Macurdy frowned. “I hadn’t realized. I didn’t bring one for you.”
Wollerda laughed. “I knew you’d say that; you don’t know everything about us yet. We have a custom that one doesn’t reciprocate a gift; it’s an insult to the giver. If you want to give something in return, it’ll need to be after a decent interval. A few months, at least.” He beckoned. “Come with me.” Together they left the inn and walked to the paddock, where Wollerda climbed over the fence and started toward a tall powerful gelding with almost a stallion’s neck. It watched him approach without trying to avoid him, though it tossed its head as if to run, or maybe turn and kick. Wollerda spoke as he approached it, took the halter with a hand and led the animal to the fence, where Macurdy watched.
“What do you think of him?”
Macurdy was ill at ease, suspecting but not entirely sure. “A fine horse. Spirited. Big and strong, good hocks to hold up in the hills—and looks like he could run. And big-barreled; lots of endurance.”
“He’s a stag, actually,” Wollerda said. “I didn’t cut him till he was two and a half. I was going to ride him as a stallion, to raise my standing with my neighbors, but he was too unruly.”
Looking at Macurdy, the animal jerked its head, but Wollerda held him in, speaking soothingly. “He’s fine now, broken with an easy hand by a Kormehri magician. From near Ferny Cove, actually, before bad things happened there. Anyway he’s yours. If you’re ever chased, he won’t collapse under you.” Wollerda chuckled. “Actually he’s more a gift to the horse you’ve been riding; the poor beast’s getting swaybacked carrying you.”
Macurdy climbed easily over the paddock fence, and stood for a moment feeling mentally for the horse’s mind. Okay, old timer, he thought to it, you and I are partners from now on. He reached out, took the halter with his right hand and stroked the long silky nose with his left. The animal’s eyes neither rolled nor threatened.
“Does he have a name?”
“Whatever you want to call him. I call him Champion.”
“I had an uncle on Farside two stones heavier than I am, and he had a saddle horse that carried him with no trouble at all. Not as nice an animal as this, but big and powerful. Had a strain of Belgian in him—back home that’s the heaviest draft breed—but a gait smooth as silk. And a really good disposition; my brother and I used to lead him to the fence and climb onto him from it, and he never minded a bit. Carried us wherever we wanted, together or separately. Uncle Will named him Hog. In our language, of course. Said he was strong as one.” Macurdy cocked an eyebrow. “I told Frank that when I grew up, I’d have a horse like Hog, but until now I never did. You wouldn’t feel insulted if I named him that, would you?”
Wollerda laughed again. “I won’t. I don’t know about him.”
Macurdy looked the horse in the eye. “How about it? All right if I call you Hog?”
The animal snorted.
“He’s telling you it’s the kind of name a flatland farmer might give him,” Wollerda said, “but it’s all right with him as long as you treat him well.”
Macurdy nodded. “I grew up a farmer, and I’ll always have shit on my boots. So. Hog it is.” He let go the halter and slapped the horse on the shoulder. It turned and trotted across the paddock to a rack of hay, then looked back at the two men.
“He’s telling us something about relative importances,” Wollerda said.
“Is it all right to thank you?” Macurdy asked. He felt closer to Wollerda than he’d ever expected to, and it was less the fact of the gift than what he’d learned about him in the giving: the man’s ease and humor.
“Of course,” Wollerda said. “It’s the proper thing to do.”
“Well then.” Macurdy reached out, and gripping Wollerda’s hand, shook it heartily. “Thanks a lot. I’ve got a feeling that Hog and I are going to get along really well.”