The rain pounds on the roof of the small wooden shelter nestled among the trees of the jungle. The droplets slip through the cracks, some landing on the wet jungle soil and some finding their way to the variety of jars strewn across the floor. Small, colorful insects and creatures nestle themselves in the cracks of the aged wood of the roof, seeking protection from the pounding rain.
A rickety stand shakes gently inside the shelter. Along the sides of the stand are shelves, some with small jars filled with various herbs and spices and others only collecting dust and the stray raindrop. Anyone would think it was abandoned, had it not been for the friendly head that appeared from under the counter. They take a jar from the side and hold it out of the shelter to fill it.
The other side of the shelter is quieter and drier. Grasses have been sewn together to form a covering over the wood so droplets instead slide down the sheet and drop to the ground, bouncing as they hit the growing puddle. Another, smaller, person appears from the shadows, holding a small spoon and several small bags, each no more the size of a sugar packet. They leave the spoon on the counter of the other side and disappear back into the shadows.
“Start the fire,” the first says softly, unheard outside over the pounding of the rain. The second obeys, placing several logs of wood on the drier side and striking one of the few left matches alight. They hold the match close to the wood, until it sparks and suddenly erupts in flames. The second places a rusty rack over the fire.
“Higher,” the first says, without turning back. The second complies and raises it, shifting their weight to their toes to raise themselves higher, until the rack is firmly in the notches on the sides. The rack settles in place and they rest their feet back on the ground. They take the jar from the hands of the first and place it on the rack.
“I’m going out,” the second one says, without waiting for a response. They squeeze out of the shelter, their tattered clothes soaking the second they step outside. Their frayed boots land in a puddle, making a cloud of soil erupt in the puddle. They take cautious steps to avoid stepping on nearby creatures or insects concealed within the mud. In the distance no one is to be heard or seen. The chirps of the birds and insects echo from the canopy. The patter of raindrops sound as they hit the leaves of the canopy, roll off, and make little ripples as they hit the puddles on the ground. They only see a vast undergrowth of green vines and leaves on branches speckled with blooming flowers, encompassing them from the rest of the world.
The rain begins to let up and animals scurry out of their shelters, returning back to the canopy. It turns to a light drizzle and the calls and chirps of birds and other animals become brighter.
The water will be hot by now. The figure takes cautious steps, once again, back to the shelter. The cover on the roof sags from the rain, but it will last, as it always has. They hold the jar by the rim and shift it off the rack, immediately placing it down before burning themselves.
“It is ready,” the first whispers, passing a small bag of crushed spices and herbs to the second.
The second places the bag into the water and let the colors, smell, and taste infuse into the hot water. They lift the bag out, briefly, and reddish drops of water fall back, making the water in the jar darker.
The first turns back. “Wait,” they say.
So they pause. The colors continue to diffuse into the water, creating a strong herbal aroma in the shelter. They take out the bag, straining it and squeezing it to use as much as they can. The first takes another jar and pours half the original jar’s water into the other. They each take a jar and sip the drink inside.
“That was the last one.”
“Then enjoy it.”