"Su Yao's Dazzling Counterattack Chapter 97"
The Mediterranean sun baked the whitewashed villages of Crete, where olive groves stretched to the coast and fishing boats bobbed in turquoise bays. Su Yao's car wound through mountain passes, passing women in black headscarves carrying baskets of grapes, until it reached a small settlement near Chania. In a stone courtyard fragrant with jasmine, a group of weavers sat on woven rush mats, their fingers plaiting wool into thick carpets.
Their leader, 62-year-old Eleni, held up a finished kilim—a flat-woven rug in deep blues and terracottas, decorated with geometric patterns and stylized animals. "This is our paradosi (tradition)," she said in Greek, her voice warm as the sun. For Cretan villagers, rug weaving is a legacy from Byzantine times, with each kilim telling stories of the island's history—labyrinths symbolize Minotaur myths, olive branches represent prosperity, and zigzags stand for mountain paths.
Eleni's granddaughter, Katerina, 24, a history student who documented traditional crafts, showed a rug with red octagons bordered by yellow lines. "This is for a new home," she explained. "The octagons protect against evil, while the yellow lines guide good fortune inside. My grandmother dyed the wool during kalokairi (summer) when Apollo is said to bless crafts—too many red shapes, and it brings anger; too few, and the house lacks protection."
Su Yao's team arrived with seaweed-metal fibers, hoping to add resilience to the wool without losing the rug's soft texture. They brought a mechanical loom and synthetic dye samples, but when Lin displayed a machine-woven prototype, Eleni's husband Stavros, a retired shepherd with a weathered face, frowned. "Wool needs human touch to hold nous (spirit)," he said, poking the sample. "Your machine makes it soulless."
Tensions rose when a wildfire swept through nearby olive groves, destroying the oak trees used for brown dye and singeing stored wool. "The gods reject your metal threads," Stavros said, watching smoke curl over the hills. With a village festival approaching, where new rugs adorn the church, the community despaired.
Su Yao sat with Eleni as she sorted through singed wool. "We'll help replant the oaks," she promised. Over three weeks, the team joined villagers in fire recovery efforts, digging trenches to protect remaining trees and gathering wild herbs for dye. They learned to weave kilim on traditional looms, their fingers aching from the repetitive motion, while Eleni sang ancient folk songs.
Lin experimented with coating metal fibers in olive oil and beeswax, making them compatible with Cretan dyes. "It needs to feel like part of the wool," she said, testing a swatch. Eleni ran her hand over it and nodded: "Apollo would approve."
Fiona designed a pattern: labyrinths merging into waves, with metal threads adding subtle shimmer. "It honors your myths and our sea," she said. Eleni traced the design, smiling. "These stories belong together," she said.
At the festival, their kilim hung in the church entrance, metal accents catching the candlelight. As Su Yao left, Katerina pressed a small wool square into her hand—a tiny labyrinth beside a wave. "Now our histories are woven as one," she said.