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Õun’s name is a descriptive one. He is, in every aspect, very much apple-like - sweet of temper, with round shoulders and an equally round croup, his coat shining a golden-red under the midday sun.
He is, in short, a very comfortable horse to ride while reading a book. Arno sits on the gelding’s back sideways, his legs resting comfortably against Õun’s warm flank. Every now and then he touches the horse’s ribs gently with the heel of his left shoe, prompting a couple of lazy steps forward. Õun has a light, even tread, and his movement does not disturb Arno’s concentration on the copy of Ritten’s Juvenile Osteology he holds in his right hand. The stump of his left one is rubbing circles into Õun’s withers.
Someone laughs; Õun flicks his thick fluffy ear in the direction of the sound in what is an almost human gesture of polite curiosity.
“What’s this, then?” Õnne asks, approaching them. She stands ankle-deep in red clover, arms akimbo, and looks up at Arno. “You starting some kind of equestrian library service, laps?”
“You’ve asked me to walk the horse, emme,” Arno says placidly, turning over a page. “I am walking him, clearly.”
“Clearly.”
He offers her a sly half-smile from behind his book - a great black tome with an off-white engraving of a child’s femur on the cover.
“The Kitses are here for tea,” she says. “You ought to go say hello. Play that new thing you learned, maybe? Jaan will be there, too. He’s a handsome boy, and so clever. No doubt he will be interested to hear of your progress at university.”
“I’d like to be excused.” His tone is mild; he doesn’t wish to upset her. But this is a conversation they’ve had before - multiple times since his injury. He’s not eager to continue it.
“I don’t like you being here alone all day,” Õnne says, an imploring note in her voice.
He shrugs with one shoulder. “I wasn’t alone. I met with Erika in the morning; we had a lovely walk to the wild strawberry fields near the Amme brook. And after that I was with Õun. His hooves were needing cleaned and trimmed. I’ve done a bit of scything, too. I’ve been busy.”
“And what about Erika?” Õnne eagerly seizes the subject. “You’d make a beautiful couple, Arno. If you’re worried she won’t want you because of-”
He closes his book with a sigh, tucks it under his arm, and leans forward to look at her. The horse, feeling a shift in balance, turns his head slightly to peer at Arno inquisitively with one big lilac eye. What’s going on? He seems to be asking. Arno gives his angled neck a reassuring pat.
“Emme,” he says patiently, “it’s not about that. I’ve adjusted well to doing farmwork with one hand. And I don’t care whether I look handsome. Who would I want to be handsome for? The whole… marriage affair does not interest me; and neither does Erika, if that’s how you mean it.”
She’s about to say something, but he interrupts. “She’s a dear friend. I love her - her humour, her kindness, her skill with woodworking, our morning walks. But I don’t want to,” he makes a nebulous gesture, “I don’t want anything else.
“The truth is that I am simply content being alone. I feel at peace. You, isa, Erika, Õun, my osteology studies; what I have is enough for me. You need not attempt to find me new friends or marry me off. I do not see myself as less because I can no longer do certain things or because someone might not think me attractive. You worry so much; I think my injury may have caused you more sadness than it ever caused me.”
“Oh, Arnoke,” she says quietly, putting a hand on his knee. “But you won’t always have us, darling.”
He grins at her, rolling his eyes a little. “Emake, when you die, I promise I’ll consider entertaining the Kitses at tea. You have my solemn word on that.”
This gets a smile out of her, too, and the expression in her grey eyes mellows from one of anxiety into one of amused tenderness. “Silly boy,” she says.
He adjusts his left suspender with his chin, not wishing to risk dropping the Juvenile Osteology under Õun’s newly-trimmed hooves. By “a bit of scything” he meant really quite a lot of scything, and he’s covered in bits of grass and dried sweat now, his hair tousled and speckled with dust. Maybe he wouldn’t mind a good cup of fresh spearmint tea.
“I’ll get Õun to do another circle ‘round the meadow and then come home,” he tells her, and makes an exaggerated grimace. “With any luck the Kitses will be gone by then, so that I may be spared being immediately wedded to Jaan.”
It is her turn to roll her eyes now. He laughs and presses one heel to Õun’s ribs; the gelding snorts a little and walks forward, unhurried as ever.
Õnne watches this pretence at physical exercise, clearly unimpressed. “If you’re walking him,” says she, “then I’m Piret of Thule. That’s how you get a horse to stretch his legs.”
And she slaps Õun’s croup with her palm - not hard enough to hurt, but much more decisively than Arno’s gentle prodding was. Õun lets out a little whinny and startles into a trot. Arno just barely manages to grab a fistful of his wheat-white mane in time.
“Easy, boy, easy,” he murmurs to the horse, shooting Õnne a reproachful glance over his shoulder. “And who’s being silly now?”
But he appreciates that she’s dropped the subject. Appreciates that she’s joking around with him, and even that she was somewhat careless with his safety when she sent Õun into a trot. It hasn’t been easy for her to understand how he feels about his handicap, but she’s made more of an effort than most of the people he knows would.
She’s a good woman, his mother. Her name, too, is a descriptive one. Õnne is Estlish for happiness.