It's almost immediately apparent that I'm all but useless from a survival perspective. All Starfleet recruits undergo survival training, but my last refresher was over ten years ago in the Southern Andes. It was a simulated shuttle crash, so we had all the standard supplies and equipment of an away team, plus the shuttle for shelter. Some of the systems, including environmental controls, were 'damaged' in the 'crash', but we were able to jury rig something that kept the interior of the shuttle above freezing most of the time. In retrospect, it was clearly meant less to teach us survival skills and more to teach us not to panic when things go wrong. Our biggest worries were altitude sickness, anoxia and stretching three weeks of field rations for six out to feed eight cadets for a full month. Compared to what we'll be facing, it was about as challenging as a sleep-away camp for kids.

While Malcolm's survival training was necessarily more comprehensive than mine, I'm not sure how much he knows about getting by in the desert, and certainly his training, like mine, was focused more on managing not to die before a rescue party found him, rather than living on the lam and avoiding the authorities. I'm sure he'll do everything in his power to take care of me, and frankly, even when I think seriously about it, I have no doubt that I'm as safe with him as I possibly could be in the circumstances. Even if it means breaking into someone's house and stealing a can of beans, he'll make sure I don't starve, and I sincerely believe he'd fight a bear, a cougar or a MACO death squad to keep me safe. Still, I have no intention of becoming a burden on him; I never want him to feel I can't survive without him, and I want to support him as much as he does me. Back on Jupiter Station, after he took command of Fortress, we spoke often of having a partnership, of mutually supporting each other, and now that I'm his wife and we've been forced to go underground, I see no reason for that to change.

So, this first morning, when Malcolm and Grandmother are up before the dawn, I rise with them. The early hour will take some getting used to. On the station, I would often lie in bed and talk to Malcolm as he got ready for the day and then roll over and go back to sleep for an hour or two after he left our quarters, but I should be adjusted within the week.

It didn't take long to find the outhouse last night, and it's even easier in the pre-dawn darkness now that I know where I'm going. It's just off behind the house, around a curve in the rocky outcrop that forms the back wall, the only side of the little home that doesn't have a window, which I suppose allows for some privacy and helps prevent the odor from drifting into the living space. Last night I was surprised to find the primitive toilet equipped with the luxury of a hand-held bidet sprayer in a bracket on the wall, but now I realize it must be cheaper than toilet paper, more convenient than any re-useable option that would require washing and more reliably available than any other disposable alternative. Of course, the gentle spray doesn't produce enough water to flush the waste down a drain, so there was no chance of bringing the toilet indoors, but at least the outhouse isn't entirely without modern conveniences. I've heard jokes about cleaning oneself with a corncob, and thinking about how that might work makes me shudder. The single bare electric light bulb was a bit of a surprise, too, but though I wondered why the outhouse would be equipped with electricity while the house itself was not, I was too tired then to ask.

Malcolm is eager to learn and be of use too, so when he volunteers to help Grandmother tend to her animals, I ask what I can do to start breakfast. She points to a shelf beside the fireplace where there's a stoneware jar covered with a waxy-looking piece of fabric held in place by a bit of string, an antique hand-crank coffee grinder, and an old French press coffee maker. Why I know what these things are is beyond me, perhaps a trip to a museum when I was a kid? Maybe I saw them in use in one of Trip's old movies? At any rate, she clearly wants me to start the coffee. She says it will take about one hundred grams of grounds to make one cup for each of us.

When confronted with the necessary tools and materials for completing the task at hand, I suddenly realize that I have never actually made coffee in my life, but somehow I know the nuts I measure out of the tin are not real coffee beans. So I guess this is my first lesson in making do. I'll ask Grandmother what they are and how to process them later, but for now, I dip some water from the bucket in the corner into the kettle, set it to boil on the grate over the coals in the fireplace and start grinding the nuts.

There's a small digital scale in the drawer of the grinder, so I set the empty drawer on it, zero it out, place the drawer back into the grinder and throw a few nuts in the hopper. I grind a few nuts and weigh the drawer, grind a few more and weigh it again. It doesn't seem a very efficient way of doing things, but the crank on the grinder is easy enough to turn, so it won't take long to get a hundred grams. About halfway through the job, I feel like an idiot as I realize I could have weighed out a hundred grams of nuts and then ground them all at once. I file the realization away for next time and finish grinding and weighing. Then I find myself at a bit of a loss.

I'm more certain than ever that I've seen this sort of coffeemaker in use in one of Trip's movies, but I didn't exactly pay attention to how it was used. I mean, really, whoever would have imagined that I'd need to know? There's a basket on the end of the plunger, so it stands to reason that the grounds would go in there, but then, do I just lower the plunger and let it steep like tea, or is the plunger meant to be used like an agitator to run as much water as possible through the grounds?

Grandmother has little enough as it is. I don't want to waste even one morning's coffee for her, so I set the grounds and the French press aside, pull the kettle back from the hottest part of the fire because I don't want to boil away even one drop of the precious water Grandmother surely must have carried some distance to get into the house, and look around for something else to do. I'd set the table for breakfast, but I have no idea what we'll be eating. I'd happily sweep and dust, but even with the dirt floor, the little house is immaculate, and while the broom is standing ready in a corner, I have no idea where to find a dust cloth anyway. But there are beds to be made, and now that the sun is rising, I can open the blinds to let in some light and the door to let in a little fresh air. If Grandmother isn't back by the time I've finished the chores I've set for myself, I'll go out to the stable and explain my dilemma to her.

When I raise the shade above the sink, I notice the window has a crank to open it, so I look for one on the west-facing window, as well, but find that this one swings up and out on a piano hinge and gets propped open with a stick. I notice neither window has a proper shutter. The rolled-up hides in use now are probably adequate protection against dust and wind and maybe even tumbleweeds, but are there larger animals out in the desert that, being desperate for a meal, might find them no hindrance whatsoever? As I look out on the harsh, barren landscape, I wonder whether Malcolm has the necessary carpentry skills to build some sturdy shutters if we can find the appropriate materials. It would be a nice way to thank Grandmother for her hospitality.

While I'm contemplating the security a simple set of shutters over the windows can provide, Beans leaps to the windowsill beside me to look out, deftly avoiding the potted plants that are growing there, and I resist the urge to shoo her back into the house and down to the floor. She's going to find her way out eventually, and maybe, by allowing some early reconnaissance, we can prevent her feeling the need to sneak out when we're not looking. Malcolm and Grandmother are coming back to the house, and both of them give her a pat and a word of affection as they pass.

"Be needin' a cat flap soon," Grandmother comments a few moments later as she and Malcolm come back into the house.

"I'll get on that in a week or so," Malcolm assures her, much to my surprise. I would have expected him to want to move on as soon as possible. "I'd like to keep her in the house for a while, first, so she knows it's home."

"Oh, she knows her home is wherever you an' Little Miss Eighty-Three are, Grandson," Grandmother says knowingly. "She won't wander far."

Privately, I agree with Grandmother, but if there's any further discussion, I'll support Malcolm. I don't think she could possibly understand how precious Beans is to him, and he's under enough strain without having to worry about her, too. He's lost so much so suddenly, and now he'll be taking on the responsibilities of caring for and protecting me (more than I need, most likely); and as long as we're the beneficiaries of her hospitality, he'll feel responsible for Grandmother as well. After the strain of the last couple of days, I'm surprised he hasn't already had one of his 'out' episodes. Anything I can do to lower his stress levels will help prevent that from happening or reduce its severity if it does.

I quickly explain to Grandmother my dilemma with the coffee press, and she instructs me on its proper use as she tells Malcolm what to set on the table and busies herself with cooking bacon and mixing up a batter. Within half an hour, we're eating a hearty meal of spicy sausage and hotcakes topped with butter, jelly, and syrup.

"Why does the coffee press have a basket if the grounds don't go in there?" I ask, as the conversation shifts from topic to topic.

"Girl, I don't rightly know," Grandmother replies with mock irritation. "Reckon it might help catch the particles that squeeze their way round the disc."

Having apparently decided it would be rude to refuse the coffee and lament the lack of tea when we are relying on Grandmother's charity, Malcolm takes a sip of his coffee, and his eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

"That's not like any coffee I've ever had," he remarks, "but it's really lovely! What is it?"

"Oh, yes, I wanted to ask that, too!" I interject. "I knew they weren't coffee beans when I was grinding them." Then I sip from my mug, and I imagine my expression on tasting the not-coffee is much the same as Malcolm's was. It's naturally sweet and light with a dark, roasted, nutty flavor that's only barely reminiscent of coffee, but there's an overriding spicy flavor that's both invigorating and delightful. "Ohh, that is good!"

"Tastes like Christmas, don't it?" Grandmother cackles with pleasure, reminding me of a friendly witch.

Malcolm and I both nod. On my second sip, I could swear I taste cardamom and nutmeg and cloves, and I ask again, more curious than ever, "But what is it?"

"Roasted date pits," she tells us with glee. "Used to be Arizona produced a lot of dates. Now, the orchards have been abandoned, but the trees still grow in some places and they've gone wild. Get mine in an arroyo about two kilometers west of here. Use the dates for eatin', cookin', bakin' and makin' sugar, syrup, and wine; roast the pits for coffee. Get more than enough for my needs, so I barter the extra at the store in the village.

"You two come at just the right time," she says. "It's the foresummer drought, time to use up the dregs of everything an' get ready for the comin' harvest."

"Harvest?" Malcolm asks. "What harvest?"

"This place is a barren desert," I add, confused.

Grandmother cackles again. "Desert, yes, child, barren, no. 'Ceptin' the salt, ever'thing on this table come from the desert, includin' the sausage. Made it from black bear meat 'cause it's nice an' fatty; grew the herbs an' spices myself. This desert offers bounty, if you know where to look an' what to do with what you find there. If you'll help me with the work, I can teach you, an' once you've learned, then you'll know!"

I look across the table at Malcolm and try not to appear too eager. Ten hours ago, we had no idea what we were going to do or where we were going to go. Now, in exchange for helping with the ordinary chores of the house, we're being offered food, shelter, and survival training that will go far beyond anything Starfleet or the MACOs could teach us. We met Grandmother in one of the few remaining wild patches of the Amazon Rainforest, so surely, she'll be able to teach us a bit about some of the places in between, too.

Malcolm nods slowly. I'm sure he's thinking about ways to obtain transportation, connect with the underground, and polish his hunting and foraging skills before we start traveling. Until then, it will be nice to have a safe place to stay and the security of regular meals.

"All right," he agrees. "I'm not sure how long we'll be able to stay – there's no telling how soon or how quickly we'll have to move on – but as long as we're here, we'll help you as much as we can and learn whatever you care to teach us."

I can't help myself. I've adored Grandmother since the moment I met her, and I'm delighted to be able to stay with her for however long we can linger here. I bounce in my seat and clap softly as Grandmother laughs her witchy laugh once more.

Malcolm looks slightly surprised that we're both so happy, but Grandmother reaches across the table and pats his arm.

"Worry not, Grandson, it will be well worth your while," she says.

Malcolm nods doubtfully, but I'm sure she is right.