I am working on a post about saddles, and it will happen, I promise. But I’m caught up here in the dark of my ancestral year, a little too literally in a few too many ways, to the extent that I am calling this Deathtober, and as for 2021, my word for that is not even printable. Because I live in a fantasy novel, with a herd of fantasy horses, I am aware every day of the Powers that reside in the white horse.
I’ve written about white horse magic before, in an article that gets repeated every so often on the site. I’ve written about horse sacrifices, too, and not just in the academic sense. Actual horse deaths, which have seemed to come in clusters. And all too often in the past couple of years, human deaths in the hundreds of thousands, and animal deaths that just keep on coming. Dogs, cats. Other loved companions.
The human mind makes connections. That’s what it does. As true as it is that correlation does not imply causation, when we’re doing our best to navigate through the forces of chaos and entropy, it’s hard to resist the temptation to believe that something, or someone, is shaping the world to its own ends. And those ends, along about now, do not seem to be in our favor.
The writer’s mind not only makes connections. It constructs those into whole worlds and histories and magical systems. Or non-magical, depending on your genre. Fantasy? Magic. Science fiction? Technology, probably, though it might be indistinguishable from magic. Mystery? Definitely empirical reality, and a mundane explanation for whatever is happening.
I’m in the fantasy zone this week. The veil between worlds is so thin as to be transparent. My little autumn-leaf-colored cat familiar, who died once already and came back in almost the same form but this time with her family, suddenly declined last week and slid through to the other side. Her brother is getting ready to follow. Her sister left last year. In between, the kitten who came to comfort me grew a tumor that swallowed his heart, and left in the spring.
The ancient part of my brain says these are willing sacrifices, and the protections on this piece of sacred land are stronger with each one of them. Cats are of the Fey, they say. They were gods once. They still carry great power on both sides.
We’re by no means unprotected. The sister of the kitten is still with us, and she’s even more fey than he was. Another kitten came in the summer, a golden lion-cat (born on Star Wars Day, as near as we can calculate—for a bit of cross-genre connection), and he’s a strong guardian even at his young age.
But this is the Horseblog, and the horses anchor this place at all points. The white mare born on Star Wars Day (yes, a coincidence!) sacrificed herself to the deadliest snake in North America, which would have bitten me if I’d stepped into her stall a minute or two sooner, and left us in the spring, three years ago. She’s buried standing upright, facing the west, on guard as the White Horse has been for millennia out of count.
The Great Old One, the very large white mare who shook the earth with her foot, passed in a dream in the beginning of autumn, two years ago. She lies under the earth a few feet from where she died. My current Eldest stands beside her in the afternoons. She’s there then, I think; Eldest sees her, and keeps her company.
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A year ago almost to the day, the king stallion died. He went in his sleep, on his own, just before I came out in the morning. He had been showing signs of trouble, and I had considered that he might have to be gelded, to save his life. That was his answer. “I would rather die.”
He left just as the gates opened to the Otherworld. His daughter was there to greet him, I think. She was born at Beltane, and died around the summer solstice, just a few months before her father.
Today, as I write this, there’s a new king in the old king’s death-place. It took him a while to get here, between fire and flood and hurricanes disrupting transport, but he started on his way at Midsummer and was to arrive around Lughnasadh, but he had to wait a few more weeks. He’s settled well into his new kingdom. He brings hope and peace. He’s a guardian and a defender, and the mares adore him.
Mares rule the world. If they approve, we know he’s meant to be here.
In my fantasy novel, death is not an easy thing. It’s brutally hard to lose what one loves. But here on the border of Mexico, we understand something that my Celtic ancestors understood, too.
Death is part of life. In the Middle Ages they made a chant of it: “Media vita in morte sumus”—in the midst of life we are in death. In the Celtic world, our world and the Otherworld were paired for eternity; creatures of this world cross into the Other, and at certain times of year, the creatures of that world could enter into ours. Those are the gates the White Horse guards.
In Mexico, where Native and colonialist traditions mesh, Dia de los Muertos, the Day of the Dead, is not a sorrowful time. It’s a festival. One visits the graves of one’s loved ones and one’s ancestors. One brings food and gifts, and keeps the dead company through the night. One tells them what’s been happening through the year, and maybe they’ll have stories to share, too.
Modern American culture has a habit of hiding from death. We don’t talk about it. We don’t want to hear about it. We sanitize it. Even under Covid, especially under Covid, we pretend it doesn’t exist, even to the extent of calling it a hoax. We’re in full-on, full-voiced denial.
Animals make it harder to live that way. There are plenty of people who dump their aged pets in shelters or on the streets or send their horses to the kill auctions. But for every one who does that, I think there’s at least one who stays with them all the way to the end.
Sometimes they go on their own. Sometimes we have to help. Either way, just as we shared our lives with them, we share their death. We try to give them peace. We face the darkness with them. On the other side, we hope, there’s light.
Judith Tarr is a lifelong horse person. She supports her habit by writing works of fantasy and science fiction as well as historical novels, many of which have been published as ebooks. She’s written a primer for writers who want to write about horses: Writing Horses: The Fine Art of Getting It Right. She lives near Tucson, Arizona with a herd of Lipizzans, a clowder of cats, and a blue-eyed dog.
Ah, thank you.
I’m reminded of the kitten that showed up by surprise to the family farm just weeks ago and has given new appreciation of and even joie de vivre to my elderly father and especially step-mother. That callico will guard them, I am sure.
Blessed be.
I’ve had cluster deathes, both human and pet, and it sucks. At one time in my life, I called a year good if no more that three people or pets left me. You have my deepest sympathy.
And sometimes we have to help.
The hardest part of loving an animal. I just had to put down my 16yo dog, kidney failure. I held her til the end
I learn from each of your posts, but I think this has been the most powerful and significant to date. Thank you for being strong.
There are plenty of people who dump their aged pets in shelters or on the streets or send their horses to the kill auctions.
I cannot believe such people. I might be able to see their reasonings (for them), but it breaks my heart.
Seeing them leave is the hardest thing, and it brings so much pain you think every time you do not want to relive it. But I cannot fathom I would turn them out just before the end, I just cannot wrap my head around it.
The article was beautiful. I am so sorry for your loss (and yours, MByerly and mammam). I would like to say something else coherent, but there are tears in my eyes distracting me.
A few years back it seemed like my AA group was turning into the Funeral of the Month Club. Then came the Summer of Weddings.
Now we have two groups of kids: The preschoolers, and the college-bound (who I remember as preschoolers).
Although being with them at the end is indescribably painful, it is also a privilege to have known them and, if necessary, assist in their passing. As I would not avoid the pleasure of knowing them, I would not avoid the pain of their passing. It is all one experience. Those who think to avoid the expense and pain of the end are fooling themselves. They may avoid the expense but they pay for it in knowing how greatly they betrayed their companions. I read in an old book, Ole Yeller I think, that a real man has to be able to shoot his dog when the time comes, that it is not a duty to be shirked but a mark of strength and courage.
Thank you.
Sympathy to all of you who care enough to stay with your loved ones to the end. Sometimes it’s harder than others, sometimes you have to decide if the time is right, do the good days still outnumber the bad days? Will you leave that hard decision too long? And sometimes they make it easy like the dog we lost two years ago, she seemed a little off one day, the next she was clearly in pain, a scan revealed a mass on her liver, the vets couldn’t control her pain, and that was the decision made; so like her to make it easy for us, I miss her still. Her ‘brother’ is eleven, slowing down but still seems to be fine, I know it won’t be that long before we will have to mke the decision again; I don’t look forward to it, but wouldn’t shirk it or being with him to the end, it’s the least one can do.
The way that experience of loss can be sublime, but the pain a physical reality, so is this essay. Tears and a fast beating heart while reading your words, Judith, and a deep sense of awe at the way you tied in culture, myth, reality and wonder into this piece.
Our relationship to animals in our care is unconditional, both ways, and if not then that is the humans fault.
Thank you and and as the other commenters have expressed, I offer my sympathies. Be kind to yourself. That is what those who have left would want for you too.
Thank you, Judith, for this beautiful, thoughtful piece.
I was fortunate enough to be present for my father’s passing. I was the one who closed his eyes. I was not equally fortunate with my mother’s, as well as the passing of other loved ones.
I was there for my two cats. I gave them the sedative myself, at home, when the time came, so they did not have to ride in pain and terror to the vet. I held them while they received the final injection. It was the least I could do. And I wish I could have done the same for my father.