The Riverside Weaver – Part 1: Warp

The loom was older than the house, and it clacked like a heart.

Clara stood in the doorway of the weaving workshop on the Perfume River, her notebook open and her camera forgotten. She was thirty-one, a textile historian from Edinburgh, and had come to Huế to study its silk. She had not expected to be so completely stopped by a woman at a loom.

Linh looked up. She was twenty-seven, slim, with long black hair wound in a knot and indigo-stained fingertips. "You are the visitor," she said, in careful English. "You are staring at my hands."

"Sorry. They're... very fast."

"They are not fast. They are exact." She smiled. "Sit. You may watch."

Clara sat. The shuttle flew between the threads, back and forth, the pattern growing a finger's width at a time: lotus and cloud in silver on deep blue.

"Can I try?" she asked, after an hour.

"You will ruin it."

"I'll be gentle."

Linh considered, then stood and made room on the bench. "Hold here. Not tight. The thread is a living thing."

Clara held it, clumsily. Linh's hand closed over hers, calloused, warm and sure, and guided the shuttle through. The thread slid into place.

"There," said Linh, close to her ear.

Clara's breath stopped. "Thank you."

"It is nothing."

"It was something."

They worked side by side until the afternoon light turned amber on the river, boats gliding past the open shutters. Linh told her about her grandmother, who had woven for the old court; Clara told her about the archive in Edinburgh that held a single torn Vietnamese robe.

"Can I ask you something?" said Clara.

"Yes."

"Why do you let me stay?"

"Because you listen," said Linh. "Most people only look."

"Green?" said Clara, trying it out.

"Green," said Linh, softly. "Very green."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Weft.