CHAPTER 211: CHAPTER 212: NO MORE LEAVING SOAP ON THE FLOOR LIKE WILD ANIMALS

"Okay, ladies—I think we’re all set!" Isabella beamed, holding up a clay gourd capped with woven bark and sealed with thick sap.

A cluster of women sat before her, eyes wide, heads tilted like curious birds. Their dark hair was woven in thick braids, some adorned with feathers, shells, or simple beads made from seeds. Most were crouched or cross-legged, fidgeting excitedly with their own makeshift soap gourds.

Isabella stepped aside, gesturing toward a basket of materials. "So remember—scrape a little beesap into the gourd, seal it tight, then hang it up from your ceiling beams using vine rope. That way, the soap stays upright and dry. No dirt. No bugs. No curious lizards licking it while you sleep."

A few women gasped, murmuring to one another in hushed voices. One smacked the side of her leg like she just realized why her last gourd mysteriously disappeared.

Isabella smiled wider.

Her eyes swept over the group as they mimicked the tying motion she’d demonstrated earlier. It was crude—some knots still looked like they’d unravel at a strong breeze—but they were getting it. For a people who used to just smear ash and sand over their bodies in rivers, this was real progress.

She crouched beside a log where she’d laid out more of her impromptu beauty kit. "And this"—she held up a blackened paste wrapped in soft leaves—"is charcoal paste. For your teeth."

The women blinked. One leaned forward and sniffed it, then jerked back dramatically. Another poked her tongue out and whispered something that made the others laugh.

Isabella didn’t even try to hide her grin. She unwrapped a slender stick she’d chewed at the end—her makeshift toothbrush—and gave a quick demo, scrubbing her teeth while the women stared in half horror, half awe. She spit to the side, wiped her mouth, and said, "See? Clean. Fresh. Strong teeth, no stink-breath. The chewing stick helps."

There was a collective ooohhh as the group nodded with growing enthusiasm. Some began scraping their own sticks with charcoal.

A warmth swelled in Isabella’s chest.

They were smiling. Genuinely smiling. It wasn’t just polite obedience or curiosity. It was joy. It was pride.

And gods, they looked good.

Sunlight filtered in through the cracks in the cave wall, gilding their skin with soft gold. Their usually matted hair had been oiled with her leftover nut butter mixture and combed through with bone picks. Even their garments—woven hides, bark skirts, and grass wraps—looked freshly rinsed. They smelled better too. No more eau de wet mammoth.

For the first time, the place didn’t reek like wet fur and smoke. It smelled like herbs, flowers, and soap.

Isabella turned toward the far corner of the open space where she had fastened two enormous animal hides to thick vines. They dangled like drapes, a makeshift wall fluttering in the breeze.

Privacy.

That concept had been met with blank stares when she introduced it. At first, the women had laughed—some genuinely confused why they shouldn’t just strip and scrub beside the river in full view of their neighbors, animals, and passing travelers.

But Isabella had persisted. She’d acted out awkward scenarios, given half-terrified examples from her past life, and explained—in slow, patient words—why washing yourself didn’t need to be a group event.

After a long lecture, and several examples involving imagined husbands catching glimpses of their butts mid-rinse, something clicked.

Now, they all took turns behind the hide-wall, even helping each other hold the vines steady to prevent peeking.

Was she changing the world?

Yes. I mean No.

But this tiny victory—soap, toothpaste, and modesty—felt monumental.

Isabella stood tall, arms crossed, chin lifted with quiet pride.

"All right, time for questions," she announced.

The women straightened eagerly, a few still chewing their new toothbrush sticks like snacks.

Isabella couldn’t help but smile. They looked radiant—clean skin glowing, hair glossy, teeth faintly dusted black but shining beneath. It was like watching a garden bloom after the rain.

"When you wake up in the morning, what’s the first thing you do?" she asked, raising a brow.

The response was instant.

A flood of voices rose at once—some answering, some laughing, others just making dramatic hand gestures.

Isabella winced playfully and raised a finger. "One at a time," she said firmly, waving the finger like a schoolteacher. "We talked about this. Take turns."

They immediately hushed. A few looked sheepish, others clamped their mouths shut, but the excitement still shimmered in the air like heat.

She scanned the room, then pointed toward one of the women with her hand raised.

"Okay, you first."

The woman Isabella pointed to stood, her expression proud and determined.

"When sun wake," she said slowly, choosing her words with care. "We wash face, use black stick on teeth... then bath!"

The others clapped, a few even gasping like she’d just recited the sacred text of cleanliness.

Isabella gave her a soft, exaggerated golf clap. "That’s right! Face first, brush second, then the full-body sparkle."

Another hand shot up. A woman with tight braids and bright eyes stood before Isabella could nod.

"What if no sun wake yet?" she asked seriously, her hands folded like she was asking about life and death.

Isabella bit her lip to hold in a laugh. "Then maybe don’t run into the river naked in the dark. Just wait a little, hon. The sun’s always on its way." She made a dramatic motion of peeking out from behind a rock and the women giggled.

"And if it’s cloudy?" someone whispered, now dead serious.

"Girl," Isabella grinned. "Cloudy don’t mean it’s midnight. Use your brain, not just your feet."

More laughter rippled through the group.

Encouraged, Isabella clapped her hands once. "Next question! What do we never do with the toothpaste stick?"

A woman squinted. "Swallow?"

"Yes!" Isabella snapped her fingers. "Do not eat the charcoal paste. I know it looks like meat paste, but unless you’re trying to make your stomach smell minty-fresh, don’t do it."

One of the younger women mimed gagging dramatically, sending the group into fits.

Isabella strutted across the little teaching area with exaggerated confidence, her messy ponytail bouncing like she was on a stone-age runway. She picked up a vine basket and held it up like a prize.

"This"—she announced—"is for your buckets, soaps, and all things pretty. Repeat after me: no more leaving soap on the floor like wild animals."

"No more leaving soap!" they chorused, some too loud, some still confused, but all trying.