Vuvalini History


thehopefulbluestocking broke my heart a little today:

I want a scene where we see the Vuvalini laying things out and telling the Sisters who the pieces used to belong to and giving them a little Vuvalini history lesson as they choose.

Now I can’t write fanfic (my brain works in words but it doesn’t work in narrative fiction) but, still, this is breaking my heart a little and I keep seeing it all. I want someone to write real fic, but until then… (A lot of these deal with fiber work because I love how fiber arts, a traditionally “feminine” set of skills, have been reclaimed by women in such a big way in recent years. Also I wanted really worldwide names, but I think I’m still running too shallow.)

They’re unpacking all these things that they’ve carried for so long–because they might be useful someday, one way or another. It’s called a “wasteland” but you can’t afford to waste anything.

“Here, come here. Bradamante sewed up these pouches this way–you see, each one fits .45 shells perfectly. Exactly six in a pocket, one pocket on a side. She could reload without even looking. You almost couldn’t see her hands. That was her way. Fits you just like it did her.“ 

“Back when we were still in the Green Place, we had the last of the sheep with us. Maeve would tend them, along with Rachel sometimes, and they’d shear the sheep each spring. Luna and her aunties were the real spinners–I think Luna did most of the spinning Hippolyta didn’t want to do. Now. Lyta, which is what we always called her, couldn’t abide either spinning or being cold, so she’d always find some way to get someone to spin for her. That would be Luna. She made her spinning wheel from an old bicycle, as I recall. But Lyta, she’d knit quick enough when she needed something. I think she made this entire scarf in one afternoon. And it was summer, so imagine her trying it on to see if it’s long enough when the sun’s just blazing down…”

“Brigid was a smith–probably the best. She learned from her mother too. Iron or silver, didn’t matter, she could shape anything to suit her. Anything out of her forge was beautiful, bladed or jeweled. Here. She made these too. Oh, I can’t wear them to well these days.”

“If you get any more sun you’re going to burn and then no one will be happy. Here, put this on. I stitched this up myself, but it was my mum who wove it. My auntie dyed it–her hands were a thousand colors. Now, stop that, don’t fuss. Your skin peels off if you burn and no one will be happy, least of all me.”

“Kahina did all the stitching on this. She slipped off and found a cache of thread–it was one night when we were all sleeping; no one was as quiet as she was, and none of us knows where she found the stuff–and carried it with her. We were on the move by then, though. When she got tired of driving, she’d ride pillion and work and never dropped a stitch. Your hair looks like it’s driving you mad with it all in your face like that. Here, this’ll fix that quick enough, keeps it right out of your eyes so you can see who’s coming up over that dune.” 

“Tarabai was the one kept these bones. She knew the names of the creatures. Or gave them names.” (A long silence.) “I went back for her bones. All her bones.”

“But then, wouldn’t you know it, Cuhtahlatah–” “You mean Colestah.” “No–are you sure? I thought it was Cuhtahlatah who–” “Oh yes, I was there, remember. You’re too young to remember. Don’t forget that.”

“It’s easy enough to weave up a bit like this. Here. We’ve still got some cord. You take that end and I’ll show you. I can’t tell you how because if I slow down I can’t do it. But you’ll see the pattern fast enough.”

It goes on, but it gets sadder as it goes. They start recounting deaths, not just what was done in life.

Reposted from

Tags: fury road, text post, the vuvalini.

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