The southern road out of Highfield wound through a high, limestone notch known to three ages of postal runners as the Crow’s Throat.
Len Vey walked the dropping gravel with the rhythmic, unrushed stride of Surefoot. His iron-ferruled ash walking staff clicked against the rounded river stones every fourth step, not as a crutch to bear his weight. But as an exploratory probe that tested the depth of the loose scree before his lead boot took the grade.
Behind him, Barnaby’s iron-shod hooves tapped a steady, double-time rhythm against the limestone bedrock. The pony moved with its ears pricked forward, its nostrils twitching as it tasted the cool, aromatic draft drifting up from the lower valleys.
The autumn morning had opened like a split chestnut.
Along the western flank of the gorge, the mountain maples were burning with scarlet, amber, and deep copper orange. Their broad leaves drifted down in lazy spirals to carpet the ditches. In the gullies where seasonal streams ran down from the granite crags, the thickets of wild blackberries hung heavy with late, frost-sweetened fruit, their thorny canes glistening with melting rime. The air was cold, pure, and dry. He smelled of cured timber, crushed fern, and the sharp, stone tang of wet limestone.
