The wind hit them like a living thing. It came from the west, constant and low, carrying the smell of dust and ancient rain. The sky stretched gray and endless. The cairns stood in crooked lines, some as tall as a person, others worn down to knee-high stumps.
Ren’s expression softened. “The flats aren’t kind to anyone. But we’re not like the lowland clans who stay put. We move. We survive.”
“You’re thinking about the flats again,” said her older brother, Ren, handing her a leather strap to tie down a bundle of drying herbs. He was fifteen and already dreaming of joining the advance scout party next year.
Their mother, Sora, emerged from the family wagon, a baby strapped to her chest and a determined set to her jaw. “The scouts have reported an early dusting of snow on the high passes. We’ll take the lower route, along the Silverrun River. It adds four days, but we won’t lose the goats to frostbite.”
Mira began to notice things she had missed on previous migrations. The way the geese flew in perfect, patient V’s overhead, never seeming to tire. The way the last of the wild plums tasted sweeter after the first cold night. The way her grandmother’s voice, when she sang the old traveling songs, made the miles feel shorter.
The wind hit them like a living thing. It came from the west, constant and low, carrying the smell of dust and ancient rain. The sky stretched gray and endless. The cairns stood in crooked lines, some as tall as a person, others worn down to knee-high stumps.
Ren’s expression softened. “The flats aren’t kind to anyone. But we’re not like the lowland clans who stay put. We move. We survive.”
“You’re thinking about the flats again,” said her older brother, Ren, handing her a leather strap to tie down a bundle of drying herbs. He was fifteen and already dreaming of joining the advance scout party next year.
Their mother, Sora, emerged from the family wagon, a baby strapped to her chest and a determined set to her jaw. “The scouts have reported an early dusting of snow on the high passes. We’ll take the lower route, along the Silverrun River. It adds four days, but we won’t lose the goats to frostbite.”
Mira began to notice things she had missed on previous migrations. The way the geese flew in perfect, patient V’s overhead, never seeming to tire. The way the last of the wild plums tasted sweeter after the first cold night. The way her grandmother’s voice, when she sang the old traveling songs, made the miles feel shorter.
