She chose a place not too close to her hut—far enough that the heat wouldn't be dangerous, but close enough that she could easily carry bowls to it. A small patch of packed earth beneath a leaning palm seemed perfect.
So she picked up a sharpened stick someone had discarded near the fire circle, knelt down, and began digging.
The soil was dense and heavy, a mixture of dirt and fine mountain sand. Each scoop took effort.
Sweat gathered on her forehead quickly, trickling down her temples.
Before long, some of the village children wandered over.
At first, they only watched from a distance—curious, whispering to each other.
But as she kept working, they gradually crept closer, their footsteps soft.
One boy crouched beside her, tilting his head.
Another giggled when she hit a stubborn root and grunted at it.
Soon three more joined, forming a semicircle around the slowly growing hole.
The children looked at her, then at the hole, then at each other as if unsure whether she was playing some strange new game.
A little girl poked the dirt and said something cheerful-sounding, laughter following.
Anna managed a tired smile but kept digging.
The hole needed to be deep enough to hold fire, stones, and the bowls.
Her arms ached.
Her hands were blistering around the stick.
Her knees hurt from kneeling on the rough ground.
But she continued.
Dig. Turn. Scoop.
Dig. Turn. Scoop.
The sun crawled higher.
Sweat soaked her hair.
Her breath grew heavier.
Still—she dug.
The children's laughter rose and fell around her like birdsong, but none tried to stop her.
Some even pointed excitedly when the hole began to take shape, wider and deeper than they expected.
Kate returned from gathering with two girls, instantly running to her mother's side.
"Mama, what are you doing?"
Anna wiped her forehead with her forearm, smearing dirt across her skin.
"I'm making something… something that will help us cook better."
Kate knelt beside her, watching the hole with fascination.
Not long after, one of the women passing by slowed, looked at the hole, looked at Anna, and blinked with clear confusion—why was she digging so vigorously? But when Anna simply nodded politely and kept working, the woman shrugged and continued on her way.
The afternoon heat pressed down.
But finally—after what felt like hours—the hole was deep enough.
Not perfect. Not pretty.
But deep, wide, and shaped enough for what she needed.
Anna sat back, breathing hard, clothes sticking to her skin.
The children clapped, delighted by her strange determination.
Kate took her mother's hand to help her stand, beaming.
"You made a hole!"
Anna laughed breathlessly. "Yes, love. And this is just the beginning."
She looked at the pit proudly.
Tomorrow—or maybe even today, if she found the strength—she would gather stones to line it.
Then wood for the fire.
Then clay bowls to heat.
Her primitive kiln had begun.
Anna didn't stop at just digging the hole. She knew that a proper fire would need fuel—plenty of it. So she started gathering sticks, twigs, and dry grass from the slopes nearby.
The mountain slopes were scattered with debris from the rain, branches broken in storms, and fallen twigs that had dried out in the sun. She moved carefully, avoiding loose rocks and patches of slippery mud, picking up sticks of various sizes.
Some sticks were thin, perfect for kindling. Others were thicker, sturdy enough to burn longer. She gathered dry grass and leaves too, stuffing them carefully into bundles, knowing they would catch flame easily.
Kate ran alongside her, trying to help, carrying small twigs in her tiny hands. Her laughter rose as she tried to balance her bundles, occasionally dropping them and scrambling to pick them up again.
By evening, Anna had gathered a large pile—more than she would need for a single firing. She spread the sticks and grass in neat bundles near the edge of the pit, making sure everything was dry and ready.
Even the villagers passing by glanced curiously, some pausing to whisper among themselves. They didn't interfere, only watching as Anna worked with quiet determination.
When she finally stood back, wiping sweat from her brow, she surveyed her preparations:
The hole, deep and wide, waiting for stones and bowls.
The piles of sticks and dry grass, ready to feed the fire.
She nodded to herself, a small smile forming. "Tomorrow," she whispered to Kate, "we'll see if this will really work."
Kate hugged her leg. "I can't wait, Mama! Can I help with the fire?"
Anna ruffled her hair. "Yes, love. Soon, you'll learn too. We'll do it together."
The mother and daughter stood there for a moment, looking at the preparations, the warm sun on their backs, feeling the quiet thrill of a plan beginning to take shape. The primitive kiln of their own making was ready to start.
As the next day began, Anna's first thought was the fire. She gathered burning embers from the village fire, carefully carrying them to the hole she had dug for her primitive kiln. She arranged the sticks and dry grass, placing the embers at the center, and soon the fire began to grow. Smoke curled upwards, carrying the scent of charred wood and dry grass.
Once the fire burned steadily, she reached for the bowls she had shaped the day before. Using two sticks to lift them—her crude tongs—she moved them clumsily toward the hot ashes. One slipped, fell with a sharp crack, and a small shard flew away. She huffed in annoyance but didn't let it stop her. There were more bowls to try.
Carefully, she placed the remaining bowls onto the hot ashes and scattered bits of grass and small sticks around them. She added more sticks as the fire started burning higher, the flames licking at the edges of the pit. She stepped back slightly, keeping a cautious eye on the fire, and waited, watching the bowls slowly harden in the heat.
The hours passed. Smoke rose thickly, and the heat pressed against her skin. She checked the bowls occasionally, careful not to burn herself, adding small twigs when the flames flickered low. By the time evening came, the fire had mostly died down, leaving glowing embers among the ashes. She leaned back, exhausted, feeling the soreness in her arms and shoulders from bending, lifting, and carrying.
The villagers had observed her work in silence. Their eyes followed her movements, occasionally exchanging glances, but none came closer. Not that she would have understood their quiet words even if they had. Every so often, the elder woman smiled gently at her, and Anna noticed Kehnu watching her from the side, his expression unreadable but attentive.
She exhaled slowly, brushing ash from her hands. The bowls sat in the cooling ashes, some slightly warped, some holding their shape. It wasn't perfect, but it was a start. A real step toward making something useful, something that could hold water, food, and maybe, one day, last.
Anna looked down at Kate, who had been watching the fire with wide eyes, and smiled faintly. "Tomorrow, we'll see if it worked," she whispered, feeling a tiny spark of pride despite the fatigue. The long day had passed, but a new skill—one that could change their daily life—had begun.