Silver Brumby Kingdom (5 page)

Baringa’s back had improved enough for him to be able to climb up on to the High Plateau, and for him to be sure he could cross the river. It was the time of the dark nights when there was no moon.

He left the mares with Benni in the Canyon, and climbed up the cliff one night. This time he was not worried about them. Already there was a little grass to eat. Each day the sun was warmer and there was the feeling that the whole world was bursting into life — blade, leaf, flower, animal, insect and bird, On one sunny rock he had seen the purple splash of sarsaparilla: soon there would be more food than they could all eat.

In the Canyon, Moon would be safe, and Koora safe for Thowra, when he came. Baringa knew he need not worry about them. This time he could search and search till he found Dawn.

He would go along the High Plateau and follow Quambat Ridge down to the river, go up the Limestone a little way before crossing, in case she had made her way upstream, then explore all the western bank of the river, far down it and even inland. However long it took him, however far he had to go, he would seek Dawn till he found her, and always, as he climbed the cliff and went along the High Plateau, it was as though Dawn were ahead, a white and silver ghost, so strongly did she fill his mind.

He went quite fast, and as he went the remaining pain in his back eased away. The night was warm. The scent of eucalypt leaves filled the air. No scent of horses was on the whole long ridge. He walked with pride, for he felt strong again, and to be alive in the soft spring darkness was high magnificence.

He also held himself in readiness for anything that might come out of the dark net of night.

As the ridge began to drop down to the river there was the fragrance of lightwood flowering. A mare neighed near by, as though she knew that the most wonderful stallion in all the southern mountains was going past in the thrilling night.

Soundless, Baringa moved on and on through the bush.

It was only chance that made Yarolala turn west from the gap between the head of Dale’s Creek and the Pilot Creek She had been down Dale’s Creek before and found no tracks, nothing but those supercilious emus. She really had no fixed plan for where she would search, and she had no idea where Baringa might run; She might just as easily have turned towards the Pilot, but she turned west and upwards towards Quambat Ridge.

It was just chance, too, that she started her journeying much later in the night than Baringa did.

She climbed up onto the ridge.

If it had not been for a faint south wind starting up then, Yarolala would have turned up on to the High Plateau, but on that south wind there came . . . something.

Yarolala stopped. Her nose trembled. She lifted her head to the breeze and drew it in, and a tingling went through her, right to her hooves and through every hair. Then she turned into the breeze — walked into it as though it held her — and the breeze that lifted her silver mane and forelock carried the scent of Baringa.

Yarolala kept on walking, head up to the wind, never losing that scent, even when the ridge dropped down in among the flowering lightwoods. She simply followed the scent as though she were led on an invisible string by the horse ahead, over on to the banks of the Limestone, along and along the track. Sometime he would stop to graze, then she would find him.

There was no sound of hoofbeat ahead, but Yarolala, of course, was not soundless. She could have been heard by any horse who was close enough, but not by Baringa, because the wind bore the sounds away.

The darkness before dawn grew heavier, then there seemed to be a faint movement through it. Yarolala felt, almost more than saw, a shiver of grey — and still there was the scent, drawing and drawing her.

Faint blue illumined the dark. The trees were thinning and the scent grew stronger. Yorolala slackened her pace. Baringa might have stopped. She felt less sure of herself. She walked more quietly.

As she came to the edge of the trees, she paused. Ahead were rocks, heaped up rocks and flat rocks looming through the strange half-darkness, and below them seemed to be empty space, probably a grassy glade, perhaps a small creek.

Just as she made out the shape of Baringa between two great rocks, she heard a sound behind her and knew that she, too, was being followed.

“Lightning!” she thought, and stepped swiftly to one side, amongst thick trees.

There was the scent of Baringa still, strong on the breeze, drawing her, and through the thick leaves she could still see him, shadowy and insubstantial because there was no light. Then something hurtled past her along the track, sprang on to the rocks, sprang on to Baringa.

Yarolala gave a little cry and then stood silent. Baringa had leapt forward so that the other horse only crashed down on to his rump. In the resulting mix up of two stallions, and in the blue, shadowy light, Yarolala could only just make out that the attacker was not silver, not Lightning.

Baringa’s quick leap had saved him, but it had also put him in a difficult position for dealing with the other horse. He reared up and swung round in one move. The other horse was already coming in to attack. Yarolala had time to see that he was no horse that she had ever seen before, then there was an interlocked, moving mass of stallions as Baringa leaped upwards on his hindlegs and brought his forelegs smashing down on the advancing head and shoulders.

The horse roared with anger and tried to force him backwards over an edge of the rocks. Yarolala could hardly stop herself neighing a warning, but Baringa must have felt the air behind him and known that there was space. He stood firm. There was no room to jump to either side, so Baringa had to force himself against the terrific impact. The horse recoiled. Yarolala drew in her breath as she saw Baringa sway and then gather himself together enough to jump away from the edge.

In the bluish light, everything looked queerly fluid. The attacking horse seemed grey, the rocks were all caverns and hollows. Baringa faded into the atmosphere. The horse was leaping forward again, it twisted in the air, its teeth bared.

This was surely a very nimble horse, almost as nimble as Baringa, and it had the advantage of knowing the rocks in which they were fighting.

Then Yarolala saw Baringa leap on to a flat—topped rock above his opponent, obviously playing for time so that he could see the country over which he had to fight. She saw that other horse spring on to an opposite rock and fly across at Baringa, clearly knowing the distance between rock and rock so well that the queer quality of the ending night and the unstarted day did not make him falter.

Baringa had vanished. For a moment he was invisible in the strange light into which he had blended, but Yarolala saw him again, balanced on a sharp rock.

She looked closely at the other horse. Why had he attacked Baringa? Who was he? She remembered the story that Lighming’s stolen roan mares told of a lone horse, a killer. This could be close to the killer’s country — and the roan’s Country. Perhaps this horse was the killer. She began to sweat with fear, not fear for herself, but for Baringa, who now, fighting, was even more unforgettable than before.

The two stallions were back on the flat rock now, locked together. They freed themselves, they were dodging each other’s blows, they were leaping from rock to rock again. The blue light shimmered over them. Baringa seemed to be disembodied light itself, taking shape and then vanishing, becoming solid as he jumped or struck, then melting into the moving blue again. They were both so nimble that neither succeeded in sinking his teeth into the other, or in striking more than glancing blows as the other dodged.

Baringa stood quite still for a few seconds and merged so with the atmosphere and the rocks that “the killer”, if it were really he, made a mistake, and came in too much to one side. Then Baringa, momentarily possessing the form of a horse in the blueness, gave him a tremendous blow on the head.

Yarolala watched Baringa streak forward to follow up his advantage with yet another crashing blow, but the other horse seemed less shaken by the hit on the head than one could have expected, and, as Baringa came through the blue air, be dodged out of the way and then back to attack.

There they were, dodging, leaping, rearing — a whirl of horse, and nothing taking substantial form in that moment before it was light. Then light came sliding over the sky, and there were two distinct horses fighting a strange fight that rarely brought them close enough to touch each other. Baringa’s enemy was a chestnut. The roans had said the killer horse was chestnut, tall, rangy. This must be he, Yarolala thought. Bolder, they called him. He was a horse that wandered far and wide, they had said. Yarolala was trembling. Yes, this must be Bolder, and he did indeed look like a killer.

Baringa seemed lighter, she thought. He might be swifter too, but in nimbleness they were completely even.

Just then Baringa must have decided that these rocks, in which Bolder obviously knew every foothold, every crack, were no place to fight, because he took a wild leap through the gold-glittering air and landed on a little grassy flat below the rocks. Rocks and trees enclosed this flat, but on the grass Bolder would have no advantage. There Baringa waited for his attacker, his brave, yet gentle head thrown up, his silver mane glistening.

Bolder sprang after him, and they danced round and round each other in the snowgrass ring. While they fought on and on, neither doing much damage to the other, Yarolala moved down through the trees so that she could see them better.

“They will fight till they, are exhausted and then fight again,” she thought, but what would happen in the end? A horse was never given a name for being a killer for nothing. She wondered if Baringa were anxious, then she saw that he was enjoying the soft snowgrass underfoot: She watched him do several light springs.

Bolder came dancing in to strike him. Baringa stood his ground, then dodged at the last minute, got in a good kick at the chestnut’s shoulder, and was out of reach again. in a flash. Then Yarolala knew that Baringa had determined to attack, but that even the nimble chestnut could not guess how, or where.

Baringa darted here, there, everywhere. He circled fast around the other horse. Then he was coming in on the chestnut’s forequarter, but like a snake, from side to side, and fast, so fast. His teeth had grabbed. They missed the hold for which he had aimed — on the wither — but they sank into Bolder’s neck. For a few minutes the two horses were locked together, dancing and swaying in the sunlight. Yarolala saw Bolder getting himself ready for a mighty heave — Baringa must have felt it. Before he could be thrown off Baringa let go his grip, twisted on his haunches, and struck again at Bolder’s head.

Once more they were dancing around and around each other. Baringa looked as though he were enjoying himself and also as though he could go on for hours.

They did go on and on. Yarolala crept off to get a drink in the middle of the morning. When she came back, the little, churned-up grassy flat was empty, and her heart gave a jolt inside her. Had she lost Baringa again, when, in a way, she had barely found him? But no! The two stallions had backed to the trees, one on each side of the grassy flat, and were regaining breath and strength. They were each bloodstained in places, but neither of them were much hurt. Perhaps they might go on fighting so long that Bolder, the killer, might find himself exhausted before he could kill. However, when the fight started again. Bolder was making a much more determined attack — and much nastier. He had apparently got tired of trying to wear Baringa down.

Baringa did not seem worried.

They fought on and on. Twice Bolder got a strong grip with his teeth: twice Baringa flung him off. Several times Baringa got a grip of Bolder, and each time he was thrown off. They were too evenly matched, but it had become quite clear that if Baringa made a single mistake, Bolder would kill him.

By the time the sun had passed its zenith, it was also becoming clear that it might be necessary for Baringa to kill Bolder.

Yarolala was becoming desperate. Here, on this little tree-encircled flat, there was no place for Baringa to force Bolder off a cliff, as she knew Thowra had done to a horse called Arrow, years ago. Here, on the snowgrass, he was going to have to kill him with his own hooves, his own teeth, and if he did not do it, now, she was sure he would be killed by Bolder himself, and the crows would eat the flesh from his bones.

The stallions fought and fought. The sun dropped lower into a band of cloud. Several times they drew back and watched each other, their breath seeming to batter throats and chests, their blood running more freely now from bites and kicks. Sometimes they drank from the small creek. Yarolala could tell that Baringa had become angry. After all, he had done nothing to earn the savageness of Bolder’s attack.

At last both horses were nearing exhaustion. Once Baringa slipped, and Bolder’s fierce onslaught made it even clearer that he would kill if he was not killed or severely damaged himself.

The snowgrass was torn up and the loose soil flew in dust all around. The horses were fighting desperately, each trying to finish off the fight before complete exhaustion claimed him. In the fading light, the rose-red of the sky coloured the dusty air. Blood coloured the horses. Suddenly Bolder made a gigantic spring. He had Baringa: he was pressing him to the ground.

Panic seized Yarolala. It seemed certain that Baringa would be killed. Just as she had found him, a horse who had no reason to fight him was going to kill him . . . but Baringa rose with all his strength and shook Bolder off.

For quite a while Baringa made no attack, but rested, just keeping himself from being damaged. Bolder must have thought he was becoming really exhausted because he redoubled his efforts to kill. Yarolala could see that Baringa had recovered a little.

At last Bolder made a rather wild rush at him. Baringa moved very slightly to one side and then swung round and fastened on to Bolder’s wither. This time he had him too firmly to be shaken off, but the two horses still struggled on in the rosy dust. Evening came and they were still locked together, though not moving as much. It was impossible far the terrified Yarolala to see which horse had a grip of the other. It was dark when she saw the two shadow horses sink to the ground and then fall apart, their limbs setting in strange attitudes.