Su Yao's Dazzling Counterattack Chapter 22
The Arctic wind bit at Su Yao's cheeks as she stepped off the snowmobile, her boots sinking into a foot of powdery snow. Around her, the Norwegian tundra stretched endlessly, a white expanse broken only by the dark shapes of reindeer and the distant glint of ice. A group of Sámi people emerged from a cluster of lavvu—traditional tents with conical frames—their colorful gákti (traditional clothing) bright against the snow. Among them was Ingrid, a Sámi reindeer herder with a braid of dark hair streaked with red, the signature color of her family's clan. "You've come for the rovduga," she said, her English accented but clear, referencing the thick reindeer hide they were famed for.The team's goal was ambitious: to create a textile that could withstand the extreme cold of the Arctic while incorporating sustainable elements, merging the Sámi's rovduga—tanned reindeer hide that remained flexible even at -40°C—with their seaweed-metal blend. But from the first moments, it was clear that their approaches to craftsmanship could not have been more different. The Sámi worked in harmony with the seasons, tanning hides only in the winter when the cold preserved the leather, and weaving patterns that told stories of the reindeer migrations. Su Yao's team, on the other hand, arrived with a detailed timeline, samples prepared in their Marrakech workshop, and a list of deadlines tied to an upcoming Arctic sustainability summit.Ingrid raised an eyebrow when she saw the team's equipment: industrial sewing machines, climate-controlled storage containers for the materials, and a portable 3D printer for prototyping designs. "We don't rush the hide," she said, running a hand over a piece of rovduga that had been in her family for generations. "It takes three months to tan properly. You can't speed up the process without ruining it. The reindeer gave its life for this—we owe it respect."Su Yao, eager to make progress, suggested using a chemical accelerator to speed up the tanning. Ingrid's father, Olav, a stoic man with a face lined by decades in the cold, let out a low growl. "Chemicals? That's how you destroy the rovduga's soul. Our way uses only what the tundra provides—birch bark, salt from the sea ice, smoke from the goahti (hearth). It's not just about making leather. It's about honoring the reindeer."The cultural divide deepened when they began discussing design. The Sámi's traditional patterns, known as duodji, were rich with symbolism: lines representing rivers, circles for the sun, and zigzags for the northern lights. These patterns were not arbitrary; each one told a story of the land, the reindeer, and the people's connection to both. Lin, excited by the reflective properties of the seaweed-metal blend, proposed adding large, geometric shapes that would glow under the aurora borealis. "It would be stunning for the summit," she said, showing off a digital rendering.Ingrid's younger sister, Astrid, who had studied fashion in Oslo, frowned. "That's not duodji," she said. "Duodji is about subtlety. The patterns should blend with the landscape, not stand out. You're turning our heritage into a light show."As if the cultural clashes weren't enough, nature threw them a curveball. A sudden warming trend caused the permafrost to thaw, flooding the area where they'd set up their temporary workshop. The seaweed-metal blend, which had been stored in a container on the ground, absorbed the water and began to corrode, the metal threads rusting and the seaweed fibers breaking down. To make matters worse, the reindeer herd that Ingrid's family relied on for hides had migrated early, spooked by the unusual weather, leaving them with only a handful of hides to work with.Olav blamed the team for disrupting the natural balance. "You bring strange materials, strange machines, and now the land is angry," he said, his voice heavy with disappointment. "We should never have agreed to this."That night, Su Yao sat by the goahti, watching Ingrid and Astrid repair a torn gákti by firelight. The tent was warm, filled with the smell of smoked reindeer and pine. "I'm sorry," Su Yao said quietly. "We came here thinking we knew best, but we didn't take the time to listen."Ingrid looked up, her eyes softening. "The tundra teaches patience," she said. "It took me years to learn to tan a hide properly. My father taught me, and his father taught him. You can't learn that in a workshop in Marrakech."Su Yao nodded. "What if we start over? No chemicals, no machines. We'll follow your timeline, learn your ways. And if the reindeer don't return, we'll find another way—maybe use the hides we have and blend them with our seaweed-metal in a way that honors duodji."Astrid smiled. "You'd do that?""Of course," Su Yao said. "This isn't about meeting a deadline. It's about creating something that matters—for your people, for the Arctic, for everyone."Over the next month, the team embraced the Sámi way of life. They helped move the lavvu as the herd migrated, learned to tan hides using birch bark and sea salt, and sat for hours listening to Olav's stories of the tundra. Elena, who had initially resisted hand-stitching, found a new appreciation for the craft, her fingers growing calloused but steady as she wove the seaweed-metal threads into the rovduga. "It's like a dance," she said, as Ingrid showed her how to create a duodji pattern representing the northern lights. "Each stitch has to be in the right place, or the whole thing falls apart."Lin, inspired by the Sámi's respect for subtlety, redesigned her glowing patterns, making them smaller, more integrated into the duodji. The metal threads now shimmered faintly, like stars hidden in the snow, rather than blazing brightly. "It's better this way," she said, showing Ingrid a swatch. "It feels like it belongs here."The reindeer herd returned just as the tanning process was nearing completion, drawn back by the return of cooler weather. Ingrid's family sacrificed one reindeer in a traditional ceremony, thanking the spirits for their return, and the hide from that reindeer became the centerpiece of their collaboration.On the day they finished the final textile—a cloak that combined rovduga hide, seaweed-metal threads, and duodji patterns that seemed to shift and flow like the northern lights—Olav draped it over Su Yao's shoulders. "It's warm," he said, a rare smile crossing his face. "Warm enough for the coldest night. And it tells a story—of two worlds, working together."As the team prepared to leave, Ingrid pressed a small pouch into Su Yao's hand. Inside was a piece of rovduga hide, tanned using the traditional method. "To remember us by," she said. "And to remember that some things can't be rushed."Su Yao nodded, clutching the pouch tightly. As their snowmobile roared across the tundra, she looked back at the lavvu camp, now a tiny cluster of dots against the white. She thought of the cloak, of the duodji patterns, of the reindeer and the people who relied on them. The Arctic had taught her more than just how to make a textile—it had taught her the value of patience, of listening, of respecting the wisdom of those who knew the land best.Her phone buzzed with a message from the summit organizers, asking for an update. Su Yao smiled, typing back: "We'll be there. And we'll bring something that truly represents the Arctic—made with respect, by hand, and with a little help from the reindeer."Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled, and the northern lights danced across the sky, painting the snow in shades of green and purple. Su Yao knew that whatever came next, this collaboration—this merging of worlds—was just the beginning.