Shuiryiff Rovend was a weaver of renown. When not mending clothes for her own or the neighbors' children, she wove rugs and throws, blankets and draperies, things both beautiful and durable. Of all the animal wools and plant fibers she had spun into yarn and woven into works of utilitarian art, however, she had not ever used the pelt of the yip-yipt-yend, an elusive, nearly mythical beast.
To celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of her country's self-liberation from Austro-Hungarian rule, Queen Pylta Pyltandyennd invited all Grigovians to showcase their artistry and ingenuity at the inauguration of Independence Square, a vast swath of green in central Grig.
'This is my chance to honor my grandparents, who died fighting for our freedom,' Shuiryiff said to her husband, upon hearing the news.
'My love, your ancestors and mine died in that war, but my skills do not extend beyond the engineering of bridges,' Wu-Zsi Rovend replied to his wife. 'Please weave a beautiful rug, or garment, and make both our families proud. My cousins are Yaelong; they live where the yip-yipt-yend live. Go to them and fetch your wool.'
After many days of travel, Shuiryiff finally tracked down her husband's cousins. Although they had never met her before, they took her in, fed her, and made her up a bed, promising to bring her to the yip-yipt-yend in the morning. Exhausted from her trip up into the high, wind-swept valleys, Mrs. Rovend soon fell asleep.
True to their word, the next morning a band of Yaelong stood ready to track down one of the elusive beasts. They were armed with net, prong, and snare.
'I do not wish to bring the animals to harm,' Shuiryiff said, eying the men's tools warily.
'It is unlikely we will even be able to find the animal's tracks, let alone catch one,' said one of the tribesmen, a young, bright-eyed boy. 'But your concern pleases us and Weuilou, the spirit of this region.'
The group saw only one yip-yipt-yend, from too far away to catch but close enough that one of the men unslung his rifle and was making ready to fire.
Shuiryiff, however, begged him to halt. 'Please, do not kill it,' she said pleadingly.
Because of her clemency and kindness, the Yaelong gave her two large bags full of the mythical beast's wool, their entire collection of the valuable threads. They had gathered it over many years and on countless roaming patrols, pulling it from high branches or teasing it out of the thick underbrush.
Upon her return home, Shuiryiff kissed her husband, hugged her children, and bent to the task of weaving the strands into a simple, functional garment designed to protect the wearer from the elements. She had just enough to make a single cloak, with a hood. As the day of the inauguration approached, the weaver traveled to the capital with her children. She chose a spot in the park and hung her cloak from a portable rack, a simple structure made of birch wood.
Soon enough, Queen Pylta came along. She was gracious with her words, praising and calling out happily as she perused the many works of fine art. When she came to the cloak, however, she fell silent, and approached it with grave awe.
'I am sorry, my queen, for bringing such a simple cloak,' said Shuiryiff. 'This glorious day called for better, but my skills are lacking, my fingers too stiff, my loom too rickety.'
Turning to face the gathering crowds, Her Somewhat Royal Majesty Pylta Pyltandyennd said: 'Look ye upon the winner of our competition. This woman wove the wool of a mythical beast into a cloak. The pattern is one from Grigovia's past, a pattern we had long thought lost, and the style of manufacture is one steeped in this nation's and proud long traditions. This woman, my dear friends and assembled fellow country-persons, is a prime example of the strength and ingenuity of the Grigovian people. To be just, I shall lay eyes upon the rest of the exhibits before we all retire to the tables near the fountain, for a modest snack.'
mentiri factorem fecit © 場黑麥
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