The Blue Horse

You need a golden horse, the man had said. Go down to the beach – there’s a herd of them.
Golden horses? I had said, not understanding.
Yes, by the sea. The dark bright sea.
He had been right. The beach was grey, dark, but the sun shone with blinding brightness in the dark sky and reflected brilliantly off the black water, shattering into a million jewels. The air was neutral, mild; not cold, not warm, with no breeze stirring the air. A few white clouds drifted across the sky. I climbed over a small ridge dotted with marram grass and looked down at the beach itself. The golden horses milled about, ten or fifteen of them, barely making a mark on the mud-like sand.
Daughters of the waves, the man had said.
Indeed, although they were golden, their coats were softly darkened by the blackness and sparkled like fire in the sun, so they looked as if they had been born of the sea itself. They moved around at trots and canters, playing with each other, but as soon as I stepped closer, they all stopped and slowed to walks, watching me peacefully. Eventually they all stopped moving and faced me, as if awaiting something. Their eyes held such sad, calm understanding as to suggest they knew everything that had, would and could happen. Despite this, there was no grim resigned manner as there was about humans, who certainly didn’t know all this, but were gravely affected by what little they did. The golden horses were waiting. They would wait until the end of time, perhaps, and then beyond that. Standing on the mud-like sand, playing with each other, grazing on the sparse plants that grew there, never going hungry. Waiting for the next.
Only one, the man had said. You will know; they will know.
I scanned the herd. Suddenly, I became aware of the presence of another horse, standing in front of the other horses, to my left. It felt as if it had been there all the time, though I knew it hadn’t. It was a huge, dark, clean-limbed stallion, blue roan with a short black mane and a black tail floating as he trotted towards me, high-stepping through the sand. His breath smoked in the air as he snorted, still trotting but never seeming to get any nearer. His eyes were deepest black, and indeed, the darkness of the beach seemed to surround him; the sun seemed much further away now.
But now I knew. I stepped towards the blue horse and clambered onto his back, grasping the thick black mane. I had my horse. He wasn’t golden, but I preferred him. We climbed back up the ridge, and I glanced back at the golden horses. They had started moving again, waiting again. Waiting on the mud-like sand. Waiting until the end of time, perhaps beyond.