"Could've gone worse," he said, leaving the longhouse. He now wore a pair of straw sandals plus something resembling shorts, and a loose shoulder wrap, both made from coarse blue fiber. The sun beat down and he hoped he could avoid getting roasted too badly.

A few islanders had gathered to see the strange outsider. He said, "Can I see who makes the tools around here?"

They took him to a hut with a canopy outside. Ah, shade! thought Arlen. A man and his son were banging rocks together. "May I watch for a little while?"

They let him. It was painfully primitive, but not the complete bottom of the caveman ladder. There was a particular clever way of striking a fist-sized chunk of flint or obsidian to make sharp chips slide off. Not useful for every application, but it gave them tools for cutting and scraping.

Arlen saw some arrowheads ready for turning over to a fletcher. "What do the people hunt with these?"

"The shockjaws, birds, snakes."

The apprentice boy said, "Mirefolk."

"Swamp monsters?"

The stonecrafter laughed bitterly. "Practically. They're thieves and killers, and nobody can fight back except by capturing one of them alive and trading for him."

He set Arlen to do some tedious work while he watched: making a stone cup with a stone chisel. Arlen asked, "Is there no metal?"

"A few tools here and there, but mostly in Thoko's territory."

Arlen worked for a while, making little progress. So backwards! But the crafter wasn't stupid; he just lacked equipment. "I want to see what other work is being done."

"Suit yourself."

Before Arlen left, though, the crafter used a very different method. He touched the cup Arlen had been working with and brushed his fingers along it, making glittering sand flake away from the rim. Arlen stared, saying, "Magic?"

"The spirits granted me just enough to be useful. Maybe you can get it yourself."

Arlen hadn't earned his keep yet. He watched for a little while, then stepped away to explore some more. He got curious questions about "the outside", so that he had a gaggle of children and young adults following him when he reached the potter.

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The town's clay crafter had gotten more advanced techniques than some peoples had; her shaded outdoor workshop had a potter's wheel. "Heard there was a castaway. You're funny-looking."

"So I've heard. Can I help?"

"Looking for something to do? Get me more firewood."

"I can do that. Are there a lot of dangerous creatures in the woods?"

"Sure, everywhere. Hope you're good at running."

He assumed there was some sarcasm, but borrowed a stone knife. He set off to the forest.

The people had pushed it back over however many centuries they'd lived here. He estimated a few hundred people lived here in this beach settlement, and conversation with the curious onlookers told him that hundreds more lived on this island, counting another village and some scattered hermits and hunting camps. Tree stumps surrounded this hamlet. The land held small farms growing unfamiliar gourds and grain. A farmer told him the tall stalks he was looking at in another field were "sugarcane", but it was another moment when Arlen knew he was hearing and speaking another language. The names were approximate.

Arlen searched warily. Without a proper axe he wouldn't be felling any trees. The species around here were tropical breeds. Ah, here was something like bamboo, in a deep red-violet. He wanted to cut that later. For now he gathered some fallen branches and ones he could snap free. He paused to listen for trouble and heard only songbirds. Then he discovered he didn't know which way he'd come from.

No problem. Footprints. Um. The soil was dry, leaving unclear marks, and he dropped everything while crouching. He gathered it all up, put it down to find the knife and stow it securely in his waistband, and searched again. He thought he saw which way he'd come.

A few minutes' walk later, he came to a burned hut. Everything was silent here. Arlen walked around it and found an arrow in the ruined walls. Bowing his head, he retreated and found his way back to the last clearing he'd seen. From there he finally thought to follow the sun and let that guide him back to the beach, where he could find the village again. It took too long and he arrived with aching arms.

The potter laughed at him. "Better late than never."

"I found a hut that was attacked and burned."

She paused in her work. "Mirefolk. It was a game to them, tormenting an old man."

"Do they come often?"

"A few times a year. A screaming bunch of their wildmen, usually, with a few who aren't crazy. Or they harass us at sea."

"Sorry to hear it."

"Well. Feed the wood to my pile there."

He was glad to drop it. "Do you use charcoal?"

"No; why?"

"I'm wondering if I can use anything I know from the outside."

The potter frowned. "I don't know about that. Can't be so great if you crashed a ship through a big, obvious storm."

"Ha. Maybe not. I'm not sure how to get the right, consistent temperature anyway; it's got to be more complicated than 'switch to charcoal'." He looked the equipment over. Not a gear in sight; she had to awkwardly kick the wheel sideways while sitting cross-legged. There had to be a better way.

Because there was probably a reason why he'd been sent here. If his arrival from Earth was a random cosmic hiccup, it could've been a lot worse. If God had picked him for something, He hadn't been specific. So it was up to him to find a purpose.

For now, he returned the borrowed knife and did some menial work preparing more clay. "How do you convince someone to give you food and lodging around here, anyway?"

She shrugged and gave her name. "Tell the cooks you were working for me. It's about lunchtime anyway."