He woke to find the jerky had been torn to shreds or stolen entirely. Ian pushed himself up from the lean-to, his joints protesting the cramped position he'd held all night. The smoking rack stood exactly where he'd left it—but empty. Strips of jerky lay scattered in the grass around the fire pit, most of them torn apart, some missing entirely. Deep gouges marked the rack where something had clawed at the wood, and everywhere you could see scratches.
His jaw clenched. The anger came hot and immediate, flooding through his chest and into his hands. All that work. Hours of slicing meat, tending the fire, watching the smoke curl around each strip. A deer he'd stalked and killed himself, butchered with his own hands. And some animal had just walked in and helped itself while he'd been passed out twenty feet away.
Ian crossed to the rack and knelt beside the ruined meat. The torn strips were covered in dirt, punctured and torn apart, completely unsalvageable. Maybe a third of what he'd smoked was gone entirely—dragged off into the forest by whatever had come sniffing around. Another third was destroyed where it lay. Only the strips that had fallen furthest from the rack were intact, and even those were questionable after spending hours on the ground.
He examined the marks more carefully. The scratches were deep, gouged into the wood grain with force. Three parallel lines, curved slightly at the tips. Talon marks, maybe? Something with claws designed for gripping and tearing. A bird seemed possible—some kind of raptor large enough to shred wood and drag off chunks of meat. But the marks were spaced wider than any hawk or eagle he'd seen in nature documentaries. Could be something else entirely. This world had already proven it didn't follow the rules he'd grown up with.
Ian sat back on his heels and forced his breathing to slow. The anger still simmered in his chest, hot and bitter, but what was he supposed to do about it? Track down whatever had stolen his food and fight it? With what? The pole could become weapons, sure, but what the point if he can't get the food back.
The forest didn't care about his plans or his effort. Other things were out there trying to survive, same as him. They'd smelled meat and taken an opportunity. That was it. No malice, no personal attack. Just a hunger meeting opportunity.
The thought didn't make him less angry, but it pushed the emotion somewhere more manageable. He couldn't afford to waste energy on rage. What mattered was preventing it from happening again.
The pots. Once he had vessels that could be sealed, he could store food properly. Clay containers with fitted lids would be harder to access than meat hanging exposed over a fire. Not impossible—nothing was impossible if something was determined enough—but harder. Enough of a deterrent that opportunistic scavengers might look elsewhere for easier meals.
Ian gathered the intact strips of jerky, brushing off dirt and examining each one. Maybe a dozen pieces were salvageable, and even those made him hesitate. How long had they been on the ground? What had walked over them? But throwing them away felt wasteful, and his stomach was already cramping with hunger despite the ribs he'd eaten last night.
He set the questionable jerky aside and turned his attention to the rest of the deer meat. The remaining cuts were still where he'd left them, but they'd been sitting exposed since yesterday afternoon. The morning air was cool enough that they hadn't gone completely rotten, but the smell was starting to turn. That sour edge that meant bacteria was taking hold, transforming protein into something that would make him violently ill.
The pile of meat that had seemed like such abundance yesterday now just looked like waste. He'd been too focused on the jerky, too confident that he'd have time to process everything. Stupid. The pole gave him knowledge but it didn't give him more hours in the day or additional hands to do the work.
Ian grabbed the pole and used it to scoop the spoiling meat into a pile. The haunches, the neck, the shanks—all of it going bad. The smell intensified as he moved the pieces, that unmistakable reek of decomposition. His stomach twisted with disgust and frustration in equal measure.
He dragged the pile away from the clearing, far enough that the smell wouldn't attract scavengers directly to his camp. Let the forest have it. Something would eat it—bears, wolves, whatever else prowled these woods. The cycle would continue without him.
When he returned to the clearing, the sun had climbed high enough to burn through the morning cloud cover. The kiln sat waiting, its clay dome dried and hardened overnight. The pots were ready. They had to be ready—he couldn't afford to wait any longer.
Ian gathered dry wood and kindling, stacking it carefully inside the kiln's opening. The knowledge guided his hands—how much fuel, what size pieces, how to arrange them for optimal airflow. He built the fire slowly, starting with small twigs that caught easily, gradually adding larger pieces as the flames established themselves.
The smoke rose through the kiln's exhaust hole, thick and gray. Ian fed more wood into the opening, watching the flames build. The heat was already intense, radiating from the clay dome in waves that made his face flush. The stones lining the pit glowed faintly, absorbing and reflecting the heat inward.
He positioned the pots carefully on the grate inside the kiln, spacing them so heat could circulate. The largest one in the center, the smaller vessels around it. Each one sat stable, the dried clay hard enough to support its own weight. The flames licked upward between them, orange and hungry.
The kiln needed to reach specific temperatures—hot enough to vitrify the clay, to transform it from fragile ceramic into something permanent. The knowledge told him how to read the signs: the color of the flames, the sound of the fire, the way the heat shimmered above the exhaust hole. He'd know when it was ready. His hands would know.
Ian settled in to tend the fire. This would take hours. All day, probably, and into the evening. The flames needed to stay consistent, the temperature maintained. Too hot and the pots would crack or explode. Too cool and they wouldn't fully fire, would remain brittle and prone to breaking.
He fed wood into the opening steadily, keeping the flames strong. The heat built until sweat soaked through his shirt despite the autumn chill. The kiln glowed, the clay dome radiating warmth that pushed back the morning cold. Through the opening he could see the pots sitting in the flames, their surfaces beginning to change color—darkening from pale gray to something deeper, richer.
The sun climbed higher. Ian's stomach was cramped with hunger, but he didn't dare leave the kiln unattended. The fish trap was sitting in the river, probably full by now, but checking it would mean abandoning the fire. He grabbed a handful of berries from the bush near the cabin and chewed them mechanically, the tartness barely registering.
The flames consumed wood faster than he'd anticipated. His carefully gathered pile was shrinking, forcing him to make trips back into the forest for more wood the only time he left the fire.
The fire demanded everything. Ian fed it branch after branch, his arms aching from the constant motion. The kiln glowed like a miniature sun in the clearing, heat waves distorting the air above it. Inside, the pots sat in the flames, their surfaces shifting through shades of red and orange as the temperature climbed.
The color told him things. The knowledge sat in his head, clear and precise—when the clay reached that specific shade of orange-red, almost glowing, then it would be hot enough. He wasn't there yet. The pots were darkening but not quite right. Not quite hot enough.
More wood. Always more wood. His pile had shrunk to almost nothing, forcing another trip into the forest. The pole became an axe and he hacked at fallen branches with movements that bordered on frantic. Every minute away from the kiln was a minute the temperature could drop, the firing could fail, all this work could be wasted.
He dragged the wood back and fed it into the opening. The flames roared higher, consuming the fuel with an appetite that seemed endless. Sweat ran down his face, stinging his eyes. The heat was oppressive now, pushing against him like a physical force. He had to step back periodically just to breathe air that didn't feel like it was scorching his lungs.
Ian's vision had gone fuzzy around the edges, his body protesting the lack of food and the constant exertion. He'd rather be gutting a deer or building the cabin than endure another hour of this hellish heat, but at least the pots were finally transforming. He could see it through the flames—the surfaces had reached that perfect orange-red glow, the clay transforming at a molecular level into something harder, more permanent.
He kept the fire burning. The temperature needed to hold, needed to stay consistent while the transformation completed. More wood into the flames. More heat radiating from the dome. The clearing felt like summer despite the autumn chill that crept in from the forest edges.
Time became elastic, stretching and compressing in ways that made it impossible to track. Had he been standing here for hours? Days? Well it felt like it he whined to himself. His legs trembled but he stayed upright, the pole gripped in one hand, ready to transform into whatever tool he needed next.
The pots glowed in the flames like captured pieces of the sun. The largest one sat in the center, its surface uniform in color now, the coils completely integrated. The smaller vessels around it showed the same transformation—clay becoming ceramic, fragile becoming permanent.
Ian's stomach cramped viciously, reminding him that berries weren't enough. The fish trap. He needed to check it, needed protein, but he couldn't leave. Not yet. The firing was almost done but not quite. Another hour, maybe less. The knowledge was specific about that—too little time and the pots would be underfired, would crack when he tried to use them. Too much and they'd overheat, warp, become useless.
He fed the fire. Watched the flames. Waited.
The flames guttered as he stopped feeding them. The temperature would drop gradually now, the heat dissipating through the clay dome and into the cool autumn air. Too fast a cooling and the pots would crack from thermal shock. The knowledge was specific about that—let them cool naturally, let the kiln release its heat at its own pace.
The flames shrank to coals. The glow inside the kiln faded from orange-red to deep red to something darker. Ian's legs finally gave out and he sat heavily in the grass, the pole across his lap. His whole body ached. His head pounded. His mouth was so dry his tongue felt swollen.
But the pots were firing. Still too hot to touch, still dangerous, but the transformation was happening. Another few hours and they'd be cool enough to remove. Then he'd have vessels. Storage. A way to keep food safe from whatever had stolen his jerky.
The sun had passed its peak and started its descent toward the horizon when the color finally reached that perfect shade. Ian stepped back, his chest heaving, and let the fire begin its slow death.
Ian's stomach cramped hard enough to double him over slightly. When had he last eaten? The berries this morning, handfuls grabbed between wood gathering. The ribs last night. Nothing substantial since the fish at breakfast yesterday.
The kiln was cooling. The pots were transforming inside, the heat working its magic on the clay even as the flames died. He couldn't do anything more for them now except wait. And the fish trap had been sitting in the river since yesterday morning, probably overflowing with catch he'd been too busy to collect.
Ian grabbed the pole and headed for the river. His legs felt unsteady, exhaustion and hunger making each step require conscious effort. The grass was cool under his bare foot, dew-damp despite the afternoon hour. The clearing fell away behind him as he pushed through the undergrowth toward the sound of running water.
The trap was exactly where he'd left it, wedged between the boulders. Through the woven willows he could see movement—multiple fish, more than he could count at a glance. Silver bodies pressed against each other in the confined space, their movements frantic.
He waded in. The cold water shocked against his legs like it always did, but his body barely registered the discomfort. His hands found the trap and lifted it clear. Heavy. The weight of it told him he'd been neglecting this too long. Water streamed from the weave as he carried it to shore.
Six fish. All of them decent sized, their scales catching the light as they thrashed. Ian's mouth watered so intensely it almost hurt. He dispatched them quickly, the pole becoming that needle-point blade that made the kills clean and fast. The twist in his stomach was still there—that awareness of ending life—but it was distant now, pushed aside by hunger that bordered on desperation.
The cleaning went faster than before. His hands knew the movements, the blade separating flesh from bone with practiced efficiency. Twelve fillets, pale pink and glistening, laid out on the piece of bark he'd grabbed from near the river.
Back at the clearing, the kiln still radiated heat but the flames were completely dead. Smoke drifted lazily from the exhaust hole, gray and thin. The pots would be cooling inside, the clay solidifying into its final form. But that was a problem for later. Right now he needed food.
The fire pit where he'd cooked yesterday was cold ash. Ian gathered kindling with hands that shook slightly, his body running on fumes. The bow drill setup was still there, and muscle memory took over. The spindle rotated against the fireboard, smoke rising almost immediately. The ember caught in his tinder bundle, flames spreading through the birch bark with hungry efficiency.
He built the fire up quickly, feeding it until the flames were strong enough to heat stones. The flat rocks from yesterday were still there, and he positioned them at the fire's edge. His stomach cramped again, sharp enough to make him hiss through his teeth.
The stones heated. Ian tested them with drops of water that sizzled and vanished. Hot enough. He laid the fillets across the surface and the smell hit him immediately—fish and smoke and that savory richness his body was screaming for.
He didn't wait for them to finish completely. The first fillet was barely cooked through when he pulled it off and shoved it in his mouth. The heat burned his tongue but he didn't care. The flavor exploded across his senses—simple, clean, exactly what he needed. He ate standing up, pulling fillets off the stones as soon as they were done enough not to be raw, barely chewing before swallowing.
All twelve fillets disappeared in minutes. Ian's stomach finally stopped its incessant cramping, the protein and fat hitting his system like a drug. His hands were slick with fish oil, his mouth probably smeared with it, but the hollow ache had transformed into something approaching satisfaction.
He wiped his hands on his jeans and looked at the kiln. The heat shimmer above it had lessened noticeably. The clay dome no longer glowed. The cooling was progressing, but it would still be hours before he could safely open it and see if the firing had worked.
The fish trap needed to go back in the river. Ian rinsed it in the current and wedged it between the boulders again, adjusting the angle so the mouth faced into the flow. The water was cold enough to make his legs ache, but his body felt better now. Fed. Functional. The exhaustion was still there but manageable. He need to be care though, with it getting colder going into the river like this will turn into a death sentence. He might need a new way to get fish soon.
Back at the clearing, the afternoon light painted everything in amber and gold. The cabin walls stood six logs high, solid and real. The kiln sat cooling, its job nearly done. The deer hide still lay stretched on the ground where he'd left it yesterday, the flesh-side starting to dry in the open air.
That hide needed attention. The knowledge stirred—if he left it too long, it would stiffen into something unusable. He needed to scrape it, work it, start the tanning process before the skin became rigid. But his body was already protesting, muscles trembling with fatigue despite the food. The pole made labor easier but it didn't eliminate exhaustion entirely.
Tomorrow. The hide could wait until tomorrow. Right now he needed to check if the pots had survived the firing, and then he needed sleep. The lean-to was still standing, somehow, despite feeling like it should have collapsed days ago. But first—
Ian approached the kiln. The dome still radiated warmth when he held his hand near it, but the intensity had dropped significantly. Not cool enough to open yet. The knowledge in his head was specific about that—rushing it would crack the pots from thermal shock. He needed to wait until he could touch the clay without burning himself.
He sat down in the grass a safe distance away and stared at the structure. The waiting was torture. After all that work—the digging, the stone lining, the clay mixing, the hours of tending flames—he still didn't know if it had worked. The pots could be perfectly fired inside, or they could be shattered fragments, or they could have warped into useless lumps of ceramic.
The sun touched the horizon, painting the clearing in shades of orange and red that reminded him uncomfortably of the kiln's interior glow. The temperature was dropping fast with the sunset, that autumn chill settling over everything like a blanket. Ian's breath misted slightly when he exhaled.
He stood and approached the kiln again. The clay dome was cool enough to touch now, just barely warm under his palm. Close enough. The knowledge said he could risk it.
The pole became a pry bar, and he carefully dismantled the clay dome. The material came away in chunks, still intact but no longer structurally necessary. The temporary branch framework inside had burned away completely during the firing, leaving nothing but ash. Through the opening he could see the pots sitting on the grate, dark shapes in the fading light.
Ian reached in carefully, testing the temperature. Warm but not burning. He lifted the largest pot free and brought it into better light.
The surface was darker than the raw clay had been—a rich reddish-brown that caught the sunset light. He turned it in his hands, examining every inch. No cracks that he could see. No warping. The walls were solid, uniform in thickness, the rim smooth and even. When he tapped it with his knuckle, the sound was different from before—a clear ring instead of a dull thud. The clay had transformed completely.
He set it down and retrieved the others one by one. All five pots had survived. The smaller ones showed the same transformation—solid, intact, properly fired. His chest loosened with relief so intense it bordered on dizziness. They'd worked. Actually worked. He had vessels now. Storage. A way to keep food safe and water clean.
The cabin walls stood nearby, six logs high but roofless. The structure was incomplete, exposed to weather, but it had walls. Four solid walls that created a defined space separate from the rest of the clearing. Close enough.
Ian carried the pots inside one at a time, setting them carefully on the ground near the back wall where they'd be protected from rain if it came. The largest one first, then the two medium vessels, then the smaller pair. They sat in a neat row, their dark surfaces almost invisible in the gathering darkness.
He stood inside the half-built cabin and looked up at the open sky above him. Stars were starting to appear, pinpricks of light against the deepening blue. The walls around him blocked the wind, created a sense of enclosure even without a roof.
Tomorrow he'd deal with the deer hide. The knowledge was already there, waiting—how to scrape away the remaining flesh and membrane, how to prepare the tissue for tanning, how to work the hide until it was supple enough to use. The process would take days, but he had time. Winter wasn't here yet.
And tomorrow he'd start boiling water. The largest pot could hold maybe two gallons once filled. He'd set it over the fire, bring the water to a rolling boil, kill whatever parasites or bacteria were lurking in the river's current. The knowledge said boiling for several minutes would make it safe. He could finally stop gambling with his health every time he took a drink.
But tonight he was done. His body had reached its limit, exhaustion pressing down on him with physical weight. The lean-to waited at the clearing's edge, cramped and uncomfortable but familiar now. Ian grabbed the pole and headed toward it, his bare foot finding the path through memory rather than sight.
The shelter smelled of crushed leaves and his own sweat. He crawled inside and pulled himself against the oak's trunk, the pole clutched across his chest. The opening faced the clearing, where he could just make out the dark shape of the cabin walls against the starlit sky.
His eyes fell closed. The forest settled into its night sounds around him—insects and small rustlings and the distant murmur of the river. Nothing melodic. Nothing hunting. Just the ambient noise of a world that was slowly, grudgingly, becoming less hostile.
Tomorrow he'd work the hide. Tomorrow he'd boil water. Tomorrow he'd add more logs to the cabin walls, get them high enough that a roof became the next logical step instead of some distant goal.
Tomorrow. If he survived another night in this cramped excuse for shelter without his back seizing up completely.
The thought drifted away as sleep pulled him under, heavy and immediate and utterly without dreams.