The Many Misadventures of Bo

Secrets

Haven't you wrung enough secrets from me already? Fine I'll bite. No, not literally. Tch. You people.

Anyway, growing up I didn't really have much of a filter—still don't, much to certain people's, what's the word, consternations—so me and secrets didn't mix much. But, uh, there's a couple things I can think of that were big enough for me to keep quiet about.

(Hey, Ken, remember that time the Innah's ceremonial spinner-floss robes mysteriously vanished?)

---

Bo hadn't meant to take them, he really hadn't.

What he'd wanted, just a for moment, was for things to go back to the way they used to be. When P'rraa wasn't gone, and Bo would help him piece together the exquisite robes worn by the Tribe Elders on special occasions. He'd been little, but his father had had him fetch spools and tie knots and snip dangling threads. Together, they'd created delicate, shimmering garments that seemed spun of flowers and wind and sunlight.

P'rraa had always squinched his eyes tightly together, purring whenever he caught sight of an Elder wearing one of his creations, embroidered with scenes telling the wearer's personal history—their battles, losses, and accomplishments—and Bo couldn't help but bask in his happiness. He'd always been happy when P'rraa was happy.

He hadn't touched anything related to the craft since that awful day five years ago.

And then he'd seen it. While playing "hunters and prey" with Ken and Seri at the Innah's loft Bo had discovered a hidden compartment cleverly disguised to appear as part of the wall. He'd slipped inside, grinning wide at his success; Ken and Seri wouldn't find him this time! He'd quickly grown bored of the waiting however, certain in his imminent win, and started quietly exploring. The space he'd concealed himself within was cramped but smelled pleasant, like fragrant flowers after a morning mist. Clothes hung all around him, and he felt his ears prick with embarrassment at realising he'd chosen a hiding spot inside the Innah's personal closet.

But he'd wanted to win, so he stayed put and occupied himself by trying to read the histories writ in pictures on her many colourful robes. The very last spinner-floss garment he'd taken into his hands had forced tears to well up. He knew the cut of the cloth, the style of the embroidery, the peculiar placement of the buttons. After all, Bo watched Nyss slip on a similar pair of robes before hurrying to his work every day, spent hours sitting amongst the forever unfinished projects hanging in his father's long neglected workshop.

Why hadn't P'rraa stuck to stitching? Why did he have to call upon his dusty Igis training and go out to Ethaba with everybody else?

The thoughts overtook Bo like the Laika River dragging storm-broken branches downstream, and he heard the rip before he saw the accidental damage he'd caused. Eyes wide, he'd stared at the leaf-thin garment irreparably shredded between his claws—but no, no it wasn't. He could fix it, P'rraa had shown him how to make them, and he remembered the process.

And so that was how Bo had ended up in his current predicament, feigning a sudden cough to beg off playing, the priceless robe stuffed under his vest while he stole back to the cobwebbed space that was at once comforting and familiar.

He laid the ruined material on a dusty workbench and stared at it, close to tears at the extent of the damage. Hours, days worth of work, and he'd destroyed his father's most prized handiwork in a matter of moments. Slash marks tore right through the scene depicting the Innah being anointed Elder, and long trailing threads had pulled away from the fraying edges.

But he could fix it, Bo knew he could, so he blew off the dust and cleared away the cobwebs and set to work.

His first attempt was an utter disaster, wherein he made the problem that much worse, and lost several buttons which rolled away and refused to be found, no matter how hard he looked. He learned then, to test-sew on scrap pieces of fabric first. His second and third and fourth attempts were hardly any better, and he quickly learned to wear gloves to stop his claws piercing and damaging the flimsy bolts of cloth he worked with.

But bit by bit, Bo improved, dashing into P'rraa's workshop every day after school before Nyss could return and ask what he was up to, and taking a sudden, avid interest in spinner-floss production. The ruined parts of the robes he replaced entirely, carefully cutting together pieces from what parts of his father's half-finished garments hadn't been moth eaten. Some of the Innah's story ended up missing, but he carefully drew it as best as he could remember, before following his dark lines with bright coloured threads. The better he got, the faster he worked, driven by the memory of the night the robes had been discovered missing.

They'd questioned everybody on the garment's whereabouts, as the Innah used them for all her most important ceremonies, and was not pleased to have lost them, and Bo had almost fainted after squeaking out that he knew nothing of the missing garments. Nyss had thrown a rather sideways look at him, but never thought to look in P'rraa's workshop.

After all, Bo was known for destroying things, not trying to fix them.

He started begging off playing at the loft, electing instead to take their adventures to the river and the mines, unable to sit still for an afternoon in the Tree of Elders knowing that the Innah's jaggedly stitched robes sat stuffed into a box in the corner of his workshop.

But the day finally came when Bo could do no more, and he climbed out of his window one night, trying to return the repaired mass of fabric before anyone could see him and discover his awful secret.

---

"I've been wondering when this day would come."

Bo froze, a dark shadow between the beams of moonlight slanting soft across the floor of the Innah's loft.

"It's alright, come closer, child." The Innah melted out of the darkness, a pipe in one hand and beckoning with the other.

Terrified, and already caught, Bo did as instructed, almost shifting to s'hinoian form half a dozen times in his fright.

"It was you. I thought so. May I see?"

"It, it was an accident!" Bo stammered out,unwilling to part with his precious bundle right away. The Innah only waited, patience written in every crinkle of her smiling eyes. Bo gathered up what little composure he had left and shook out the cloth in his arms.

Even as he offered it to the Innah, he could tell his best efforts hadn't been enough. The parts he'd added weren't the same colours, and where P'rraa had originally made the scenes life-like and vivid, Bo's attempts looked like a kit who'd just learned to glyph.

"It was an accident," he said again, trembling, his fur rising puffy from his skin. "I didn't mean to, I'm sorry."

The Innah took the garment from him, smoothing it over and inspecting every inch. Bo screwed his eyes shut, not wanting to see the loathing in hers when she discovered how badly he'd destroyed his fathers' handiwork, and what a poor job he'd done in repairing it.

"You've worked hard haven't you?"

Bo cracked open an eye to see the Innah smiling at him, the robes now draped over the soft sleep-tunic she wore.

"I do wish you'd come to me straightaway—the sooner one confesses their misdeeds, the less one has to live with guilt. But I forgive you, child. You've done your best to make amends, even if you don't quite have the touch with stitchery that your father did. Now go home, and come back and play with Ken and Seri in the morning."
---

(Yes. It was me. Surprise!)

I quit sewing again after that, but I never forgot how kind she was to a scared little kit who was convinced she'd throw him out of the tribe on account of his destroying and badly repairing her favourite robes. She never told anyone either, despite the looks she got the next time she wore her obviously altered robes to the next important tribal affair, and I was always honest with her after that.

We're done now, right? It's been an . . . a not entirely awful experience, and I'm looking forward to coming back never. Jolene, Matt, Brett—thanks. You've not been terrible hosts, and if this helps people be less afraid of klia'ans, I guess it was worth it.

But next time, ask Seri?