Chapter 40

# "Su Yao's Dazzling Counterattack Chapter 40"

The Arctic wind sliced through the air like a blade as Su Yao's snowmobile crossed the frozen tundra of Nunavut, Canada, leaving a trail of powdery snow in its wake. In the distance, icebergs jutted from the sea like shattered glass, their blue hues shifting with the light, while closer by, a herd of caribou moved slowly across the white expanse, their breath visible in plumes. At the edge of an Inuit community, where domed *igloos* and wooden *qulliq* (stone lamps) dotted the landscape, a group of seamstresses sat inside a communal *kashim* (gathering hall), their hands moving over hides stretched across wooden frames. Their leader, a woman with a parka trimmed in fox fur named Aneela, looked up as Su Yao stepped inside, the warmth of seal-oil lamps hitting her face. "You've come for the *amauti*," she said, her Inuktitut language deep and resonant, gesturing to a woman's parka with a large, pouch-like hood designed to carry infants.

The Inuit people of the Canadian Arctic have crafted cold-resistant textiles for millennia, their survival dependent on mastery of materials like seal skin, caribou hide, and Arctic hare fur. The *amauti* is more than clothing; it is a symbol of motherhood and community, its design evolving over generations to balance warmth, mobility, and the ability to nurse a child while hunting or working. Intricate beadwork—using materials from trade beads to caribou bone—adorns the hems, with patterns representing animal spirits (the polar bear for strength, the raven for wisdom) and celestial phenomena (the aurora borealis for guidance). Su Yao's team had traveled here to merge this life-sustaining craft with their seaweed-metal blend, hoping to create a textile that honored Inuit resilience while enhancing durability and insulation. But from the first interaction, it was clear that their understanding of "necessity" and "innovation" was as different as the frozen Arctic and the temperate seas.

Aneela's daughter, Kimmie, a 32-year-old seamstress who also worked as a wildlife guide, held up an *amauti* made from buttery-soft caribou hide, its edges decorated with red and black beads forming a pattern of swimming fish. "This parka took my mother and me three months to make," she said, running a hand over the fur-lined hood. "We tanned the hide with seal oil and willow bark, the way my grandmother taught us. The fish pattern? It's a prayer for the hunters—so they'll bring home enough to feed the community. You don't just *make* an *amauti*—you *build* it, with care for every life it will protect."

Su Yao's team had brought synthetic insulation materials and industrial sewing machines, intending to create a "modernized" *amauti* using their seaweed-metal blend, designed to reduce weight while increasing warmth. When Lin displayed a prototype with a sleek, minimalist design, the seamstresses fell silent. Aneela's father, Manny, an elder with a face etched by decades in the cold, who had hunted seal and walrus for 60 years, let out a low growl. "You think you can improve on something that has kept us alive for 10,000 years?" he said, his voice gravelly. "This isn't fashion—it's life. Your machine-made cloth won't save a child from a blizzard. It has no *sila* (spirit)."

Cultural friction deepened over materials and rituals. Inuit tanning and sewing are steeped in respect for the animals that give their lives for survival: a seal's skin is treated with gratitude, its fat used for lamps and its meat shared; caribou hides are stretched in patterns that honor the animal's movement. The process is accompanied by *songs*—chants to thank the spirits of the hunted and ensure their return. The seaweed-metal blend, despite its organic origins, was viewed as disconnected from this cycle. "Your thread comes from the sea, but not *our* sea," Aneela said, after feeling a sample. "It doesn't know our cold. It won't listen to the wind."

A practical crisis emerged when the metal threads in the blend became brittle in sub-zero temperatures, cracking when bent, and the seaweed fibers absorbed moisture from the snow, losing their insulating properties. "It's dangerous," Kimmie said, holding up a test swatch that had frozen stiff overnight. "Our hides stay flexible even at -50°C. This would break, leaving someone exposed."

Then disaster struck: an unexpected *blizzard*—stronger than any in recent memory—swept through the community, burying storage sheds and damaging the year's stock of tanned hides. The hunters, delayed by the storm, were unable to bring in fresh seal and caribou, leaving the seamstresses without materials to repair winter clothing. Manny, performing a ritual with a *qulliq* lamp to honor Sedna, the sea goddess, blamed the team for disturbing the natural order. "You brought something foreign to our land," he chanted, offering a piece of seal meat to the flames. "Now Sedna is angry, and she withholds her gifts."

That night, Su Yao huddled with Aneela inside her *kashim*, where a *qulliq* burned brightly, casting orange light over walls hung with hides and tools. A pot of *arviq* (seal stew) simmered over the lamp, filling the air with a rich, earthy scent. "I'm sorry," Su Yao said, wrapping her hands around a cup of hot tea made from Arctic willow. "We came here thinking we knew better, but we've only disrespected your ways."

Aneela smiled, passing Su Yao a piece of *bannock* (fry bread). "The blizzard is not your fault," she said. "The Arctic has always been cruel. My grandfather used to say that survival means adapting—not forgetting. But your thread—maybe it's a chance to adapt, if we do it together. The ice is changing. The animals are moving. We need new ways, but we can't lose our old ones."

Su Yao nodded, hope flickering in the cold air. "What if we start over? We'll help dig out the hides and assist the hunters when the storm passes. We'll learn to tan and sew the Inuit way—by hand, with your tools. We won't replace your hides. Instead, we'll reinforce them with our seaweed-metal blend, adding it where it's needed most: the seams, the hood edges. And we'll treat the metal with your seal oil and rituals, so it carries *sila*."

Kimmie, who had been listening from the doorway, stepped inside, her parka rustling with snow. "You'd really learn to tan a seal hide? It takes days of scraping and stretching, and the smell is… strong."

"However long it takes," Su Yao said. "And we'll learn the songs too. Respect means more than just words here."

Over the next month, the team immersed themselves in Inuit life. They helped shovel out the storage sheds, their muscles aching from lifting heavy blocks of snow, and assisted the hunters in tracking caribou once the storm cleared, learning to read tracks in the snow as Manny taught them. They sat cross-legged in the *kashim*, scraping fat from seal hides with bone tools until their hands were raw, as Aneela demonstrated the proper technique. "You have to feel the hide's grain," she said, her voice calm. "Rushing makes it weak. The hide remembers if you're careless."

They learned to sew with sinew thread, their fingers numb from the cold but determined as Kimmie showed them how to make the tight, flexible stitches that keep out wind. "Each stitch is a promise," she said, pushing a bone needle through the hide. "A promise to keep the wearer safe." They practiced beadwork, their progress slow but steady as Aneela's sister, Nala, taught them to create the raven pattern—a symbol of cleverness and adaptability. "The raven teaches us to use what we have," Nala said, as Su Yao fumbled with a bone bead. "Even when it's not perfect."

To solve the problem of the metal threads cracking in the cold, Lin experimented with coating them in a mixture of seal oil and *spruce gum*—a substance the Inuit use to waterproof boots. The oil kept the metal flexible, while the gum added a protective layer that repelled moisture. "It's like giving the thread a fur coat," she said, showing Aneela a sample that remained supple even after hours in the freeze.

Fiona, inspired by the aurora borealis that painted the night sky in greens and purples, designed a new bead pattern called *aqsarniq* (northern lights), which merged traditional Inuit celestial motifs with the seaweed-metal thread, creating a shimmer that mimicked the aurora's glow. "It honors Sedna's light," she said, and Manny nodded, saying it would guide hunters home in the dark.

As the blizzard's aftermath cleared and the hunters returned with fresh meat and hides, the community held a *feast* to celebrate, with drumming, storytelling, and shared meals of seal and caribou. They unveiled their first collaborative piece: an *amauti* made from soft caribou hide, reinforced with seaweed-metal thread along the seams and hood, its edges adorned with the new *aqsarniq* pattern that shimmered like the aurora in firelight.

Aneela helped Su Yao put on the *amauti*, adjusting the hood to fit snugly. "Feel it?" she said, as Su Yao moved her arms, surprised by the warmth and flexibility. "It has the old strength, and new resilience. Sedna would approve."

As the team's snowmobile headed south, Kimmie ran alongside, waving a small package. Su Yao slowed, and Kimmie pressed it into her hands: a scrap of seal hide, stitched with a tiny polar bear bead and a piece of seaweed-metal thread. "To remember us by," read a note in Inuktitut and English. "Remember that the ice and sea are one—like your thread and our hides."

Su Yao clutched the package as the Arctic landscape stretched out behind her, white and endless under the low sun. She thought of the hours spent scraping hides by *qulliq* light, of the way the metal thread had finally learned to bend with the cold, of Manny's laughter as he taught them the seal-hunting songs. The Inuit had taught her that tradition wasn't about stubbornness—it was about reverence for survival, a reverence that could embrace new tools as long as they served the same purpose: protecting the people, honoring the land, and respecting the creatures that sustain life.

Her phone buzzed with a message from the Newari team: photos of Maya holding their collaborative *bhaka* textile, displayed in a Kathmandu temple. Su Yao smiled, typing back: "We've added a new stitch—Inuit ice and your sea, woven as one."

Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled, its call carried on the wind. 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—recognizing that survival, in any form, is a wisdom worth honoring—the tapestry would only grow more profound, a testament to the human ability to adapt, connect, and thrive, no matter how harsh the world may be.