I will not dwell too long on that process. I cut the stems and caught them in a piece of sacking, and that spared my hands a little, but still the spines lodged themselves in my flesh and my hands hurt more than I could have believed possible. Despite the abundant supply of the plant, the task was slow. When I had a bundle of stems ready, I went down to the lakeshore, hunting for a place where they might be soaked. I was lucky. The spring flowed down between large mossy rocks, and here and there little pools had formed. Just above the pebbly shore there was a place where I could move a stone or two so there was only the gentlest flow through one shallow pool. Here I placed my spiny armful. With some plants, ash was used to hasten the preparation for spinning. I knew that from my study of herb lore.

Deciding it could not hurt to try, I waited until my tiny fire had cooled in the morning, then scooped up a handful of the soft ash and took it with me to the water’s edge. I sprinkled the ash onto the stems, and used a round stone to pound and break the tough fibers apart, until they had more the look of single threads. I twisted each of these rough hanks around a stick, which could be wedged between the stones in the pool so that the water flowed all around it. Then I waited. Three days’ respite, I had, time to pluck the starwort spines from my hands and to apply a soothing salve, time to do an inventory of my meager stores and to realize that without foraging or stealing I would not last beyond the spring. Long enough to practice boiling oats in water over the fire to make a simple porridge, and to explore my new home a little. I was taken aback to discover that it was not so very far to the top of the western hill, and that from here I could see an area of cleared land, carved out of the forest for grazing. There were small farmhouses there, one or two. They were close enough to provide supplies, maybe. And they were close enough to be a threat to my safety.

On the fourth day I took the starwort from the water, and pounded the fibers again, and hung them up inside the cave until they were almost dry. On the next day I began to spin.

Poor Linn. She was well attuned to my moods, and was simple and faithful as only a good hound can be. It was beyond her understanding why I wept, and why my whole body was tense with pain, and why she could not make it better by licking me and whining and sitting as close by me as she could. Her distress bothered me, and I tried to work while she was away hunting; but the task was slow, so slow, strand by creeping strand of brittle thread that broke and unraveled and would not twist, and try as I might to keep going, the pain would soon be too much to bear and I would drop the spindle and run to plunge my poor hands in the stream to soothe them.