At dawn on Day 115, the southern rock cut was filled with the quiet, bustling commotion of an early departure.
The mountain sky was pale grey, heavy with the promise of mid-morning sleet. But the air at the southern threshold was shielded from the biting northern wind by the low pale limestone ridge. Twelve mountain mules, their pack-frames stripped of food panniers and loaded only with light bundles of camp blankets and cooking pots, stood in a patient file while drover Bran and his fourteen carriers checked their cinches and tightened rawhide boot-straps.
Gathered around the mules were the ten early evacuees. Eight hardy mountain children between the ages of nine and fourteen, and two broad-shouldered aunts, Elspeth and Mirra’s niece Tessa. Each child wore a heavy, homespun wool cloak lined with sheep fleece, stout mountain boots greased with sheep fat. A small canvas trail pack containing ten days of very thirsty barley, smoked salt beef strips, and a horn of fresh water.
Kezra Venn walked down the stone-ramped cut carrying four rolled strips of bleached linen, each two feet long and four inches wide. She was tied with oiled hemp twine.
She approached the two aunts and the two oldest boys, twelve-year-old Joran and fourteen-year-old Karr. Kezra knelt on the flat stone slabs so she was at eye level with the young travelers. She untied the twine and unrolled one of the linen strips across her knee.
