Faced with the Chieftain's demand, Abigail calmly bent down and picked up one of the uneaten tubers. It was one of the smaller ones, and she noticed it had already begun to sprout tiny nubs. Perfect.
She held it up for all to see.
"This knowledge was not my own," she said, her voice slow and imbued with a theatrical reverence. "It was given to me in a dream, a command from the Star-Gods."
At the mention of the Star-Gods, the highest and most mysterious beings in their cosmology, a hush of genuine awe fell over the clan. Even the Shaman looked intrigued.
"She's blaspheming!" Chelsea shrieked. "Make her produce the food now, or strike her down for her lies!"
Abigail paid her no mind. She took Bronson's bone knife and, in front of everyone, deliberately sliced the tuber into four pieces.
A collective gasp went through the crowd. To destroy food, even a single piece, was a grave sin.
Abigail pointed to the tiny sprout on each piece. "The Star-Gods call these the 'Eyes of Life'," she explained, translating agricultural science into myth. "Each eye holds the seed of a new harvest."
She walked to a patch of soft, tilled earth at the edge of the square. She knelt, dug four shallow holes with her bare hands, and carefully placed one piece of the tuber in each, eye facing up. She covered them gently with soil.
Then she stood, brushed the dirt from her hands, and made her proclamation.
"With water and time, each of these pieces will grow into a new plant beneath the earth. And each plant will bear a dozen more tubers, larger than the one I started with."
A moment of stunned silence, followed by an explosion of laughter. It was the most absurd, insane thing any of them had ever heard. Food came from a hunt, or from a tree. You didn't get more food by burying it in the dirt.
"She's lost her mind!" Chelsea howled with glee, pointing at the small mounds of dirt. "She's turning our precious food into mud! Chieftain, surely you see this madness!"
The Chieftain's face darkened. He felt like he was being played for a fool. A flicker of anger returned to his eyes.
Gifford waved a dismissive hand. "The farce is over. Take her to the cave."
Two guards stepped forward and grabbed Abigail's arms, their grip hard and unforgiving.
Bronson let out a low, dangerous rumble, but a sharp, commanding look from Abigail stopped him cold.
She wrenched her arms free from the guards. "Answer me this, Chieftain!" she challenged, her voice ringing out. "If I am just a madwoman, how did I know where to find these roots in the forest when none of you even knew they were food?"
The question hit him like a physical blow. He froze. It was true. The miracle she had already performed was undeniable.
Abigail pressed her attack, launching her final gambit. "Give me fifteen days. That is all I ask. The time it takes for the Eyes of Life to sprout from the earth. If nothing has grown in this spot after fifteen days, I will walk onto the pyre myself. You won't even need to drag me."
She swept her gaze across the tribe, her voice rising with righteous power. "You have a choice! Risk fifteen days of waiting for a future of endless food, or, out of foolish pride, murder the messenger of the gods and starve!"
The words struck at their deepest, most primal fear: hunger. The murmuring started again, the tide of public opinion shifting back in her favor.
The Chieftain was trapped. The potential reward was infinite, the cost, negligible. He couldn't afford to be wrong.
Just then, a new voice spoke. "Father, perhaps we should wait."
It was Caiden Fox, the Chieftain's son. He had been watching silently from the back, his eyes fixed on Abigail. He stepped forward, his expression a mixture of fascination and something else.
His intervention tipped the scales. As the heir, his words carried weight.
Chelsea stared at him in disbelief. "Caiden! Why are you helping this outsider?" she screeched. He irritably shook off her hand as she tried to grab his arm.
The Chieftain took a deep breath, the decision made. "Fifteen days," he declared. "We will wait. This ground is now sacred. Anyone who disturbs it will be punished."
He then pointed a finger at Abigail. "But during this time, you will not leave the tribe's settlement. You will be watched. Day and night."
A slow smile spread across Abigail's face. She had won. She had bought the most precious commodity in the world: time.
She looked at the four small mounds of dirt. She had just bet her life on the unwavering, predictable principles of modern agriculture.
