The Marsh Horse

Essa and the marsh horse

Essa drew in his breath when he saw the new marsh-stallion: milk white he was, and full of fire, standing a little apart from the mares. They let men ride on their backs and the stallion was not sure if they were true horse-folk, or something else. He stood still, frozen, ears flattened, when Essa came near. Here was one of those cruel two-legged beasts who had roped him in, snatched him from the wide marshlands. He had kicked hard at them, towering on his hind legs, biting, afraid and desolate. He would serve this one just the same if it came any nearer.

Essa climbed up the wooden fence, leaning in, calling with all his heart to the stallion, Come, friend. Oh, I’m sorrowing for you. I know how it is not to be free.

Back in the village, they said the new stallion was unbreakable, his spirit too wild. They said it would be better to spill his blood at midsummer, turn the horse over to the gods and let Loki ride him across the night.

Fools, Essa thought. It’s not breaking: it’s knowing.

The sun sank, spreading fire where the land met the sky. It shaded the web of cloud pale gold, shadowing a thicket of hawthorns. Essa’s hair blew back from his face but he barely felt the chill. In one swift move, he sprang over the fence and stood within the corral. The mares lifted their heads and gazed, impassive, but the marsh-stallion wheeled away, mane flying, paler than the foam on the crest of a wave.

Easy, my friend, easy. Essa held out his hands, head lowered, and in that moment, Essa’s spirit flew free from his body, like water spilling from a fallen cup. He was the horse: his fear and anger rushed through Essa, sour and festering. Essa felt the wild heat of the stallion’s spirit flickering all about him as though he bathed in flames.

We shall be friends, brothers, you and I.

And Essa was standing by the fence once more, just a boy. But the marsh-horse had come closer. Right up to Essa, he walked, the fire of him burning steady now, burning peacefully.