It had become a habit now. The lost young stallion would stand in the field behind the stable, apart from the other horses, with the rising sun striking on his handsome, ruddy coat while he grazed. Now and again his head would lift, ears forward, expectantly looking for the woman who had been caring for him so diligently since his departure from the adopted herd. She, too, arose before the sun each day, and spent the first hours cleaning, mucking, combing, untangling, picking hooves, forking fresh straw and hay, rolling barrows of manure out to the fertilizer pen. Now and then she would spy the young horse in the field and call out to him in a friendly, reassuring manner. A word had been granted to him, and became known to his ears through its repetition; Forlorian. What it meant, he did not know, but it was his word when the woman spoke it.
At times, he drew closer, curious about the building, the animals housed within. They were not a herd, of course. Not come together by their own will or desire, and the assortment of horses present changed daily as the villagers took and deposited animals at need. A few of them became familiar as the days passed, and he learned their scents and the timbre of their voices when they neighed, and could match them with the animals that were let out into the fenced pasture each day. Only one was permitted to roam as freely as the lost horse himself, and that was the pressingly friendly piebald stallion. The woman had a word for him as well, short and hard-sounding; Jack. He was older, heavy-bodied but strong-legged, and seemed to regard the world with a patient, steady mirth. He delighted in pranks and mischief, but in his calmer hours he would simply stand near the woman, watching the surrounding village and fields as if he were a sentinel against perceived, unseen dangers.
Oft times he would walk near the younger stallion, averting his head as if he had no clue the other horse were present, and would take up a grazing spot nearby. An hour would pass, wherein the painted horse would inch his way closer and closer, one lazy hoof at a time, until he was tucked behind the younger beast. Then he would give a nip of teeth against the young horse’s rump, and immediately leap away with a pleased bellow through his nostrils. If the younger stallion gave chase in rightful annoyance, a swift, thundering display was the result. Two arch-necked horses charging round the field, the brief flare of vexation expelled in a race without a winner, for the older horse would not deny the young stranger the chance to match his head by the end of it. There were no mares to impress, and no hierarchy at stake. If the woman caught the piebald stallion in the act, she would give him a swift scolding, though her voice was ever laced with affection.
It was in this way that the younger animal learned the nature of both the woman and her free-roaming companion. She was the granter of sweet hay, gentle words, and soft touches that made his ears go floppy with relaxation. She nurtured trust with patience, kindness and generosity. The older horse, however, would not relent until he had secured the young stallion’s friendship through a mixture of force of will, and an affability that could perhaps be labeled as insufferable.
Yet at night, when the stable horses were tucked back into their cozy stalls, and the village grew quiet with slumber, and the stars winked on overhead, the chestnut stallion would depart to the rolling plains beyond the guarded wall. The kindness and companionship within the town was not forgotten, but his mind and heart recalled that he had been lost. And as he stood atop each grassy knoll and looked off into the endless sea of undulating hills, watching for pinpoints of firelight, scenting the night wind for the traces of campfires, he hoped.
