Silver Brumby Kingdom (13 page)

“Why do you seek him here?”

“Partly because I feel his hiding place must be somewhere near here, partly because the emus suggested I should try Dale’s Creek.”

“Why is it that you seek him at all?”

“Because he is the most beautiful horse in the mountains.”

“Have you the courage to wait here, hidden in teatree without moving for quite a long time?”

“Yes,” she answered.

“Well, hide yourself, so that I know you are hidden before I go. I will come back.”

Yarolala, sidling away from the dead horse and barely looking at it, walked back to the teatree. When he was satisfied that she was properly hidden, Benni went leaping off through the twilight.

Yarolala had to wait a long time, near the dead horse, and it took all her courage, and all her desperate love for Baringa. Night came, filling the valley, and the sounds of the night seemed eerier, lonelier than usual. She was starting to feel very afraid, when Benni came back.

“Yarolala,” be whispered. “Come out.” And that was a scent on the night air, thrilling, lovely.

She stepped out. In the darkness she could just see the shadow form of a silver horse.

“Baringa!” she almost cried his name aloud. Benni tapped her swiftly on the nose to silence her.

“Yarolala,” Baninga said. “Why have you left Lightning?”

“I followed your scent the night you fought Bolder, and saw you fight. I thought you were both dead, so I went back to Quambat. Then, later, I went to see if you really had died, and I have been searching for you since.”

“I see,” said Baringa. “Did you tell them at Quambat that I had died?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And now do they know that you did not find my body?”

“No, but the emus may tell them.”

Baringa blew gently through his nostrils, thinking how, if he believed him dead, Lightning would never rest till he found Dawn. At last he spoke again:

“Yarolala,” he said. “Any mare that comes with me has to remain hidden and keep my hiding place a secret. Will you promise me this, O great-grand-daughter of Yarraman?”

“I promise you faithfully.”

So Baringa led her up the ridge, away a little from the dead dun, on a way he knew through the rocks. Yarolala was so happy to be following him at last that she barely noticed his horrified appearance as he looked down on the heap that had once been a horse, lying down in the creek.

She put her feet exactly where he put his feet, moved in time with his movements, went through the bush with Baringa, belonging to him. Benni, looking pleased, bounded rhythmically alongside.

Baringa paused before the steepest part of the descent.

“Where is Lightning now?” he asked.

“Lightning!” Yarolala was thinking of no one except Baringa, and she was so happy that she had forgotten the black stallion, forgotten Lightning. “Why, Lightning,” she went on. “He’s probably still fighting the black stallion over those roan mares.”

“The black is there.”

“Yes. He spent a whole night prowling round the flat, trying to find tracks that would lead him to wherever Lightning had taken his roans. He had just discovered their spoor and was heading for the Cobras when I left the trees where I had been standing watching.”

“So they had not started to fight?”

“No.”

Baringa said no more, and led down into the Canyon.

The night was only lit by the stars, but the three white mares and the two pale mares, the silver yearling and the silver foal, all took shape in starlight. Yarolala looked at them rather shyly. She was not silver, but she was of the Yarraman blood, as Baringa was too. Then she recognised the black stallion’s round, white mare, and was amazed.

Benni and Silky, invisible in the night, Looked at the mares and thought they were a most beautiful herd.

When Yarolala left Quambat she had been right in thinking that Lightning was shadowing the black, but as soon as Lightning was certain that the other stallion had indeed picked up the tracks of his roan mares, and was going to follow them, he took a short cut so that he might reach the mares first and possibly be able to get them away and hide them.

Unfortunately the black went far faster than he expected. Lightning had only just arrived near his mares when he heard a trumpeting snort, and the black was almost upon them.

The black horse saw his own roans and was just starting towards them, without even realising Lightning was there, when suddenly it was as though he saw Goonda for the first time. He stopped with one forefoot raised, and simply stared at her. Then he began to walk slowly, proudly, towards her.

In that moment Lightning learnt one thing. He learnt that even the remembered beauty of Dawn meant nothing to him compared with his feeling for Goonda. He bounded forward, between the black and his red roan mare — and in the swiftness of his movements, his courage, and his fire, he suddenly looked far more like his sire, Thowra.

Even the black paused for a second as he saw Lightning coming, for Lightning’s quality was such that one might pause, also this was surely not the horse whom he had seen once bloodstained and exhausted — seen and then lost? The second’s pause gave Lightning time to hurl himself at him.

Even with that first crashing impact, Lightning knew that this was the strongest, heaviest horse he had ever fought, knew that, if he were to survive, he would have to alter his method of fighting to something more like Thowra’s and Baringa’s strike-and-leap-away, bite-and-dodge tactics. His only hope, Lightning was sure, was to exhaust this horse.

Goonda did the most sensible thing possible. She led her foal, now nearly a yearling, and Steel’s grey mares off towards Cloud. The five roans belonging to the black did not want to go with her, so she left them to follow the queer running fight that began to develop. However, the fight, too, went in that direction, because the black saw Goonda going that way and he was determined not to lose sight of her.

Lightning was equally determined that he would not let the black get her, but he was very frightened because of the black’s greater strength. For the first time Lightning felt that he would give his life to protect someone else, and that he would surely rather die than lose Goonda.

Somehow the great strength of this feeling gave him an endurance and a speed which he had never before possessed.

For a while the black stallion simply tried to defeat Lightning, probably thinking that it would be fairly easy, and that, once he had defeated the silver horse, he would be able to take his own mares and this beautiful light-red one, with the spirited, intelligent head, the tossing mane and tail of red and silver.

Lightning, however, managed to dodge and strike, leap and kick, so cleverly that the black soon began to think that it might be more profitable to try to take the lovely mare and thus turn Lightning into the attacker — he might then be more easily beaten.

Their fighting had taken them only a little distance along the flat. Now the black set off at a gallop towards where Goonda, seeming on fire with life, stood near Cloud, and Mist, and Cirrus.

Lightning sprang after him, and very soon was cutting across him, crashing into his shoulder. The shock made them both recoil, but the black was not easily put off, and instead of attacking again, as Lightning had hoped he would, he just gathered himself together and galloped on.

Lightning had to go faster than he had ever gone before to try to catch him. He could see Goonda partly behind Cloud. She was looking anxious. Lightning hurled himself at the black horse. His teeth fastened into flesh — and held. One foreleg went between the black’s forelegs. The sky and the trees began to sail past, and the warm, green grass of Quambat Flat was rushing upwards, as they fell. The black horse would be able to get up first; he was on top. Lightning shut his teeth like a clamp and held on with every ounce of strength and determination that he could muster.

They began to roll over, a kicking, struggling mass of cream and black, silver mane and tail flying with black mane and tail; and the black stallion was screaming with anger.

Lightning knew he would not be able to hold on for ever. He succeeded in getting his legs and feet underneath him just as he felt his jaws slipping. He was up as quickly as the black. He made a tremendous effort to reach Goonda first, and to stand between her and the advancing stallion.

Goonda gave a little whinny of encouragement. Goonda, who had left Whiteface’s herd to go with Lightning when they were only two-year-olds, and who had been with him ever since, knew Lightning as well as any horse or mare did, and she had recognised the new quality in him, recognised with joy that it had been called up by his desire to protect her, by his desperate fear of losing her. To Goonda, Lightning had always been handsome, now, all at once and for her, he was vital with the undefeatable spirit that burnt in Thowra and in Baringa.

Goonda could see that the black horse was the stronger, but she felt a certainty that Lightning’s new spirit could hold him against the other’s physical strength so that he would not be beaten. She wondered should she and her yearling slide away unseen, and try to hide in the rocks on the Cobras, the only hiding place being right near the top, but she wanted so deeply to watch Lightning — this new Lightning who seemed to have grown in quality because of her.

Cloud was watching too.

Scent of spring enveloped them, scent of waffles, warm in the sunshine. This was the season for fighting among stallions. Tragedy sometimes came, but life and youth took over, foals were begotten, and those begotten last year were born. The world re-created itself in the spring, and creation was joy — though of course the spring was not joy for those who had their mares stolen, or who were hurt and maimed in the fights. But life went on.

Goonda knew she would belong to Lightning for ever.

The black horse was charging Lightning. He was upon him, hooves flailing, and Lightning could not jump aside this time, because Goonda was behind him.

Amazed, Goonda watched him move slightly, and so lightly, rear up and crash his forefeet down on the advancing stallion. Lightning was fighting a magnificent fight, but the black succeeded in getting in the hardest blows.

It would give Lightning a better chance to dodge, Goonda thought, if she moved away. She backed into the trees and moved off quietly.

Lightning felt her going, and started to leap and tease, just the same way as he had seen Thowra and Baringa do.

The black realised she had moved, and could not see which way she had gone. Goonda, looking round as she walked, nearly bumped into the emus, but, except to give them a polite greeting, she said nothing.

She could not bear to go completely out of sight of the fight, so she walked a short distance through the trees and then got herself to where she could see out without being seen.

Lightning was still successfully dodging, and leaping in occasionally with a strike or bite.

The black’s five roans were standing at the edge of the bush. Goonda wondered if they would come if she called them. Their sudden vanishing from sight might upset the black.

She called quietly. The roans lifted their heads. She called again; they began to move towards her. Goonda waited till they got close, then she moved silently through the bush, and called from a little further off.

“Come, quick, quick!”

The black did not miss the mares for quite a while, and when he did, he let his attention wander; and received, on his off hip, the first really heavy blow that Lightning had managed to land on him. The black shook himself, but went rushing off to find his roans. The mares were his. They must stand near, so he could see them.

Lightning chased him.

Slowly the day wore on. The two horses were streaked with sweat, tired and thirsty. Both were stiffening slightly, the black from the blow on the hip, and it looked as though he might be the stiffest the next day. At last he began to retreat for the night, backing away towards the roans. Lightning was so tired that he did not follow immediately, but joined Goonda, got a drink, had some grass.

There would be a faint new moon that night. Perhaps when night came . . . But of course Lightning was visible by night, and the black almost invisible.

Lightning did not desperately mind whether he lost the roans or not — Goonda was the one who mattered — but still it might be better to try to take them back during the night. It might, of course, be better to rest.

All round the flat there were movements and sounds. Horses had come down from Forest Hill, from the Cobras, to see what was going on, and the bush birds and animals that might ordinarily have gone further afield as night came, stayed in the trees nearby — or came closer.

Leaves and branches moved, shrubs rustled. There was a faint twittering. Small, bright eyes peered through the darkness. Nothing must be missed, for two of the strongest stallions of the mountains had fought all day and only succeeded in exhausting each other.

Among all the bush birds the animals, two questions were whispered: “Where was Thowra?” “Was it true that Baringa was dead?”

If Baringa were dead, then the winner of this fight would be the greatest stallion of the south.

The black . . . the black . . . every bird knew that the black was a fierce, strong fighter, but what was it that the kurrawongs had cried, far up in the sky? “Lightning fights as though possessed by the spirit of Thowra . . . he fights for the beautiful Goonda. He will fight on and on.”

The silver sickle of moon was in the sky, but shed very little light. Lightning roamed around the flat, inviting further battle, but the black did not move.

Lightning thought he would try a soft call to those roan mares and see what happened.

“Come, come away with me,” he called, making his voice as gentle and as honey-sweet as he could. “Come away, come away.”

The roans stirred restlessly. The first one to throw up her head with some eagerness, earned herself a sharp bite. Another began to move off and she, too, was bitten.

Lightning could not see what was happening, only hear, and guessed that the black was in an evil mood. He was not particularly happy himself, stiffening up all over, now, and very tired, but he knew that he had never fought so well before, and he knew that, to Goonda, he was wonderful, so, in spite of his stiffness, he walked with pride.

He still had Goonda with him. He must defeat this horse and be king of all the southern mountains.

At last, that night — the same night in which Baringa took Yarolala to his Canyon — Lightning and the black both slept, slept and stiffened up.

They woke during one of the light frosts of a spring morning, feeling almost unable to trot, far less gallop and fight.

Lightning wished he felt better. For some reason he remembered, though he pushed the thought away, all the times Baringa had helped him. Well, Baringa was dead now.

All the next day the black and Lightning eyed each other from a distance, both far too stiff and sore to want to attack. The other horses, the birds, and the animals of the bush stayed close to Quambat Flat, wondering what would happen between the two great stallions . . . every animal wondering . . . every animal waiting . . . and Goonda and the five roan mares wondering and waiting most of all.

Goonda would have liked to suggest that they should simply go, vanish, but she knew that this time Lightning had to stay and fight this to a finish.

One more night and then half a day — and the black seemed to feel it was time to start again. He came up the flat, stepping high, head high, snorting.

In fact he was lame.

Goonda guessed that he thought he would try himself out and see what he felt like when he was warmed up. There was something about that horse which made her wish again that she and Lightning could just go away together. It was no use wishing. It was not for Lightning to wander the mountains peacefully, with one mare. Lightning would have to have a big herd, and no other horse to question his rights. Lightning would have to conquer — if he could.

She waited uneasily.

The black apparently still felt too sore to fight for very long, and though he sparred around with Lightning for a while, he soon retreated.

The next morning clouds covered over the sky, dark and heavy. The black apparently felt much better. He came up like a whirlwind, and Goonda watched, horrified. There was no mistaking his intentions: this time he meant to make a finish of the fight, meant to finish Lightning.

Lightning gave Goonda a gentle nudged towards the trees, touching his nose to hers for less than a second, and then he was walking proudly out to meet his enemy.

Goonda moved in behind some bitter pea bushes, but could not bear to go further away, as though if she were close, she could give out her strength to Lightning.

Lightning, looking quite confident, sidestepped away from the black’s first onslaught Goonda could tell he was stiff still, but the black was still lame. Lightning wheeled round to meet the next charge, and treated it the same, except that he managed to draw blood with his teeth on the other’s shoulder.

After they had danced around each other for a while, the stiffness and lameness had worn off both horses, and they were starting to sweat. Goonda could see the streaks of it beginning to stain Lightning’s coat. She was sweating herself, with nervousness, and was surprised to feel a cold touch on her back, then on her rump. She looked up at the sky and saw the falling flakes.

“The snow does not want to leave the mountains this year,” she thought “Even though the hot weather is here, snow falls again. It should indeed be the year of the silver horses, for snow is theirs,” and she felt cheered up by the stars and leaves of falling snow, cheered up until she thought of Baringa. . . . It had not, indeed, been his year. Goonda was fond of Baringa and she felt saddened, thinking of him. Then she wished she knew where Baringa used to hide himself and where his mares must actually be now — a hiding place could easily be useful.

Lightning was dodging the flailing hooves and the great mouth. Goonda wondered how long he would manage to keep leaping this way and that. Just then Lightning’s foot slipped and the black got a grip of his neck, Goonda drew in a cold breath, a breath filled with snowflakes and with fear.

The two horses were locked together. Goonda could see that the black’s grip was not a strong one and that Lightning was striking at him, fighting with all his strength.

The black stallion’s grip slipped. Lightning broke free, landing a tremendous blow on the strong, black head.

For hours the fight went on, neither horse winning, but Goonda knew it was only Lightning’s spirit that kept him undefeated. And the snow fell in big flakes out of the grey sky, cold on hot backs and rumps of steaming horses, cold, so cold, as it matted Goonda’s mane. Slowly the ground became white. The day stretched on. Both horses were tiring, and it was now, when he was nearly exhausted, that the curtain of failing snow confused the black’s judgment — or hid Lightning sufficiently to make it difficult to strike at him accurately, so much did his cream hide, his silver mane and tail blend with the falling flakes.

Perhaps the snow saved Lightning. Just when he felt that he could dodge and strike no longer, no longer struggle, the black stallion’s blows began to miss him, waste themselves on air, so that the black swung off balance, and Lightning was able to rock him further with a well-placed kick or strike.

At last the black drew away, glowering. Lightning was able to return to Goonda, and even though his flanks were heaving and his breath rasped in his throat, he could still walk with pride.

The black only rested for a short time. Then, perhaps feeling that he actually had had Lightning almost beaten, he came up the flat again, snorting and pawing the ground, throwing up the snow.

Lightning was so tired. Somehow he must go forward through the snowflakes and try, by luck, to lame or maim that black horse . . . somehow . . . for he was exhausted . . . and tomorrow the snow might stop and he would not have the curtain of falling flakes to hide him.

Snow clung to his eyelashes, touched him cold, cold. One great blow on the black’s stifle, or on a knee . . . but he was so tired. . . .

He tried to strike.

The black rushed at him wildly. They were both exhausted. It was not possible to go on fighting. And the snow kept falling down out of the clouds and then out of the night sky.

Goonda rubbed her head against Lightning when he came back to her, and drew him away under some trees. Even if he would agree to go, to leave the black at his beloved Quambat Flat, he had no strength left with which to walk away and Goonda knew he would not leave.

In the night the snow stopped. Grey clouds were still overhead, when day broke, but during the day the clouds rolled away. Soon the sun would shine again.

The sheltering snow had gone.

The two stallions kept watchful eyes on each other. Neither had won: neither had lost. It was impossible for Lightning to drive the black from Quambat Flat; and it was impossible, only just impossible for the black to take Goonda, whom he wished to have.

There, at Quambat, the silver stallion who was tired and the black one who looked thoroughly rested watched and waited.