# "Su Yao's Dazzling Counterattack Chapter 23"
The scent of coconut oil and fermented bark hung thick in the air as Su Yao stepped onto the coral sand of a Fijian village, where women in floral *sulu* skirts squatted in a circle around large wooden troughs. Their hands moved in rhythmic motion, beating strips of *masi* (bark cloth) with wooden mallets, the sound echoing like a slow drumbeat across the lagoon. Ratu, the village chief, a man with a crown of frangipani flowers in his salt-and-pepper hair, greeted her with a traditional *sevusevu* ceremony, presenting a bundle of *kava* root. "You come with stories," he said, his voice deep and resonant. "But our *masi* already tells its own."
Their collaboration aimed to merge Fijian *masi*—a fabric made from the inner bark of the *mulberry* tree, prized for its porous texture and symbolic patterns—with the seaweed-metal blend to create a durable, water-resistant textile for coastal communities threatened by rising tides. But the first day revealed a clash of creative philosophies. The Fijian women, led by Ratu's sister, Adi, wove patterns that had been passed down for centuries: *mana* (spiritual power) represented by zigzags, *buli* (leadership) in concentric circles. When Lin suggested adding abstract shapes inspired by wave patterns, Adi stopped beating her bark cloth. "Patterns are not decorations," she said, her brow furrowed. "They are prayers. You don't change a prayer."
The technical challenges were equally daunting. *Masi* is traditionally sun-dried, its natural fibers left unbleached to retain their earthy hue. Su Yao's team, eager to enhance its water resistance, proposed treating it with a sealant made from their seaweed extract. But when they tested the mixture, the bark cloth stiffened into a cardboard-like texture, losing the soft drape that made *masi* ideal for ceremonial *liku* skirts. "Your seaweed is a bully," Adi said, poking at the rigid swatch. "It makes our cloth forget how to breathe."
Worse, the lagoon near the village had recently been contaminated by plastic waste from a passing cargo ship, its waters murky with debris. The *mulberry* trees, which relied on clean tidal flow, began to sicken, their bark growing thin and discolored. The village elders blamed "foreign intrusions," and when they saw Su Yao's team handling metal threads near the trees, rumors spread that the fabric was cursed. "You bring metal from the sea to kill our trees," a young man shouted during a community meeting, pointing to the wilted leaves. By sunset, the team's equipment had been moved to the edge of the village, a clear sign of distrust.
That night, Su Yao sat with Adi by the village bonfire, watching as the women dyed *masi* with turmeric and indigo, their hands stained yellow and blue. "Why do you fight for your patterns?" Su Yao asked. Adi held up a cloth etched with tiny fish motifs. "My grandmother wove this when my brother was born. She said the fish would guide him through life. When he drowned in the lagoon last year, I added more fish. Now they guide him home." She traced a finger over the patterns. "Change them, and you erase his story."
Su Yao nodded slowly. "What if we add new stories *around* yours? Not change them. Honor them." She pulled out a sketch: the traditional *mana* zigzags bordered by thin lines of seaweed-metal, resembling waves lapping at a reef. "Your prayers stay. Ours joins them."
Adi studied the drawing, then smiled. "Let's try. But the trees must approve."
The next morning, the team shifted their approach. They abandoned the sealant, instead weaving the seaweed-metal threads *between* the layers of *masi*, creating a flexible barrier that repelled water without stiffening the cloth. Elena, working with Adi's daughter, Leilani, discovered that hand-stitching the metal fibers in a loose spiral—mimicking the way vines curl around *mulberry* trunks—preserved the fabric's drape. "It's like giving the cloth a skeleton," she said, as Leilani laughed, her fingers flying over the stitches.
To save the *mulberry* trees, they turned to Fijian ecological knowledge. Ratu's uncle, a *taukei* (land custodian) with a lifetime of lagoon wisdom, taught them to harvest *koro* seaweed, which naturally absorbs microplastics. The team wove this seaweed into mesh bags and anchored them in the lagoon, creating floating filters that cleared the water within weeks. "The sea knows how to heal itself," the *taukei* said, watching fish return to the shallows. "We just need to help."
The breakthrough came during a full moon ceremony, when the village gathered to bless the new *masi*. Adi, inspired by the way the metal threads caught the moonlight, wove a border of tiny stars around her brother's fish motifs. "Now he has a path home," she said, her voice trembling. Su Yao responded by adding seaweed fibers dyed with *dalo* root, their green hue blending with the indigo to mimic the lagoon's depths. "The sea holds him too," she said.
When the final textile was unveiled—a *liku* skirt combining *masi* bark, seaweed-metal stars, and fish patterns that seemed to swim when moved—the village erupted in song. Ratu draped it over Su Yao's shoulders, the fabric light yet strong, its edges rippling like water. "This is *vuvale*—family," he said. "Your stories and ours, woven together."
As the team boarded their boat to leave, Leilani pressed a small piece of *masi* into Su Yao's hand, its surface etched with a new pattern: a tree with roots of metal and leaves of seaweed. "For the next village," she said. "Tell them we're all connected."
Su Yao looked back at the lagoon, now clear enough to see coral reefs shimmering below the surface. She thought of the *mulberry* trees, sprouting new leaves, and the women beating bark cloth in the sun, their mallets keeping time with the waves. Somewhere, a new thread was already being spun—of collaboration, of respect, of fabric that could hold both tradition and innovation.
Her phone buzzed with an email from a community in the Maldives, asking for help creating flood-resistant textiles. Su Yao smiled, tucking the *masi* fragment into her notebook. The work, as always, was waiting.