"Su Yao's Dazzling Counterattack Chapter 45"
The sun hung low over the Atlas Mountains, casting golden light over the dusty plains of Morocco where a Berber village clung to the hillside. Flat-roofed stone houses with blue-painted doorframes clustered around a central square, and in the shade of a centuries-old olive tree, a group of women sat on woven mats, their fingers moving in a blur as they knotted wool into thick, colorful blankets. Their leader, a woman with a face etched by wind and sun named Fatima, looked up as Su Yao's jeep bounced into the square, her hands pausing on a blanket covered in bold red and green geometric patterns. "You've come for the zellige," she said, her Berber language rough but warm, gesturing to the textiles that draped over the walls of nearby houses like banners.
The Berber people of Morocco have woven zellige blankets for over a thousand years, using them to insulate their homes against the mountain cold and as dowries for brides, who spend years creating their wedding blankets. The patterns are deeply symbolic: octagons represent the eight gates of paradise, interlocking diamonds symbolize family unity, and zigzags mimic the path of the Atlas Mountain rivers, a source of life in the arid landscape. Each tribe has its own secret patterns, passed down through generations of women during evening gatherings, where stories and techniques are shared over mint tea. Su Yao's team had traveled here to merge this nomadic craft with their seaweed-metal blend, hoping to create a textile that honored Berber resilience while adding durability and a new visual dimension to the traditional patterns. But from the first conversation, it was clear that their understanding of "heritage" and "utility" was as different as the desert's heat and the ocean's cool.
Fatima's daughter, Amina, a 28-year-old who split her time between weaving and teaching in a nearby town, held up a zellige blanket with a pattern of blue stars on a cream background. "This is my mother's wedding blanket," she said, tracing a star with her finger. "The pattern is nur—light. Each knot is tied while reciting a verse from the Quran to bring blessing to the marriage. You don't just make it—you pour your soul into it."
Su Yao's team had brought industrial looms and synthetic dyes, intending to mass-produce simplified zellige patterns using their seaweed-metal blend, marketed as "authentic Berber style" for global home decor. When Lin displayed a prototype with machine-stitched patterns, the women stopped working, their hands falling to their laps. Fatima's husband, Hassan, a shepherd with a weathered face and a turban wrapped around his head, spat on the ground. "Style? Your machine-made cloth is a mockery," he said, his voice sharp. "Zellige is made with sabr (patience) and ihsan (excellence). It warms our bodies and our spirits. Your thread does neither."
Cultural friction deepened over materials and rituals. Berber weavers use wool from their own sheep, which graze on the Atlas Mountain herbs that give the fleece its unique softness and natural resistance to moths. The wool is dyed with plants gathered from the mountains: saffron for yellow, indigo for blue, and henna for orange, with each dyeing session beginning with a prayer to Allah for vibrant colors. The seaweed-metal blend, despite its organic origins, was viewed as foreign and impure. "Your thread comes from the sea, which is far from our mountains," Fatima said, after feeling a sample. "It doesn't know our cold nights or our hot days. It will never keep a child warm."
A practical crisis emerged when the metal threads reacted with the henna dye, turning it a sickly green and causing the wool fibers to become brittle. "It ruins the baraka (blessing)," Amina said, holding up a ruined swatch where the star patterns had become jagged and uneven. "Our zellige grows softer with time, like a grandmother's hug. This will scratch and tear."
Then disaster struck: a swarm of locusts descended on the plains, devouring the grass that fed the village's sheep and leaving the animals thin and weak, their wool sparse and poor quality. The stored wool, kept in a stone hut, was also infested, leaving the weavers without materials for the upcoming winter. Hassan, who performed a ritual to ward off the locusts by burning sage and reciting verses from the Quran, blamed the team for disturbing the natural order. "You brought something from the sea to our land," he said, as smoke curled into the sky. "Now Allah sends these insects to test us."
That night, Su Yao sat with Fatima in her stone house, where a fire crackled in the hearth and a pot of harira (spiced soup) simmered over the flames. The air smelled of cinnamon and mint, and outside, the women sang traditional Berber songs as they repaired their tools. "I'm sorry," Su Yao said, sipping a cup of sweet mint tea. "We came here thinking we could help, but we've only shown we don't understand your ways."
Fatima smiled, passing Su Yao a piece of msemen (flaky flatbread). "The locusts are not your fault," she said. "Allah tests those he loves. My grandmother used to say that hardship makes our knots tighter, like the bonds between family. But your thread—maybe it's a gift, if we learn to use it with our hands. The young people want blankets that last, but they don't want to lose our stories."
Su Yao nodded, hope stirring in her chest. "What if we start over? We'll help you find new sheep and collect new dye plants. We'll learn to weave zellige by hand, using your techniques. We won't copy your sacred patterns. Instead, we'll create new ones together—designs that merge your mountain stars with our ocean waves, honoring both your traditions and the sea. And we'll treat the metal thread with your prayers, so it carries baraka."
Amina, who had been listening from the doorway, stepped inside, her hands clasped in front of her. "You'd really learn to tie the knots the way we do? It takes years to make them tight but flexible, so the blanket can wrap around a baby or a grandparent."
"However long it takes," Su Yao said. "And we'll learn the stories behind each pattern. Respect means knowing why they matter."
Over the next month, the team immersed themselves in Berber life. They helped Hassan and the other shepherds drive their remaining sheep to higher pastures where the locusts hadn't reached, their feet sore from walking over rocky ground. They trekked into the Atlas Mountains with Fatima to collect new dye plants, learning to identify saffron by its distinctive scent and indigo by the way it stains the fingers blue. They sat on the mats in the square, tying knot after knot until their fingers were raw, as the women sang and shared stories of their ancestors. "The knot must be like a handshake—firm but not tight," Fatima said, demonstrating the technique. "Too loose, and the blanket falls apart; too tight, and it can't wrap around those who need it."
They learned to dye the wool in large clay pots, their clothes stained yellow and red as Amina taught them to stir the mixtures in a figure-eight pattern, a symbol of infinity. "Saffron dye needs to simmer like a gentle prayer," she said, adding a handful of the precious threads to the pot. "Rushing it is like rushing a blessing—it doesn't take hold." They practiced the zellige pattern of interlocking diamonds, their progress slow but steady as Fatima's mother, an elderly woman named Khadija who couldn't see but could weave by touch, corrected their work. "Feel the pattern," she said, placing Su Yao's hand on the blanket. "It should flow like water over rocks."
To solve the reaction between the metal threads and henna dye, Lin experimented with coating the metal in a solution of argan oil and rose water, a mixture Berbers use to moisturize skin and wool. The oil sealed the metal, preventing discoloration, while the rose water added a subtle fragrance that Fatima declared "pleasing to Allah." "It's like giving the thread a Berber soul," she said, showing Fatima a swatch where the orange now glowed against the metal's shimmer.
Fiona, inspired by the way the Atlas Mountains meet the Mediterranean Sea, designed a new pattern called jibal wa bahar (mountains and sea), which merged Berber star motifs with ocean waves in seaweed-metal thread. The stars gradually transform into waves, symbolizing the connection between the mountain people and the sea. "It honors your land and our ocean," she said, and Hassan nodded, running his hand over the design. "Allah made both mountains and sea," he said. "This cloth shows they are one."
As the sheep regained their strength and the new dye plants began to yield vibrant colors, the village held a celebration to mark the end of the locust season, with music, dancing, and a feast of roasted lamb and couscous. They unveiled their first collaborative piece: a zellige blanket with the jibal wa bahar pattern, its wool fibers strengthened by seaweed-metal thread that caught the firelight like sunlight on water, and traditional red and green borders that glowed against the night.
Fatima wrapped the blanket around Su Yao's shoulders during the celebration, as the village cheered. "This blanket has two hearts," she said, her eyes shining. "One from our mountains, one from your sea. But they beat as one, keeping us warm and blessed."
As the team's jeep drove away from the village, Amina ran alongside, waving a small package. Su Yao rolled down the window, and she tossed it in: a corner of a zellige blanket, woven with a tiny star and a wave in seaweed-metal, tucked inside a leather pouch. "To remember us by," read a note in Berber and Arabic. "Remember that Allah's creation is all connected—mountains, sea, and even your thread."
Su Yao clutched the package as the Atlas Mountains faded into the distance, their peaks covered in a pink haze. She thought of the hours spent tying knots in the square, the prayers recited over the dye pots, the way the metal thread had finally learned to work with the wool. The Berbers had taught her that tradition isn't about being stuck in the past—it's about carrying the wisdom of the past into the future, making sure that what matters isn't lost.
Her phone buzzed with a message from the Zapotec team: photos of Ximena holding their collaborative quechquemitl at a festival in Oaxaca. Su Yao smiled, typing back: "We've added a new pattern—Berber mountains and your sea, woven as one."
Somewhere in the distance, a muezzin called the faithful to prayer, his voice echoing across the plains like a blessing. 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 and respect, the tapestry would only grow more beautiful, a testament to the power of human connection and the beauty of our shared humanity.