Silver Brumby Echoing, Page 3

  Suddenly there was no choice. There were more horsemen than she had expected. They were galloping. They were almost on top of Dandaloo and her miniature foal. She would have to take Choopa in the direction in which they were driven, and they would have to go fast … Choopa could not go fast … He put up his nose to touch hers and set off with her.

  Choopa saw the big horses, heard their hooves thundering on the summer-hard ground. They were even shod with silver shoes. Choopa all at once felt afraid, not just for himself, though he could almost feel himself being run over by one of those great horses, but for the beloved old mother who was going slowly so that she stayed with him.

  He could hear heavy horses crashing through the limbs and low shrubs, and his heart was banging against his ribs. Then he could see shadows flickering through bush to one side, racing on, men leaning over their necks, shadows flickering, there they were, horses and horsemen, and then gone, vanishing, appearing — shadows that seemed to be terror itself. Something was behind a black sallee trunk, something, swishing past branches. The movements, broken by trunk and limb, looked disjointed — giant horses quite close, then further away, going fast, faster, faster …

  He knew that Dandaloo was right beside him, her legs by his head. Where were the young kangaroos and wallabies? Then the horses and riders seemed to have raced right away from them, swinging wide, passing them. Dandaloo propped in her tracks and young Choopa stopped beside her. They were at the very edge of the timber.

  What was that thundering and hammering inside him, thumping so that his whole blue and white hide shook? Choopa knew he was sobbing for breath, and felt that he could not possibly get enough air. Dandaloo rubbed her head against his, as he collapsed.

  A red film clouded his eyes, but he had to see what was happening on ahead. Ahead, both groups of men and horses were galloping after the herd.

  By evening the flat had been quiet and empty for some hours. The horses with riders were gone. Nothing moved.

  Choopa was sound asleep at Dandaloo’s feet, but she still gazed out over the flat and up at the slopes of the Cobberas. Son of Storm appeared halfway down the flat.

  Out of the stillness into the sunset light, walking with stately strides, came two cream and silver stallions.

  Baringa, King of the south country, and Lightning. They were the real owners of Quambat Flat, though they rarely appeared, having secret hiding places where their mares and silver foals were hidden away.

  Dandaloo knew there was a very old friendship between them and Son of Storm. Now she wondered if the two silver stallions had heard the whispers in the snow gum leaves, the tales carried through the treetops by the flying phalangers, gliding from tree to tree, and in the songs of the lyrebirds, telling that an unbelievably small blue and white foal, with some wonderful gift, was in the south country, and that they had come to see for themselves.

  Son of Storm was trotting to join those two magnificent horses. Mares and foals were appearing in the open, too. Dandaloo took a deep breath. This might be the time to go out on to Quambat Flat with Choopa.

  She began to canter slowly, wanting to reach Son of Storm and the two silver horses before most of the herd did.

  She had nudged Choopa, but did not realise that he was still half asleep and so slower than usual. For once, she was looking ahead, rather than back, to see if he were coming.

  Choopa found himself getting left behind, and he was frighteningly alone in open country. He must hurry, hurry … Dandaloo had almost reached the two stallions, and a bunch of mares and foals were coming from the other way. Choopa, trying to gallop faster, felt his flying legs beginning to tangle, almost to knot themselves together.

  He saw the earth coming up to meet him. He had a queer muddled picture of the big brown stallion, silver horses, his mother’s blue coat, and a collection of yearlings, mares and foals. For a flashed moment his heart gave a lurch of fright, then in a second he gathered his courage and self-possession together — and his sense of fun. He tucked his head under his chest, the way the echidnas had showed him, so that he somersaulted right in front of the three stallions and all the astounded mares and foals — somersaulted, and sprang to his feet, leapt up and twirled in the air, as though the music of the spheres, the unheard rhythm of the stars, had sounded for him.

  Ball of Fire

  One foal neighed and three or four gathered around Choopa. The three stallions stood with the same strange expression on their faces that the big brown Son of Storm had had when he stood in the dusk looking at the tiny misshapen bundle that was the newborn Choopa — a look of tenderness.

  Here was the dwarf blue and white bundle dancing in the last glow of sunset. Had any horse seen such a strange sight? At the fringe of the forest, Dandaloo could see the young kangaroos and wallabies watching timidly.

  Then the young foals began edging closer. They only made a crescent audience behind Choopa, a half-circle, because they knew that Choopa was really dancing for the stallions.

  Slowly, as darkness crept up the sky, the young kangaroos and wallabies drifted in closer, and there were possums’ eyes glowing in the nearest trees. Leaping and bounding, turning and somersaulting, Choopa wove his spell. Occasionally starlight shone in his eyes.

  Finally, Choopa dropped down, exhausted.

  A wind whispered and faraway one mopoke answered another. High up on the Cobberas, a dingo howled. There was only a sliver of a new moon, so Choopa did not wake to dance again. Dandaloo lay beside him, sleeping calmly, for the silver stallions and Son of Storm, even the mares and foals of the Quambat herd, had accepted Choopa.

  High on a ribbon gum on the slopes of the Cobberas, a flying phalanger sat quite silently. One of the mopokes flew on soundless, fanning wings. Trees and leaves, birds and beasts — the bush network of communication was filled with strange tales that night.

  At first light, Dandaloo saw that the two silver stallions had gone — melted silently into the bush that hid the entrances to their secret valleys. The south wind and the streams whispered legends of a silver tribe who were seen and then not seen — the greatest stallion of them all sometimes appearing in the form of a white hawk, or becoming a willy-willy, a whirlwind of snow, going up, up, up to melt into the sky.

  When Choopa woke he looked around for Baringa and Lightning, half-dreaming of the expression in their eyes, that was more than amusement.

  One man had waited behind after the other hunters had gone, and sitting quietly on his horse he had seen the stately arrival at Quambat Flat of the two silver horses.

  The giant glider near the top of his ribbon gum, and the mopokes, all had seen him, and they took the message far and wide. No good would come of one man staying behind when the brumby hunters left. There would be no security for any brumbies now that a man on a horse had seen the silver stallions.

  News of the hunters, news of the silver stallions so rarely seen, was relayed through the bush. Then came a queer, jumbled story of a very small blue roan and white foal who had somersaulted to the very feet of the great stallions and danced for them on his hind legs, all aglow with the light of the setting sun.

  The flying phalanger and the mopokes had gone when dawn came, but already their message was spreading.

  Even without listening to the Willy wagtail’s ridiculous angry twitterings giving dire warnings of doom, Dandaloo knew in her bones that if any man had sighted the two silver horses, the tales of their presence at Quambat Flat would eventually bring hunters. She knew that she should take her slow-moving Choopa to a place where they would not be found. Perhaps the best place would be in the area of the Limestone Caves. It would be cool there, too, with tea-tree thickets and hollows with little springs of ice-cold water beneath the green fronds of tree ferns. It had been wonderful seeing Baringa and Lightning on Quambat Flat, but undoubtedly the story of their visit would sound through the bush and hunters would soon be about. Son of Storm was too astute to be caught and if hunters became too troublesome she knew he would vanish to
the hiding place that was once the grazing ground of his father, Storm.

  The old mare led her foal and his young tribe of friends, slowly grazing their way through the bush till they came to a place where there was a shallow crossing of the Limestone; a crossing that even the possums could get over, dry-furred, and where scrub would hide them.

  Choopa was always close to his mother’s side, but he was beginning to feel a responsibility for the little tribe who followed him, and often looked behind. Perhaps it was not only the dance that evoked a spell. Perhaps it was the circle of shining eyes. Perhaps there really was an unheard music and certainly there was a rhythm that beat in each of the dancers, drumming in their veins and heartbeats.

  Daylight, dark; daylight, dark; and dusk the dancing hour — dusk and starlight brought all the crowding spirits out of the bush.

  Dandaloo loved the time in the penumbra between evening and night, when all the wild horses that had ever lived seemed to gallop through the air. One old creamy mare in particular seemed almost to have wings, almost to fly down from the high mountains and to be leading them all on and on to the caves.

  The old creamy mare did not let them rest for long that night. When Choopa lay down and slept, she faded away for a while, but then reappeared, and seemed to urge them onwards. Dandaloo began to feel a need to reach safe hiding, something of which that wraith from the night sky had known. Dandaloo did not know if there really was a ghost in the shape of an age-old mare of whom she had heard so much, who embodied all the wisdom of the mountains, but she felt restless … it was becoming such an eerie night. Giant moths were fluttering and gliding through the forest. What did they mean? Something about light … light and time?

  No time to spare?

  Moths brushing their faces. Quick, but go softly … Quick … Quick.

  Tread softly, for there are dreams. The old mare seems to float on air … the night is star-inwrought … the cloths of heaven …

  Choopa saw the spectral mare, saw or felt the crowding memories of wild horses, the spirit of the wild horses, and knew that there was a message. The moths had a message too. Sometimes their whole wings shone in starlight: sometimes their eyes gleamed red. There was something to fear that was neither horse, nor man, nor dog.

  Then an absolute quiet came over the bush. Moths seemed to hang motionless. The spirit-horses that had been in the air were still.

  Choopa could almost see through the old mare, yet she was there, completely still, and Dandaloo had stopped, one foot raised in mid-stride. Choopa pressed against her. The little animals were all as close as they could get; the baby wombat and little echidna had crept up out of the undergrowth, close to Choopa, close to Dandaloo.

  Without a sound, a great ball of light came rushing, spinning through the air … flying, blazing in the night, brighter than the brightest sunlight … a white light … a ball spinning, burning with an intense white light that spread out, right to the rim of the night.

  For a fraction of a second Choopa knew that there was something at the edge of the light, but everything was so bright that whatever it was, was blotted out, then a burning twig landed from a tree behind the track of the fireball, and a little flame began to creep into dry leaves.

  To the caves, to the caves. They must go like the wind. Not a moment to lose. There was one cave, Dandaloo knew, in which a spring welled up.

  Fire! Fire!

  The fireball had raced past but the whole world was alight with that gleaming white light, and now, the red glowing.

  Choopa, the little lizard, knew he could not go fast, but he tried — and fell over his flailing forelegs. He somersaulted, and was immediately back on his feet beside his mother, who never left him. The young animals gathered around them, the wombat urging the little echidna to catch up — for they were one, that tribe, all held together by a gossamer spell, a web of thistledown hitched to a star.

  There, ahead, was the insubstantial outline of the creamy mare. She seemed to be calling to Dandaloo — one wise, wise old mare of the mountains, soundlessly calling another, guiding her to safe haven.

  Bright white light, and then it was fading, leaving the burnished light of the leaping fire — and there was the mouth of the cave, and the clear water of the stream running out of it.

  The creamy mare had faded entirely. Dandaloo and the tribe all hurried into the far back of the cave, but Dandaloo called a neigh of thanks to the ancient mare. The fire was coming near to the cave and the darkness was beginning to glow strangely red. First there was the crackling of burning leaves in the tops of the trees, then a burst of noise — a roar — as a tree head exploded. Any moment the fire would be passing over the top of the cave.

  Choopa took another great mouthful of water and stepped to the entrance to look out. Flying fronds of bracken, all black and twisted, were landing in the stream. Burning twigs flew past on the wind. Standing there, shaking with fear, he heard a sound that he knew, like the sound made by two dead tree limbs screeving together. Brolgas were calling. Four brolgas were flying across the red smoke-stain that covered the sky; their outstretched legs were red, and their heads a deep, deep red. Their great wings were shadows holding them high as they hurtled along on the fire-wind.

  Fiery, red-legged brolgas, they were going so fast that they would not be burnt. They would escape in the air, high above the flames in the treetops.

  A man on a horse swung around to get away …

  The sound of the fire seemed to roll around the cave and cover the sound of the crashing branches as the man looked around, and then galloped away. In his mind was a scene such as no one would believe had ever really happened.

  When he told the brumby hunters that he had seen a fireball go straight as the flight of a kingfisher lighting everything in a brilliant white light, they believed him, because one of them had seen the fireball and even their camp had been partially lit by the unearthly light. He did not say what they would not believe, that he had seen something else, never to be forgotten, a vision of that old blue mare and her cripple foal, and a mob of joeys and wallabies, an echidna, a wombat, all standing statue-still as the fireball went past. Even the fear of the bushfire could not erase that vision in the man’s mind, nor the memory of the mare and foal and animals making a final race from the fire.

  From where he had been, on his horse, the quiet man had not seen the mouth of the cave, only the stream, its water all illuminated with red fire-glow, and the stumbling, somersaulting foal, who for one moment seemed to wear St Elmo’s fire upon his ears, like a cap and bells.

  The ground in the gully around the cave mouth was too damp for the fire to get a hold, but flames roared through the surrounding forest. The heat was intense, yet there was cool, clear water to drink.

  Nearly every animal in the southern end of the mountains had seen the fireball; every bird spoke about it, and murmured of what had been like a stampede of the spirits of dead and gone brumbies before the fireball … And, when the fierce fire-wind died down, the faintly moving air whispered of the sighting of the ancient creamy mare — she whose bones were bleached on the Ramshead Range so long ago. She had come to the succour of Dandaloo — another matriarch of wise brumby mares.

  The blazing picture of a ball of fire had marked the minds of all the wild horses, all the mountain animals, and the ball of fire itself had marked the bush. A man had an inerasable picture burnt into his mind.

  Dandaloo and her blue roan dwarf foal, and all the tribe, would go their way into the mountains. The man would go his, back into an ordinary world, with an entirely unordinary vision haunting his mind and memory.

  Dandaloo Came Galloping

  By bush telegraph — perhaps the wild neighing of horses, perhaps howls of dingoes, something, somehow — the brumby hunters began to feel convinced that some of the Silver Herd were abroad in the mountains. Tales were being told around campfires. At the hut, south of the Cobberas, the Quiet Man sat by the fire saying nothing at all.

  Maybe the insub
stantial creamy mare had never been there, near the creek, with the old blue roan, and all the ’roos and wallabies … perhaps even the fireball had been in his imagination … but no. All the brumby hunters had seen either the fireball or the unearthly light. But they had not seen the tiny foal’s ears ablaze.

  The Quiet Man was not saying anything. Not for him to spoil the secrets of the bush … but … perhaps it would be exciting at least to see a silver stallion. Silver brumbies, of course, should run free.

  The cave, cool and damp and provided with ice-cold fresh water, was a wonderful place while the ground all around was hot, but when finally Dandaloo went outside, seeking food, she found that almost no grass or pod-bearing bushes were left unburnt. She looked over the black landscape, noted the little wisping willy-willies of ash and occasional smoke, and was anxious. Already she was very hungry, and even with that spring water to drink her milk had become less. Choopa must have milk, must grow. Every time they escaped danger, she felt Choopa’s vulnerability even more sharply.

  If they left that sweet water, what if they never found grass?

  The time came when they had to move.

  So much of the mountain country had been burnt, and the blackened landscape was frightening. Whenever they went steeply uphill, the gumnuts that had showered down off the trees were like ball-bearings under their hooves. Choopa fell rather often. Once they found a dying kangaroo, its tail burnt, and it could not hop to water. There was nothing they could do. It lay near a wavy white line of ash, and it looked at them with pleading eyes.

  They did find small pockets of grass along the Indi River, where unburnt shrubs had seed pods hanging over the water. One of these little pockets would provide food for a day, perhaps two, but only for Dandaloo and her foal and the tribe, not for quite a number of horses.

  In spite of being anxious about the amount of grazing, Dandaloo was pleased to see the shape of a horse coming through the trees, and guessed that it was Son of Storm as it blended into the trunks of swamp gum and black sallees. She knew, as he came trotting to greet her, that he was pleased to find her quite safe after the fire.