Silver Brumby Kingdom (9 page)

Thowra had hurried, but he stilled his laboured breathing, and crept slightly up the ridge and around, so that he would not seem to rise up out of the Canyon. Then he attacked the horse from behind.

The dun swung round too late, his hindfeet slipped on the muddy bank and the two horses slid together into the creek. Water splashed up all round them, silvered by starlight.

Thowra landed on top of the other, kneeling on him. The dun was young and very strong: he was also fighting for his life. He gave a tremendous heave upwards and got to his feet, but Thowra was on a rock, towering above him, was leaping towards him.

The dun sprang away, his feet slithering on the hidden boulders below the deep, swift water. Thowra was after him through the starlit spray — a horse of sparkling water and starshine, but with the strength of the white blizzard.

The dun hurled himself at Thowra, but his feet slipped into a deeper hole. Thowra saw him try to rear up, saw him get into slightly shallower, but very swift water, and then suddenly one of his legs slipped on the rocks, and the horse fell sideways with a scream of pain.

Thowra stopped in mid-rear, dropped his forefeet on to the submerged rocks again. He saw the dun give a convulsive struggle, saw that one hind leg was wedged in the rocks, saw the strange twist in the animal’s back, saw it collapse.

What Thowra could not see in the dark was the horse’s head sinking under the swift, spring current.

He stood waiting, his wet coat touched by the gusty wind, making him very cold. After a few moments he stepped forward. The dun did not stir. He went closer, Only the water moved the mane.

Thowra gave a snort of fear, that fear which all horses feel at the sight of death, and he backed out of the creek, and turned for the Canyon. This horse would not even go limping over the mountains, and Thowra felt uneasy because ill luck in the swift water, had caused his death. Might ill luck have killed others in this spring’s floods?

Because the sight of death was horrible, and this death filled him with such foreboding, Thowra, when he started for Quambat Flat, before daylight next morning, did not go by way of Dale’s Creek. He climbed Baringa’s cliff on to the High Plateau.

The change in the weather was now more noticeable. Few stars showed, and the wind was gustier, stronger. As the light started, Thowra could see heavy clouds rolling up from the north-west. Being much more attuned to the weather and the country around him than Lightning was, he knew, even in the early morning, that thunder was coming. When Lightning was hurrying down to the head of the Berrima River, barely heeding the weather, Thowra trotted across the High Plateau, his hair alive to the coming storm.

Once he went right to the western edge, where a wedge of rock jutted out, and he could look down on to the Murray River. Even from that distance he could see that the river was still very swollen. He stood there for a long time, deeply anxious, watching the river, gazing at the country on the opposite bank.

In Thowra life itself was so vigorous that it was impossible for him to believe that Baringa and Dawn were dead without the proof of his own eyes seeing the bodies, or at least the proof of searching and searching and being absolutely unable to find them. The river certainly must have been overpoweringly strong when Dawn slipped in: Benni, he knew, was very fearful for Dawn’s life; but Thowra felt that they both must be alive. With this feeling strongly within him, he neighed his challenge to the river and the unknown land on the other side. Then he turned, once more to Quambat Flat.

He hurried down off the High Plateau, hurried up and down the Quambat Ridge, and at last down on to the tree-fringed edge of Quambat Flat.

He could not see Lightning anywhere, and none of his mares were visible either. Thowra skirted round the flat, hidden in the trees, and going towards Cloud, Mist and Cirrus, and when he saw them he felt the pleasure that always warmed him at the sight of the gracious, old stallion, and the joy he felt in the grey mare, Cirrus, whom he had won, years ago, from Steel.

“There is trouble, trouble,” Cloud said in answer to his question. “Lightning has surely gone to try to find Dawn, and sometime, without doubt, the black stallion will come to claim the mares which Lightning stole at the time of the melting of the snow.” As he spoke, the thunder started its faraway rumblings, and seemed to emphasise all he said. Lightning’s mares were all out of sight in the thick bush on the slopes of the Cobras, Cloud told Thowra, and added that he should find Yarolala and ask her about the fight between Baringa and Bolder. He told him, too, that Lightning had headed towards the Pilot: he mentioned that the dun horse had also gone and not returned. Cloud was not serene and happy like he usually was.

Thowra went off to find Lightning’s herd, still keeping himself hidden in the timber, and, as he went, the thunder sounded closer and more ominous.

At the same time as Lightning was crying his loneliness aloud to the empty hills, his sire, the Silver Stallion, walked without sound through the bush towards his herd.

Goonda was the first of the mares whom he saw, and he was amazed at how beautiful she had become. He went a little further, made out Steel’s mares, then the ones that belonged to the black stallion, and finally a chestnut mare who was exactly like his own sire, Yarraman, and remembered seeing her as a two-year-old in Son of Storm’s herd. She must be Yarolala.

He walked up to Goonda, going out into the open from between the red trunks of two candlebarks.

Goonda jumped with surprise, then greeted him affectionately.

“What tidings have you brought?” she asked.

“None. I have come to learn what has befallen Baringa.”

“That you must find out from Yarolala. She saw Baringa die.”

Yarolala had come closer, and Thowra turned to her and asked her the same question. He knew of the horse, Bolder, knew him to be a savage killer, but when she had finished her story he exclaimed:

“They
both
died!”

“Yes.”

“Then that is the strangest fight of which I have ever heard,” Thowra said, and stood thinking for quite a while before he asked Goonda about Lightning.

By the time Thowra had learnt all he wished to know — and told nothing to anyone, not even Goonda — the thunder was echoing off the Cobras, rolling round the Pilot, and cashing closer, closer.

Even if Lightning had gone to the Pilot to begin with, he might easily finish by going to Dale’s Creek. Before starting his search for Baringa, dead or alive, Thowra knew he must make sure that Lightning did not find the Canyon. He went back round the flat, working his way round towards the Pilot Gap from where he could drop into Dale’s Creek.

Goonda watched him until he vanished, and when she looked round, Yarolala had gone too.

Thowra took great care, as he dropped down into Dale’s Creek. He must be sure, if he found Lightning, not to let him think that he knew where Baringa’s mares were hidden. It would be best to let Lighting see that he came from Quambat — always supposing that Lightning did go to Dales Creek.

The afternoon was closing in, heavy clouds making it very dark, and the thunder echoed off the rocks on the High Plateau. Thowra walked carefully down the valley, keeping hidden in the trees. Just before darkness came, he went through a patch of teatree on to the track. There he saw two sets of hoof marks — one, very fresh, was Lightning’s.

Thowra began to go as fast as he could without giving himself away. Then came that tremendous crack of thunder and the lightning that lit the whole sky. Thowra found himself sweating with anxiety. What should he do if Lightning found his way to Baringa’s Canyon?

Again and again the valley was filled with the silver-blue light of the electric storm, and thunder filled the air so that even Thowra could not hear the pounding sound of hooves.

Lighting burst out of the darkness as the valley was lit up again.

Thowra sprang from the trees and stood in his way, himself afire with the silver-blue light.

Lightning pulled up to a sliding stop, almost crashing into the glittering horse who had sired him. He was sweating with

fear.

“Lightning, Lightning, of what are you afraid — not the storm, for you were born during just such a storm as this?”

“No, not the storm. The storm lit up a body. . . .”

“Lit up what body?”

“The body of a dead horse. A dead horse who was alive only three days ago, and he went seeking Dawn, as I was seeking Dawn. Baringa, too, is dead.”

“Goonda told me to come this way to find you. She thought you might come down into this valley from the Pilot. We will go to Quambat together.”

“Let us hurry away,” said Lightning. “This is a valley of death.”

“I know it is a valley of death,” Thowra answered, “but we will not gallop, lest the whole world knows we are here. Follow me.”

Lightning followed as best he could, but making much more noise than Thowra did. Thowra made no comment because he knew there were no other horses about. By the way Lightning kept on his heels or alongside, he guessed that the fear of death — and whatever had killed that horse — would keep Lightning away from Dale’s Creek for quite a time.

Thowra needed time. He needed time to go and find Baringa and Dawn.

Just as they were reaching Quambat Flat, Thowra said:

“If you go wandering away from your own mares, like this, you will lose them all. The black stallion must come soon, for his own mares, and Goonda has become so lovely.

At that moment the storm lit up the whole of the flat. It seemed completely empty of horses.

Thowra, of course, knew the mares were all there, but he let Lightning get anxious. The more anxious begot about them, the less likely he was to leave them again.

By the time he saw his herd, Lightning had become so worried that he rushed up to them, filled with relief and excitement, and for a few minutes, did not realise that Yarolala had gone. By the time his excitement had burnt itself out a little, and the fear he had left had partly come back, Thowra had gone too.

The night was so dark, except when the storm lit it up, that there was no hope of seeing where Thowra had gone.

Lightning felt most uneasy.

Soon the rain began to beat on the wind, rain that would wash out all tracks. Lightning stood beside Goonda, feeling her warmth go through him, shoulder and flank.

Thowra went deeply into the bush so that even the vivid light of the storm would not easily show him up, and he headed for the junction of the Limestone with the river. Then he intended to go up the Limestone to try to find the place where Yarolala said Baringa and Bolder had fought — and died.

By the time he reached the junction of the two streams, the rain was pouring down, obliterating all tracks. There in the bush, he waited till most of the night had gone because, for this search, he needed daylight. As soon as daybreak came, he started off.

Thowra went quite a long way up the Limestone, seeking for the body of a horse — or two bodies — hoping he would find nothing, and yet knowing that, until be saw Baringa alive, galloping, he would be unable to be sure.

He also kept a wary eye out for the black stallion.

Yarolala’s description of the place where the two stallions fought had been most confused. All that Thowra knew for certain was that it was on or near the track and below huge rocks. He passed through one huge pile of slabs and tors, and went down on to the little tree-encircled flat below. The flat was quite empty.

Thowra, feeling a lightness, nosed about, but had there been any signs of a fight, the light snow that had fallen after it, and the rain that was pouring down now, would have removed them. He must go further, though, still searching, in case this was not the place Yarolala meant.

All of a sudden he saw one clear hoof mark, filling with water, and was certain that the spoor was fresh — also that it was Yarolala’s, It was not going towards the track, but towards the river.

Thowra wondered whether to try to find her, if it were Yarolala, or whether to go on up the river, and decided that he must make sure there was no place further up where the bodies of Baringa and Bolder might be lying. So he followed the track again, on and on, and the further he went without finding any more heaped up rocks, the lighter he felt, and the stronger his certainty became that Baringa must be alive. He also began to wonder more when he was going to find the black stallion, never dreaming that the reason why the black had not arrived at Quathbat Flat, days ago, was that the black, too, had been searching for Baringa, and was only just returning to his bimble, a little further up the Limestone.

The black had spent days on the other side of the river, had come back on that side, and had not yet crossed over. It was not he, whom Thowm saw first, but the round, white mare.

Now, Thowra’s gaiety had been rising and rising with every moment in which he failed to find the body of Baringa, and the sight, through the trees that lined the banks of the river, of that round little mare, suddenly seemed to make his rising spirits explode.

Never for one moment did he think she was Dawn. He simply thought that whoever owned her, she would make another mare for Baringa. Baringa would have such a home-coming!

Then he saw the black stallions coat, then a flickering movement through the thick trees, and saw his legs, his crested neck, his quarters — and he only thought: What fun! Somehow I shall take the mare for Baringa!

Thowra stayed quietly in dense teatree and watched the black lead the white mare across the stream. Then he followed them a little further upstream, watched them get in under a large candlebark as if that were a usual sheltering place. It appeared to Thowra as if they had come home. He wondered where they had been. The black was obviously in a rather bad temper, but the little fat mare did not seem to let anything worry her.

A little further down the river, Yarolala stood hidden in the same dense patch of teatree in which she had hidden after watching Baringa and Bolder fight. She had already found no sign of a dead horse on that tiny flat, and hope had suddenly sprung up within her. Now she had seen the black stallion and mare go up the river and remembered that other time when she stayed hidden in the same teatree and had heard the black go downstream. Suddenly she remembered, too, how she had lain down and, half-sleeping, had seen a vision of a bloodstained silver horse go past. How stupid she was! That blood-stained horse had been no vision, but Baringa himself, going down the stream too. What had happened to him since? Had the black found him and fought him while he was weak and exhausted from fighting Bolder? Where was he now? And where should she go now?

Yarolala did not know where to go. She wanted so deeply to find Baringa and had no idea how to start. She stood wondering if she should try going down the river, if, in fact, she had the courage to do so. Also she had a sneaking feeling that Baringa did not live down the river, but somewhere closer to the Tin Mine Creek. She wished the rain would stop.

Thowra, for the moment, was thankful for the rain. It would continue to wash away tracks. He watched the black stallion and his round mare, Every time the mare moved at all, the stallion snapped at her peevishly and she took no notice at all except to stand a little further away and nibble some grass.

It was just then that some movements in the trees, a little distance away, on the splayed-out ridge, attracted the blacks attention. Thowra had already seen them, and while unbothered as to who made the movements, he was almost certain that he had seen the sway of emu feathers, the outlines of neck and head.

The black was jumpy. He kept looking in the direction of those movements, and it. was easy to see that very soon he would be unable any longer to stand peacefully beneath the trees, but be forced by his nervous curiosity to see what was up there.

Presently the black stallion turned to give the mare a little nip to tell her to follow, and was so wondering what was up the ridge that he did not notice that she was standing further off than usual, nor did he notice that she had got tired of following and that she simply remained under their tree.

The little white mare watched him go, thinking that he had become unbearable since his beloved roans had gone. She had just spent days and days following him, while
he
followed the idea of a silver horse whom she did not think he had ever really seen. Somehow the black had heard a rumour that a silver horse had been in his country during the heavy snow, and he had been thinking of silver horses ever since. The little mare thought the whole story was nonsense, and was sure that the black stallion had only dreamt, too, about the blood-stained silver horse for whom they had searched for days on the far side of the river.