# "Su Yao's Dazzling Counterattack Chapter 90"
The midnight sun cast a pale gold glow over the Arctic tundra, where reindeer grazed on lichen and Sami *lavvu* tents (cone-shaped dwellings) dotted the mossy landscape like giant mushrooms. Su Yao's snowmobile cut through the permafrost, passing herders in brightly colored *kolt* coats calling to their reindeer with *joik* (traditional songs), until it reached a Sami community nestled between fjords and snow-capped peaks. In the shelter of a birch forest, a group of weavers sat on reindeer hides, their fingers moving with patient precision as they spun reindeer wool into thick, warm threads. Their leader, a 65-year-old woman with braids wrapped in red yarn and a *kolt* adorned with geometric patterns named Maren, looked up as they approached, holding a finished coat—rich browns and deep blues interwoven with white and red motifs that seemed to shimmer like the Northern Lights. "You've come for the *kolt*," she said, her Sami dialect lilting like wind through pines, gesturing to piles of woolen textiles laid out on fur rugs.
The Sami people of Norway have crafted the *kolt* (a traditional woolen coat) for over 1,000 years, a craft intertwined with their reindeer herding lifestyle and animist beliefs. The *kolt*—a loose-fitting coat with a square cut and decorative cuffs—serves as both protection against Arctic cold and a living identity card: its patterns denote family lineage, regional origin (Finnmark, Troms, or Nordland), and even marital status. Each motif carries spiritual meaning: *sun wheels* honor the life-giving sun, *reindeer antlers* symbolize prosperity, and *zigzags* represent the aurora borealis, believed to be the spirits of ancestors. Woven from reindeer wool (collected during spring molting) and dyed with plants from the tundra, each *kolt* requires up to a year of work, with weavers timing their projects to align with reindeer migration patterns—wool spun in winter is "warm as bear fur," while summer-spun wool is "light as ptarmigan feathers." Dyes are made from Arctic flora: *bog bilberry* for purple, *lingonberry leaves* for red, and *moss* for green, with recipes guarded by *noaidi* (shamans) through oral tradition. The process begins with a *gákti* ceremony where offerings of reindeer fat are made to the earth spirit *Máttaráhkká*, and weavers sing *joik* to "infuse the wool with *báiki* (life force)." Su Yao's team had traveled here to merge this Arctic craft with their seaweed-metal blend, hoping to create a textile that honored Sami traditions while adding durability to the wool fibers. But from the first conversation, it was clear that their understanding of "harmony with nature" and "innovation" was as different as the frozen tundra and the temperate sea.
Maren's granddaughter, Ingrid, a 27-year-old who ran a Sami cultural center while studying Arctic ecology, held up a *kolt* with a pattern of reindeer tracks and star constellations. "This is for a *siida* (community gathering) to honor reindeer herders," she said, tracing the motifs that map the herding routes. "My grandmother dyed the wool during *juovllamánu* (January moon) when the spirits of the tundra are most active—too many reindeer patterns, and it brings overgrazing; too few, and the herd diminishes. You don't just make *kolt*—you weave a contract with nature into wool."
Su Yao's team had brought electric spinning machines and synthetic dye blends, intending to mass-produce simplified *kolt* patterns using their seaweed-metal blend for a "Scandinavian minimalism" fashion line. When Lin displayed a prototype with machine-woven sun wheel motifs, the women froze, their bone combs clattering to the hide-covered ground. Maren's husband, Nils, a 70-year-old *stamkar* (reindeer herder leader) with a fur hat and a staff carved from reindeer antler, stood and stamped his boot on the permafrost. "You think machines can capture the *leat* (breath) of reindeer and moss?" he said, his voice rough as gravel in the wind. "*Kolt* carries the stories of our migrations and the wisdom of the ice. Your metal has no stories, no wisdom—it's a glacier chunk, not a living tradition."
Cultural friction deepened over materials and rituals. Sami weavers collect reindeer wool during the *spring shed*, leaving the first clippings on a stone altar to "thank the reindeer for their gift." The wool is cleaned in glacial meltwater, where women leave silver coins as offerings to the water spirit *Bieggolmai*, and spun on drop spindles decorated with reindeer bone beads. Looms are constructed from *birch* wood, which bends without breaking in cold weather, and weavers tie small pouches of *lingonberries* to the loom to "feed the thread's spirit." The seaweed-metal blend, despite its organic origins, was viewed as an intrusion. "Your thread comes from salt waters that never touch our ice," Maren said, placing the sample on a *duodji* (handcrafted wooden bowl). "It will never hold the *báiki* of our tundra."
A practical crisis emerged when the metal threads reacted with the bog bilberry dye, turning it a sickly gray and causing the wool fibers to brittle. "It angers *Biegg* (the wind spirit)," Ingrid said, holding up a ruined swatch where the reindeer pattern had frayed. "Our *kolt* grows more sacred with each winter, like an *ájtte* (sacred storage hut) that protects our treasures. This will decay like summer ice, erasing our connection to the land."
Then disaster struck: unseasonable rains followed by freezing temperatures decimated the reindeer moss, leaving the herd malnourished and reducing wool quality. A sudden storm destroyed the weavers' storage *lavvu*, soaking their reserve wool and ruining their supply of rare *kinnikinnick* (bearberry) dye. With the *St. Lucia* festival approaching, when new *kolt* are worn to celebrate the return of light, the community faced a crisis of both culture and survival. Nils, performing a *noaidi* ritual by drumming and chanting to *Máttaráhkká*, blamed the team for disturbing the natural balance. "You brought something warm from the sea to our frozen land," he chanted, as the wind howled through the birch trees. "Now the spirits are angry, and they take back their reindeer."
That night, Su Yao sat with Maren in her *lavvu*, where a cast-iron pot of *bidos* (reindeer stew) simmered over a seal oil lamp, filling the air with the scent of wild thyme and game. The tent walls were hung with *kolt* coats and reindeer hide maps, and a small shrine held a antler carving of *Máttaráhkká* and a bowl of *lingonberries*. "I'm sorry," Su Yao said, sipping *mjød* (mead) from a wooden cup. "We came here thinking we could honor your craft, but we've only shown we don't understand its soul."
Maren smiled, passing Su Yao a piece of *cloudberry jam* on flatbread. "The storm is not your fault," she said. "The tundra changes—that is the way of *Máttaráhkká*. My grandmother used to say that even thin wool can keep you warm, like a small *siida* can survive the cold. But your thread—maybe it's a chance to show that *kolt* can adapt, without losing our Sami heart. Young people buy parkas from Oslo. We need to show them our weaving still speaks to the spirits."
Su Yao nodded, hope flickering like the lamp's flame. "What if we start over? We'll help restore the reindeer moss with ecological methods, dry the soaked wool, and trade for new dye from Swedish Sami. We'll learn to spin and weave *kolt* by hand, singing your *joik* songs. We won't copy your family patterns. Instead, we'll create new ones together—designs that merge your reindeer with our ocean waves, honoring both your tundra and the sea. And we'll let Nils bless the metal thread with a *gákti* ceremony, so it carries the spirits' favor."
Ingrid, who had been listening from the tent flap, stepped inside, her *kolt* rustling like dry grass. "You'd really learn to weave the *sun wheel* and *aurora* patterns? It takes 40,000 stitches for one sleeve—your fingers will freeze, your back will ache from hunching over the loom in the cold."
"However long it takes," Su Yao said. "And we'll learn the *joik* for each animal and spirit. Respect means listening to your land's songs."
Over the next six months, the team immersed themselves in Sami life. They helped transplant reindeer moss to depleted areas, their hands numb from the cold, and traveled with Nils on reindeer sleigh rides to learn herding routes, sleeping in *lavvu* under the Northern Lights. They sat cross-legged on reindeer hides, spinning wool until their fingers bled, as the women sang *joik* that mimicked the wind and reindeer calls. "Each thread must be spun with the patience of a herder waiting for spring," Maren said, showing Su Yao how to twist the wool. "Too tight, and it breaks in the cold; too loose, and it lets in the wind. Like life on the tundra—resilient but flexible."
They learned to dye wool in birch bark containers over seal oil lamps, their clothes stained purple and red as Ingrid taught them to add *reindeer fat* to the bog bilberry dye to "make the color last like permafrost." "You have to collect moss for green dye during the full moon," she said, scraping the plant from a rock. "Moss dyed in moonlight glows like the Northern Lights." They practiced the *twined weave* that makes *kolt* windproof, their progress slow but steady as Maren's 88-year-old mother, Astrid, who remembered the German occupation, corrected their work with a sharp eye. "The patterns must flow like reindeer paths across the fells," she said, her gnarled fingers adjusting a thread. "A jagged line confuses the spirits."
To solve the reaction between the metal threads and bog bilberry dye, Lin experimented with coating the metal in a solution of *reindeer fat* and *spruce resin*, a mixture Sami use to waterproof boots. The fat sealed the metal, preventing discoloration, while the resin added flexibility— a combination Nils declared "moves like a reindeer in snow" after the *gákti* ceremony. "It's like giving the thread a Sami soul," she said, showing Maren a swatch where the purple now blazed against the metal's subtle shimmer.
Fiona, inspired by the way Arctic currents connect to global oceans, designed a new pattern called "Northern Lights and Ocean Currents," merging reindeer motifs with wave patterns in seaweed-metal thread. The reindeer gradually run into stylized waves, symbolizing how Sami life is linked to global ecosystems. "It honors your herders and our sailors," she said, and Nils nodded, pressing the fabric to his cheek like checking wind direction. "The best herders know the land and sea are connected," he said. "This cloth understands the great cycle."
As the reindeer herd recovered and new moss grew, the community held a *St. Lucia* celebration, with girls in white robes holding candles and men in *kolt* performing reindeer lasso dances. They unveiled their first collaborative *kolt* under the Northern Lights, where the metal threads caught the green and purple hues like stardust. The coat featured the "Northern Lights and Ocean Currents" pattern, its reindeer wool strengthened by seaweed-metal thread that retained warmth while adding durability, and traditional sun wheel borders that seemed to pulse with tundra energy.
Maren helped Su Yao put on the *kolt*, tying the belt with a knot used to secure reindeer harnesses. "This coat has two homes," she said, as the community sang a *joik* to the sea. "One from our Arctic, one from your sea. But both are held in *Máttaráhkká*'s hands."
As the team's snowmobile drove away, Ingrid ran alongside, waving a small package. Su Yao caught it mid-snowdrift: a scrap of reindeer wool dyed purple with bog bilberries, stitched with a tiny reindeer and wave in seaweed-metal, wrapped in birch bark. "To remember us by," read a note in Sami and Norwegian. "Remember that ice and sea are both water—like your thread and our wool."
Su Yao clutched the package as the tundra stretched to the horizon, the Northern Lights painting the sky in green flames. She thought of the hours spent spinning under the aurora, the *joik* that seemed to carry the tundra's heartbeat, the way the metal thread had finally learned to work with the wool's natural warmth. The Sami had taught her that tradition isn't about resisting change—it's about staying rooted in respect for nature, letting old patterns evolve while honoring the spirits that sustain life.
Her phone buzzed with a message from the Bosnian team: photos of Emina holding their collaborative textile at a winter festival. Su Yao smiled, typing back: "We've added new reindeer tracks—Arctic ice and your sea, woven as one."
Somewhere in the distance, a *joik* echoed across the snow, a melody as old as the tundra itself. Su Yao knew their journey was far from over. There were still countless cultures to honor, countless ways of living with nature to weave into the tapestry of their work. And as long as they approached each new place with humility—listening to the land, honoring the weavers—the tapestry would only grow more vibrant, a testament to the beauty of all things bound by thread and ice, sea and spirit.