Pehr's Story

When he grew old and strong enough, the boy’s grandfather would take him out hunting. The old man would wake him before dawn, he would dress hastily in his thick woollen jacket and breeches and don his heavy, hooded overcoat and rush excitedly downstairs. His grandfather would be waiting for him on the bottom step of the landing as always, puffing smoke rings through his snow white beard and binding tight his thick fur hunting boots.
“Alright lad?” his grandfather would ask, “Let’s get going then.”

It was Pehr’s job to brush and saddle the horses in the stable while his grandfather oiled and polished the Wessen rifle. Sometimes Pehr would sneak cubes of sugar from the kitchen for the horses, and his black mare, Sooty would nuzzle against his shoulder, appreciating the treat. When he was satisfied that all was in order, Pehr’s grandfather would sheaf the rifle in its oilskin canvas and lash it to his saddle and the two would set out down the drive, past the ancient sycamores and into the open land that stretched between the city and the river. So it was that some mornings two figures could be seen riding westward over the frozen river, framed by the sun as it broke over the mountains, briefly bathing the grim, grey landscape in hues of golden brown and amber.