Chapter 30

# "Su Yao's Dazzling Counterattack Chapter 30"

The Mediterranean sun blazed down on the limestone cliffs of Gozo, Malta's sister island, as Su Yao's boat cut through the turquoise waters. Below, a fishing village clung to the shore, its colorful boats bobbing in the harbor, while above, terraced fields of tomatoes and olives climbed the hillsides. At the village square, where a centuries-old olive tree provided shade, a group of Gozitan weavers sat on wooden stools, their fingers flying over looms strung with cotton thread. Their leader, a woman with salt-and-pepper hair named Katerina, stood as Su Yao approached, her hands resting on a folded *faldetta*—a traditional Maltese shawl with a distinctive black-and-white pattern. "You've come for the *għażla*," she said, her Maltese accented with warmth, referring to their prized cotton thread.

The Gozitans, known for their intricate lace-making and weaving, had preserved traditions dating back to Phoenician times. Their *faldetta* shawls, worn by women for generations, were more than clothing—they were symbols of identity, their patterns representing family histories and village alliances. Su Yao's team had traveled here to merge this heritage with their seaweed-metal blend, hoping to create a textile that reflected the island's maritime history while honoring its craft traditions. But from the first conversation, it was clear that their ideas of "heritage" and "innovation" clashed like waves against rock.

Katerina's granddaughter, Maria, a teenage weaver with a passion for preserving old patterns, spread a *faldetta* across a stone table. Its black threads formed a series of interlocking diamonds, while white threads created a border of tiny crosses. "This is the *qamar* pattern," she said, tracing a diamond. "It means 'moon'—our grandmothers wove it to guide fishermen home at night. Each cross is a prayer for safe return."

Su Yao's team had brought computerized looms and digital design software, intending to replicate the *qamar* and other patterns with precision. When Lin demonstrated a digital mock-up, the weavers exchanged uneasy glances. Katerina's husband, Toni, a retired fisherman who still helped prepare cotton thread, shook his head. "The *faldetta* must have imperfections," he said, his voice gruff. "A missed stitch here, a uneven line there—they're like the waves, never the same. Your machine makes it dead."

Cultural friction escalated over materials. The Gozitans used locally grown cotton, spun by hand and dyed with natural pigments: indigo from Sicily for blue, pomegranate rind for red, and olive leaves for green. They believed the cotton absorbed the island's spirit—its sun, wind, and sea spray—making each *faldetta* unique. The seaweed-metal blend, harvested from distant oceans and processed in factories, felt alien. "The sea here is not the same as your sea," Katerina said. "Our fish, our salt, our weeds—they belong to Gozo. Your metal does not."

A more pressing problem emerged when the metal threads reacted with Malta's salty air, developing a greenish patina that clashed with the *faldetta*'s crisp black-and-white. "It looks like rusted old nails," Maria said, holding up a ruined swatch. "Our *faldetta* is pure. This spoils it."

Then disaster struck: a sudden storm, rare for this time of year, lashed the island with high winds and rain. Fishing boats were dashed against the rocks, and the village's cotton drying sheds—where this year's harvest was curing—were destroyed. With their raw materials ruined, the weavers faced a bleak season. The village elder, a 90-year-old woman named Nanna Ċetta, blamed the team. "You brought something from the deep sea to our shore," she said, her voice trembling. "Now the sea is angry."

That night, Su Yao sat with Katerina in her kitchen, where a pot of *minestra* (vegetable soup) simmered on the stove. The room smelled of garlic and fresh bread, and outside, the storm continued to rage. "I'm sorry," Su Yao said, breaking off a piece of bread. "We thought we were honoring your traditions, but we've only hurt them."

Katerina smiled, stirring the soup. "The storm is not your fault," she said. "It's the way of the Mediterranean—calm one day, wild the next. My grandfather used to say the sea gives and takes, but it always balances in the end." She paused, then added, "Maybe your thread isn't the problem. Maybe we're just afraid of change. The young ones don't wear *faldetta* anymore. They buy cheap shawls from China. We need to make it new, but still ours."

Su Yao nodded. "What if we start over? We'll use your remaining cotton, your dyes. We'll weave by hand, on your looms. We'll keep the *qamar* pattern true, but add your seaweed-metal thread sparingly—like stars in the night sky."

Maria, who had been listening from the doorway, leaned forward. "You'd really weave by hand? It takes months to make a single *faldetta*."

"However long it takes," Su Yao said. "This isn't about speed. It's about making something that matters—for your grandmothers, for you, for Gozo."

Over the next month, the team immersed themselves in Gozitan life. They helped repair the drying sheds, their hands calloused from hammering wood and stretching canvas. They learned to spin cotton thread on traditional wheels, their fingers sore but steady as Katerina taught them the rhythm. They sat at looms in the village square, weaving *faldetta* patterns under the olive tree, as Nanna Ċetta shouted corrections from her chair. "The cross must be crooked," she said, watching Su Yao's work. "Perfect crosses are for churches, not shawls."

To solve the patina problem, Lin experimented with coating the metal threads in beeswax from Katerina's hives, which the Gozitans used to waterproof fishing nets. The wax protected the metal from salt air, preserving its shine while giving it a soft, matte finish that complemented the cotton. "It's like giving the thread a little piece of Gozo," she said, showing Katerina a swatch where the metal now blended seamlessly with the black-and-white.

Fiona, inspired by the island's Phoenician ruins, suggested adding tiny shell beads—collected from the shore after the storm—into the weave, alongside the metal threads. "They're gifts from the sea that belongs here," she said, and Nanna Ċetta nodded, saying the Phoenicians would have approved.

As the storm damage was repaired and a new cotton crop was planted, the village celebrated with a feast of fresh fish and local wine. They unveiled their first collaboration: a *faldetta* with the *qamar* pattern in traditional black-and-white, accented with seaweed-metal threads that shimmered like moonlight on water and shell beads that caught the light like scattered stars.

Katerina draped it over Su Yao's shoulders as the village clapped. "This *faldetta* tells our story," she said, "but now it has a new verse—yours."

As the team's boat pulled away from Gozo, Maria ran along the shore, waving a small package. Su Yao caught it as it sailed through the air: inside was a spool of Gozitan cotton thread, tied with a piece of seaweed-metal. "To remember us by," read the note. "And to remember that even the oldest stories need new words."

Su Yao clutched the package as Gozo faded into the distance, its cliffs glowing golden in the sunset. She thought of the hours spent weaving under the olive tree, of the way the metal thread had finally learned to dance with the cotton, of Nanna Ċetta's laughter as she criticized their "perfect crosses." The Gozitans had taught her that tradition wasn't a relic—it was a living thing, needing new threads to stay strong.

Her phone buzzed with a message from the Quechua team: photos of Tito wearing their *poncho* and seaweed-metal blend, standing beneath the Andes. Su Yao smiled, typing back: "We've added a new pattern—Gozo's sea and yours, woven as one."

Somewhere in the distance, a fisherman's song drifted across the water, a melody as old as the island itself. Su Yao knew their journey was far from over. There were still countless cultures to learn from, countless threads to weave into the tapestry of their work. And as long as they approached each new place with humility, listening more than speaking, the tapestry would only grow more extraordinary.