Down on the narrow western upkeep ledge, eighteen feet below the howling storm, Eren Tal was finishing the assembly of the rescue sled. The wooden cradle was six feet long and three feet wide, framed from two twelve-foot seasoned ash runners that he had salvaged from Tom Carver’s timber yard. The runners were curved upward at both ends like an upland snow sled, planed smooth as glass and greased with thick sheep fat to slide effortlessly over the cold granite coping.
“Hand me the hickory pins, Will!” Eren shouted over the thunder of the spray. Young Will Carver reached into the tool chest. He passed four seasoned hickory pegs that Eren drove home through the mortised cross-stretchers with three sharp taps of his copper-faced mallet. The joint drew together with an airtight, creak-free snap that spoke of master wheelwright field skill.
Inside the wooden box, Dima was laying down three thick layers of washed sheepskin felt, covering them with a sheet of tarred linen to keep out the freezing river spray. At each corner, heavy forged iron eye-bolts were bolted through the ash frames. It was backed by three-inch square washers of cold-rolled plate. “She’s solid, Eren,” Dima called out, pulling on the corner sling with both hands. “She’ll carry two men and an iron screw-jack across that deep gap without deflecting a quarter of an inch.” Eren wiped stone dust from his beard and nodded. The cradle was ready to fly.
