# "Su Yao's Dazzling Counterattack Chapter 26"
The mist hung low over the forests of Hokkaido, clinging to the pine trees like a ghostly veil, as Su Yao's car pulled up to a clearing where a group of Ainu people waited. Their traditional *attus*—robes made from elm bark and decorated with bold刺绣 (embroidery)—stood out against the muted greens of the forest. Among them was Takeshi, the village elder, his face marked with the traditional *tattoos* that curved from his forehead to his chin. "You have come to learn of *moyori*," he said, his voice low and gravelly, as he gestured to a group of women sitting on woven mats, their fingers flying over pieces of fabric.
The Ainu, Japan's indigenous people, were masters of *moyori*—a form of embroidery that used dyed plant fibers to create intricate patterns representing animals, spirits, and the natural world. Su Yao's team had traveled to Hokkaido to collaborate on a textile that merged *moyori* with their seaweed-metal blend, hoping to create a fabric that honored the Ainu's connection to nature while showcasing the versatility of their sustainable materials. But from the first moments, it was clear that their approaches to craft and culture were as different as the seasons.
Takeshi's daughter, Yuki, showed them a *moyori* robe that had been passed down through her family for generations. The embroidery depicted a *kamuy*—a spirit—in the form of a wolf, its eyes made from tiny shells that caught the light. "Each stitch is a prayer," she said, running her fingers over the fabric. "We ask the *kamuy* to protect us, to guide us. You don't just embroider—you communicate."
Su Yao's team had brought digital design software, hoping to scan the *moyori* patterns and replicate them on a larger scale using automated embroidery machines. When Fiona demonstrated the software, which produced a perfectly precise digital rendering of the wolf *kamuy*, the Ainu women exchanged worried glances. Takeshi's wife, Haru, who was the village's most respected *moyori* artist, shook her head. "This is not communication," she said. "This is copying. The *kamuy* do not speak to machines."
Cultural tensions flared over the use of materials. The Ainu sourced all their fibers from the forest—elm bark for the base fabric, *ezoshika* (Hokkaido deer) sinew for thread, and natural dyes made from berries and tree bark. They believed that using materials from outside the forest disrupted the balance with the *kamuy*. Su Yao's seaweed-metal blend, harvested from oceans thousands of miles away, was seen as a foreign intrusion. "The sea has its own *kamuy*," Takeshi said, "but they do not belong in our forests."
A more pressing problem emerged when the metal threads in the seaweed blend reacted with the Ainu's natural dyes. The red dye from *akabana* berries turned the metal a rusty brown, while the green from *tsukushi* ferns caused it to corrode. "Your fabric is angry," Haru said, examining a ruined swatch. "It does not want to work with our dyes. The *kamuy* are telling us something."
Then, on the fifth night, a powerful earthquake shook Hokkaido, rattling the village's wooden houses and triggering a landslide that blocked the road to the forest where the Ainu harvested their elm bark. With their supply of materials cut off and aftershocks continuing to rock the area, the weavers grew anxious. "This is a sign," Takeshi's grandfather said, his voice trembling. "We should not have invited strangers into our village. The earth is angry."
That night, Su Yao sat with Haru by the fire in the village's *irori* (hearth), watching her mend a torn *moyori* robe. The flames cast shadows on the walls, and outside, the wind howled through the trees. "I'm sorry," Su Yao said, her voice quiet. "We came here thinking we could help, but we've only caused trouble."
Haru looked up, her eyes softening. "The *kamuy* are not angry at you," she said. "They are angry at the way the world is changing. The forests are shrinking, the rivers are polluted. They want us to remember how to live in balance." She paused, then added, "But balance does not mean closing ourselves off. It means learning from each other."
Su Yao nodded. "What if we try a different approach? We'll use only your materials for the base—elm bark, deer sinew, your dyes. And we'll add our seaweed-metal threads sparingly, as accents. And we'll embroider by hand, just like you. No machines, no digital designs."
Yuki, who had been listening from the doorway, smiled. "You'd really do that? Learn to embroider *moyori* the way we do?"
"Of course," Su Yao said. "This is your craft, your culture. We're just here to learn—and maybe add a little something new, if you'll let us."
Over the next two weeks, the team threw themselves into learning the Ainu way. They woke at dawn to help gather *akabana* berries and *tsukushi* ferns for dye, their hands stained red and green. They sat cross-legged by the *irori*, practicing the *moyori* stitches until their fingers ached, under Haru's patient guidance. "The wolf's eye must be stitched with three threads, not two," she said, gently correcting Su Yao's work. "It needs to see clearly."
To solve the problem of the metal threads reacting with the dyes, Lin experimented with coating them in a thin layer of beeswax, a technique she'd learned from the Maasai. The wax acted as a barrier, preventing the dyes from damaging the metal. "It's like giving the threads a coat," she said, showing Haru a swatch where the metal had retained its shine.
Fiona, inspired by the Ainu's reverence for nature, suggested incorporating small pieces of polished stone—collected from the river near the village—into the embroidery, alongside the metal threads. "They're like little pieces of the earth," she said, and Yuki nodded approvingly.
As the aftershocks subsided, the village men cleared the landslide, reopening the road to the forest. The first batch of fresh elm bark arrived just as they were finishing their first collaborative piece—a *moyori* robe that featured the wolf *kamuy* embroidered in traditional red and green, with accents of seaweed-metal thread that shimmered like moonlight on water and tiny stone beads that added a subtle weight.
Takeshi draped the robe over Su Yao's shoulders during a ceremony in the village's *utari* (community hall). The *kamuy* wolf seemed to stare out from the fabric, its eyes catching the light. "The *kamuy* approve," he said, a rare smile on his face. "This robe speaks of two worlds, but it is still Ainu."
As the team prepared to leave, Haru pressed a small pouch into Su Yao's hand. Inside was a piece of elm bark, dyed red with *akabana* berries and embroidered with a tiny wolf's paw in *moyori* stitch. "To remember us by," she said. "And to remember that even strangers can become family, if they listen."
Su Yao clutched the pouch as their car drove through the misty Hokkaido forests, the village growing smaller in the rearview mirror. She thought of the hours spent stitching by the *irori*, of the way the metal threads had finally learned to coexist with the Ainu's dyes, of the wolf *kamuy* that now seemed to watch over them. The Ainu had taught her that true collaboration wasn't about blending cultures into something new, but about honoring each other's traditions while finding a way to walk together.
Her phone buzzed with a message from the Rajasthan team: photos of Meera wearing their *bandhani* and seaweed-metal *ghagra*, dancing at a village festival. Su Yao smiled, typing back: "We've added a new story to the tapestry—Ainu and sea, living in harmony."
Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled, its call echoing through the trees. Su Yao knew their journey was far from over. There were still countless cultures to learn from, countless threads to weave into the fabric of their work. And as long as they approached each new collaboration with humility and respect, the tapestry would only grow more beautiful.