I was just thinking about using some of the rags in the basement to make toys, when a knock at the gate sent Frey into a high energy nervousness. He nickered his high-pitched greeting to a fellow horse, then wheeled about and with his ears jetted forward, trotted toward the sound of a small wagon being backing up into the area.
Frey understood the nature of vehicles. He wouldn’t get in the way, but he was very excited about another horse approaching. He did a couple of threatening rears with his hooves pawing the air as if he were a wild stallion proclaiming his mares. His bugles sounded fierce.
“Frey,” I called. “Back away. You’re just getting some hay. No challenges from anyone. And I bet the horse pulling that wagon is a gelding.”
Frey’s ears flickered, listening to my words, as usual, but as to whether my words calmed him any, it was doubtful, because he was now issuing even louder battle cries, pawing the ground, and tossing his head up and down to show how dominant he was.
Mrs. Penn had backed both herself and the children away from the stallion’s posturing, and the officer, a man stouter, but perhaps less wise, was advancing toward me, probably in order to grab at my dress and propel me back. Unheeding such things, I strode forward, spoke sharply to Frey, then circled my arms around his neck.
Stallions have thick necks. I couldn’t reach to encircle the full span of him, but Frey didn’t know that. He halted his frantic motions and went completely still in his efforts not to do me any harm. As I’d said before, he’d learned not to step on me, not because he had the sense to know that he might damage my feet, but because the one time he’d done so, I’d screamed piercingly. Frey did not want me to scream again.
He began nickering softly, the kind he’d started when he was a foal. It was the equivalent of a cat’s purr, telling me that despite the excitement of a horse at the gate, he was willing to be loved and babied. He leaned into me, getting closer. Unfortunately he no longer had the weight of a foal. I curtly told him to stand on his own feet and pushed back slightly. He understood the censure and stopped leaning, but his head remained dropped over my chest, and his baby nickers continued.
Meanwhile, the driver had backed sufficiently into the area so he could unload the hay. I called out that I’d very much appreciate it if he’d put the bales into the shed, and as I watched, glancing now and then around the big head more or less blocking my sight of the shed, I could tell that the man was doing exactly that.
When he’d finished, I asked about a water tub for Frey. He took a look at the basin I was using, chuckled, then said, “Sure, I’ve got one, but they’re not cheap.”
Mrs. Penn, bravely stepped forward then. “I’ll cover the cost,” she said. “Anything else you need for your horse, Shama?”
“Um, a curry comb, a brush, and some fly spray? But I promise I’ll pay you back as soon as I get . . .”
“Enough. We’ve already discussed that, Shama,” Mrs. Penn said curtly. “Does your horse need some grain and bags of carrots, or anything else of that sort?”
Wow. Mrs. Penn deserved a plaque for generosity. I hated to add to my growing list of things I owed her for, but this was for Frey . . .
“Please, to both of those. Thank you so much.”
“Then the boys will have something easier to feed Frey when they want to, and the grain will make Frey shiny again,” I explained. “The brush and curry comb will help with that, too. I had both at my shack, but I had to leave in kind of a rush. I forgot to grab them. Since then I’ve been using leaves, but Frey likes to roll, which really pushes the dirt and mud down deep. With the proper tools, you’ll see how beautiful he truly is.”
I realized suddenly that I was babbling, although both Mrs. Penn and the officer were watching and listening intently. What was so fascinating in what I’d said?
It wasn’t like me to talk about myself. I was normally tighter of lip than Mr. Cutworthy, who was a confirmed hermit, only coming into the village for an occasional food item. It was said that he didn’t even speak when he came into the general store, only grunted and pointed. Not that I was a grunter, but I’d learned long ago that people wanted to talk at me and not listen to anything I had to say.
The cart/wagon had pulled out of the yard. I watched as the man closed the gate. I left Frey to go check that the lever was properly fastened. It wasn’t that Frey would run away, but he might get into mischief. He had no hesitations about eating people’s front yard flowers or nosing at their windows to see what they were doing inside. And if there was a goat around, he’d chase it. He’d never forgiven the one that had chewed on his tail.