Mega adjusted her daughter’s weight as she hooked fiber onto the spindle. She spun a lead, then fed more fiber and nimbly drafted it, making a long, thin thread. “This is my wish for your life, Ndari. May it be long, even, and filled with joy like the dancing spindle.” Once she had spun two threads, she held them in front of Ndari’s face; the infant’s eyes lit up, and she grasped for them with her tiny hands. “This thread is you, the moon; this one is me, the clouds.” She looped the threads to the spindle and began to ply them together. “Just like the moon and the clouds, our lives are intertwined. I will wrap myself around you and always support you so that you are stronger.” Ndari lost interest in the threads and turned her attention back to her nursing.

Mega watched Ndari play while she and the other mothers prepared the indigo vats. Only women were allowed to harvest the plants and make the dye; only they knew the prayers handed down over generations. The patience and skill required to ferment the leaves was science unsuited to men. Mega began to bind the threads. “Ndari, come here. Watch me. The parts of the threads that are exposed will change color; the parts that are bound will resist the dye. Everything is paired: the sun and the moon, light and shadow, mother and child.” Ndari squealed as Mega tickled her. “You will bind yourself to many people—your family, your village, your friends. They will bring color to your life.” Mega submerged the bundle in a vat. “Just like these threads, at first, the color will be light, the pale blue of a springtime sky. The more they are dipped, the richer the color will become, transforming into the ocean on a summer day, then ultimately to a clear night filled with stars in winter.” A shout came from the other children, and Ndari scurried to them, forgetting her mother.

Ndari fumbled with the spindle, her hands caught in a tangle of fiber. “Mother, why do I have to do this? We can just buy yarn from the store. Or whole bolts of fabric. Or better yet, ready-made clothes. Only old people wear these sashes anymore—it’s embarrassing.” Mega smiled patiently. “Here daughter—you need to pre-draft the fiber first, like this.” Mega pulled off a smaller piece of fiber and stretched it. Then she turned back to her loom. “Come, look here. Soon, you will be old enough to learn double ikat weaving. The warp threads are dyed with one part of the pattern, the weft threads are dyed with the other.” Mega moved the bobbin. “At first, the pattern appears random, but as weft and warp come together, it slowly emerges. Everything has meaning—see this? Only our village uses this motif, it represents that stream over there. And these marks here—these symbolize your first ancestors who settled this place.” Mega pointed near the center of the cloth. “This design is unique, I created it especially for you. Someday, you will take these elements and weave them together in your own way, adding your own ideas.”

Ndari rolled her eyes, and Mega became stern. “This is important: the cloth is your life. There will be many times when you are frustrated, when something doesn’t seem to make sense. Have patience, look for the larger pattern, and you will come to understand.” Mega slammed down the batten. “When you encounter adversity, you need to realize that it strengthens you, just as the batten tightens the weaving so it won’t unravel.” Mega’s face softened, and she kissed Ndari’s head. “Now, try again.”

Ndari stood quietly, pondering the soft shine of the light from the window on the fabric. The slight variations in the handspun threads, imperceptible to the eye, caused them to reflect the light in such a way that they almost seemed to glow. She reached out her hand and stroked it, her fingertips tingling slightly at its smoothness. She lifted it to her face and rubbed it against her cheek, recalling the smell of the indigo vats. Her mother was a master dyer, and she still marveled at the precision it must have required to produce the multiple shades of blue in this single sash, working with such a deceptively simple technique as dipping and air drying. Few villages still maintained indigo vats; it was far too messy and labor-intensive now that commercial dyes were easily available. Ndari read the secret language encoded into the patterns on the cloth. Her mother was illiterate, but she was a powerful storyteller, building complex narratives across time and space, all with a vocabulary of geometric designs only an initiated few would ever understand. None could match the technical perfection of her mother’s weaving now that she was gone, but the true loss was her voice, which had spoken with the wisdom of a philosopher and the creativity of a poet.

A cry roused Ndari from her reverie. She took the sash and tied it around her shoulder, then turned to the crib and picked up her daughter, settling the infant into the sash against her breast. Ndari reached for some fiber and her spindle, then sat down and started to spin. She met eyes with her daughter and whispered, “Little Mega, this is my wish for you.”

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Shawn Eichman writes underwater off the coast of Honolulu. He sometimes comes on land to learn from banyan trees and play shakuhachi for an audience of birds.