The next morning, Anna held the newest bowl—the strongest one yet. Its surface was rough, slightly uneven, but when she tapped it with her nail, it gave a solid, promising sound. It felt… trustworthy.
She looked toward the central fire, then back at the bowl.
If it can hold water… maybe it can survive cooking too.
Her stomach fluttered with nerves, but curiosity pushed her forward.
She brought the bowl to the communal hearth. A few villagers turned to watch, recognizing the strange object immediately. Kehnu paused mid-step, carrying a bundle of sticks, and angled himself toward her, leaning slightly as if ready to intervene if something dangerous happened.
Anna filled the bowl with water from one of their gourds, then added a few sliced roots and leaves she knew were safe—things they had eaten raw or roasted before.
She set the bowl near the edge of the fire, where heat licked gently at its base.
Crack.
Steam hissed sharply.
Her heart jumped.
But the bowl did not break.
Villagers began gathering in a slow circle, whispering to one another. The old woman tilted her head, eyes wide with surprise, hands covering her mouth as if she'd witnessed a miracle.
Anna nudged the bowl a little closer to the flame, carefully. The water began to bubble, then boil.
Kuhh… kuh…
The tribe murmured, mimicking the sound, fascinated.
"Anaaa," someone whispered, pointing with an astonished smile.
She stirred the roots with a carved stick, watching them soften into broth. The smell drifted upward—warm, earthy, comforting.
Kate ran over, eyes sparkling. "Mom! It's boiling! You made soup!"
Anna smiled, relief softening her whole body. "Yes, love. Soup."
Children crouched low, peeking under her elbow. Women leaned in, studying every movement. Even the hunters who usually kept to themselves stopped and watched.
For the first time, they saw more than a bowl.
They saw a way to cook without fire-roasting everything.
A way to soften tough plants.
A way to make food safer.
A way to feed the young and old more easily.
When the soup finished, Anna gently moved the bowl away from the fire and let it cool. Kehnu approached first. He pointed at the steaming bowl, then at her chest, and said something slowly, clearly:
"Ana—tsa'na."
Anna—fire-make-food.
She laughed softly, not knowing the exact meaning but feeling the praise.
She served the soup into folded leaves and coconut shells. The tribe tasted it carefully… then their eyes widened in delight.
Soft food. Warm, rich, nourishing.
A ripple went through the crowd—excitement, awe, and something deeper: realization.
Only minutes later, villagers scattered in all directions.
Some ran to gather more clay.
Some fetched more sticks and grass for firing.
Others examined her surviving bowls with new reverence.
By evening, there were already ten small lumps of shaped clay drying carefully in the women's area—everyone trying to copy her.
Pottery had begun.
A quiet revolution born from a single bowl… and a simple pot of soup.
In the following days, the village transformed.
What began with Anna's single cracked but working bowl quickly spread through the entire community. Women, men, and even children gathered around the clay piles near the creek, kneading the sticky earth between their palms. They watched how Anna mixed in sand, ash, or bits of dry fibers, copying her careful hand movements.
Most bowls still cracked.
Some collapsed while drying.
A few exploded in the firing pits with loud pops that made the children scream and then laugh.
But the tribe did not give up.
If anything, the failures made them more determined.
Anna felt a strange warmth in her chest watching them. They learn so fast… maybe faster than I ever could. Within only a few days, some villagers shaped smoother bowls than hers—more even, thinner walls, shapes that held better during drying.
She couldn't help but smile. It didn't matter that others surpassed her; what mattered was that this knowledge was spreading.
Soon, several villagers dug their own firing holes outside their huts. Smoke and the faint smell of burning grass hung over the village every afternoon. Pits glowed like tiny suns as villagers crouched around them, feeding them with sticks, waiting, hoping.
By the fourth day, the village had its first little collection of primitive pottery—maybe fifteen pieces in total. Only seven were truly useful, but that was more than they had ever possessed.
Encouraged, Anna began experimenting again.
She kneaded clay with more ash one day, with finer sand another. She tried widening the base of bowls so they could stand near fire. She made a taller pot, tapering the top as she remembered from old cooking vessels at home. The villagers gathered around, whispering among themselves, fascinated by each new shape.
Kehnu observed closely, crouched beside her, arms resting on his knees. He didn't speak much, but he watched every movement with quiet intensity.
One afternoon, Anna lifted a flat clay circle and placed it over the tall pot.
A lid.
The old woman gasped and clapped her hands in delight, tapping the lid and saying something that sounded like praise. A few women quickly copied the idea, shaping their own flat discs for their pots.
For the first time since arriving on this island, Anna felt something rare—a sense of purpose.
Not just surviving… but building something.
Helping them grow.
Creating knowledge that would stay with the tribe long after fear and hunger faded.
And as she shaped another pot, Kate kneaded her own small lump of clay nearby, humming softly, surrounded by villagers who treated them not as outsiders…
…but as part of the tribe.