never thought of what the words meant. My father had told me about snow, and I had tried to draw it. I must have seen it before but never really thought of what it must be like. Because of Hagar’s story about the cannibals and her remark about Farmers and Gardeners I began to wonder about living up here in winter.
We camped in a tree-lined basin I seemed to remember. During the midday heat I ducked myself numb under a waterfall while the sheep and goats lay in leafy shade, waiting to graze in the long evening light. The nights up high were cool.
On stones worn down by earlier Travellers we sharpened our knives, penned some sheep, and cut their wool. Hagar showed me how to sit them on their rumps so they didn’t kick. They ran and jumped, curiously small and naked.
“It changes their natures,” I said.
“You’re judging by appearance,” Hagar laughed.
“You’re always laughing at me,” I complained.
“No, I’m not.”
“You are so. It’s not fair!”
“Don’t be childish,” Hagar said sharply. “You have to be a man, now. Remember old Tahu, how people said he looked as silly as a sheep?”
I remembered. Some despised Tahu, but he knew more about nursing sick animals than anyone else.
“Tahu was gifted,” said Hagar, “yet the people who judged him by his appearance would have left him behind.”
“Did you see his body at Tayamoot?”
She shook her head. “Tahu was old. He’d have died easily. We must separate the fleece wool. The neck and belly stuff’s not as good for spinning, but it’s handy for stuffing saddle pads.” I copied her but it took me much longer to separate the fleece.
Hagar was always running her hands over the goats, plucking loose hair, and now we went over them again. They knew what we wanted of them. Goats are understanding creatures. I have always liked them for that.
We made simple looms of two lengths of timber, with two bars fitting into slots. Hagar strung hers with yarn twined on her spindle, and I copied her. All those days of walking and riding: teasing the wool from around her left arm, drawing it out between her fingers; twirling the spindle, always in the same direction; winding the yarn around its shaft as it grew; all that work had resulted in a basketful of balls of yarn. Now we had the new lot of wool and hair as well.
“We’ll use it all,” said Hagar.
The yarn we tied lengthwise she called the warp. She showed me how to pass the shuttle across with the horizontal thread, the weft. We lashed the looms one each side of a donkey when we moved. Under trees during the daytime heat we set them up again. “We can use all the cloth we can make,” Hagar said.
I learned the knots, separating the warps, raising and lowering them to get different patterns. Hagar showed me how to do finger weaving and the dark and light diamondsof the Travellers’ blankets. I beat my rows together to make the cloth tight and even. I passed the shuttle back and forth. I did everything Hagar did, and my cloth grew slow and uneven. There were places I even missed the warp.
“It’s stupid!” I kicked the loom and stamped away with my sling.
“I’ve been weaving too long to remember learning,” Hagar said next time I tried, “but I still make mistakes. You’re picking it up quickly.” She was always encouraging. “That’s important because you’re going to have to make your own clothes and blankets, your own packs and bags, saddle-blankets, even your own tent.” Everything she knew Hagar taught me. Our hands and clothes were thick with the wool grease.
“The grease keeps you warm and dry,” Hagar said. “It sheds the rain and stops your cloak from leaking. It’s a good smell!”
“I haven’t done much.”
“Your fingers will get as fast as mine. I was taught to weave because I was a girl. You were brought up to lead the sheep and goats because you were a boy. I learned to lead the animals, too, but women passed on their secrets only to girls.” She
We camped in a tree-lined basin I seemed to remember. During the midday heat I ducked myself numb under a waterfall while the sheep and goats lay in leafy shade, waiting to graze in the long evening light. The nights up high were cool.
On stones worn down by earlier Travellers we sharpened our knives, penned some sheep, and cut their wool. Hagar showed me how to sit them on their rumps so they didn’t kick. They ran and jumped, curiously small and naked.
“It changes their natures,” I said.
“You’re judging by appearance,” Hagar laughed.
“You’re always laughing at me,” I complained.
“No, I’m not.”
“You are so. It’s not fair!”
“Don’t be childish,” Hagar said sharply. “You have to be a man, now. Remember old Tahu, how people said he looked as silly as a sheep?”
I remembered. Some despised Tahu, but he knew more about nursing sick animals than anyone else.
“Tahu was gifted,” said Hagar, “yet the people who judged him by his appearance would have left him behind.”
“Did you see his body at Tayamoot?”
She shook her head. “Tahu was old. He’d have died easily. We must separate the fleece wool. The neck and belly stuff’s not as good for spinning, but it’s handy for stuffing saddle pads.” I copied her but it took me much longer to separate the fleece.
Hagar was always running her hands over the goats, plucking loose hair, and now we went over them again. They knew what we wanted of them. Goats are understanding creatures. I have always liked them for that.
We made simple looms of two lengths of timber, with two bars fitting into slots. Hagar strung hers with yarn twined on her spindle, and I copied her. All those days of walking and riding: teasing the wool from around her left arm, drawing it out between her fingers; twirling the spindle, always in the same direction; winding the yarn around its shaft as it grew; all that work had resulted in a basketful of balls of yarn. Now we had the new lot of wool and hair as well.
“We’ll use it all,” said Hagar.
The yarn we tied lengthwise she called the warp. She showed me how to pass the shuttle across with the horizontal thread, the weft. We lashed the looms one each side of a donkey when we moved. Under trees during the daytime heat we set them up again. “We can use all the cloth we can make,” Hagar said.
I learned the knots, separating the warps, raising and lowering them to get different patterns. Hagar showed me how to do finger weaving and the dark and light diamondsof the Travellers’ blankets. I beat my rows together to make the cloth tight and even. I passed the shuttle back and forth. I did everything Hagar did, and my cloth grew slow and uneven. There were places I even missed the warp.
“It’s stupid!” I kicked the loom and stamped away with my sling.
“I’ve been weaving too long to remember learning,” Hagar said next time I tried, “but I still make mistakes. You’re picking it up quickly.” She was always encouraging. “That’s important because you’re going to have to make your own clothes and blankets, your own packs and bags, saddle-blankets, even your own tent.” Everything she knew Hagar taught me. Our hands and clothes were thick with the wool grease.
“The grease keeps you warm and dry,” Hagar said. “It sheds the rain and stops your cloak from leaking. It’s a good smell!”
“I haven’t done much.”
“Your fingers will get as fast as mine. I was taught to weave because I was a girl. You were brought up to lead the sheep and goats because you were a boy. I learned to lead the animals, too, but women passed on their secrets only to girls.” She
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