Brumby Mountain (15 page)

The brumbies travelled like this for nearly an hour until they reached a tiny beach of gravel on the edge of a small pool. Massive, angular columns of rock rose above them. Jess gazed up in awe.

And there the brumbies stopped. They rested as a tight herd, seven mares plus assorted foals, against the tall cliff of jagged granite that rose, perfectly vertical, for hundreds of metres. They were barricaded in by a wall of undergrowth, ti-tree and wattle so dense that Jess wondered how she would ever get out of there. The words of Matilda's stories floated through her mind.

In a landlocked valley, deeply secret, wild and unclaimed . . .

Jess could hear nothing but the soft breathing of the horses, the wall of stone before them blocking out all other sound. Still, not one of the horses nickered or moved. They stood evenly on four feet, breathing quietly, ears flickering back and forth . . . waiting . . . listening.

When Jess slipped quietly from Rambo's back they startled, and looked ready to run again. She crouched low, so as not to frighten them. There were palominos and buckskins, creamies and chestnuts, all mares and foals, all staring at her with either one or two blue eyes. Jess felt the skin prickle on the back of her neck.

Saladin's spirit is born to the blue-eyed brumbies . . .
It was a peculiar feeling, having all those eyes staring at her. And she sensed that there were more, hiding, silent, in other small pockets nearby. Jess crept on her hands and knees under the dense scrub and found a small, grassy clearing. Three small brown foals lay curled together with a mare standing over them. Babies. This place was a nursery. She sighed at the wondrousness of it.

The place, so exquisitely special, must be kept secret.
But where was their stallion, she wondered? Were they Sapphire's mares? Or had they belonged to the big golden stallion at the saleyards?

The mare turned an ear towards Jess and lifted her nose. Jess backed away and let the branches fold back, hiding her from the foals again.

As she looked at the brumbies, huddled closely together, she thought of her own horses. They had nowhere near the craftiness of the brumbies, their ability to slither through the bush as though they were a part of it. In a campdraft arena, Dodger was as sure-footed as they came, but through bush like this, he didn't come close to the brumbies for stealth.

She thought of Grace riding him and suddenly had an uneasy feeling in her gut. What if Dodger went down a wombat hole, what if he stumbled onto rocks, or galloped off a cliff? He didn't know this country. She silently prayed that he was okay.

Jess looked up at the purple, swirling clouds above and hoped it wouldn't snow again. How long should she stay down here, in this secret place? She saw there were cracks in the stone above her and it looked as though the cliff might be fairly easy to climb. She took a deep breath and grabbed at a handhold.

The rock was hard and cold, it had no softness to it at all, and she realised it was going to hurt if she fell. A lot. But what choice did she have? No one would find her here; she had to find a way out for herself.

She squeezed inside the narrow gap in front of her and winced when she bumped her hip against a jagged piece of rock. Yep. This was gonna hurt. She kept going, finding a hold, pulling and reaching up with the opposite foot at the same time, ignoring the pain in her arm and keeping the momentum going as much as she could. She knew that once she stopped and had to haul her weight with her arms it would sap her strength, so she kept reaching out, looking for holds, pushing up with her legs and not looking down.

Jess kept climbing until she could barely breathe and a stitch threatened to split her ribs apart. The muscles in her arms and legs burned, but she forced them to keep going until the light lifted and she realised that she was rising above the trees and out of their shadow.

Still she did not look down. Up, up, she went, until she could see the tussocky grasses at the top coming closer. Her legs trembled with fatigue. She was scared they might seize up totally. Small plants grew from the rock, so much softer on her hands and so easy to hold, but she resisted the temptation. If they uprooted she would surely plummet to her death.

Finally, Jess dragged herself onto the top of the cliff and rolled onto her side, chest heaving, heart slamming so hard that she couldn't move.

She closed her eyes and sucked in the biggest gulps of air she could, to soothe her body, feed it with oxygen, calm it and steady her pulse. For a good ten minutes she lay there, eyes closed, with barely the strength to roll over.

It was her mobile phone that finally roused her. A buzz and rumble. A text message. Without getting up, she shifted and pulled it from her pocket. It was from her mum.

Jess crawled to the edge and looked down. Not far below, the horses were gone. The secret place, it seemed, had closed its leafy doors behind her and it was as though it had never existed. She sat, feeling slightly dazed, and thumbed a reply:

I might be a bit late.

Jess walked away from the cliff face, past stringybarks and grey gums and through broken and parted undergrowth. She found hoof prints stamped on the churned-up forest floor. She followed them, down through a gully and onto a ridge. From there, she looked out over a wide, grassy hollow, dotted with twisting white eucalypts.

There was an explosive crack, and the surrounding hillside suddenly came alive with movement, flashes of white and the steady beat of hooves.

A coloured mare cantered across the open country. She was old and scarred, thin, with a greying brown face. Her brown-and-white sides were wet with sweat and she carried her head low. Beside her ran a knobbly-legged foal, and two blue dogs growled and snapped at her heels. Three horsemen followed, in mustering hats and oilskin jackets, whips cracking alongside their mounts. Their horses were tall and fit and eager, driving the exhausted mare until she could no longer continue.

She came to a stop and stood there heaving, eyes closed, head drooping, while her foal cried and butted and circled her.

The riders tossed ropes around her head and neck and pulled them tight. She was the weakest of the mob, the easiest to catch, but the runners were taking her anyway.

The men and their dogs kept pushing the wretched horse along the flat, in and out of the strappy-leaved lomandra grasses and granite boulders that littered the misty hollow.

Jess followed silently along the ridge-top, watching. What she witnessed next made her boil with anger.

19

A SMALL TRUCK,
patched with rust and carrying a stock crate, rolled over the open grassland towards the three riders. A man got out and sprang onto the back of the truck. As it drove alongside the mare, he reached over and slung another heavy coiled rope around her neck, pulling it tight until her face was pressed against the side of the tray.

The truck stopped while he reached for her tail. He grabbed it and pulled it in, so hard that the mare was nearly torn from her feet. She struggled and kicked, but the half-hitched knots around her throat and tail only tightened, bending her body into an arc.

Jess watched in horror as the foal was roped with a slipknot around its neck and then hooked to a small motorised device at the back of the crate. There was a grating noise as the winch slowly dragged the struggling foal to the opening of the crate.

There was no ramp or step. The foal was dragged by the throat off the ground, its stalky legs paddling wildly, knocking against the metal corners of the crate and banging against the doorway. Its body was dragged across the tray. A man jumped in after it and knelt on its neck while he loosened the rope. Jess could see its body heaving to get air back into its lungs.

The man lashed the rope around the side of the cage before allowing the foal to struggle to its feet. Then he pulled it to the side of the cage and tied it there. The man hopped out, slammed the cage doors and sat on the back of the truck with his feet dangling. The vehicle rolled slowly across the grassy hollow with the mare scrambling awkwardly alongside, the riders trotting their horses along behind it.

Jess sank to the ground, too dispirited to see another vehicle rumble out of the forest, flanked by several more riders and a huge black wolf dog.

The frenzied barking and yelling that ensued snapped her out of her hopelessness.

‘Mrs Arnold!' Jess watched her step out of the fourbie. Another, newer four-wheel drive appeared from the forest behind it. Two men stepped out in full police uniform. ‘Barker!' Jess ran to them. Among the riders she could see Kitty and Steve, and some other locals from the pub.

Luke was off his horse, struggling to hold onto Fang. The big dog's hackles stood on end and he fought so hard to get free, Jess was sure that he'd kill someone if Luke let go. The runners' dogs, propped on all fours, howled back.

‘Hey!' Jess broke into a run. ‘Guys!'

There was a sharp whistle and the blue dogs suddenly sprinted away. The runners wheeled their horses around and spurred them on, fleeing to the cover of the forest. The runners' truck lurched suddenly to one side, taking the mare's feet out from under her as it revved loudly into a U-turn. The mare scrambled desperately to regain a foothold.

‘Cut her loose!' Jess heard the driver yell. The man on the back crawled across the tray and began furiously sawing at her ropes. He freed her tail first, then cut the neck rope. The truck bumped over the ground faster and faster. The mare toppled over, landing heavily on her side, her legs flailing.

On the truck the foal screamed for its mother. The cage doors were flung open and it tumbled to the ground, flipping end over end in a tangle of limbs.

‘You low-life
pigs
,' Jess yelled as she ran.

With a flying leap, Luke sprang into the saddle. He kicked Legsy into a gallop, not stopping for stirrups. Fang raced alongside him. Kitty and Steve followed and they disappeared into the forest amid a drumming of hoofbeats and echoing yells. Barker's car bumped wildly over the grassy flat, going after the runners' truck.

Mrs Arnold beat Jess to the mare and held a hand up, telling Jess to stop. She crouched down beside the mare's body. It didn't move. Not an ear twitched. The rise and fall of the horse's sides was the only clue that there was still life inside her. Mrs Arnold waved Jess over.

‘Look through my car and see if you can find any sort of wound spray,' she said. ‘And get that purple bedspread too.'

‘Did you steal the bedspread
again
?'

‘They're handy things, haven't you worked that out yet?' Mrs Arnold hissed back. ‘Go. Go. Before she tries to get up!'

Jess raced to the car, where Grace held Dodger.

‘Is she going to die?' asked Grace.

‘I don't know. She's completely shut down. Your mum asked for wound spray.' Jess paused to run her eyes over Dodger, leg by leg, shoulder, hips, neck, face . . .

‘He pulled a shoe,' said Grace quickly. ‘But otherwise he's fine. Try in the glovebox.'

Jess flung open the glovebox and began unceremoniously tossing out papers and plastic crap. ‘Antiseptic cream! Perfect!'

‘The foal is over there, behind the trees,' said Grace. ‘It was limping.'

‘Okay, good. Don't lose sight of it.'

Mrs Arnold had two hands on the mare's neck. ‘You hold her neck firmly down, you hear me? Do not let her lift her head or she'll kick mine off my shoulders.' She eyeballed Jess. ‘Got it?'

Jess placed her hands on the mare's neck and lightly rested one knee on her as well, just in case. Mrs Arnold took the cream and began smearing it all over the cuts on the mare's tail and over the wounds on her neck. When she had finished, she took the purple chenille and began rolling it up into a long floppy sausage. She slid it under the mare's neck.

‘Help me pull her up,' said Mrs Arnold, handing Jess one end.

Together they pulled and pulled until the mare lifted her head.

‘Come on, old girl. Get up or the dingos will get you.' Mrs Arnold heaved again. ‘Come on, darlin'.'

The mare put one leg out in front of her.

‘Good girl. Let her rest a minute.'

Jess stood quietly next to Mrs Arnold, waiting.

The mare rolled back onto the ground and groaned.

‘No, no you don't!' Mrs Arnold began pulling again, harder this time. ‘You have to get up,' she said angrily. She kicked at the mare with her boot and yelled at her.
‘Gwan, get up!'
She yanked mercilessly at the bedspread.

From the trees the foal gave a frightened whinny. With a final surge of effort, the mare struggled to her feet and Jess and Mrs Arnold jumped back. She stood on shaky legs, looking dazed. She had skin off all over.

Mrs Arnold cursed under her breath. ‘Sweet Jesus, what have they done to you?'

‘We need Rambo,' said Jess. ‘He'll take care of her.' She took off for the rock platform, bounding through the swampy grasses, her boots squelching and sucking at the mud.

At the platform she leaned over into the gully below and called as loud as she could.

‘Rambo!'

‘Rambo!'

‘RAMBO!'

She didn't know how many times she screamed his name.

While they waited, they ushered the mare to the shelter of some trees and let her be. They shut themselves in the car and watched for the foal to come to her. She gave one small nicker and her baby emerged and began suckling from her, butting and nuzzling anxiously.

‘There you go, you little squirt,' said Grace, watching through the back window of the car.

It seemed hours before the big old horse came clumping out of the grey gums. He did little, but stood close by, keeping an ear turned towards the mare and her foal.

‘She's just so exhausted,' said Mrs Arnold. ‘Rambo will take care of her until she's rested up.'

‘Wish I could give her a bucket of water,' said Jess.

‘She wouldn't take it.'