Silver Brumby Echoing
Elyne Mitchell
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Brumby Family Trees
Dancing Brumby
Dedication
She Nudged her Foal to See if it were Real
The Enchanted Circle
Her Foal Just Did Not Grow
Ball of Fire
Dandaloo Came Galloping
Shadow of a Man on the Snowgrass
The Man, the Blizzard and the Brumbies
Blue and White Foal Poised in a Rear in Lake Albina
A Hand Coming Out of the Mist
Young Wombats Warmed him in the Snow
Danger from the Never-Ceasing Snow
The Black Mare
Choopa Dances to Music above the Snowy River
Escape by the Wombats’ Slippery Slide
A Lasso Flew Through the Dawn
Waltzing Among the Camels
Spangled Legs
Blue Brumby, a Classic Statue Against the Dark Australian Bush
Brumbies of the Night
Dedication
Foal of the Flood
The Still, Round Pool
Someone, Something, Trying to Cut Them Out of the Herd
Two White Foals
In the Dark of the Pines
A Whirlwind of Rage
White Statue Horses in the Bush
Sheet after Sheet of Lightning, and the Horses were Gone
The Gentle Grey Mare Became a Virago
Other Eyes Did See Burra
The White Herd’s Drumming Hooves
The Foal of His Dreams
Snow Floating Down Through the Dark Night
To Get Below the Blizzard
Ringa, the Red
A Willy-willy Enveloped him and he Vanished
His Magic Carpet Began to Go Faster and Faster
Fading Into the Night and the Snow
A Black Foal Again
Dancing Brumby’s Rainbow
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Author’s Note
The Thousandth Brumby
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Wild Echoes Ringing
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Afterword
Books by Elyne Mitchell
Copyright
Brumby Family Trees
Dancing Brumby
Dedication
Dedicated to my great-nephew and great-niece Hugh and Emily Chauvel.
She Nudged her Foal to See if it were Real
Now that her newborn foal was clean and dry, the old roan mare could look him over properly. Undoubtedly — even though he lay among bluebells and silver daisy leaves and he was all colours himself — he was real, not just the bad dream of an old mare, exhausted after giving birth to the last foal she, Dandaloo, would ever have.
She nudged him, more to see if he actually would move than to make him get up.
Then that weird, rather large head — blue roan with great white blotches — came up off the silver leaves, and the nostrils quivered with a snuffling sound. The eyes — each one within a huge, irregular white blotch — opened, and focused on her. Even had she wanted to forget she had ever given birth to such a tiny, multi-coloured foal, he would follow her now to the end of the earth. Then, as she looked at him, she knew she did not want to forget him. With a force such as she had never felt for any other foal, love for this weird little creature rose up within the old mare, almost overwhelming her, and she bent her head to nuzzle all around his face with gentle lips.
The foal struggled to his feet on legs that looked unusual, and Dandaloo saw that his body was dark blue roan, with white in big uneven markings all over. She pushed him lightly towards her milk. Milk sprayed onto his head during his efforts to suck.
They would know each other, now, in the dark of the night, in wind storm or in falling snow, until he no longer needed care. Perhaps they would know each other forever and forever, as long as life went on, because this foal might need love and care always, and the roan mare would not have another foal to take her attention from him.
The sun was sinking below Davies Plain and the lower foothills. The foal lay down, and the old mare settled slowly beside him; warm flank touching warm flank, electric currents flowing one to the other, in their hair, joining them.
The roan mare looked out through the messmates and the bossiaea bushes, at other horses grazing on Quambat Flat. She saw them through a gilded haze, as the sun shafts shone through the golden flowers. A big stallion, whom she knew lived on the Cobberas and claimed that as his territory, his earth, seemed cast in gleaming metal. The mares and foals — the bays, the browns, grazing near him, the chestnuts and roans — seemed to burn with gold, and then become dark as the shadows lengthened and engulfed them; shadows of hills and of forest trees.
The old mare watched all the horses, wondering. She noted how the stallion kept raising his head and looking around. That stallion of the Cobberas bimble always kept his herd pretty close. Dandaloo looked down at her sleeping foal and a shiver went through her, raising her hair. Her foal was a later spring foal than most of the others in that herd, and she knew he was too small, and very strange-looking. Once, last summer, she had seen that Cobberas stallion kill a foal that was misshapen and who never stayed with the herd.
Dandaloo belonged to Son of Storm’s herd, who grazed higher up the flat, and she had not expected to see this stallion so far down the slopes of the Cobberas. Filled with a cold dread now, she nuzzled at her foal’s face and ears. Fear seemed to grow like a bubble within her. This foal was so small. Were its legs queer? Were its knees too big? A vision went through her mind. She saw herself fighting to protect her foal. She knew it was almost certain that no misshapen foal would be allowed to live.
She looked over the flat again. All the shadows had merged into darkness. The creek was still luminous, reflecting the sky. For a few moments more she must be careful not to move, in case any movement aroused curiosity. By the time the night was over, perhaps this terribly small foal might be strong enough to follow her. All the other foals she had borne very soon walked with her, and within a day or so had been proudly led back to the herd. This time her instinct made her determined to hide the foal from anything that might harm him. Anything, in fact, that might come near — even other foals, who would boss him.
Dandaloo was mainly a loner, as was her mate, Son of Storm. Son of Storm was gentle and kind, but even he might not care to let such a strange foal live.
The old mare did not sleep much that night. Once she stood up and stirred the foal awake, and made him drink. He must drink if he were to grow. Surely he sucked for longer this time, and took a fe
w more shaky steps before his legs seemed to crumple and he lay down again. Presently she lay down beside him.
Some hours later, as the moon rose, she heard a sound — louder than that which a wombat, trundling through the bush, would make.
She lay absolutely still, listening to the sounds coming closer — the whisper of bushes being bent one way and then swishing back, the crack of breaking twigs. She lay still, but with every muscle tense, ready to spring up and protect her foal. Whatever it was that was walking through the bush did not come straight towards them, but seemed to go hither and thither, as though looking for something.
She gathered her legs up beneath her, ready to leap to her feet. All the hair of her hide was standing up with fear; her skin crept, cold, along her back.
There was silence for a while. Then she could hear breathing.
A full moon was just rising; its light silvered the topmost leaves of the trees. A faint movement of air brought a scent to her. She knew that scent, and it had never brought fear with it.
The moon sailed up through the treetops into the sky.
There, dark against the moonlight, was a stallion’s head and neck, known and loved, yet who knew what he would think of a possibly crippled foal?
The mare lay quite still, almost paralysed with fear for this foal, but she knew that if the stallion moved she would somehow be standing there over her foal.
She tried not to breathe.
It was Son of Storm who was staring down at the dark bundle beside her. Surely he would not see, by moonlight, that the foal was disgracefully small, and so strangely coloured. Unless the stallion pushed it on to its feet, he would not see the rather queer legs.
She held back a snort of terror from escaping her throat, but the stallion just stood there, gazing at her and at that far too small foal.
Once she saw moonlight shining on Son of Storm’s kindly eye, as she stared too — at him. They knew each other well, these two, but a newborn foal creates a tension, especially if it is weak or malformed. Nothing stirred. Even a possum sitting on a branch above sat absolutely still. Later, a Willy wagtail took up its song to the moon where it had left off when it heard the sound of the stallion approaching.
As the tinkling song broke the silence, the great stallion began to back slowly. His head dropped momentarily, close to the foal, but he must have felt or seen the tense muscles in the old mare, because he looked intently at her and continued quietly to back away. He barely broke a twig, as though he understood the danger that existed for the foal.
The mare felt herself begin to shake all over. The foal stirred, but Dandaloo was still too frightened, and perhaps Son of Storm still too close, for her to make the tiny colt get up and drink. She waited till her heart had stopped thundering and her body had ceased to shake.
This time when the foal stood up in the moonlight, he no longer looked to her like a strange dwarf. Instead, in her eyes, he was beautiful.
Day would come soon. They really must move before first light — if the foal could move. She made him get up and drink again, then let him have a sleep till it was time to start on their way.
They only got as far as the first thick bank of hovea and bossiaea before he had to rest. Just over the other side of the first ridge rising above the flats, the old mare knew, was a secret creek with a pool of sweet water and a grassy flat, all hidden by tall candlebarks, tree ferns, and the scented alpine grevillea bushes. The foal would have to be stronger for them to get there. Water, clear cold water, was what she was beginning to crave. Water to drink, and grass and shrubs to eat — everything to keep her strong, to make milk on which the foal would grow big. They must get there by evening.
She realised that if her little colt sucked for a while, and she then walked ahead for a few steps, he followed, wobbling, after her. On they went like that, in stages, with rests through the day, the mare getting more and more thirsty.
It was nearly sunset when she heard a lyrebird mimicking a thrush and then copying the crack of a whipbird. They were nearly there. The clear, cool creek and the little flat with the candlebarks all around was home to a lyrebird.
She quickened her pace and the little one, trying to keep up, stumbled and half-fell. Finally, she pushed him gently through the bushes, and there it was — the grass, feed, the magic water. She hurried to the water’s edge and began to drink. The foal watched in amazement as she sank her nose in.
They must have left a track which anyone who wanted to find them could easily follow. As she slaked her thirst, Dandaloo’s tired mind cleared and there came a vision of a stallion’s head and great, crested neck against the moonlight. She felt sure that Son of Storm would never harm her, but she would have to take the foal much further away than this hidden flat if he were not to be found by that stallion that came down from the Cobberas, if that stallion could be bothered to track down a very old mare and her foal.
After the foal had had all the milk he wanted, Dandaloo rolled on the sweet grass, and was amazed to see the little colt try to buck, and try to take a few dancing steps, with his queer legs swinging out sideways. He even explored to the edge of the stream. Her strange but beautiful foal was becoming stronger.
The hidden flat below the candlebarks had some special quality. The strength of that sweet grass and of the creek water, and the strength of the surrounding trees with the red smudges on their white trunks, must surely enter into this last foal of an old mare. A sudden sensation of safety touched her, and the urgency to move faded away. Here her foal could grow in peace for a little while.
The darkness of the foal’s second night began to flow through the bush — a velvet grey enfolding the feet of the candlebarks, slowly hiding the grass and the sand of the little beach, but the creek changed into a rose and silver ribbon reflecting the sky. The foal, without any urging, walked towards his mother for a drink, and then settled down to sleep at the foot of the sweet-scented grevillea bushes with their little white flowers. Dandaloo grazed without fear as darkness fell.
The moon rose, moving over the sky, its light falling in beams that drifted over the hidden flat, its rays seeking out the foal lying asleep beneath the alpine grevilleas, and a tall candlebark. No one came looking for them.
Dandaloo knew they could not stay there for ever. Someone might come and simply find the hidden flat by mistake. In the meantime, the foal grew stronger and he gambolled about as a foal should, but although his mother had expected him to grow quite quickly, he did not. Something told her that she could not walk into the herd with pride, leading such a queerly marked dwarf of a foal, whose legs circled out sideways as he walked or trotted, and whose head was too big.
At last she felt they must leave their safe haven and go to somewhere more distant from the herd’s grazing grounds.
She began leading the little one further and further each day, trying to keep close to creeks so that she got plenty of water and where there was bound to be sweet grass.
At last the foal was able to keep up with her if she trotted on a long grassy stretch, but he still had a queer gait in which his forelegs swung out sideways, and he often stumbled, sometimes even fell down. His first falls were accompanied by a little snort of dismay. Slowly, he seemed to learn some secret, some self-confidence.
When she first noticed this, the mare was leading him along the bank of a creek. They were high above the creek, on a narrow strip of grass above the water, with a steep fall to flat ground at the water’s edge.
A kookaburra was laughing and took her attention for a moment, but a slight sound made her look round. Her heart seemed to give a tremendous jolt as she saw her foal’s legs seem to tangle, saw him fall and begin to slide, but suddenly he kicked his legs over, so that he rolled and got those strange legs under him again and was up on his feet quite quickly. The old mare sighed with deep relief.
The little dwarf trotted after her almost jauntily.
When they reached a sandy beach, she lay down and rolled. Sand would take the feelin
g of fear out of her coat — fear that something might happen to this strange little foal.
The foal watched her rolling for a second, and then started to leap and buck and dance — even if his legs were flying wild. He was happy and enjoying himself, enjoying his new-found strength. The old mare was so pleased at his enjoyment that she began to romp and play with him, there on the sandy beach, beside a singing creek.
It was the lyrebirds who heard the song in the creek and learnt that Dandaloo, so loved by the mountains, was doing a dance with her dwarf foal. And because the dance made a magic pattern, other little animals — bobuck possums, kangaroos, wallabies, baby echidnas, and round, fat baby wombats — all came to see, until there was a circle of bright-eyed watchers. Even a lyrebird came out of the thickets of blanketwood bush and tea-tree that grew close to the stream, and a yellow-faced honeyeater sat on a tree fern.
At last the players were tired. The foal lay down for a moment, his little blue and white flanks heaving, but when his mother went to the stream to drink, he struggled up and went to the water beside her. Suddenly he looked round at the young animals, then slowly walked over to the wombat and rubbed his head against it. The echidna’s enquiring snout touched him on the nose, and a baby kangaroo hopped over to stand nearby.
The old mare watched and wondered as her foal became one of the circle of young animals.
The yellow-faced honeyeater called ‘choopa, choopa’ and Dandaloo knew that that would be her foal’s name: ‘Choopa, the Little Lizard.’
The baby kangaroo gave the echidna a playful pat on the snout, and the echidna rolled itself into a ball, head tucked under. Choopa put his head right down between his feet, as though copying the echidna, then he did his funny little dance again, and the yellow-faced honeyeater called and called.
The stream carried its story far away for anyone who had ears to hear, and where this stream turned west to join the Indi River in its journey towards the sea the south wind took up the tale and bore it up into the high mountains, and it whispered through the snow gums and up on to the rocky peaks where the snow still lay in long drifts. So the mountain eyebrights captured in their lilac-coloured cups the tale of a dwarf foal dancing in the centre of a fairy ring of young animals, playing and dancing, and the pattern of the dance within the circle called up magic from the bush, called it down from the sky, so that the whole world of the old blue mare and the young foal was alive with it.
