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.