Journey to Iceland

Chapter One

        Fjörður looked over his paddock fence, at the Idaho plains that lay out before him, and grimaced. He hated the place. Iceland had been so much better. But he was stuck with Idaho.
        Now Fjörður knew what his master had said, back in Iceland. “En við erum að fara til Ameríku.” We’re going to America.
        Fjörður would have left, to canter back to the country he loved, back to Iceland. Yet . . . he loved Iceland, but he also loved his master. He couldn’t just . . . leave his owner.
        Fjörður sighed through his nose. Life could be so complicated. Like now. Why had his master left Iceland for America? It was cruel irony, to only be able to have one loved one, Iceland or his master.
        “Fjord! Come here, Fjord!”
        Fjörður raised his head. That was another thing. Now his owner called him Fjord, instead of his Icelandic name. At least you could have called me Fjörður, just for me! The stocky little horse tölted toward the white house from which his master was calling. He reached the gate and whinnied. “Take me back to Iceland!”
        To Fjörður’s surprise, an answering neigh emitted from the barn, calling, “Who’s that?” He looked, startled, at his master.
        “Yes, Fjord, I have several new horses,” the man said. “Three quarter horses. The bay gelding is called Bobby, the bay mare is Barbara, known as Bara, and the chestnut is named Ralph.”
         Honestly, Fjörður wouldn’t care less whether the new horses were called Bobby, Barbara, and Ralph; or Joe, Ruth, and Carl. All he could do was to think, How could you!

        It was the arrival of Bobby, Barbara, and Ralph that made up his mind. Fjörður’s owner had taken to riding the tall quarter horses instead of his little Icelandic horse. In fact, Fjörður was almost completely ignored! It was Bobby who was taken on trail rides, Barbara who got to eat Icelandic treats, and Ralph who got groomed three times a day.
        And Fjörður? Did he get to go on trail rides, eat Icelandic treats, or be groomed three times a day? Of course not. So Fjörður had decided to leave for Iceland. It was now the better choice in the black pony’s eyes. He didn’t know how far away from Iceland he was, or that he’d have to cross an ocean. But he would try to get back to his country at all costs.
        Now it was night. Fjörður stood in the field he shared with Bobby and Ralph. He was by the gate, watching until the lights in the house went out. There! Fjörður put his head over the gate and wiggled at the latch.
        “What are you doing?”
        Fjörður ignored Ralph, intent on what he was doing.
        “I said, what are you doing?” the chestnut horse repeated fiercely.
        Still the sturdy pony did not answer. Almost there. . .
        Suddenly Ralph nipped Fjörður. The pony jerked back with a squeal, flank stinging. “What was that for‽”
        “I asked you a question!” the other gelding shot back.
        Furious, Fjörður hissed, “It’s none of your business!” He wheeled around and struck outward with both hind legs. His hoof connected, and he heard a high-pitched whinny. He turned and saw Ralph cantering away, blood oozing from a cut on his side.
        Fjörður quickly restarted work on the gate latch, ears tilted back for sounds of the quarter horse returning. He was nearly done when he felt Ralph just behind him and a little to the left. He lashed out with his left hoof, twisting to the side as he did so. The hoof just clipped Ralph’s chest and the gelding reared, turning on his hind legs, to land in the canter as he shot away.
        The smaller Icelandic horse now focused his attention on the latch. Come on. . . Finally Fjörður raised his head, the latch clamped between his teeth. It slipped free of its restraints. The pony tossed his head, letting the latch fly out of his mouth. Fjörður pushed against the gate, and it swung open.
        “What’s going on here?”
        Fjörður knew immediately who the speaker was. “What’s going on here” was Bara’s favorite phrase.
        The black horse sighed through his nose. “I’m leaving,” he said to the bay mare. Bara had always been more agreeable than the geldings, so he was willing to answer her questions.
        “You shouldn’t!” This outburst came from Bobby, who had trotted over to investigate. Ralph followed close behind, eyeing Fjörður nervously.
        “I don’t care if I should or should not. I’m doing it,” Fjörður said defiantly.
        “But Fjord-” Bara started.
        “Fjörður!”
        “Fine! Fjörður! What of our master?” Bara asked.
        “He clearly likes you guys better than me.”
        “No he doesn’t!” Bara said, sounding horrified.
        “Yes he does!” Ralph said at the same moment, earning him a glare for Bara and a quick nip from Bobby.
        “Ralph is right, for once,” Fjörður said. “Bye, Bara.” He turned and started walking out the gate.
        “Fjörður! Wait!” Bara cried.
        Fjörður turned to look at her. “Bara, I know what I want. I’m going.” He tölted away, with Bara staring after him.

        Fjörður nibbled some grass. He had stopped tölting awhile back. Now he merely walked, pausing to graze sometimes. He had found a stream once, and had been surprised. It had tasted a lot worse than Icelandic water. But he had forced himself to drink anyway, to keep his energy up.
        Fjörður could sense the sea coming from the west, but he had an amazing sense of direction, and knew they had come from the east. Therefore, he reasoned, he must go east to reach Iceland.
        Suddenly, Fjörður jerked his head up, looking around, his ears pricked, totally alert. He had heard something . . . There it was again! An eerie howl broke the silence of the night. A moment after it ended, another one replied. Fjörður stiffened, and turned his head north, in the direction of the howling.
        Soon the howls started up again, this time closer than before. Fjörður turned and started to walk west. He walked, though every instinct was screaming at him to gallop as far away as possible. Don’t panic, he scolded himself. Save your energy.
        It was hard not to panic when the howls stopped, the last one having come from almost directly behind Fjörður. They’re hunting me, he realized, and a feeling of dread rose in him. He allowed himself to tölt slowly.
        Every nerve in his body was jangling, and the temptation to gallop was excruciating. Still, he forced himself to keep an easy pace. Wolves were relentless. Fjörður knew that this would be a battle of stamina, not of speed. Tiring himself was useless.
        After half an hour, Fjörður sensed wolves on either side, trying to encircle him and cut off all means of escape. Oh no, he thought, What can I do? The wolves were already too close to completing their circle for him to dart through the gap . . . And what else could he do?
        I should have cantered earlier, he thought. But it’s too late now.

        Arabella’s head drooped with exhaustion. She had been cantering steadily southwest to try and catch up with her master, but had quickly worn herself out. The flat land of Montana was perfect for cantering, but Arabella couldn’t keep up that pace for long. I’ve been a fool, she thought, Now, if I have to run, I’m dead.
        A car whipped by on the road next to her, and the resulting breeze was refreshing, though it stunk of gas. Arabella raised her head and looked at the road. Her family had gone this way to get into the city every now and then, but they had always come back. Another car, this time a van, sped past, and Arabella turned away, eyes watering.
        The paint mare was ready to collapse where she stood, but she pushed herself onward. Come on. You have to catch your master! Arabella tried trotting, driving herself into a slow running walk. After only a couple minutes, however, she was forced to walk again.
        Thirty minutes later Arabella was feeling better. She hadn’t tried trotting again yet, and she had more energy than before.
        Which was helpful, especially when a black van with the words ANIMAL CONTROL on it stopped by the side of the road.
        Two men got out of it, one holding a halter. The other man held out his hand, saying, “Here, girl. Over here, girl. Good girl.”
        Arabella took one look and fled. She tore across the land at a flat-out gallop. She knew what these men wanted to do. No, she thought. No! You won’t take me from my search! Never, not in a hundred years!
        She heard a furious shout from behind her, and risked a quick glance backwards. The men were getting back into the van, which started up and shot after her.
        Arabella didn’t want to leave the highway, but she was losing stamina quickly, and the van was faster than her. It would probably keep pace with her until she tired. Then the men would pounce.
        So she angled away from the road until she was several hundred yards away. Thanks to the flat Montana landscape, she could still see the cars flashing into the distance on the road.
        She slowed to the walk again, her eye on the black van. She was not getting taken back to her old house, not in a hundred years.

         Finally, it was Chase’s Stallion Day. There were nine other colts and eleven fillies who were participating. Traditionally, the new stallions took the head positions of the herd’s stallions for the day, and the new mares took over leading. If anything really dangerous happened, the wiser, older horses would take over. But Chase was still proud to be protecting the herd for once.
        He stood in a line with the other near-stallions. The near-mares were to his left. In front of him was the lead mare, Katerina, and her mate, Mountain. The rest of the herd was on either side of the two lines.
        “Today is the Mare Day of eleven fillies,” Katerina announced. She said their names, then continued, “. . . have proven themselves worthy of becoming full herd members. Today is their final test. They will guide our herd for twelve hours. At the nineteenth hour mark, their test will end.”
        There were cheers. Then Mountain stepped forward, and silence fell again. “Today is the Stallion Day of ten colts.” Mountain’s voice was deep and calm as he said the names.
        Name, name, name, name, name, name, “. . . Chase . . .”, name, name, name.
        Chase raised his head as his name was called. He couldn’t help but feel proud. If he passed the final test, then he’d be an official stallion!
        “. . . have proven themselves worthy of becoming full herd members,” Mountain was saying. “Today is their final test. They will protect our herd for twelve hours. At the nineteenth hour mark, their test will end.”
        The cheers restarted. Katerina and Mountain quietly stepped back from the front and melted into the crowd of horses, leaving the new adults to be responsible for, well, everything.
        Chase glanced around and saw that the other now adults were looking lost. So he stepped forward in front of the crowd. His heart was racing, but he managed to stand still, his head high, looking imperious (he hoped) until there was silence.
        “Thank you,” Chase started, trying to make sure the horses at the back could hear him but also trying not to kill the ears of the closer horses, “for all your work in making us the best mares and stallions we can be. All of you helped, even the littlest foals.”
        He heard hoofbeats, and turned to see one of the now-mares, Lea. “You taught us to lead,” she said, her voice high and singsong. “You taught us to fight. You taught us to find food and water. You taught us how to handle horses of all ages and temperaments.”
        Another stallion joined Chase and Lea. “If it weren’t for you, we’d be lost. We would be mean and rude. We’d get into fights over the smallest matters, over a tiny patch of grass.”
        “We wouldn’t be part of this herd,” a second mare said. “We wouldn’t know the true treasures of this world, like love and friendship.”
        The other horses who’d just had a ceremony joined in, taking turns. Chase realized that he had started this. It was like Mountain and Katerina had taught them: to be a leader, you planted the seed of the idea, then you let the others take it and grow it themselves.
        He glanced at Lea and found her watching him. She moved closer and murmured, “Thank you.”
        Chase nodded to her, and she moved off. She understood what he’d been thinking of.
        The last horse spoke. All was quiet for a moment, and then the rest of the herd broke into neighs of happiness. Chase watched them, thinking, I was a leader.
        “Congratulations, Chase,” a voice whispered. He turned to see Katerina. “You are a natural-born leader.” She nodded, then faded away.

        Chase was cantering across the dry, hard earth. He was too exposed here—he was basically asking to be caught. He could smell water up ahead. He’d rest there.
        It was several days after Chase’s Stallion Day. He had left the morning after. His dam had protested, but could hardly keep him against his will. The moon was high in the sky now, casting its silvery light down around him. He kept moving and reached the stream swiftly. A strange horse-scent wafted into his nose, and he peeled back his upper lip to taste the smell.
        Strange, he thought. It smelled of human, and both the horse and the human had a wierd smell. He assumed they were recently moved from a different country. A very lost Canadian horse had joined Chase's herd for a bit. His scent had been different in the same way this horse's was.
        Chase drank his fill, then kept on at the canter. Few horses could keep up such a fast pace, but Chase had trained specifically for this journey. He could keep going like this for a while yet.
        An eiree howl split the night silence, and Chase's blood seemed to freeze in his veins. Wolf! More howls followed the first. Then they faded away. The pack was hunting. Me? Chase wondered. But no, the howls were too far off. Chase was about to angle away from the wolf pack when an unearthly scream shattered the air.
        It was a horse's scream of terror and pain.
        Chase couldn't leave a horse in danger, to fall prey to the wolves. He lunged into a flat-out gallop and seemed to soar across the ground toward the wolves and horse.
        A moment later he saw the wolves, encircling a lone figure. To small for a horse; it had to be a pony. Chase picked up the same strange scent from earlier. Then he crashed into the wolves.

        Fjörður watched in stunned shock as a large stallion plunged among the wolves. The bay bucked, catching a wolf and sending it flying. His powerful jaws grabbed another, tossing it away, and he danced on his hooves, striking out with grace, speed, and power. The wolves yelped and howled in pain. They began to flee, and soon they were gone.
        The stallion stopped, panting, and turned to Fjörður. "Are you okay?"
        "Yeah," Fjörður said, finally finding his voice. A wolf had attacked his shoulder, but he'd thrown it off before it could really injure him. He wouldn't have been so lucky if the entire pack had attacked before the bay had gotten there. "Thanks," he continued. "I really owe you."
        The other shook his head. "No. You don't have to repay me. And I'm Chase, by the way. You?"
        "Fjörður," he said.
        Chase tilted his head. "Fee-yor-thur?"
        "Something like that," Fjörður said, holding back a laugh. Chase's pronounciation was horrible. "It's Icelandic."
        "Iceland?" Chase looked alert suddenly. "Is that a different country?"
        "Yeah," Fjörður said. "I'm going back there. My owner took me away. Then he got some Quarter Horses and liked them better than me. So I left. I like Iceland better." He stepped forward and peered at Chase. It was hard to see him clearly in the dark. "Are you a Quarter Horse?"
        The stallion shook his head proudly. "I'm a mustang. I've never been broken."
        "Broken?" Fjörður said, horrified. "I should hope not!"
        Now Fjörður felt it was Chase who was holding back laughter. "That means when a human trains you to let him put a metal thing in your mouth and a heady leather block on your back, or to let him hook you to a big rolling box."
        It took Fjörður a moment to figure out Chase's terminology. "You mean a bridle, a saddle, and a cart."
        "Sure." Chase glanced in the direction the wolves had gone. "We should find shelter."
        ". . .We?" Fjörður asked.
        "I'm coming with you." Chase sounded determined. "I want to see Iceland."
        Fjörður thought. If Chase was wild, he would know how to survive without humans better. And he was a great fighter. And Fjörður owed him. "Sure," he said. "'Course you can come."