Silver Brumby Kingdom (12 page)

“Wait till I see how the river is,” Baringa said, and went through the tunnel he had made in the teatree.

He stepped into the water again, walking in deeper and deeper, hating the iron bands of cold. He started to swim, but only just enough to keep himself afloat, so that he would have an idea what would happen to the foal, when it got in. He floated along, finding that he was being taken quite fast towards the eastern bank of the river. Provided the landing place was all right, they might get the foal across.

There was what looked like a good, shelving bank ahead, and the curve of a ridge to stop any of them being washed further. Already quite a lot of logs had been dropped by the flood on that ridge.

Baringa landed safely and without much trouble. He immediately began to trot upstream, and went quite a distance. When he had rolled, bucked, reared and rolled again to warm himself, he sprang into the river again, and struck out as hard as he could. To get back across to the western bank was not quite so easy, and he was very cold when he landed. He still had to swim the creek to the island.

He got there safely and it was very pleasant to roll in the sandy patch on the island, and to have Dawn with whom to romp and play till he was warm and dry. The spring sun beat down on them, filling them with vigour. Even the foal joined in the play.

“We should name him for the flood,” said Baringa.

“No,” answered Dawn, “nothing terrible like that. Name him for the marvellous beauty of the frost on snow. Let him be called Kalina.”

When Baringa tried to get Dawn to take Kalina to the river she would not move. Baringa gave in, because he thought Dawn should know, but when clouds started rolling up, he began to wonder how wise he had been, not to persuade her to come. If much rain fell, the river would rise once more.

“Let us go,” he said. “It will rain again,” but she insisted on staying a few more days for her foal to grow stronger.

So that wild thunder storm which had shown Lightning the dead dun, and through which he and Thowra had travelled to Quambat, through which Yarolala had taken herself to see if Baringa were alive or dead, lighted up Baringa and Dawn and their foal on the tiny island. The teatree was silvered by the flashing tight, Kalina neighed with fear and Dawn comforted him. Once she saw Baringa stand on a rock as though welcoming the great noise and the vivid light, as though he were part of the vast storm and its strength. And, in that flash, Dawn saw him as a magnificent mature stallion, one who should be free to roam wherever he wished, unafraid of any other horse. She knew it was time they should leave the island, and that her little foal, son of Baringa, should somehow have the strength to swim.

The rain that came after the storm made Baringa fear for a rise in the river, but in fact the water did not rise much, and the rain did not fall for long.

After the sun came out again, and they were playing in the glade, Baringa noticed that Kalina’s games were more vigorous, that indeed he must be strengthening.

The time to try to move had come. Alter one more day he led Dawn and their son through his teatree tunnel. There was a sandy beach now, at the edge of the water, an encouraging place from which to step off.

Baringa went in fist. Kalina watched trembling, but when his mother went in, he raced about on the beach, neighing with fear.

Dawn called him quietly. After a while he calmed down and walked in, fetlock-deep, but scrambled out again. Dawn went back for him. Eventually he walked in beside her.

Baringa watched anxiously. He saw them swimming, then he struck out into the current and they followed, the small silver head beside Dawn’s.

With the stallion and the mare trying to protect the foal from the force of the current, the three of them sailed downstream to the shelving bank where Baringa had landed, and there they climbed out of the water to safety. They found sand for rolling, they raced and played, Dawn and Baringa so relieved to have Kalina safely across that they sprang around like foals themselves.

In the warm sunshine they played all the way up to the mouth of the Tin Mine Creek. There, on the long tongue of land where they had spent much of the heavy winter, they slept the night — the same night on which the black stallion moved round and round on Quambat Flat, the night which Thowra spent not very far away from them, inland on the other side of the river: the night Yarolala, and the emus, and Lighining too, all hid in different patches of trees around Quambat Flat.

The foal seemed none the worse for his freezing swim, and next morning Baringa led the two up the Tin Mine Creek. He was uncertain how the foal would climb round all those cliffs, so when the gorge began to narrow, he led them up on to the hillside behind the cliffs. It meant a longer journey — right round the whole Tin Mine Gorge, into the gentler valley behind, then over the ridge and down into the Canyon — but he was sure of Kalina being able to climb by that route.

When they had climbed up, high above the trees, on to a clear, rocky area, Baringa stood on the furthest jutting-out rock — one which was just touched by the early sunlight — and called out a joyous call to the world.

Suddenly there was an answer, faint and clear, from far below. Baringa reared with joy and flung out his call to Thowra:

“All is well, is well!” and back came the echoing answer.

Knowing that Thowra must have been searching for him and for Dawn, and that he would now know that he need search no longer, Baringa went on very happily.

They rested the foal often, up that steep mountain, so it took more than half the day to climb it. When they reached the valley of the Tin Mine, the foal was very tired, and though Baringa and Dawn were both longing to go on, right to the Canyon to see the others, they knew they should rest for the night where they were, where the grass was sweet and tender, and Kalina could sleep.

Dawn, thinking how Baringa had looked in the flash of lightning — a splendid stallion — had thought several times since, that a horse such as he should have quite a herd. She found out that he had been far too worried about her to take time to collect even the round mare who belonged to the black stallion. There would be time, now, she thought, and he would be able to take his herd with him, all over the southern mountains, for Baringa would be unbeatable.

Dreaming happily, she slept beside Baringa and her foal, there on the Tin Mine Creek, till the stars started to pale, and it was time to go up the ridge and then down the great, steep side of the Canyon.

Dawn woke Kalina and made him have a drink before they moved on their way to the Canyon. She stood placidly while the foal sucked. Though she was looking forward to getting back, looking forward to showing her foal to Moon and Koora, she was so happy to be with Baringa again that nothing else, except the well-being of the foal, really seemed to matter.

Baringa, knowing that Benni had felt sure that Dawn must be drowned — though not knowing the rumour that he, himself, was dead — was more anxious to get her safely home, but he, too, was so happy that he did not mind for how long the foal sucked. Re did hope that it would not get so full that it wanted to sleep. So he stood with one eye partly shut, half-dreaming, seeing himself leading Dawn and their foal off the path by the bluff, towards Moon, dreaming of Benni’s delight.

At last Dawn thought the little colt had had enough, and she started to move through the trees where they had slept. Then Baringa took the lead and they went steeply upwards on the ast ridge dividing them from the Canyon. On the other fall of this ridge were the great, precipitous, tree-clad slopes and the cliffs — and Benni, Moon and Koora waiting.

The sun warmed them all the way up. On the top of the ridge it was cooler because of the space around them add the huge depth of the Canyon. The foal ran along beside Dawn, occasionally bumping into her. When they reached the edge, Baringa stood looking over, a faint breeze lifting his mane and forelock. Kalina stood beside him, and Dawn watched the breeze ruffle the shaggy fur of mane on the little horse.

They stepped down and out of the warm sunlight, the foal apparently unafraid of the steepness, so that Dawn wondered if he would always have some fear of water, and yet be fearless of everything else.

Going down this way, they would not see into the Canyon much before they got there, so they were almost all the way down when they saw the creek and some of the green grass and . . . Benni and Silky hopping out of the trees . . . and Moon . . . and Koora with Dilkara . . . and . . .

Baringa stopped in astonishment.

Dawn felt the feeling of horror go through him, seconds before she saw what had caused it. Then she let the air through her nostrils noiselessly, in a half-amused snort, because, following Dilkara, as though she had not a care, was a little, pert, round, white mare.

“Why are you so worried?” she said into Baringa’s twitching ear.

“She belongs to the black stallion,” Baringa answered. “He may be here, too. Wait, and I shall go and see.”

“We will come,” Dawn announced. “There is no stallion in the mountains for you to fear now.”

Baringa looked at her, then, saying no more, started to walk on.

He stopped again! This time Dawn’s snort of amusement could be heard.

Behind the pert, white mare came a beautiful pale blue roan filly, very like Koora.

“Some stallion must have come here,” muttered Baringa, his neck arched, his nostrils dilated. And on he went, into the Canyon.

Benni and the herd had filed past and gone upstream a little way, without there being any sign of another stallion. Baringa stopped again. If there were no stallion, how had the mare and filly found his Canyon? He looked round at Dawn and saw a gleam of amusement in her eye.

Then he whinnied, not loud enough to be heard beyond the Canyon. Every animal swung round, and Benni, with great rhythmic bounds, Came racing towards him: Even the shy and nervous Moon was cantering, either to him or to Dawn. Then a soft paw patted his nose in passing, as the little kangaroo hopped to Dawn, put his paws up to her muzzle, giving short barks of delight.

Definitely there was no other stallion. Baringa could greet Moon and Koora — could wait a moment or so before asking what he greatly wished to know.

The blue filly and the round, white mare were looking at each other and then at the group below the cliff. . . . Thowra had said “the most beautiful stallion in all the mountains,” and they had both thought Thowra more handsome than any horse they had ever seen, but now . . . this horse was younger . . . he was Thowra again, and yet he was not. . . . They waited. At last Benni turned his attention to Baringa. Baringa had never seen his old friend so overjoyed. He caught one soft grey paw between his lips, teasing, and Benni patted him with the other paw.

“Did you think you were going to have to look after Moon for ever, Benni?” he asked gently.

“Your grandsire and I were both afraid,” Benni answered, “but we have forgotten! Thowra thought that the lovely mares he brought you must help bring you home!” Benni scratched one ear with a strangely comical expression on his pointed face.

Baringa heard Dawn’s amused snort again.

In Baringa’s own eyes, as he looked at the mares again, there was a gleam of laughter.

It was Benni who really knew of the desperate fear in Thowra’s heart which could only be assuaged by doing something that would somehow make it be that Baringa was alive. He wondered where Thowra was now because the sooner the Silver Stallion knew that Baringa and Dawn were safe, the better. More mares would fill the Canyon to overflowing!

As though answering his thought, Baringa said:

“Thowra knows that we were on our way home. He heard me call, and answered from the other side of the river.”

“Ahh,” Benni said, and then gave a violent sneeze, for here the wattles were only just coming into full bloom.

Koora and Moon were gently sniffing the foal whom Dawn proudly showed off to them. Baringa turned his attention to the blue filly and the round white one. He walked proudly across the grass towards them. Even the Black stallion’s pert mare stood with her head up, nose trembling, ears flickering, as Baringa went to greet them.

Baringa could not help wondering, during that sunny day, how Thowra got that pert, white mare from the black, and how his Canyon would hold them all. They would look beautiful grazing and playing on the green grass of Quambat Flat.

That morning Yarolala was still in the trees beside Quambat Flat, watching the black stallion seeking tracks of his roans that would lead him to where they were now. She, herself, could only wish for the scent and spoor of Baringa.

All at once the black must have found tracks that actually led somewhere and were not just made by the herd when grazing. He set off in a purposeful way, following them. Yarolala watched closely — and was sure she saw a movement among the trees near the black — a light-coloured movement. Lightning must be shadowing him, and what would Lightning do?

Just then Yarolala felt as though a cloud had gone over the sun, cold all down the back, cold with fear. There had been a sound in the trees near her. She was afraid to move, afraid even to turn her head in case she made herself noticeable.

She looked sideways, rolling her eyes as far as she could. Something was moving in the bush . . . something. . . . Then Yarolala saw feathers swaying and bouncing. She turned noiselessly to face the emus. These emus pretended they knew everything — perhaps they did know where Baringa hid his mares. . . . To be as polite as possible, she walked towards them, and bowed her head ceremoniously.

“Hail Yarolala,” the birds said. “What are you doing, hidden here? When we last saw you, you had joined Lightning’s herd. Perhaps you are wise to leave them again. There is going to be trouble!”

“Greetings, O emus. I have not left just because there was going to be trouble. I left some days ago. I beg you once more to tell me where Baringa runs. I most deeply need the help of all your wisdom.”

The emus looked at her piercingly. They had made some investigations since she had first asked this question which had caused them to become aware that there was indeed a mystery about Baringa, and they had learnt a little. Also they had heard of her report that Baringa was dead, and there was, after that, the added puzzle of a blue filly being with Thowra one day and having vanished the next, and the rumour that the same thing had happened to the round, white mare.

Neither emu spoke for a moment or so, then the male said:

“A secret is a secret.”

“Baringa’s secret will remain untold if I find him,” Yarolala said proudly.

“Even if he did not want to share his secret? Even if he never wants more than his mares who are like the sun and the moon to him?”

Yarolala shivered.

“I will never tell his secret,” she answered.

“And what if he really is dead? You told Lightning that you saw him die.”

“His body no longer lies there,” Yarolala answered. “Neither he nor Bolder lie there. I saw the glade empty, as the lightning flashed. I walked over to where they had lain. There were no dead horses.”

“It is not for us to tell Baringa’s secret,” the emu said. “Seek! Try Dale’s Creek again, though it is a place of danger. Now we go to see how Lightning fares. The black is the stronger horse.” The emus started to walk away, but they watched Yarolala to see if she was in any way bothered about what happened to Lightning. They had no wish to cause real trouble by giving her a hint how to find Baringa, if she might return to Lightning’s herd. But Yarolala was already moving off through the trees towards the Pilot Gap and Dale’s Creek.

Yarolala walked carefully, but the sun was warm, the birds were singing and wattles scented the air. Baringa was alive! She was young and she was beautiful. Occasionally she did a few little dancing steps for joy. Somehow she must find him and never lose him again.

She crossed over the Pilot Gap and began to drop down into the head of Dale’s Creek. An unknown horse flitting though the trees gave her a fright. She tried to hide herself with more care. She wondered if the emus did know where Baringa hid, or were they just pretending, and sending her on a wild goose chase? She did not really think so, because Dale’s Creek was about the only place left in which his hiding place could be. She kept remembering the scent of Baringa on the Quambat Ridge. From where had he come then?

She was glad when she got into the teatree on the valley floor. It was more comfortable to be hidden. With every step she grew more and more nervous, but she was determined. Whatever fear she felt, she must go on and on till she found Baringa. She examined every sandy patch that she came to, but there seemed to be no fresh tracks. The gaiety had gone out of her step. She was alone, and having to draw up her courage. A kookaburra’s sudden laughter made her sweat with fright. She stood for a moment in a thick clump of teatree till her trembling grew quieter.

She had gone a long way down the creek, and still there was no sign of a hiding place. She did not think she could have missed anything, but of course, to be any good, a hiding place must be difficult to find. She half wondered if she had missed a gorge cutting back into the Quambat Ridge.

Everything was so silent, At Quambat or on the Ingegoodbee one heard the sound of other horses. Here even the call of the birds seemed muted. Yarolala felt her coat creeping as she walked on.

The more afraid she became, the prouder she looked, so that the spirit of Yarraman walked through the eerily silent bush, and the sunlight flashed on her silver mane and tail, which were also Yarraman’s, made living gold of her hide as it had his hide, in the Cascades, years ago.

If only she had seen a wombat or a kangaroo, the valley would not have seemed so lonely. She kept thinking of Baringa, and the vision of him rose in her mind — the silver horse, lighter in build than Thowra because he was younger, yet so like him, all fire and eagerness, and still noble and gentle. She almost expected to see him coming towards her with his proud, swinging stride, but the valley was empty.

The creek curved a little westward, and there the character of the valley changed. Instead of being open, with snowgrass and teatree flats, it narrowed between swiftly steepening ridges. There were rocks ahead, Yarolala could see. She still kept herself in the thick teatree, but there was an open stretch. She stopped and peered through the leaves. All was quiet. She stepped out of her cover, went forward a few yards towards the rock ribs that came right to the creek. Then she went cold all over, and backed hastily into the teatree.

What was it lying in the water? Undoubtedly a horse. She turned round and pushed quickly through the trees. She could not pass close to that dead horse, and there was no way of getting to the rocks without passing fairly close to it.

She stopped in the thick teatrec, her heart pounding. She would climb up on to the side of the High Plateau. Perhaps she might get round the rocks far above, might see what lay beyond. Something must. . . . She had seen a place from the High Plateau which she thought no horse could get into.

So she turned and climbed.

When she began to edge over so that she would pass above the rocks, the hillside was a lot steeper. It was difficult to climb, very difficult not to slide. She kept on for quite a way, sweating and panting. When she tried to go downwards, thinking she must have passed over the top of the rocks, she found herself sliding on her haunches and quite unable to stop. Luckily she slid, chest on, into a tree, and managed to get to her feet again.

She tried to go back the way she had come, climbing higher, rather than going downwards, which was so slippery. And as she climbed she wondered if there could be some deep hole in the hills, below her, part of which she had seen from the High Plateau. Except by passing the dead horse, she did not know how she would reach it.

She would have to gather up her courage and pass that horse, and Yarolala had been gathering her courage for so long now.

At last, without falling again, she arrived on a gentler slope above Dale’s Creek.

The sun had long since slid down behind the High Plateau when she got back on to the banks of the creek, and bars of light filtered through the trees. Everything was tinged cold green and seemed fluid, unreal.

Then, in that queer, flowing green light, she saw the dead horse again. It would have to be passed. She held herself tense, and began walking along the bank, eyes and nostrils dilated, flesh trembling. Soon she was near enough to see that the horse had been dead for several days and then with another jolt of horror, she realised that it was the dun stallion who had left Quambat Flat to try to find Baringa’s mares. She was trembling like a snowgum leaf in the wind.

Who had killed the dun horse? Who? Who?

She forced herself to keep walking. Soon she was at the rocks and scrambling up on to them. The light was becoming dimmer, which was perhaps lucky, because there was no cover. What was that? A movement ahead? That rock had moved, or was it a stump?

“Yarolala,” a voice said softly. “What are you seeking?” and the stump had become a grey kangaroo with ears pricked, paws folded in front.

Yarolala’s heart was thundering. She could barely gel her breath at all, but she remembered having seen this kangaroo once, with her own sire.

“O kangaroo,” she said. “I have seen you speaking with my sire, Son of Storm, and I have heard how the birds and animals of the bush are friends of the Silver Herd’s, so I will answer your question. I seek Baringa.”