In the evening, Kyawtchais joined the family at their hearth for dinner. As they ate, the small-one, once-weaver asked tall-Lefeng to tell a tale of the mountains, of how the tall-one killed the great cat whose skin made the small-one’s new cloak.
Kyawtchais’ fingers started dancing at that. Ey had noticed the cloak, made of the whole skin of a giant cat. It was something new, something the once-weaver had not had when Kywatchais knew em before. That the cloak came from Lefeng made sense, perhaps an odd type of courting gift from a would-be parent to a would-be grandparent. But that Lefeng had killed the cat emself?
“No,” Lefeng said with a laugh, “That is not my story to tell.”
“Who else?” The once-weaver asked. “Come, you can’t expect us not to be curious. Did you truly do it alone?”
Lefeng shrugged and tried to brush it away, and Kyawtchais was surprised — maybe a bit concerned — when the once-weaver continued to push. But thoughtful-Kolchais didn’t intervene and Kyawtchais thought the once-walker looked embarrassed, not upset.
Words felt strange in Kyawtchais’ mouth, but ey managed to coax a few out. “Not speak if not want,” ey said. “But I curious too.”
“Alright, alright!” Lefeng said with a half laugh. “I guess I would be glad to not be the only one who knew the tale.”
Kyawtchais let eir fingers dance and closed eir eyes to be able to hear better. Lefeng was a good storyteller. The words flowed through Kyawtchais. They told a funny story of bumbling, bad luck, a cat tangled in a blanket, and a chance thrust of a spear that stopped the cat from killing Lefeng’s sibling.
It is an enjoyable tale, as much for what Kyawtchais learned about Lefeng’s once-family. The story included bits of what the farwalkers camps were like and Lefeng’s lost siblings. What it was like to be in the mountains when the rocks fell and the ground shook, which Lefeng said must have stunned the cat enough that it stumbled on the camp when normally the cats would avoid the farwalkers — especially during the day. Kyawtchais’ fingers tapped the ground in joy.
But something about the story didn’t sound right. The bumbling in the story was nothing like the steady, always-balanced once-walker Kyatchais knew.
“Is this a true story?” ey asked.
Then ducked eir head, remembering that out-family found such questions rude. But tall-Lefeng only laughed. “You caught that! I wondered if you city-folk would know.”
Confused, Kyawtchais asked, “Know what?”
Lefeng blinked, then looked at the others, but they murmured confusion. The tall-one shook eir head and looked away. “Ah…” eir shoulders slumped and the caring-one, silent-one moved to sit beside em. After a moment, Lefeng said, “It is… not done, in the mountains, to tell one’s own tales. It is… like bragging, yes? If one must, then one tells the tale… not falsely, but… exaggerated? With silliness and laughter.”
“A farce,” Chotaikytsai. “We call that kind of story a farce, though they are usually told for amusement only, and made up, not something that really happened.”
Kyawtchais thought about that. Wondered what it would be to tell a story that way. If something from eir life could be a farce that made people amused. Slowly, the words flowing unexpectedly well, ey said, “My Baba had gone out and left eir spindle leaning on the wall…”
They didn’t interrupt and there were a few chuckles as Kyawtchais told of dropping the distaff in the mud (it had just been dirt), tangling eir legs in the thread so ey fell over when ey tried to stand (ey had gotten tangled, but not /that/ bad), and every time ey thought ey was doing well, losing the timing of the spindle and having eir thread unravel and spring apart. But ended with eir first — dirty and knotted — thread wrapped around the by-then broken spindle.
When ey finished, the others laughed and cheered, and Kyawtchais’ hands danced in pleasure.
Ey half expected someone else to start a story, as they had each shared a song the other night. But instead, the small-one, grieving-one, asked to see eir spindle.
Kyawtchais had it, as always, and offered it to the grandparent. “I’ve watched you use this a hundred times or more,” ey said, “but could never understand how you do it.”
Taking the spindle back, Kyawtchais showed the small-one the steps of spinning, encouraged em to give it a try. It was another farce, playing out right in front of em. The small-one set the spindle spinning, then dropped the distaff, picked it up, letting the spindle hit the ground, and the half-spun fibers sprung apart. Ey tried again, but let the spindle go too long with too little fiber, and the twisted thread thinned and thinned until it split.
After a few more tries, ey passed the spindle to Kolchais to try, with similar results. The gruff-one laughed and pushed it aside, saying ey would try when ey grew a third hand. The silent-one tucked eir hands under eir arms, refusing to even touch the spindle, but Lefeng tried it. The tall-one stood and used eir height to buy time. A technique which helped not at all. The child said nothing but watched wide-eyed. When Lefeng gave up with a laugh ey tugged on Kyawtchais’ sleeve and hand-spoke, “Please?”
Kyawtchais, tired but fingers laughing, said ey would try to teach em tomorrow, after everyone had some sleep.
Kyawtchais returned to the SilentSpinner’s compound reluctantly. The warmth of the fire ey left behind, but the warmth of shared laughter and stories, of acceptance and understanding, stay with em the entire way.
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