By morning, the ashes had cooled enough for her to approach. The villagers passed by on their way to gather food, throwing occasional curious glances toward the darkened pit. Kehnu lingered at a distance again, pretending to check a fallen branch while clearly watching her.
Anna knelt by the fire pit and carefully brushed aside the top layer of ash. Her heart beat fast. This was the moment—either everything worked, or everything failed.
She uncovered the first bowl.
A soft crack sounded as she lifted it—then the whole thing crumbled in her hands.
"Okay… one gone," she whispered to herself, swallowing disappointment.
The second and third fared no better. As soon as she touched them, they exploded into flaky shards—overheated, too thin, or dried the wrong way. She flinched as one piece snapped loudly. Three attempts gone, just like that.
Her throat tightened, but she kept going.
The fourth and fifth bowls came out mostly in one piece, but each had a deep, ugly crack running along the side. The cracks widened at her touch. They wouldn't hold anything—not water, not even grain.
She set them aside, trying not to let frustration take over. Only two left.
The sixth bowl made her shoulders sag and then—surprisingly—lift again. It had warped badly, its lip bent upward like a crooked smile, and the bottom wobbled when she set it down. But it hadn't shattered. It could at least hold nuts or dried berries. For now, that was something. She gave Kate a tiny smile when the girl peeked over her shoulder.
Finally, she uncovered the seventh bowl.
It was darkened from the fire, rough and uneven…but whole. Completely whole. She held it up, expecting it to crumble like the others. It didn't. Her breath caught.
Slowly, she filled it with a little water from a gourd.
The bowl held.
Not a drop leaked.
Her eyes stung with relief. Her hands shook—not from fear, but from pride. Primitive, uneven, ugly… but it was real. A bowl that could actually be used.
Kate clapped her hands excitedly. A few villagers who'd been pretending not to watch looked at each other with surprise. Even the elder woman let out a short, pleased laugh, nodding to Anna with approval.
And from the trees, Kehnu watched her quietly. For the first time, he didn't look confused. He looked impressed.
Anna held the surviving bowl to her chest for a moment, feeling the rough clay against her skin, and whispered, "We did it."
Days passed, and while Anna worked, the villagers slowly grew used to seeing her covered in mud, soot, and ash. At first they only cast glances from afar—curious but cautious. But the more she worked, the more they began drifting closer, especially the women and a few older children.
And as she shaped bowl after bowl, she started noticing patterns.
When she mixed sand into the clay, the bowls cracked a little less while drying.
When she added ashes, the clay felt smoother and easier to shape… though those bowls often turned fragile and thin.
When she worked a few strands of dried grass or plant fibers into the clay, the drying cracks almost disappeared.
Pure clay, taken straight from that slippery puddle, always looked nice at first—but dried brittle, too easy to break unless fired perfectly.
She wrote nothing down, of course. But she remembered. Every failure taught her something.
She learned that bowls made too thick would explode in the fire.
Bowls left under the direct sun dried unevenly and cracked.
Those tucked away in the shade stayed whole, drying slowly and safely.
If she put bowls into a fire that flared up too hot too quickly, they shattered.
But if she slid them into warming ashes, letting heat rise slowly… they survived better.
It was a pattern. A slow rhythm. And she began to follow it.
On her third attempt, after days of mixing, shaping, waiting, and praying nothing would explode—
She got one sturdy bowl that could hold water without leaking.
She made a small cup, a bit lopsided but whole.
And one flat dish, cracked along the side, but usable for dried fruit or roots.
Successes. Real ones.
Her excitement must have shown, because the children who had once only giggled now gathered right beside her, chattering softly. A few women joined them—curious, leaning in to see how she pressed the fibers into clay or how she tapped the rim of each bowl to feel its thickness.
One of the women tried shaping a piece of clay herself. She failed, the piece collapsing in her hands—she laughed loudly, and the others giggled with her. Another woman soon tried too. Then a third.
It became a small circle around Anna—women kneeling, children pointing, everyone watching her hands as if she were performing some sort of gentle magic.
Even Kehnu wandered closer than usual. He stood off to the side with a large bundle of firewood, pretending he had simply stopped to rest. But his eyes never left her work.
Anna didn't mind. For the first time, she felt woven into the rhythm of the village.
She had taught them nothing with words—but through the smoke, clay, fire, and patience… they watched. And learned.
Soon Anna realized she needed more clay if she wanted to improve the bowls. So, early one morning, she pointed toward the small pile she had left near her hut, then toward the forest, making her best attempt at a questioning gesture.
To her relief, the women understood almost immediately. They exchanged a few quick words, called over two of the men nearby, and soon motioned for her to follow.
They led her along a narrow path, past ferns and thick roots, until they reached a small creek where water trickled over pale, smooth banks. And there—soft, rich, sticky—was more clay than she had hoped for.
Anna's face lit up, and she tapped her chest, then spread her arms in gratitude. The villagers smiled warmly back.
Without hesitation, the women knelt and began gathering the clay with their hands, packing it onto strips of tree bark and huge palm leaves. Even the men joined in, carrying larger loads with ease. Anna paused for a moment, watching them work—how naturally they shared the task, how no one questioned or complained.
Maybe… that was the secret of their survival, she thought. Trust, cooperation… a community that lifts together.
When they returned to the village with the clay, Kehnu had just arrived with a few other hunters. They carried an animal—rabbit-like, long-legged, and already skinned for cooking. He glanced their way, likely expecting a normal greeting… but then he froze.
A soft clink sounded as one of the sturdier bowls bumped against another in the basket.
His eyes widened—shock first, then a smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth. Pride? Maybe. Or simply amusement that something as strange as a hard clay bowl existed now in their world.
Anna lifted the surviving bowl for him to see. He stepped closer, touched the rim gently with his thumb, then gave her an approving nod. For someone who rarely showed more than two expressions, it felt like high praise.
With more clay available, Anna wanted to expand firing and try making several more bowls at once. But before she even began digging another pit, villagers came to help—women, older children, and even some of the younger men. They worked beside her, widening the hole, preparing dry grass, stacking sticks.
The firing process remained unpredictable—harsh, unforgiving.
Most bowls still cracked.
Some exploded dramatically, scattering pieces everywhere.
A few simply crumbled when touched.
But every now and then… one survived.
One in ten was still something, Anna told herself, proudly holding another intact piece of pottery in her hands.
And each time a bowl came out whole, the villagers murmured with excitement, pointing, clapping softly, smiling at her as if she were crafting wonders.
The tribe was learning.
And she was no longer just a quiet stranger in their midst—she was becoming part of their daily rhythm, their experiments, their curiosity… and their future.