And so they began. The first day was always chaos—a river of people, two hundred strong, with their shaggy pack-goats, their barking herding dogs, and their creaking wagons. Mira walked near the rear, where the elders kept a slower pace. Her grandmother, Linna, walked with a staff but refused to ride, claiming that sitting still was the fastest way to join the ancestors.
Mira sat with her grandmother, leaning against her shoulder. The baby was asleep in the lodge. Ren was across the fire, laughing with the scouts. seasonal migration
The sun had not yet cleared the eastern ridge when old Kaelen placed his hand on the weathered trunk of the sentinel oak. For a long moment, he stood motionless, feeling the faint, familiar thrum beneath the bark. Then he turned to the gathered families, their wagons already packed with woven baskets, salted fish, and rolled tents of oiled hide. And so they began
“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. Her grandmother, Linna, walked with a staff but
On the fifteenth day, the ground began to slope upward. The grass gave way to low shrubs, then to the first twisted pines. The air grew wetter, thicker with the smell of damp earth and moss. They had reached the northern edge of the flats, the gateway to the winter territory—a maze of sheltered valleys where the hot springs kept the ground warm and the hunting was reliable even in the deepest cold.