A World Woven Like the Warp and Weft of Elba Wool
《Baleon’s Log》
Morning on the Steppe — Deep Steppe.
The day after the council with the nomad elders.
[Fael] His face calmer this morning, perhaps relieved by the alliance formed with the elders to share news across the steppe.
[Serio] (Separate) Staying with the Xaelo family.
[Maya] (Separate) Staying with the Xaelo family.
We spent the night at the elders’ encampment deep within the steppe.
The council brought reassurance that our journey here can continue safely for now, though the road ahead to the White Capital remains long.
For Maya and Serio, these days may be the most peaceful moments of the entire journey.
May a warm light continue to shine in their hearts.
Before dawn, a clear “Clack, clack, clack!” rang out from outside the tent—the sharp crack of Nava’s wooden clappers.
Startled awake, Maya and Serio grabbed their cloaks and rushed outside.
In the indigo sky, only the horizon of the steppe had begun to glow pale white.
As on the previous day, Maya and Serio woke—well, were woken—before sunrise.
After a quick meal with the Xaelo family, they finished the early chores and now sat together at breakfast.
At the table, Neyra turned to Maya and Serio.
“Today we’re going to visit a master of Elba wool weaving.”
She added with a smile,
“Nivia should come along too. It will be worth seeing.”
From behind the steam of the pot, Nivia gave a small nod.
“I’m coming too!” Nava shouted, her hand shot up in a flash.
Neyra smiled, glancing toward her father.
“Dad, is it all right if we all go today?”
“Of course. Thanks to Maya and Serio’s help yesterday, Nohra and I can manage here. All of you go and enjoy the day.”
Xaelo nodded warmly.
By the time the sun rose and the tent shadows stretched faintly across the ground, they were ready.
Mounted on their Swift Elbas, with Neyra in the lead, the party galloped toward the east, where the morning light was climbing.
Hooves struck the frosted grass lightly, white breath dissolving into the chill.
Soon, the outline of Elenoa’s weaving tent appeared, tucked behind a low hill.
“E---le---no---a---!!”
Neyra’s voice rang clear across the morning steppe, bright and girlish.
Leaving the others behind, she urged her Elba faster.
With a light tap to its neck, she carried the momentum forward—springing from the saddle just before the tent and landing lightly as her cloak whipped in the wind and grains of sand scattered.
“Jumped again!”
Maya and Serio cried in unison, half in amazement, half in exasperation.
Nivia only shrugged with a wry smile.
“Me too!”
Nava leaned forward eagerly.
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“Nava, Nooooo!”
Nivia hastily pulled the reins and caught her little sister in her arms.
The Swift Elba snorted quietly, flicking its long ears.
At that moment, the tent flap stirred, and a gentle voice called out.
“Neyra? So lively this early in the morning.”
When Elenoa stepped into view, Neyra beamed with the mischievous smile of a girl once more.
She waved back at the others, her voice bright with delight.
“We’ve arrived! This is Elenoa’s home!”
Inside the tent, the pale morning light filtered softly through.
Bundles of thread hung from wooden beams, swaying gently in the glow.
On the floor, piles of Elba wool—white and pale brown—spread like fluffy clouds.
Against the wall leaned wooden frames wound with loosely twisted yarn.
At the far end, a wooden loom stood ready, its taut warp threads waiting in silence for the weaver’s hands.
“Come on in,”
Elenoa said kindly, her voice calm and welcoming.
She was Neyra’s childhood friend, five years her senior.
Hearing that unchanged gentle tone, Neyra smiled at a memory and whispered to Maya and Serio.
“Elenoa and I played together since we were little.
I was always too wild—running, falling, crying…
But every time, Elenoa comforted me.
She’s always been like an older sister to me.”
Maya and Nivia exchanged a soft smile at the tender story.
Elenoa motioned for them to sit, swiftly clearing the cloths before the loom.
“I was just weaving a tunic for women.”
She took up a slim, flat stick shuttle wound with yarn.
She slipped it between the warp threads with a soft swish, then slid it to the far edge in one smooth motion.
Then tap tap—she pressed the weft gently into place with another flat wooden tool.
Swish… tap-tap… swish… tap. Swish… tap-tap… swish… tap.
Swish… tap-tap… swish… tap. Swish… tap-tap… swish… tap.
Swoooosh… tap.
Swish… tap-tap… swish… tap. Swish… tap-tap… swish… tap.
Swish… tap-tap… swish… tap. Swish… tap-tap… swish… tap.
Swoooosh… tap.
The rhythm repeated, sometimes shifting with her breath, as if another pattern overlapped.
The sound of the weft passing through, the sound of the cloth being struck.
The sound of Elenoa weaving, the sound of her drawing a breath.
Those sounds and rhythms themselves spread through the tent, as if they were a single piece of woven fabric.
Maya and the others forgot even to breathe.
Her weaving—its rhythm, its motion—was so beautiful that it felt like watching a sacred rite of prayer.
At a pause, Elenoa spoke.
“The backstrap loom was first used for weaving sturdy belts or mats, the weaver pulling the warp tight with a strap around the waist.
My mother was a master of the old ways. From her I inherited the craft, then shaped it in my own way—
Not pulling the strap too hard, breathing with the threads, turning my wrist smaller, laying the weft more delicately, keeping the tension soft rather than strong.
This way, even a backstrap loom can weave fine wool cloth.”
Neyra nodded eagerly, adding,
“Elenoa’s fingers don’t just control the threads—they speak to them.
She strokes them, and they glide smooth; she holds them to the light, and every line is even.
Not stiffness but suppleness. That’s why her cloth is perfect for children’s clothes or women’s tunics.”
With quiet pride, Neyra went on.
“She’s now known across the steppe as a new-generation weaver. Women come here, touch her cloth, and smile. Everyone says, ‘If it’s Elenoa’s weaving, it can’t be wrong.’ Just watching her tie the backstrap and breathe gently, even the air around her feels at ease.”
“You’re too kind, Neyra,”
Elenoa said with a shy smile.
A gentle ripple of laughter went through the tent.
Maya’s eyes shifted to the sacks of Elba wool piled beside the tent.
Then he pointed to the few Elbas grazing outside Elenoa’s tent and asked,
“…Neyra, do Elbas really produce this much wool?”
Compared with the number of Elbas Elenoa kept, the sacks did seem far more numerous.
Neyra narrowed her eyes with a pleased smile.
“Good eye.
Elenoa keeps only as many Elbas as she needs for daily milk. As for the wool, nomads called Wool Gatherers travel the steppe, going from household to household to collect it.”
She pointed to the mouth of the sack as she went on.
“The steppe is vast, so the wool is brought to collection sites set up in each region. There it’s cleaned, dried, loosened into cottony fluff, or spun into yarn, then distributed to weavers as needed.”
Peering at the tag on a sack, Serio murmured,
“There’s a mark here.”
Elenoa nodded.
“There are many kinds of wool. Elbas from cold mountain lands have thick, warm coats, while those that travel the desert grow light, airy fleece.
At each collection site, the wool is sorted. Some weavers make clothes, some blankets, some great tent cloths. So the kind of Elba wool required differs by weaver.”
Neyra nodded and summed it up.
“And when the cloth is finished, Load Packers visit the households and take the goods to the trade hub on the border of the Outer Steppe and the Plain. From there, caravans buy them for trade.”
She plucked a strand of yarn from the table, stretching it lightly between her fingers.
“Those who shear, those who gather, those who clean and spin, those who weave, those who pack and carry—each has their role. But in the end…”
She gently lifted the thread.
“…the whole steppe is tied together like a single strand of yarn.”
“And,” she added,
“Elba milk moves much the same way.
Because it doesn’t keep, the Milk Gatherers go around collecting any surplus a family can’t use and deliver it to nomads who specialize in dairy processing.
After that—just like the textiles—the Load Packers carry the finished dairy goods to the steppe trade hub.”
Serio brushed the edge of a cloth, murmuring,
“So many hands go into a single piece of fabric… or even a single dairy product.”
Maya nodded, awed by the vast, invisible network binding the steppe together.
He lifted a ball of wool yarn and noticed a faint, refreshing fragrance—beneath it, the gentle sweetness of Elba milk.
“This scent…” he looked at Elenoa.
She smiled.
“That’s Lumir-fey—Pure Leaf. It’s a wild herb of the steppe. We brew it into Elba milk tea, then use the tea to simmer the yarn. Afterward, the skeins are dried outside under sun and wind.
Old tales say Lumir-fey protects children and daughters. So the yarn finished with it is believed to carry both the blessing of Elbas and the blessing of Pure Leaf.”
Neyra concluded softly,
“And so, generation after generation, we nomads of the steppe have kept this tradition alive.”
Elenoa returned to her loom, resuming the rhythm.
Swish… tap-tap… swish… tap…
Slowing her pace, she added,
“Almost done. Then let’s have tea together. I baked sweet pies last night—stuffed with steppe berries in a dough of steppe grain. We’ll eat them with Pure Leaf Elba milk tea.”
Everyone’s eyes shone with delight.
Above all, Neyra clasped her hands at her chest and bounced like a child.
Of course—she knew better than anyone how delicious Elenoa’s berry pies were.
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AI disclosure: I am a non-native English writer and have used AI for partial translation and light editing. No AI-generated prose.