Every Glistening Night

Chapter Ten

Fuschia thread pulls taut on the loom in front of me. I cross the strands over each other, creating intersecting loops in the robe I'm making. My fingers move lithely over the thread, and I barely think about the motions I'm doing, the interconnection I'm forging between the singular threads.

My work began this morning once the sun rose a little higher in the sky and the tribe started to wake up. The sun has migrated to nearly overhead, yet I'm almost done with my first robe. Years of experience have hastened my task. Having multiple mentors has also assisted, though I can't tell anyone about the secret lessons Mother used to give me. Her techniques save me so much time, enabling me to produce more robes to trade with the other tribes. Really, it's all thanks to my mother that I'm considered one of the foremost weavers among the tribes even though I'm only seventeen years old.

Still, I constantly feel like I'm at the bottom of the totem pole. I have to push harder, strive for increasingly difficult designs, to prove that I deserve and can maintain people's perceptions of me. More importantly, even after so many years have passed, my mother's reputation still tarnishes mine. Deep down, I think I'll never be a true member of the tribe, always on the fringes, always the person who never belonged, the daughter of a betrayer.

I glance up from the colorful fabric practically hanging off the loom's wooden frame, catching the eye of a few women who spare looks in my direction. They quickly look down at their own weaving or sorting projects. Some, who had the gumption to turn around and peer at me, whip their heads back to their friends. The collective, noisy chatter prevents me from eavesdropping on a single conversation. But my name sticks out like a sore thumb oftentimes when they speak of me. It's funny how selective hearing can be — only latching onto the parts that hurt.

My fingers loop the thread several more times until the fabric is complete. I fold the first of many long swashes of cloth I must weave. In two full moons, Nal m'se will lead our tribe to meet the others for our seasonal trade meetings.

I walk across the clearing to present the first part of my quota to Jeayma m'ke.

"Excellent work," Jeayma m'ke gushes. She runs her hand over the fuschia knots, a smile on her lips. "This will be a beautiful robe." Her eyes shift to the sides, then back to me. In a low voice, she asks, "would you like a short break?"

My eyes turn to the sky for an instant. They snap back to the matriarch, like the sun burned my pupils. "It's nearly noon."

"I know," Jeayma m'ke says. "But perhaps there are other things you can get ahead of during this time."

I remember the task Nal m'se gave me, the water-proof parcel I must weave. Jeayma m'ke wears her usual bright smile, but she levels me with a gaze that hints at something, perhaps a secret arrangement I made with the head matriarch. More than likely, all the matriarchs know of my task. Jeayma m'ke must be giving me extra time to work on it.

I dip my head. "You're too generous, Jeayma m'ke. I am very grateful."

I truly was. There might be enough time to slip away into the mountain peaks and collect the sunlight I need. Though hunters may be on the prowl, and the rocky echo might draw their attention, this is the prime opportunity to work toward my tasks.

Jeayma m'ke squeezes my hand. "We're very grateful, too."

I start toward my cave. The question now is how I'm going to get my raeriel out of camp without being spotted. People roam the paths that run alongside the tribe's dwelling caves. Once inside my cave, I open my wooden chest, removing the biggest outer robe I can find. I pull it over me, then take a brief look at the entrance. No one seems to be around, so I dig deeper in the box, removing my raeriel. After one more look over my shoulder, I shove my arms through the bag's straps. The oversized robe should conceal the lump on my back, though it will appear strange to wear such a heavy garment at the tail end of summer. I slip from the alcove, heading up the mountainside.