Chap­ter 2 The Hunt begins with the calm of ear­ly spring dis­rupt­ed by the sharp cries of hounds drift­ing through the morn­ing mist. The colts graz­ing in the field, myself among them, lift­ed our heads as instinct and curios­i­ty drew us to the edge of the mead­ow. Our elders, includ­ing my moth­er and the old geld­ing in the next field, approached qui­et­ly, sig­nal­ing the sig­nif­i­cance of the moment. From the hill, we watched as a flur­ry of motion and col­or broke through the trees—men in bright coats urg­ing their hors­es for­ward, with a pack of hounds at full cry. The urgency in the dogs’ voic­es and the pound­ing of hooves filled the air with a kind of wild elec­tric­i­ty. This was no gen­tle ride through the coun­try­side. It was a pur­suit, relent­less and swift, and though none of us had seen a hunt before, every ani­mal in the pas­ture under­stood some­thing dan­ger­ous was unfold­ing.

As the hunt drew near­er, the sharp bark of the dogs became more focused, their path nar­row­ing toward a small, grey shape that dashed into our field—a hare, fran­tic and exhaust­ed. With bare­ly time to take in the sight, the hounds were upon it, their dis­ci­pline break­ing in the final stretch as they over­took their quar­ry. The hare’s end came quick­ly, swal­lowed by the com­mo­tion. Moments lat­er, a hunts­man rode in to pull the dogs back, lift­ing the life­less body with a cheer that echoed across the pas­ture. This reac­tion puz­zled me. What had seemed like a moment of fear and tragedy to us was a vic­to­ry to the humans. But the mood shift­ed just as fast when one rid­er lost con­trol, his horse stum­bling hard. The thud was fol­lowed by silence, then cries for help. Not one, but two hors­es were hurt, and the young man thrown from his sad­dle lay still.

The fall­en rid­er, we soon learned, was George Gordon—the squire’s son, admired and respect­ed by every­one at the estate. His pres­ence in the hunt had added pride to the event, and his injury turned joy into sor­row. Pan­ic swept the scene. Rid­ers gal­loped off to find a doc­tor and a vet, while oth­ers dis­mount­ed and gath­ered in uneasy clus­ters. My moth­er stood beside me, her tone qui­et and firm as she explained that hunt­ing often ends like this, not just for ani­mals like the hare but for humans and hors­es as well. When one colt mur­mured that the man got what he deserved, a chill ran through me. I had felt some­thing sim­i­lar, a surge of silent agreement—but my moth­er quick­ly warned us not to judge so eas­i­ly. She spoke not with scorn but with sad­ness, say­ing she would nev­er under­stand why peo­ple seek excite­ment through such risk, espe­cial­ly when oth­ers must pay the cost.

As the rid­ers dis­ap­peared over the hill, and the qui­et returned to the fields, the smell of churned earth and sweat still lin­gered in the air. None of us colts went back to graz­ing right away. The expe­ri­ence had etched itself into our memories—not as a les­son taught by words, but by the sharp con­trast of life and death, of thrill and loss. I found myself think­ing less about the chase and more about the silence that fol­lowed it. This was the first time I real­ized that humans, despite their intel­li­gence and pow­er, some­times choose paths that bring pain to oth­ers, and even to them­selves. My ear­ly life had been peace­ful, guid­ed by care and gen­tle­ness, but the hunt had opened my eyes to anoth­er side of the world—one where deci­sions made for plea­sure could car­ry grave con­se­quences.

Over the fol­low­ing days, con­ver­sa­tions in the sta­bles and pas­tures revolved around the hunt. The squire’s house­hold mourned in hushed tones, and every­one wait­ed anx­ious­ly for word of George’s recov­ery. The injured hors­es were tend­ed to, but one would nev­er walk again. Even among the humans, a sub­tle shift occurred. The next time a hunt was orga­nized, it was with more restraint, as though the mem­o­ry of that spring morn­ing lin­gered in every foot­fall. The chap­ter ends not in res­o­lu­tion but in reflection—a young horse’s first encounter with the con­tra­dic­tions of human nature. For me, it was the begin­ning of under­stand­ing how deeply the fates of ani­mals and peo­ple are tied, often in ways we can­not con­trol, but must learn to endure.