Seven
T he first Station they reached was in a clearing on the edge of a big holm oak wood. It was a simple hunters hut, built of rough tree trunks with a roof made out of branches. The inside was completely bare, not even a chimney but just a simple fireplace made of stones in the centre of the beaten earth floor of the one room.
Someone had left a goatskin of fresh water, some biscuits, and a piece of salted meat stiff as leather which Papa cut into strips with his jack knife to make it edible. The grapevine telegraph had done its job.
It wasn’t safe to light a fire, so they ate a cheerless, cold meal. No one wanted to talk as they were tired, starving, and stunned by recent events.
The last stretch of road they’d had to cross, up and down wild hills swept by an irritating wind, had
