The laughter didn't discourage her—it sparked something stubborn inside her.
That night, after the village settled, Anna sat by her little fire with a lump of remaining clay.
She turned it in her hands, thinking hard.
"There must be a way," she murmured. "Clay bowls exist. People made them long before kilns."
Kate, already sleepy, leaned against her. "Maybe you need to mix something in, Mommy?"
Anna froze.
Mix something in.
Her memory stirred—something about tempering clay. Old documentaries. School lessons. Bits and pieces. Clay alone was too smooth, too fine. It shrank too fast and cracked. But with something mixed into it…
"It needs strength," she whispered. "Bones. Sand. Grass. Something."
The next morning she started collecting things to experiment with:
• She gathered fine sand near the stream.
• Crushed dried leaves between her palms.
• Scraped soft fibers from bark.
• Picked tiny plant stems and grasses, breaking them into small pieces.
• Even grabbed ash from the main village fire.
Villagers watched her like she was performing some strange ritual.
She knelt by her hut, spread the materials beside her, and began testing.
First mixture: Sand + Clay
She mixed a handful of sand into the clay, kneading it thoroughly.
It felt grittier, firmer.
She shaped a small bowl.
Maybe this one won't crack…?
Second mixture: Grass fibers + Clay
She tore the grass into tiny pieces, mixing it in until the clay had little threads sticking out like tiny hairs.
"Looks funny," Kate giggled.
"It might work," Anna said, though she wasn't sure.
This bowl she left slightly thicker.
Third mixture: Crushed dry leaves + Clay
This one was softer, darker, and smelled earthy.
She shaped a shallow dish from it.
Fourth mixture: Wood ash + Clay
The ash made the clay smoother and strangely cool.
It reminded her of something ancient—primitive pottery, maybe.
She shaped a small cup-like form.
The older woman approached again, watching with puzzled amusement as Anna lined up her creations.
She pointed at each bowl in turn, muttering something that clearly meant:
Why so many?
Anna simply smiled and shrugged.
"Testing," she said, though the woman didn't understand.
Still, the old lady nodded as if she felt the intention behind the word.
This time Anna placed all four bowls in the shade, away from harsh sun.
Hours passed. A day.
Some cracked immediately.
Some only a little.
But one—
the clay mixed with sand—
remained whole.
It felt solid, heavier, and didn't crumble at the edges.
"It worked…" she whispered. "A little sand made it better."
Kate clapped, proud as if she had made it herself.
The sand bowl wasn't perfect—there were faint hairline cracks on the bottom—but it hadn't split. It hadn't fallen apart. It might survive gentle use. Maybe even boiling water if she placed it near, not in, the fire.
The elder woman picked it up, tapped the rim, raised an eyebrow…
Then—for the first time regarding Anna's bowls—
she didn't laugh.
A good sign.
Anna breathed out, relieved.
There was still so much to learn.
She needed more clay, more sand, better shapes, better drying methods.
But this was the beginning of her primitive pottery.
And she was determined to make something the tribe would eventually rely on.
But even with the sand mixed in, even with careful drying in the shade, Anna soon noticed something troubling.
The edges of the bowls—especially the bigger ones—began crumbling when touched.
Not much, just a soft powdering, but enough to worry her.
She rubbed the rim gently, frowning.
"Still too weak," she whispered.
Kate poked one with her little finger. "It's breaking again?"
"Not breaking… but it's not strong enough to use. Not truly."
She sat back on the dirt floor, staring at the half-finished bowl in her hands.
Her thoughts churned. She was trying everything she remembered. But something was missing.
Something important, something every ancient civilization had done.
Her eyes narrowed.
Fire.
They must be fired.
Not dried. Not warmed.
Fired.
Hardened by real, intense heat.
She had read it somewhere. Maybe watched it on TV. Maybe in a book.
Clay wasn't just air-dried—it was baked until it turned stone-hard.
"But how do I fire them here?" she murmured, almost to herself.
The tribe had simple cooking fires, shallow, open, and only hot enough for meat or roots.
Nothing close to the heat needed to harden clay into ceramic.
She picked up the bowl again, turning it around, tapping it with a knuckle.
It made a soft, dull sound. Not the sound of a real pot.
"If I put it straight into the fire, it will crack," she muttered. "It needs slow heating… then hotter… and hotter…"
She remembered watching a documentary years ago—pots sitting in a pit fire, covered with ash, heated slowly until they glowed faintly.
Her heart quickened.
"A pit," she breathed. "I need a pit."
Kate looked up at her. "What kind of pit?"
"A fire pit. A very hot one. We… we have to bury the bowls under wood and ash and heat them very slowly."
Kate blinked. "Doesn't that break them?"
"Yes. If I do it wrong. But if I do it right…" Anna smiled faintly, hope returning,
"…we might get a real pot. Something strong. Something they can use."
She stood and looked toward the mountain, where she knew plenty of stones and clay lay.
Then toward the big communal fire, where some villagers sat chatting, unaware of her new idea.
She inhaled deeply.
If she could dig a small pit near her hut…
Line it with stones…
Start a slow fire…
Place the dried bowls inside…
Cover them with straw and wood…
Heat them for hours…
Maybe—just maybe—she could create something durable.
Something useful.
Something that could change the village.
She ran her fingers over the soft clay grain and whispered,
"We need fire. A lot of it."
Her mind raced with possibilities as she began planning the primitive kiln that would shape their future.