Standing in front of us, looking ready to attack, stood a five hundred pound boar with tusks like twin butcher’s knives. It grunted angrily and pawed at the ground. Its tiny eyes peered at them, flaring in pinkish red.
I didn’t pause to notice the pig’s slightly spiny-looking coarse hair that appeared badly in need of a good combing. It was definitely not a creature for beauty. Nature had other intentions.
But I knew how dangerous a wild boar could be. They could attack and kill both humans and horses, their muscle-piercing tusks penetrating a body so deeply, they tore down into the victim’s vital organs.
Mr. Gordly had lost a horse to a boar. Although the horse’s skin had only been torn away, leaving one whole shoulder robbed of flesh, it wasn’t that which had killed the poor mare, but the bacteria that came from the assault. Despite the blacksmith’s gentle endeavor to save the mare, she had died within days from her infection.
I knew that Frey was itching to engage the monstrous pig, but he didn’t understand the dangers of such an action. I put pressure on his reins and spoke calmly, even pleadingly, insisting that he back away. Frey wanted to argue. His stallion instincts fought for dominance, but with a snort of defiance, aimed at the pig, he gave in and obeyed my wishes.
Still as we took one step back, then two, followed by a hesitant third step, Frey’s ears danced in nervousness, and he readied his muscles for the plunge forward that would probably take us to our deaths.
But luck was with us. The boar didn’t charge. It eyed us half-blindly. A boar’s eye sight was poor even up this close. I’d been told that a male boar was not driven to attack, but instead preferred to back away from a fight if unchallenged. This one seemed to follow such directives.
I insisted on a few more back steps, then I wheeled Frey around, and we galloped away.