THE ARRIVAL TO YAKUT
Things were not going well at all. To begin with, it was cold. Colder than anything Ignatius had ever experienced before, with temperatures falling to unspeakable levels. Secondly, his luggage was gone. The airline had managed to lose it, despite waiting over two hours at the gate to depart. And the flight had been awful. Only his fifth time on an aeroplane, and the bloody thing lost cabin pressure halfway through! On top of that, it was four in the morning, and still dark and miserable. Shaken, distraught and cold, poor Ignatius barely managed to keep himself together on the coach from the airport to the lodge. Holding tightly to the remaining shreds of his dignity, and his rather battered hand luggage, Ignatius somehow managed to make it through to the lodge, where he received the key to his cabin. Upon entering the little wooden house, he promptly collapsed into the nearest chair.
***
Three hours later, he was back in the cold again. Somewhat warmer in a borrowed coat, the brooding Ignatius trudged alongside a quiet ranch hand. From what he'd seen, the ranch was a peaceful, well-run place, where the horses were treated well and loved. It certainly cheered him to be around horses, and made him slightly more willing to forgive the airline for losing his bag. Other participants passed him by, some already aboard their scruffy Yakut ponies that would be their companions for the journey. Anticipation rose inside Ignatius - What would his horse look like? Would they be easy to work with? Or would they be a downright horror?
His questions were to be answered very soon, for the ranch hand remarked in a heavily accented voice that his mount was in a paddock just around the corner. Suppressing the small spark of fear in his chest, Ignatius followed the lady and rounded the bend.
And there he was. His companion for the next ten days, a scruffy, ragged looking pony. He was breathtaking. Morning sunlight danced over his rough coat, contrasting his light and dark patterns. A manchado, strange to see in this part if the world. He must have some other blood in him, thought Ignatius, casting an experienced eye over the small stallion. He was too tall to be a pure Yakut pony, standing at what he guessed to be about fifteen hands. He had long legs, and a slightly less wild mane and tail than those of the other ponies. The little horse turned his head to glance with intelligent eyes at the two people watching him. Eying Ignatius as closely as he had eyed him. And both man and horse knew they were about to go on an adventure.
***
Ignatius didn't need a leg up to get on the little manchado pony. Used to a 17.3 hand Warmblood, he just hopped right on. Finding it rather odd to suddenly have weight on his back, the little stallion walked away. Sighing, Ignatius halted him. An obedient horse was key to winning a competition like this, he assumed. The little pony pawing the ground excitedly told him there would certainly be some obedience lacking here. The aid to walk forward was given, and the pony balked. He would walk on his
own terms.
No, he would not. He would walk on the terms of his rider.
Throughout the whole ride, the conversation followed that same tone. An entire argument, without a single word spoken out loud. In the end, a mutual agreement was made. Ignatius was free to dictate gait, tempo and a general direction, while the pony veered left or right to annoy him. Normally, he would never have settled for such disrespect, but the pony was infinitely more responsive than at the beginning of the ride, where he simply pretended not to hear any of his rider's aids. He often slipped into a lateral amble when leg was paired with pressure on the reins, reinforcing Ignatius' speculations that he was some kind of mixed breed. He didn't complain; it was a comfortable and ground-covering gait, useful for the long ride ahead.
As he led the pony through the snow back to his paddock, he was stopped by a rather harried little man with a clipboard.
"Name?" He inquired impatiently. He evidently was under quite a bit of pressure to get something done.
"Ignatius Rutherford Twite" was the dull reply the clipboard man was given. Ignatius had given his name to so many people in the past twelve hours, it was starting to become quite a nuisance. The curt, impolite way the man addressed him did not help either.
"I know
your name," he snapped. "I need
his name." Gesturing to the little horse, the man grumpily waved his clipboard in Ignatius' face. On it was a form carrying all the details of his new stallion. All except his name in the top right hand corner.
In the back of his mind, Ignatius knew he would have to name the pony. Of course, he had put it off until the last minute. Scolding himself, he was forced to think quickly; the clipboard man before him was turning red from a combination of impatience and cold. Turning to look at the little horse, his mind when blank for a second. What was he to name him? At home, that decision would be given hours, if not days, of thought.
"Crespo." It was out of his mouth before he could even think about it. Pleased, the little man jotted the name down on his form before turning to find more unnamed horses.
Watching him go, Ignatius wondered what had compelled him to give the scruffy pony by his side that name. The Crespo he had heard of was not a very nice fellow, and probably didn't deserve having such a handsome animal named after him. Lost in his musings for a second, Ignatius and Crespo idly watched the clipboard man slip and fall in a patch of ice as he rounded a corner. Papers flying everywhere, he scrambled to his feet, cursing violently.
Ignatius grinned. Served him right for being so rude, he thought. And Crespo nodded his head in agreement, as if he understood his new master's thoughts.
