Page 158 of Mates for the Raskarrans #1-6

It’s not cold in the same way it used to get back home, but there’s definitely more bite to the air now the big rains are so close.

I pull on a jumper over my nightgown before grabbing my box of sewing things and heading out.

I have a pair of Jassal’s trousers with tears in the knees that need patching.

That won’t take any kind of precision. I could quite literally do it with my eyes closed.

It’s a still night, barely a hint of wind amongst the leaves.

I look up at the night sky, marvelling at the number of stars that glitter through the break in the canopy overhead.

It’s like someone splattered the darkness with white paint, a million million pinpricks shining down, brightening the black enough that it looks purple and blue in places.

I search, as I always do, for signs of movement out there.

A dot carving a path across the night that might be a ship approaching. Mercenia come for us at last.

I’m not stupid. I know it’s never going to happen. But I can’t help looking for it, all the same. Because if Mercenia came for us, then maybe Alpha Colony isn’t the bad place Sally thinks it is. Maybe there’s a chance I can fulfil my promise to Mom.

I’ll save up and bring you out to join me.

I touch the locket again, then shake my head, heading across the village towards the fire.

I’m expecting it to have burned down almost completely by now, but the flames are bright, freshly fed with wood that crackles as it burns and splits.

There’s a big body on the other side of the fire, and I freeze in place for a moment, gripped with a sudden discomfort that it might be one of Darran’s tribe - a raskarran I’m not familiar with.

Then the figure looks up and I see that it’s Endzoh.

I shift uncomfortably, aware that he’d probably prefer it if I went away.

But I’m stuck between that knowledge and the thought of how awful it would look if I just turned round and left.

I don’t want to give him the impression I don’t want to be around him any more than I want to inflict my presence on him if it’s unwanted.

I can’t say anything to smooth over the awkwardness. Even if I could, he wouldn’t understand me.

After a long moment, I figure I better do something. I point to an empty seat, then raise my basket of sewing things up, hoping he understands that I’m asking if it’s okay to join him. Hoping he knows it’s okay to tell me to go away, if that’s what he wants.

His eyes widen a little, and he shoots to his feet, nearly tripping over his own legs as he does so.

A small, startled sound escapes my throat as he staggers, followed by the tiniest little giggle.

I clap my hand over my mouth, wishing I could call the sound back.

But Endzoh finds his feet, and then he glances at me, a look of amusement coming onto his face as he takes a slight bow.

I’m smiling again when I lower my hand, and that feeling of connection is back.

That sense that we’re both the awkward outsiders, and maybe that’s not so bad when it’s the two of us together.

It’s easier being ridiculous when you’re not the only one.

He gestures to the seat, nodding at me. I go to it, setting my basket down next to it before getting myself comfortable. It’s a little chilly, even with the fire back to blazing, and I tuck my jumper around myself until I’m feeling cozy.

I expect Endzoh to go back to… whatever he was doing before.

Poking the fire and brooding, I guess. But his eyes stay on me in the most sustained show of eye contact I’ve ever experienced from him, and he gestures to me, then makes a slicing sort of motion with his hand, followed by placing his hands next to his head to indicate sleep.

I know the hunters use a kind of sign language to communicate with each other when they need to be quiet, but I haven’t learned any of the gestures. It’s not difficult to figure out what he’s trying to say, though.

You can’t sleep?

I shake my head, then point to it, raising both my hands in the air next to my temples and waving them round in circles meant to express my spinning thoughts.

The briefest smile flits over Endzoh’s lips and he taps his fist against his chest twice.

I raise my eyebrows in my best questioning look and repeat the gesture.

His brow furrows, then he points to me and makes the spinning thoughts gesture, points to himself and does it again, then repeats the double tap of his fist again. He repeats the whole sequence once more, and understanding dawns.

Me, too.

Smiling feels like it could be misinterpreted as happiness in his struggle, but in the absence of my voice, a language I can speak to him in, or more complicated hand gestures, a smile is all I have. I hope he understands it’s one of solidarity.

I reach for the trousers I intend to repair, drawing them into my lap. The fire is built up enough that I can see plenty, and I thread a needle with ensouka hair and find an off-cut big enough to patch the holes in the knee.

I punch the needle through the leather of Jassal’s trousers, making the first stitch.

Back home, my stitching had to be so neat as to be almost invisible, or otherwise deliberately styled to be noticeable.

Here, no one cares that much about perfection and style.

It’s not that the raskarrans don’t like pretty things - they do - they just don’t place so much value on them as upper tier society did.

Jassal’s trousers need to be sturdy enough to protect her from scuffs and scrapes as she pushes her physical boundaries with climbing and exploring.

They need to keep her warm as the weather turns.

It won’t matter even a little to Sally or Jassal if my repair is a bit ugly.

But habit as much as anything keeps my hand steady, my stitches small and neat.

I work my way round the off-cut, sewing it to the sturdy parts of the material, covering where repeated tumbles have worn away the patch over the knee.

It’s a quick job, and I’m finished in only a few minutes, holding the trousers closer to the fire so I can better see the results of my work.

The patch is good - evenly sewn and covering all the parts it needs to. Sally will be pleased.

But instead of putting them back into the box and moving on to whatever’s next, I find myself staring down at the trousers, tracing my fingers over the functional repair and remembering all the pretty things I used to make.

Mom always did the embroidery at the repair shop we worked in.

She had delicate hands, small fingers, perfect for the intricate needlework.

Ms Isserman wouldn’t trust anyone else to do any embroidery, even when Mom’s eyesight started to fail.

It was a good thing. Ms Isserman was always eager to profit from Mom’s skill, and she didn’t want anything hampering her ability to produce beautiful designs.

When winter came and the workroom was so cold our breath misted, Mom would always be positioned closest to the heater, and I was always sitting next to Mom.

When there were food shortages, Ms Isserman would always make sure Mom could keep her strength up by giving her a little extra food, and Mom always shared those extras with me.

And just sometimes, Ms Isserman would send a few extra commissions, and a few extra credits, our way.

I touch my hand to the locket again.

Mom always did the embroidery, but she taught me everything she knew. I’m not as good at it as she was, but I’m good enough.

I hunt through the supplies in my basket, looking for the white sinew thread.

It’s not pure white in the way of artificially manufactured threads, but it will stand out in contrast to the dark brown of the leather the trousers are made from.

I thread it through one of my other needles, then begin to sew.