“You’ll get it someday, my friend,” said Shamil, looking amused at Ing’s annoyance. He was older than Ing and he never tired of beating him at something. It was a sort of sport to him. “Come on. Let’s go. I don’t want to beat you too bad.”
“You already have,” groaned Ing.
The two friends started heading back towards their town of Ganwin. When they got inside the gates, Shamil spoke up. “Oh, I just remembered. Did I tell you about Arlene’s new pony?”
“Arlene has a pony?” asked Ing. “Where did she get it from?”
“She found it outside the walls of town nearby. Apparently it was lost.”
“What was the pony doing just wandering around out there?” Ing questioned with a confused look on his face.
“I’m not sure,” said Shamil.
Ing and Shamil crossed through the dirt streets of the town and soon ended up at the ranch which was home to their good friend, Arlene Gondweth. The three of them had been best friends ever since they could remember. Arlene lived on a ranch with a stable, which the pony was being kept inside.
“Hey, Arlene,” said Ing once they arrived.
His friend was standing in the stable where the pony was being kept. She had a look of expectancy on her face. “I see you told Ing about our new friend,” Arlene said, directing the question to Shamil. The girl was young and pretty, with a face like her mother's, and light skin similar to Ing and Shamil. Her blonde hair flailed in the wind and blew at her white silk dress and her eyes were the blue of the ocean that brought calm upon Ing when he looked into them. He could also see her father in her as well.
“Show him the pony, Miss Gondweth” said Shamil eagerly. Ing could tell he could not contain his excitement. Shamil seemed to have an interesting affection for animals; in a way it seemed he cared for them more than people. It was as if he saw a certain beauty within them—a certain simplicity.
“She’s right over here. I haven’t figured out a name for her yet.” Arlene led them over to the corner of the barn where the pony lay. The animal was a delicate-looking being with thick brown hide mixed with white that covered her legs and face. Dark eyes were set behind her long nose.
“Isn’t she adorable?” said Shamil.
“She is,” agreed Ing as he reached out to pet the animal on the head.
“You can feed her if you want,” said Arlene, handing a bag of food to Ing. He delivered it straight into the pony’s mouth as it let out an anxious whinny.
“I just remembered I have to get going,” Shamil said suddenly.
Arlene looked upset. “But you just got here.”
Ing turned towards Shamil. “Arlene’s right, Shamil. How could you want to leave so soon?”
“I know. But I have to help my father out. He wants me to learn the tricks of the trade. You’ll understand one day, Ing.” Ing detected a hint of sarcasm in the way Shamil said, ‘You’ll understand one day.’
He never can give me a break can he, were Ing’s thoughts. I’ll show him.
“And what if I come along with you? Your father isn’t going to teach you arcane secrets that are for your eyes only, is he?”
A smile appeared across Shamil’s face.
So he wanted me to come with him, Ing thought. “You know you only had to ask.”
“Oh, but would you have really come if I told you to?”
Ing didn’t really feel like coming—Shamil’s father was a blacksmith and it had never sounded like fun work to him—but he decided he would do it for his friend’s sake.
So the two friends headed over to his house where they were greeted by his father, Borad. His appearance could hardly be more unlike his son’s. He was a bear of a man with bushy eyebrows that sat atop two eyes that were rather like charcoal in a fire. A bulky nose protruded down into his lip region. The ears on either side of his face were quite large as well. In odd contrast to his size were his relatively small hands that he used to forge the peoples' bronze and iron.
“How have you been, Ing?” the man asked. “I was expecting just Shamil to come home, but you can help if you want.”
“I’ve been good.”
Borad eyed the two boys for a moment and then looked down at his dirty hands. The two of them were still standing outside the front door to the house which Ing thought was somewhat odd—it seemed that Borad should have welcomed them in.
Perhaps Borad does not wish for me to be here? thought Ing to himself.
Ing felt uncomfortable and he could sense Shamil’s awkwardness as well.
“Aren’t you going to let us in, father?”
“Sure, sure, come in, come in. I must apologize for being so dirty, but such are the woes of a blacksmith. I’ve got a thing or two to teach you about hard work,” he said to his son. “But your friend can join. Only if he wants to though. I know how you like to drag him along when he’d rather have time to himself doing something else.”
“Well, you know Shamil. He was eager for me to come along.” Ing smiled at his friend, but the feeling of awkwardness pervaded. He didn’t want to tell Shamil’s father that he
