Free The Vine Basket by Josanne La Valley

just because it’s different. The American lady wouldn’t be coming back if she didn’t want more.
    If she comes back.
    Â 
    Minutes later, Mehrigul was in Chong Ata’s workroom, removing the branches she needed from the bag of cut willow he kept there. The moistened branches had already turned from yellow to deep tan, a color that was Mehrigul’s favorite. She brought the branches close to her nose and drew in the sweet scent. It was Chong Ata’s smell—the smell of his newly made baskets—that always brought contentment.
    â€œI’m going to help you, Chong Ata. You’ll need to make one less basket today,” Mehrigul said as she settled next to him. “Then, when Lali comes home, we’ll go inside and have tea.”
    â€œPerhaps,” he said. “Your father leaves tomorrow. It’s important to make as many baskets as I can.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his Yengisar knife. He laid it between them.
    A wave of emotion swept through Mehrigul. She’d helped Chong Ata countless times. He’d taught her how to weave, bind the rims, lash on handles. Was the knife between them his way of saying she’d earned a full place at his side? She would keep the memory of this moment with her, no matter where she was.
    Mehrigul found comfort in arranging the long, thin willow branches in front of her like the spokes of a wheel. With a weaver in her hand she worked around the center to build the base. Willow was easier to maneuver than rough grapevines.
    Chong Ata was working on the sides of his basket, holding the spokes upward with his feet as he pushed and pulled his weaver in front of two spokes, then behind one, in front of two, then behind. He began to hum. Mehrigul heard no melody in the sound, only a pattern of rhythms, repeated over and over again as his fingers worked in and out and around the basket.
    Mehrigul began to hum, too, keeping most of the sound inside her. But somehow Chong Ata knew, in spite of his dull hearing. He stopped working and reached to pat her hand. Then, again, their fingers returned to work. Their voices joined. Two over, one under, two over, one under . . .

Twelve
    I T WAS LATE MORNING when Mehrigul heard the rumble of a truck coming down the road—the sound Ata had been listening for since daybreak. Ata hurried to the road, waving so the driver would know he’d found their home.
    A screech of brakes ruptured the air as the truck shuddered to a standstill. Everything about the dusty, broken-down thing conveyed hopelessness to Mehrigul. How could such a wreck, with its taped-on headlights, ever reach Cow Horn Mountain? They might better have driven half a day in their donkey carts to get there.
    Mehrigul watched a large, burly man get out of the passenger side of the cab and walk to the driver’s side. He untied the rope that held the door shut, and the driver, a strapping young man, got out. Where would Ata sit? There was no room for him in the cab. Or in the truck bed, piled with crates and bags. Shoved into a corner were a black sheep and two black lambs. A young man stood beside them.
    Would Ata agree to ride in back with the animals?
    What if he didn’t go? She’d counted on the time to make more baskets.
    Mehrigul’s concern was forgotten when the two men from the cab walked into the yard, toward Chong Ata, who squatted there in his bare feet, working to finish another basket before Ata left. She rushed to her grandfather. “The men going on pilgrimage with Ata are coming to pay their respects, Chong Ata. Let me help you up,” she said.
    Guilt washed over her. Why hadn’t she thought to get him ready? Why hadn’t Ata? Guests always paid homage to her grandfather. It was Ana who would have remembered he needed a clean shirt, reminded him to wear shoes when visitors were expected. Today she was resting. She would not see Ata off, nor had she helped in the