The next morning, after a quick breakfast of fruit and roasted roots, Anna slipped away toward the forest edge. The ground was still damp from last night's rain, making the path softer under her feet. She walked straight to the little patch she remembered—the crooked tree, the moss-covered rock—and there it was: the clay hole.
She crouched down and pressed her fingers into the cool, silky mud again.
Yes. This is it.
Using a flat piece of bark, she scooped the clay carefully into a woven basket. It stuck in thick heavy clumps, and she had to pause a few times to scrape it free. By the time the basket was half-full, her hands and arms were coated up to the elbows.
"Good enough to start," she whispered to herself.
Back at the village, a few women carrying baskets paused, eyes narrowing with curiosity. Children stopped playing and gathered around. Kehnu noticed too, though he only watched from a distance, arms crossed, expression unreadable but interested.
Anna knelt near her hut and dumped the clay into a shallow pit she made in the dirt. She took a deep breath, thinking through the problem.
Does it air dry? Or does it crack? Should I leave it near the fire? I don't have a proper kiln… but maybe the stone fireplace could do something…
Before she could think further, small footsteps pattered toward her.
Kate knelt beside her.
"Mom? What are you doing?"
Anna smiled and pushed a strand of hair behind her daughter's ear.
"I'm going to try something new. Bowls. Maybe cups. If we can make them… we won't have to use leaves and shells all the time."
Kate's eyes lit up instantly. "Can I try too?"
"Of course."
They both dipped their hands into the clay, shaping little mounds first. The villagers slowly formed a circle around them—curious but silent. A few women exchanged soft whispers, pointing at the clay. Children crept closer, wide-eyed.
Anna pressed her thumbs into the center of the clay lump, slowly widening the shape. Her first attempt was crooked, the sides uneven and sagging.
Kate giggled.
"It looks like… like a sad bowl."
Anna laughed too. "We'll get better."
Kate rolled a small lump into a tiny cup, too thick but charming. Clay smeared both their sleeves and streaked their cheeks. They sat cross-legged in the dirt, mother and daughter shaping primitive bowls under the warm afternoon sun.
The villagers murmured—curiosity, surprise, maybe even approval. One of the elder women crouched beside Anna, touching the clay with a wrinkled finger, then lifting her brows as if asking what is this for?
Anna held up her half-shaped bowl and mimed scooping water into it.
"Wata," she tried, using the new word Kehnu had taught her.
The elder woman nodded slowly, understanding dawning in her eyes.
Kate held up her tiny cup proudly, earning soft laughter from the children.
And so the two of them continued—mother and daughter sitting on the ground, molding simple bowls while the tribe watched, not yet understanding how useful this strange muddy craft could become.
But Anna knew.
This was the beginning of something bigger.
And she felt a spark of pride warm her chest as she shaped the next bowl.
The first few bowls dried under the bright sun, and at first Anna felt hopeful—until she picked one up.
A jagged crack split down the side.
Another fell apart when she lifted it.
A third crumbled under her fingers.
She stared at the pieces in frustration.
What am I missing?
Kate came closer, holding one of the misshapen bowls she had made.
"Mom… it broke."
"I know, love." Anna sighed, rubbing her clay-stained hands together. She glanced toward the shaded spot where they left a few unfinished pieces under the roof edge. "Maybe the sun is too strong."
She crouched beside the shaded bowls. These still weren't perfect, but they weren't cracked straight through either—just a few small lines, no catastrophic splits.
"Hm… slower drying," she murmured. "Maybe that's the key."
The next idea came naturally. Fire. Not directly in the flame—but close.
She moved a few of the sturdier, shaded bowls toward the warm stones near her fireplace. Villagers watched with tilted heads and quiet chatter as she arranged the clay on a flat rock, not inside the fire but beside it.
Hours passed.
Some bowls made a soft tik sound—cracking clean through. She winced at each loss.
But one remained whole.
She lifted it slowly, breath held, fingers trembling just a little. The surface was warm, hardened, and somehow smoother. She tapped the rim lightly—it made a faint, satisfying sound.
Kate gasped. "It worked! It worked, Mom!"
Anna grinned and ran her thumb over the sturdy clay. "One survived… one is enough. We can improve from here."
The villagers leaned in, murmuring with excitement. A child reached out to touch the hardened bowl, and Anna let him, smiling.
It wasn't perfect. It wasn't pretty. But it was real.
A working bowl in a world where everything had become primitive again.
And for the first time since arriving… she felt a small spark of real progress.
But this bowl was far far from perfect....
The excitement faded quickly when Anna tried pouring a little water into the surviving bowl.
A thin dark patch spread across the clay, and within moments droplets seeped through.
It wasn't waterproof at all.
Behind her, a soft burst of laughter rose.
Anna turned—and saw the older woman covering her mouth, shoulders shaking in amusement. A couple of younger women giggled as well, clearly entertained. To them, the crooked little bowl probably looked like a child's toy… or a beginner's attempt at something they didn't bother making anymore.
Anna felt her cheeks warm with embarrassment, but she couldn't be angry. Their laughter wasn't cruel—more like gentle teasing, as if watching someone try to build a house out of wet sand.
The old woman came forward, tapped the side of the bowl, then mimicked it breaking with her hands—crack!—and pointed at the puddle on the ground where water had leaked through. Then she tapped her own chest, smiling, as if saying: No, no. Not like this.
Anna sighed but nodded, accepting it.
"She thinks it's silly," Kate whispered, half amused, half annoyed on her mother's behalf.
"Maybe it is, love," Anna admitted with a tired smile. "But learning starts somewhere."
The elder woman then pointed toward the mountainside as if hinting at something—better clay? A different technique? Or maybe just telling her that their way was different, and that this bowl wouldn't survive cooking even a moment.
If she tried to boil anything in it, it would crack instantly. The food would spill. Everything would be wasted.
Still… Anna held the rough little bowl in her hands proudly.
It wasn't perfect.
It wasn't even very useful.
But it was a beginning.
And next time, she'd make something stronger. Something that wouldn't make the elder woman laugh at all.