Apollo the Fire Horse, and the five-eyed wisdom of the herd

Last summer solstice, after a joyful day working with a group, I awoke with a deep knowing that Simza Tsura, born on a solstice, hadn't long left on this earth, and that we should visit the herd living on the neighbouring land. There, I was drawn to the pregnant mare, Brook, and her foal-at-foot, Summer.

Less than a month later, on 17 July, 2025, Simza died of acute colic. Beloved Simza, whom I had helped her mother, Maud, to birth, had slipped into the beyond.

A few days later, I could hear the plaintive whinnies of Corky, the herd's magician, to the coloured horses next door. Soon after that, the skewbald filly, Summer, was given to us in Simza’s memory by a dear friend. Because she was only five months old, Summer’s mum came with her.

Together, they brought life to the grieving herd. Simza’s daughters, Fizz and Selene, were particularly delighted, embracing Summer like a sister. Initially, I had the two new horses in a neighbouring field to my herd, but, within two days, Brook had jumped over the dividing five-bar gate. She was so clear that she and Summer were already part of the collective.

By November, Brook was struggling and uncomfortable during her pregnancy, needing some time out and to wean Summer. So, she returned to her original herd, and I promised I'd try to bring her back, although I wasn't sure how.

On the midwinter solstice, I met Brook’s owner, who told me she was being sold on 9th January. I spoke to some dear friends who felt a calling to bring Brook back to my herd, thus relieving her from the burden of yet more pregnancies. We formed a syndicate called "Carrots for Brook" and, amazingly, raised the funds within a week, so this dear mare was returned to us on 10th January.

Brook's foal was due in February during the wettest of winters - and Brook clearly didn't like stables. My elder gelding, Wodka, with a deep sigh, became companion to Brook, and their relationship deepened as they grazed together, separate from the main herd. I felt deep disquiet about where this foal could be born and, with hindsight, there were signs that the herd and Brook also knew something was out of balance.  

On the day of the Fire Horse's arrival in the Chinese zodiac, and during a midday solar eclipse on a sunny day, Brook gave birth in the half-hour I was with a client.

Apollo, with mum, Brook

When I found them, she was in our pond, with her foal, Apollo. She wasn't paying attention to him, so I had to rescue him from the water. I rubbed him down, feeling panicked, while Brook, who was unperturbed, licked him, but strangely she didn't want to feed him. This puzzled me because she was such a good a mother to Summer. We took them both into the stable, where my partner, Mark, had to hold Brook so I could help Apollo to feed. Phew, I felt all was okay.

Apollo would nicker when he saw me, a tender, gentle, loving whicker, "Hello, dear little one,” I thought. “What a birth and first day of life you have had, but you're here and safe.”

The next morning, I noticed Brook was still reluctant to feed him. The vet's tests were all okay, but I was advised to ensure that he was feeding through the next night. I was restless all night, waking him, rubbing him, and coaxing Brook to feed him, but nothing seemed to fully wake him up.

The following night, as I went out to feed him with the mountains blanketed in snow, I felt a deep sense of unease. We called the vet again, and the conclusion was Neonatal Isoerythrolysis, a very rare condition caused by an incompatible blood type, and we couldn't save him.  

Closing the circle: after the fire ceremony we held to mark Apollo’s death

I stood with Brook over Apollo, and she said her goodbye, licking and chewing gently as she let her beautiful foal go. He took his final two breaths in my arms. He arrived and left so swiftly, but blessed me and many others with his tender, sweet love, his dancing hooves, his softness, gentleness, and exquisite beauty.

Brook was desperate to return to the herd. She tore off into the field, kicking out in fury, releasing all her rage and the milk poured out of her udders like a waterfall. Finally, she could release her agony. The herd embraced her and gave her space.

The next morning, Apollo's death had taken hold and I trudged through the mud on weary legs. I went to Anja, wrapping myself around her. I clung to her, asking her to protect me and addressing the herd, I said: “I'm so sorry; you all knew it was hopeless. You gave me the signs, you knew what was coming. Apollo couldn't be saved; it was his destiny to come and go with his bright light, blessing us all with his deep sweetness and light. Oh, us humans, we need to listen to you and trust the interconnectedness of nature. It births, it dies, and then it's reborn.”