Push Into the cave

wrap it up tight

show it the suns

toss to the longnight

With her tiny bluegrey tongue poked to the side, Fressel adjusted her needles. Poke the needle through, wrap the luff around from below, pull the loop through, and with a gasp of relief she pulled the orginal loop from the left hand needle. Her first urge was to dance but dancing she’s had learned the hard way equalled losing stitches.

Again and again, the kit worked the soft fiber. With each stitch the luffworking grew easier. With her fledgling confident she picked up speed. Fressel looked with pride at her first row. Expectant, Fressel looked up at the older luffworkers of her clan. A toasty fire of dung and mattic wood crackling was the only sound over the clicking of needles. Strange, she thought as she focused on her rows.

They were all arranged in half moons flanking the fire with the oldest makers closest for warmth. The musk of luff lanolin and dried sprigs of clovemint perfumed the makers’ cave. Lanolin slick, her dark blue fingers returned to her task, flowing like water row upon row.

From her small chair in the back, Fressel looked up from her moving fingers to watch the others working on intricate sweaters and shawls. Soon she would learn the stitches denoting blood clans and animal heralds. Soon she would make traditional cablework designating fisher from farmer, warrior from weaver. She thought of being a master luffworker, with handsome commissions and loyal followers.

At the last harvest festival, clans from the south came for trade with luff dyed with berry juices and decorated with shiny coarse strings and glittery bits of stone. Soft pink and bladroot blue, the colors dazzled Fressel. Holding a pretty purple hank of luff up to the suns it shined but felt coarse between her fingers. Up close she noticed the garments made from this luff were thin and flimsy. These will not last a winter, she thought, nor provide protection from bitter cold. She remembered setting the fiber aside and going in search of fruit preserves and spice cake.

As if her thoughts made made magic a brisk breeze blew across her face. With surprise Fressel looked at the plain fine scarf pooling at her feet.It was only Vers entering the makers’ cave carrying a large basket with the midmorning meal. The heavy leather door flap fell behind him.

“It’s quiet as a mean man’s funeral in here. Usually the luffworkers are louder than kits,” Vers bellowed.

“Shh you big mouth. We are being quiet on purpose. Fressel is in the flow. Don’t disturb the kit,” Old Mother Sava hissed.

“Ooo, so sorry, my dear. You know me talk first and think later,” Vers said, chagrinned.

“More like think never,” Jer said, swishing his tail in irritation.

Oohing and aahing, the luffworkers gathered around Fressel to admire her handiwork. Her cheeks blushed violet.

“Such a nice drape. This will lay like butter on the skin.”

“An even hand, just like Jessel before her.”

“The one who is blessed with this scarf, Fressel, will treasure it for many rotations.”

With admiration they passed round her first scarf. Proud, Old Mother Sava patted her cheeks. Milling around the food, the luffworkers were telling stories of their early pieces, including ridiculous mistakes. Vers made her a heaping plate of bread and cheese with a large slice of spice cake. A little embarassed, Fressel took her meal in a seat by the fire. Biting into the cake, she decided she would gift Vers with her scarf.