Lina was surprised and a little disturbed when the hands began to pull apart the carefully shaped cone of fibers. Just a few fibers at a time, but enough to disarrange them and make them less appealing to the eye. She watched carefully. One hand would dip into a little pot of liquid, then pull a few fibers from the cone. The other hand held a strange, thin rod with a clay disc at the bottom and a thread twisted around its stem. The hand with the fibers somehow attached them to the thread and then set the rod spinning, hanging on the thread. Then the hand pulled out a few more fibers.
Spin. . .pull. . .spin. . .pull. . .
Thread! That was it - the hands were making thread from the fibers. Lina was disappointed. What was so important or beautiful about thread? She felt a tug. Her own fibers were starting to be pulled into the twist. But they were mixed up with someone else's fibers. Surely that was a mistake! She resisted and pulled, trying not to become inextricably entwined with fibers that were different from her own, but it was no use. As always, Lina was powerless to stop or change what happened to her.
There was a jerk, and a lump appeared. "Just as I suspected," Lina thought irritably.
The hands tugged, and a sharp fingernail picked at a short piece of fiber, smoothing out the rough spot. Lina grew dizzy as she spun ever faster toward the rod with the whirling disc. The disc stopped, to her relief, but the next thing she knew, Lina and all the other fibers were rolled up tightly around the rod just above the disc. It was uncomfortably tight and stuffy. She felt sure she would suffocate. She had always enjoyed the company of other flax plants, and lately of other rolls of fine fiber, but really. This was carrying togetherness too far!
To be continued. . .
Repairing the Breach,
Debbonnaire
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