St Catherine’s Day arrived wrapped in snow. White fields stretched like unspun wool, and smoke curled lazily from chimneys. In her little room above the sheep barn, Liis rose late and languid, then remembered what day it was and leapt up to work on her costume. A white dress, of course, tied at the waist with a long, woven belt. Her mother’s crocheted shawl tucked around her shoulders, and a white woollen cap on her head. She crouched on the thick rag rug by the mirror, applying rouge in garish circles.

 

Standing upright, she span before the long mirror, admiring her work. She was every inch a Kadrisant, ready for the feast. This had always been her favourite time of year: a day for women, for wool, and for warmth. A time to bless the flocks, and whisper of returning ancestors.

 

With a smile she turned to the thick, knotted tapestry that hung above her bed - a relic of her own ancestor. Her grandmother had filled the cottage with her handwoven rugs and tapestries, and Liis had grown up beneath their watchful threads. Pressing her fingers into the dense weave, she thanked her grandma for the warmth her gifts had brought the little room on this cold winter’s morning.

 

Thinking of the cold, she opened the old oak wardrobe and reached for her best cream coat. As she did so, the back of her hand brushed something surprising. A soft, textured weave. A coat she’d never seen before.

 

Pulling it into the light, Liis marvelled at its bright array of colours: mustard yellow, cornflower blue, lingonberry red. Each shade interwoven with the others, creating a web of colour. She held it up to her face, and breathed its scent of juniper smoke and honey bread. Scents of a childhood well-spent.Enchanted by the strange garment, Liis slipped it on over her Kadrisant white. Her reflection in the mirror looked bold and bright, quirky and confident - but most importantly, warm. A fine coat for a carnival, she decided.

 

That afternoon, as early darkness fell, the village thrummed with celebration. A bonfire roared in the little square, and torches crackled by doorways. The air was thick with laughter and shouting, offbeat drums and tuneless flutes played by mischievous children. Men and women alike jostled past in skirts and veils, splashing water and throwing grain. Revellers dressed as geese waddled through the crowds, demanding the answers to riddles.

 

Liis laughed and took it all in, a mug of ale in her mittened hands. The coat sat snugly around her shoulders, keeping out the November chill. Her old neighbour grinned as she passed, then took Liis’s empty hand and pressed an orange into it.

 

Liis smiled at the gift in gratitude, but then something changed. A memory, sharp and sudden - a rug beneath a cradle, patterned in red chevrons, its edges frayed by the tramping of small feet. She recovered herself enough to say thank you, but the memory stayed with her.

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A moment later, brushing past the baker, she saw a flash of blue-striped apron, stiff and streaked with flour, tied tight by wrinkled hands. Confused by the sudden sensation, she stumbled into the priest’s sister and saw a child’s coat hung by the fire, faded and lovingly patched.

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Each time she touched another person, a new memory surfaced: not hers, but somehow deeply familiar. As she stared down at her hands, caught up in consternation, Liis noticed a strand of brown mohair fabric woven into the cuff. The same brown as the coat over the chair. And there - a scrap of blue and white, like the apron she had seen.

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It must have been the patchwork coat. Stories bound up in the very weave of it; well-loved fabrics stripped down and recycled. Skirts worn to weddings, funeral shawls, cloaks that had once been companions along the long road home.

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The songs slowed and the bonfires burned low, and Liis returned to her family’s cottage, deep in thought. Women gathered by the hearth - aunties, friends and neighbours, drinking, laughing and telling stories, lamenting their dance-weary bones.

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Liis sat quietly by the fire, the coat still heavy around her shoulders. She was warm enough to shed it, but its stories needed telling first. And so, sensing a lull in the conversation, she spoke up.

 

She described the rug beside the cradle, a swaddled babe laid down, and children crouching to greet their sibling.​

 

Anu gasped - “my mother wove that rug.”

 

She spoke of the blue-striped apron, the work-worn old hands carefully shaping cardamom buns.

 

Mia’s eyes welled up - “my grandma’s favorite food.”

 

She spoke of capes and kerchiefs, stitched initials, first dances and last rites. The stories folded into the very seams. At last the clock on the mantle struck midnight, and Liis’s last memory trailed into silence. Her neighbour nodded, eyes closed.

 

“The ancestors return tonight,” she said softly. The others murmured in agreement.

 

Outside the snow fell on. Liis slipped the coat from her shoulders and laid it across her lap. Someone passed round a plate of curd buns. A neighbour ladeled hot wine into mugs. An Auntie gave Liis a square of dyed wool. A gift, a new beginning.

 

She would make something from it, she thought, though she didn’t know what yet. But she knew it would bear this memory inside it - of women, and wool, and warmth.