We crossed and recrossed the Tungaro, taking only shingle fords. The spring floods were finished, the level low, the water warm as it would ever get. The smallest lambs and kids, and two of the older ones, I carried across. That was one of the few memories I had of Hawk, my father: helping the weak. On the move again! We had escaped Squint-face. “We are the Travellers!” I told the animals. And knew the busy life of the Journey kept my mind off Tara’s death. The bush withdrew up the sides of the valley. We passed the white cone, moved under peaks that jostled against the western sky. This far south I was tempted to travel later into the day, but kept to our old practice: moving in the hours of light before the sun rose high, and after it lost its scourging fire in the afternoon. It might not be the furnace we had known in the Whykatto, but only a fool would risk its anger. Something of the sun’s northern malevolence had occurred last summer, even by Lake Top, and the animals themselves preferred to rest in the shade during the middle day.
