Burned bannock

One late-summer evening through the first nips of autumn, a straggle of women, men and children wove a way up a hill, holding skirts and setting feet down with care so not to slip. Few words were said, their attention fixed on reaching the summit, but now and then a splinter would stop, take breath and look back to the valley, before setting off again apace, not wishing to be left adrift in the darkening.

At the windless clearing In the cove of stone, the cake was prepared and the stack of wood set alight. Shadows and plays were cast in the rock, darkening the seams and cracks so that things could hang there and be unknown.

Only when the flames had abated from their peak was the hat filled. The chosen stood in line and each dipped in their hand. Some held their pick high to see in the firelight. Others kept it tight. Those burden free stretched their necks to look, full sad with worry for those they knew.