The Silver Brumby (12 page)

Thowra, maddened by the cutting rope on his neck, and the sudden, desperate fear of being caught, could only think of the trees, and the sheltering darkness underneath them. With branches stinging his face, his flanks, and whipping down his rump, he raced in amongst them. He was too frightened to plan, but without thinking lowered his head, and shot down a tunnel in the snowgums.

He could hear a great crashing behind him and the man’s voice. Then the rope went slack. For a while he barely understood that the man was no longer holding him. The rope was still round his neck, terrifying him.

Often the end of it caught on something, and pulled him up with a jerk. He did not realize his danger, but kept on in his wild flight. At last he calmed down; there was no longer a horse following him; slowly he slackened speed and stopped. By a miracle the trailing end of rope was still hanging free. Now he tried to get it off, but the noose had pulled tight around his neck and he couldn’t loosen it. He tried desperately to shake it off, not wanting to waste time in case the man followed him again. Also, he wondered where Golden was.

He struck across the hillside through the timber, but by now he was able to understand from the snagging of the long rope that, for once, he would be safer in the open grass country. Out in the long glade he trotted in a direction he hoped might lead him to Golden. He knew she would stay in the timber and wondered whether it was safe to neigh softly sometimes — otherwise he might miss her.

He neighed and stood still to listen. There was no sound, no sound to the side or in front of him, and no sound from behind where the man must be.

Trees threw long shadows across the glade. Within the timber there was heavy darkness, but on the outer fringe each tree danced, silver in a soft breeze, like living things, the moving legs of a hundred creamy horses dancing to mountain music.

Thowra trotted on. Before he had gone very far he stopped and neighed again, his ears trembling forward to catch the faintest reply. Then, ah, then, it came on the breeze, and it was definitely Golden answering, and presently he heard the deeper call of Boon Boon.

With a snort of relief, Thowra broke into a canter, though not so fast that he would be brought up with a terrible jerk if the rope caught in a bush.

He neighed again, once, and they answered him: then at last he was with them. Boon Boon propped and shied away as she saw the rope trailing from his neck, but Golden nibbled at his shoulder for a second and then set to purposefully with her teeth to undo the tight slip knot.

He was free! The scent on the breeze was sweeter, the cold glitter of moonlight on the free-fluttering leaves was thrilling, the touch of the snowgrass underfoot, and the sweet taste of the creekwater — all perhaps better than they had ever been before.

Thowra drank and drank, as though he would fill his whole self with the freedom he had so nearly lost.

That night Thowra’s herd did not gather all together, and in the morning he went back to the grazing ground to see if he could find them.

The air was fresh and clear, renewed by the night. Thowra felt his old urge to leap on to the top of a crag and trumpet out his joy in being alive and free. He saw little curls of mist rise up from the river and puff away into nothingness in the breeze; he heard lyrebirds calling in the thickets round a creek, and his heart seemed to stop for a second when one mimicked the crack of a stockwhip. Then he lost his panic as the mimicking voice whistled and then barked like a dog. The man had never had a dog; it was just Menura, the lyrebird, having fun in the gay early morning.

He moved so quietly and carefully that a dingo bitch playing with her fat puppies in a patch of sunlight did not hear him coming.

‘Never mind, old woman, I won’t hurt your beautiful children,’ he said to her. ‘Tell me, have you seen sign of man near here?’

‘A man on his own two legs went towards the river a mile from here, leading a lame horse, late last night. You will smell his blood, maybe. He had cut his head, and his horse, too, bled from the shoulder.’

Thowra nodded his thanks, snuffed at the pups, and said again, with much politeness, how beautiful they were. Then he went on his way with more confidence.

He came on the man’s trail, and shied with sudden fear at the smell. A jay mocked him from the trees above.

There was still no sign of the three missing mares and their foals, or of Storm and his herd.

A silent gang-gang threw a gum-nut down on to his back. Thowra jumped and then shook himself with annoyance. Up above him, from the direction of the grazing ground, he suddenly heard a sound that made his coat prickle and the sweat break out behind his ears. He went on with far greater caution than before, circling round a little so that he could look into the grazing ground from the dense cover of some scrub.

The green valley lay below him, filled with early morning sunshine — and with a mob of horses. Running excitedly to and fro, sniffing at every trail, was The Brolga.

Thowra stood absolutely still. He knew he was hidden by snowgum branches, that he must have time to see if his own mares were there, and think what to do next. He peered through the thick leaves and soon saw that his own mares were not there. He also saw that Bel Bel was not with The Brolga’s herd and wondered if she had gone to warn him, or simply remained at the Brindle Bull.

Then he saw The Brolga pick up the trail he had made with Golden the night before, and the trail of the man chasing them. Now he knew he would have to move, and very quickly, or The Brolga might find what remained of his herd. He hurried away, as fast as he could go without making a noise or leaving a trace.

He went in as straight a line as he could towards the place where he had left Golden and Boon Boon, and all the time he listened, he looked, and he sniffed the keen air for any strange scent that would tell him The Brolga — or anyone else — was near. Twice, a long way ahead of him, he thought he saw something moving, but he decided it might be a silver-grey kangaroo, or perhaps just a shadow. Then he saw it again. He looked at the ground: there was no track. He stopped and listened: there was no sound. He sniffed and just then the breeze blew back to him. Unmistakably came the scent, a scent he knew well, a scent that rose right out of his eternal memory. His nostrils quivered, his top up curled right back. Who was it? And then, of course, he knew. Bel Bel was ahead of him. He went on, faster, to catch her.

He saw her, fairly clearly ahead, saw her suddenly swing round and listen. He showed himself, and they trotted to meet each other.

‘Where are you going, little old mother?’ he asked.

‘Searching for you, my son, to bring you warning.’

‘I have seen The Brolga,’ said Thowra, ‘and he is already on to the trail that Golden and I left last night when a man chased us. I go to join what is left of my herd, and I must waste no time.’

‘I will come with you a little way.’

They trotted on together through the trees and through the mint bush that was starred with pink-mauve flowers. Here the trees’ bark was splashed with red and green. There it was pure silver where a clear creek crossed their path, and where there was a spongy swamp over which they must not leave a track.

‘Soon I must turn back,’ said Bel Bel, ‘but, before I leave you, tell me, where are you going to take your herd?’

‘Over to the hanging valley on the Brindle Bull, and when The Brolga goes away from here, we shall return.’

‘This year you must not fight him again,’ Bel Bel answered. ‘Next year you will have reached your full strength.’

‘I am faster than he,’ said Thowra.

‘Next time you fight him,’ Bel Bel said, ‘it will be either you or The Brolga, so before you fight again be sure you have all your strength and all your cunning. I must go now.’ She nuzzled him briefly on the wither, and then went off through the trees.

Thowra looked back over his shoulder several times and saw her still trotting on and then vanishing from sight. It did not seem strange to him that he and his mother had never forgotten each other. Other mares forgot their foals, foals forgot their mothers, but Bel Bel, the creamy mare, had never forgotten her cream colt foal, nor had he forgotten her, though he was now a stallion almost at his full strength.

He hurried on. The Brolga, with no need to hide his tracks, might go faster than he — and The Brolga must not find Golden and Boon Boon. Bel Bel was right; if he and The Brolga fought now for Golden, The Brolga would surely kill him.

Thowra did reach Golden and Boon Boon before The Brolga found them, but up the hillside he could hear the big grey stallion, still following the trail.

Thankfully, he saw that the rest of his herd were with the two mares. Without wasting a moment, he mustered them and drew them back up the hill and round on to the Crackenback Fall. He had to risk their movement through the bush being seen by any men over on the Main Range, rather than risk passing too close to The Brolga and having him pick up their tracks immediately.

It was just bad luck that one of the foals started a rock rolling down a long, stony slope, and worse luck that the rock kept going and gaining speed and collecting other leaping, skipping stones with it so that there was quite a clatter. There was more than enough noise to make The Brolga stop and listen. Just then a gust of wind had to blow sharply from the northwest and carry their scent straight to the trembling, sniffing grey nostrils.

Thowra heard the snort of breath being drawn through those back-curled nostrils, and knew The Brolga would be after them. He looked around for the best line of country, and saw a long rocky spine, tree-covered and precipitous — a place where the nimblest-footed horse would have a big advantage. A windhover was gliding over it.

‘The Ridge of the Hawk,’ thought Thowra. ‘That is the place for me.’ He turned to the mares: ‘Now go,’ he said. ‘Go quietly but fast. Go to the hanging valley on the Brindle Bull and wait there for me. I may be a long time. I will stay here and try to get The Brolga to follow me, or I will fight and run, and fight and run, trying to stop him catching you. Go!’

He watched the mares and foals fade away through the bush, watched the creamy filly, Golden, as the sunlight dappled her in glory. Then they had gone, and he waited till he heard the sound of The Brolga coming. When he knew he was close, he went very quietly and hid in thick trees on the first knoll of the Ridge of the Hawk.

The Brolga cantered into view, fierce grey head up, ears pricked — listening, not watching the tracks.

To stop him looking down and possibly seeing where the herd had gone, Thowra kicked a rock and sent it bounding down the ridge.

The Brolga swung towards the sound. Thowra moved just enough for his creamy hide to show through the trees — to show twice — then he stood still.

The Brolga gathered himself into a grey curve, like an iron hoop, and shot towards the rocky ridge.

Thowra watched him, deep-chested, powerful, the great, strong legs stretching over snowgrass and bushes. Then he went tearing down the ridge, making enough noise for ten, not just for two.

He could hear The Brolga crashing down behind him, the heavier, older horse not managing to take the rough, steep ridge so fast. Just then, he saw that the ridge split into two a little distance below, and he determined to wait, where it divided, and see if The Brolga would go headlong past him.

He hid in a cleft between two immense rocks, having first kicked a collection of boulders down the northern-most ridge. The boulders bounded down as though a small herd of brumbies were flying down the ridge. The Brolga came, and then hurtled past. Thowra was just going to move out of his cleft in the rocks and go down the other ridge, when all of a sudden he heard The Brolga’s headlong gallop slacken and stop, and, before he could get more than a few yards away from the division in the ridge, The Brolga, in a fury, was charging upwards again.

For a second, Thowra heard the echo of Bel Bel’s voice in his ears — ‘it will be either you or The Brolga’ — but he could not run away, for then The Brolga would soon guess that Golden was not with him, and start looking around for her tracks again. He would have to dodge and hide, take up as much time as he could, while the others got away, and lead The Brolga as far as possible from any tracks they might have left.

Quiet as a ghost, he moved among the rocks, always being careful to leave a way of escape behind as well as in front. Then he stood, trembling with excitement, his beautiful silver-cream hide streaked darkly with sweat. The Brolga was near the top. There was quiet for a minute, perhaps for two minutes, and Thowra did not dare move over to see where The Brolga was.

Something that was half a sound, or a sound he half heard, seemed to be very near him. Then all of a sudden he was staring into The Brolga’s fierce eyes from behind the rock. He just had time to notice the red, fiery flesh inside the dilated grey nostrils before he had sprung backwards into thick heather scrub, swung round and away. Only his speed could save him now.

The Brolga was right behind him. Throwra felt his breath, hot, scorching like a north wind, but he also felt his own strength surge through him.

To the windhover that had returned and was hanging in the air above the ridge it might have seemed a flashing second in which either horse could have won the desperate race — either the enormous, powerful grey, or the silver-cream, so lithe and swift. That second, though, which flashed past the hawk, was one of wild effort to the two horses. The Brolga was straining every ounce of his great strength to get close enough to Thowra to bite or strike: Thowra was calling up reserves of energy that he had never used before, trying, trying, to leap away down the rocky slope — to leap away and live. To each horse perhaps that second seemed an hour, or a day, or a lifetime.

Suddenly Thowra felt himself as one steel ball, his legs beneath him filled with an immeasurable power. He sprang, cleaving the air, almost from underneath the bounding grey, gathered himself together as he landed on a rock and sprang again. He was out of reach. A snowgum branch whipped him across the flanks, he smelt the tang of the leaves. Just behind he could hear The Brolga’s breath, but each leap took him farther out of reach.

It was no use getting too far ahead, he knew. Soon would come the moment to stop and offer fight, to keep drawing The Brolga farther and farther away from the herd’s tracks, lower and lower down the steep slope so that it would take him hours to climb back.

The Brolga was too angry to stop and think that it was really Golden he was after — or perhaps he felt in all his pounding blood that it was better to kill Thowra now. The screams of jays in a snowgum only made him angrier. He went plunging down, after Thowra, crashing and stumbling over the boulders.

Thowra, nimble and swift, kept ahead, just ahead.

Right down to the Crackenback they went, Thowra in the heat of the chase forgetting all about his first and oldest enemy — Man. And there, on the opposite bank, listening and watching, alert and on fairly fresh horses, were two men.

Thowra had seen the shining water and felt his body long to be in it. He had seen white sand stretching to the water at the crossing, and heather and the big white-flowered pimelia bush dipping to the water from the banks, but as he saw them he saw the men, and everything was instantly blurred by the horror of the situation. All he knew was that it would be better to go down-stream for a while, rather than try to get back uphill where the fresh horses would undoubtedly catch them very quickly. This all happened in one second — he saw the river, he saw the men, he forgot The Brolga, and he turned and fled.

The Brolga saw the men, and he turned, too, and followed Thowra as fast as he could go.

Clouds of white spray splashed up in the sunlight, as the men forced their horses fast through the river. Then there was a most fantastic chase, a chase that became a legend among men, with many of the other tales of Thowra’s doings.

Thowra knew the country along the river well, and knew, too, many of the little valleys that stretched back into the hills where he and his herd had tried to find grass early in the spring. He thought he would keep to these valleys where tree ferns and logs had fallen, where teatree grew, covered with hanging moss and creepers, and the creeks wound invisible through this tangle of dead and living bush. He felt certain that he, so surefooted and without a heavy man on his back, should be able to race even the far fresher horses through that leg-breaking, neck-breaking country.

When he was hard-pressed by The Brolga he had not thought about the men, and now, hard-pressed by men, he forgot about The Brolga. He went at truly breakneck speed along the banks of the Crackenback, waiting till he found the particular creek and fern-filled valley up which he intended to turn.

He clattered perilously around a rocky outcrop that overhung the foaming water, he forced a way through and over a mass of fallen trees and driftwood left by floods, and all the time he could hear the crashing and clattering behind him of the chase. Not much farther, and he could turn away from the river and into the dark cleft of the valley where the Christmas bush and teatree were flowering and where there was the hot, steamy smell of rotting fern, and wood, and leaves in the unmoving air.