Pattern of the beanie "Tides" and first chapter of Woven Stories: The Fates´ legacy. Chapter 1 Justine and Fiona.
- Elena Acosta
- Oct 30
- 8 min read
The adventure begins.
For a long time, I've been searching for ways to fill this little creative space of mine with color, life, and fantasy, as a remedy to the overwhelming weight of the tedium of routine daily life.
Thank you for your presence, dear reader, for they say that things don't exist if they aren't noticed by another's eye, so thank you for giving me existence with your gaze.
I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.
Here is the story but if you want to read the transcript, scroll down and below the pattern you will find it.
Pattern of beanie "Tides"
Crochet hook 4.00
200g DK weight merino wool Uy yarn
Scissors
Wool needle
Stitch markers (if needed)
Gauge (35 stitches and 6 rows = 10cm of crossed curl stitch )
We start with the elastic for the beanie.
Use chains enough for the width you want for the elastic. I used 10 because two of them are extra chains. My elastic is 8 stitches wide, For the first round of the elastic. Crochet 1 BLOhdc in each stitch of the chain. At the end of the row, crochet an extra chain and start the next round on the very first stitch. All rounds are the same till you get the length of the size of the head.
Finally you will join both ends with slst in every stitch joining the back loop of both sides. Once you are done crochet 1 chain.
This is the “crossed curl stitch” in Sarah Hazell’s book “ Crochet stitch dictionary”, page 125.
1 Row: 1 sc in every stitch of the elastic. Finish the round with sl st.
2 Row: Crochet 3 chains (they count as a dc). Skip the first sc skip the next two sc and crochet 1 dc in the next stitch, 1 ch, 1 dc in the first of the two sc that you skiped, repeate from till you get to the last sc. Crochet 1 dc in that last sc and turn.
Row 3: 1 ch, 1 sc in every stitch and also in every chain till the end.
Row 4: crochet 3 chains, they count as a dc, skip the 1st sc * skip the next 2 sc, 1 dc, 1 ch, 1 dc around the first dc that forms a cross in row 2. ( it works like a front post dc)
Row 5 and 6: 1 sc in every stitch till the end. Sl st in the last stitch.
Round 7, 8 and 9 are taken from the the “Twister” stitch in Nele Braas and Eveline Hetty - Burkart book “The New Crochet Stitch dictionary”.
Round 7 crochet 1 sc in every stitch join with sl st.
Round 8: crochet 6 chains. In the third chain from hook chain a sc, 1 sc in the next two chains, sk the first sc from the previous row and crochet 1 sc in the next three stitches. Repeat from till the end and finich the round with sl st in the first vertical side of sc.
Round 9: 1 ch, 1 sc (on the top of the first “wall” (vertical side)) , 2 ch, and then crochet a 9 loop cluster between the 2 vertical sides of the single crochet bridge, pull through 9 loops from different insertion points. 3 times into the right vertical side, 3 times in the horizontal part and 3 times in the left vertical side. 2 ch , finish the round with a single crochet in the last stitch.
Round 10: 1 sc in every stitch and chain, 1 sl st in the last stitch.
Round 11 and 12 are a variation of the stitch “ 5 petal daisy” in Sarah Hazell’s book “ Crochet stitch dictionary”, page 103. I skipped the sc crochet round and join the daisies together.
Round 13 till 16: repeat rows 3 till 6
Round 17: 1 sc crochet in every stitch
Round 18, 19, 20 and 21: are a repetition of rounds 11 and 12.
Round 22: 2ch, 5 hdc and 1 dec. repeat from till the end. sl st with the 2 first chains.
Round 23: 2 ch, 3 hdc and 1 dec. repeat from till the end. sl st with the 2 first chains.
Round 24: repeat round 23
Round 25: 2 ch 2 hdc and 1 dec., repeat from till the end, slst in the first 2 chains.
Round 26: repeat round 25
Round 27: 2 ch 1 hdc and 1 dec, repeat from till the end, slst in the first 2 chains
Final round: with a wool knedle, sew the final rounds of the beanie to close. Weave the end and you are done.
The Fates' Unraveling Thread (Chapter 1) Justine
Justine ran through the train station. She didn't want to be late; she couldn't be late... Anxious and sweating, her backpack struck a few people along the way, but without apologizing, she kept running, searching for the narrow gaps opening in the crowd. She needed to get out of the city, to flee the noise, the problems, her friends, her enemies... Dodging backpacks, golf clubs, suitcases... The station was packed: tourists, workers, street musicians... Everyone wore a tired, vacant expression, like automatons searching for a snack to continue their journey.
She loathed the days when the station was so overrun; however, at least this was better than the bus, she thought. She detested the gawkers who sat near her, their gaze dumbly fixed on her figure. It was unbearable to notice the lustful, hungry stares of some men, and the jealous, spiteful glances of the women.
Justine was tall with a perfect figure; she looked as though she had been modeled by the best artist to satisfy all the exigencies of classical aesthetics and to seduce the most critical eye. The excesses and the endless nights of her past had not devoured her body, though they had certainly wounded her soul. Her long hair and beautiful eyes were the final detail to turn her into a sculpture of perfect measures and proportions. Her gaze was deep, though her face only reflected sadness and a near-furious seriousness.
She was conscious of her allure, but it was irrelevant to her. It had done nothing to solve her problems, her anxiety, her anguish... She was repulsed by the fact that her beauty only attracted superficial people who saw her as a mere vessel of desire, a beautiful object designed to be used, consumed, and instrumentalized for the ends of anyone who approached her... For her, her mirror was her ideas; she had other priorities beyond her appearance. She knew that her worth did not reside in her looks, but in her mind, her feelings... her talent.
She felt that all those who had come with the excuse of "loving her" had merely sipped her through a straw—to diminish her, to undermine her confidence, to confuse her... to leave her empty and stripped of herself.
She thought that now nothing of that mattered and she hurried toward the train car, leaping up the steps and searching the empty seats with her gaze. She quickly found two spots in the back, near the door, beside a man with a Labrador sprawled at his feet. She sank into the seat, turned up the volume on her headphones, hugged her backpack, and closed her eyes. In fifteen minutes, she would arrive at her refuge and could, at last, breathe in peace.
The hypnotizing effect of the music and the path of trees announcing the city's edge turned those fifteen minutes into mere seconds.
Stepping off the train at the tiny stop, she took a deep breath and closed her eyes, celebrating that she had arrived there—her favorite place, her sanctuary... Sentinel Cove.
She walked the path toward the hill, and after a few minutes, she took in the sight of the Atlantic coast's cliffs. As she walked, she inhaled the iodine-scented breeze and heard the roar of the waves violently breaking against the graphite-gray rocks. She had fallen in love with those melancholy, rugged cliffs that fell abruptly to the sea, battered by the wind. She fantasized about that coast of secret beaches and hidden coves. After traversing a dusty road and following the small violet path, she finally reached the refuge that awaited her each week. Her temple rose there atop the cliff, like a crown upon nature... Fiona's Victorian mansion. That house was pure magic: dark brick, multi-gabled roofs with sharp pinnacles, octagonal bay windows, and sash windows. The wooden veranda stood as a refuge from the wind and the fog. The immaculate garden decorated the entrance like a poem dedicated to mystery and somber beauty. The walls were adorned with the meandering shapes of climbing ivy. She had arrived there four years ago, at the start of a knitting course with Fiona, a renowned and reputable designer.
Fiona's courses had become the most important therapy for Justine, and over time, they had become friends. Now she even worked a few hours as a secretary for her.
Carefully, she took the key from her backpack and slowly opened the door. "Fiona?" she asked cautiously. "Are you here?"
"I'm here, Justine," a low voice said from the other end of the great living room. "I'm on the sofa. Bring your things and sit with me; we need to talk."
Justine left her shoes at the entrance and walked almost on tiptoe, clutching her backpack, looking as always at the rugs, grazing the lacquered wooden furniture with the fingertips of her left hand, brushing over the hand-carved rosewood figurines atop them.
She quickly reached the large, brown leather sofa. Fiona was reclined there. She looked small under the vast blanket. In her elderly hands, a crochet hook and a ball of yarn slipped with the intention of reaching the floor.
"I've been waiting for you eagerly," Fiona said. "Are you hungry? Ruth has prepared pastries and left them in the kitchen; there's also fresh fruit tea."
"No, Fifi, I'm not hungry; I just wanted to get here. I'll get tea for both of us later."
As they prepared their yarns and began to crochet, Justine told Fiona what had happened during the week—nothing relevant, no changes.
Fiona interrupted her. "I'm so happy you came... I have something very important to tell you."
"I am gravely ill, Justine," Fiona said. Justine was startled, and her eyes filled with tears.
"Don't fear; I still have some time before I die. First, we must talk seriously and sort some things out. I've decided to leave you the house, which is in very good condition, and my belongings; I have some family jewelry. I have no children, and you, my child, are the closest thing I have to a niece. So, I have divided my money among my dearest friends and left you a share."
Justine tried to interrupt her.
"Let me speak, Justine. It's all arranged; I don't want to argue. Do what you wish with what I leave you. Now. Let's crochet," she said with a tender smile. "I need you to stay more than a few days. What I have to tell you is not material wealth, but something far more irrevocable. It is priceless and cannot be valued: it is my story, the only true legacy I have left. My friends knew me, but they died without knowing everything. And the rest must never know. I want you to understand who I truly was, before this secret is lost with me forever."
To be continued…
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