47th of Summer
20 Bells
20 Bells
The rigging lay in loose spirals around her, the rope stiff and white with salt from the ocean air, and the heavy weight of the sail draped over her legs. Humming quietly, Anais plied her needle by candlelight, drawing thread up and through the material and back down again as she worked to seam up small tears in her sails. While this type of work would normally be done during the day, being covered in sturdy sail under the full strength of Syna’s gaze was an unpleasant prospect. Anais enjoyed the cool breeze off the ocean as she worked, and if she had to hunch over a bit, and squint more than usual, the benefits far outweighed the penalties in her eyes.
The sails weren’t in terrible shape, just worn from a season of constant use and moderate neglect, and Anais knew that if her Aunt could have seen the shape of the Kiss, she’d have given the younger woman a tongue lashing for not only her lack of attention, but for the possible consequences of it. The sails all held a multitude of small rips, worn bits that needed shoring up or strengthening. Rigging and lines were frayed. Paint was chipping off – the cosmetic appeal wasn’t a concern, but the protection the paint offered to the wood would need to be replaced with something. Wax? Juli must have some at the mercantile. As the list of minor repairs grew, Anais grimaced. Until she’d started sorting it out in her head, the woman hadn’t realized just how much she’d been overlooking since she’d started her journey to Syka.
“One thing at a time, Anais,” the words were meant to focus her on the task at hand, remind her that she couldn’t tackle everything at once, and yet somehow they were achieving the opposite effect. It would take days of dedicated effort to put her casino back to rights. Her fingers tensed around the slender shaft of the needle, drawing it through with more force and less attention than necessary. The resulting stitches were uneven and Anais pondered them for a moment. Who’s really going to see them? She had no pod to notice or critique her work, and uneven stitches would hold together as well as even ones.
It was a measure of how disconnected she was feeling that Anais seriously considered leaving the imperfect work in place, even continuing on a few more stitches before sighing resignedly. Pulling the thread from the needle, she used the sharpened tip to pluck up and pick out the threadwork, undoing her efforts. As the hole grew once more, she began humming again; the song was simple, confident like the Svefra people, and praised Laviku – as so much of the music of her childhood did.
"The Valterrian was three hunnerd years ago
oh yes, oh
When Ivak’s pain burnt the world so
three hunnerd years ago
The Svefra sailed on the waters cold
oh yes, oh
Safe onna top of th’undertow
three hunnerd years ago"
For all that, the music comforted her, and the pace was ideal for the simple sewing she was doing – the song had been used for such work for longer than Anais had been alive. On the occasion that the repair work lasted longer than the song, singers had been known to substitute their own nonsensical verses in to match the music to the work. It added to the joy and enjoyment of what could otherwise be a tiresome chore.
The sails weren’t in terrible shape, just worn from a season of constant use and moderate neglect, and Anais knew that if her Aunt could have seen the shape of the Kiss, she’d have given the younger woman a tongue lashing for not only her lack of attention, but for the possible consequences of it. The sails all held a multitude of small rips, worn bits that needed shoring up or strengthening. Rigging and lines were frayed. Paint was chipping off – the cosmetic appeal wasn’t a concern, but the protection the paint offered to the wood would need to be replaced with something. Wax? Juli must have some at the mercantile. As the list of minor repairs grew, Anais grimaced. Until she’d started sorting it out in her head, the woman hadn’t realized just how much she’d been overlooking since she’d started her journey to Syka.
“One thing at a time, Anais,” the words were meant to focus her on the task at hand, remind her that she couldn’t tackle everything at once, and yet somehow they were achieving the opposite effect. It would take days of dedicated effort to put her casino back to rights. Her fingers tensed around the slender shaft of the needle, drawing it through with more force and less attention than necessary. The resulting stitches were uneven and Anais pondered them for a moment. Who’s really going to see them? She had no pod to notice or critique her work, and uneven stitches would hold together as well as even ones.
It was a measure of how disconnected she was feeling that Anais seriously considered leaving the imperfect work in place, even continuing on a few more stitches before sighing resignedly. Pulling the thread from the needle, she used the sharpened tip to pluck up and pick out the threadwork, undoing her efforts. As the hole grew once more, she began humming again; the song was simple, confident like the Svefra people, and praised Laviku – as so much of the music of her childhood did.
"The Valterrian was three hunnerd years ago
oh yes, oh
When Ivak’s pain burnt the world so
three hunnerd years ago
The Svefra sailed on the waters cold
oh yes, oh
Safe onna top of th’undertow
three hunnerd years ago"
For all that, the music comforted her, and the pace was ideal for the simple sewing she was doing – the song had been used for such work for longer than Anais had been alive. On the occasion that the repair work lasted longer than the song, singers had been known to substitute their own nonsensical verses in to match the music to the work. It added to the joy and enjoyment of what could otherwise be a tiresome chore.
Word count: 581