The Silver Brumby (2 page)

Thowra and Storm were both really frightened by the excitement of the great stallion, their father, and the curiosity of the other mares and foals.

One huge chestnut foal sniffed at Thowra and then gave him a sharp, unpleasant bite on the wither. Thowra dodged behind Bel Bel who promptly laid her ears back and chased the foal away. A small, mean-looking brown mare came prancing up and bared her teeth at Bel Bel.

‘That’s my foal, Bel Bel,’ she snarled.

‘Should have thought as much,’ Bel Bel said. ‘There’s nothing in your looks that a foal could take after, so it had to be the image of its father.’ But when the brown mare had moved off and left them, she said to Thowra: ‘Watch that foal, son. It may only be as much as a week older than you, but it’s much bigger, and, though its got its father’s looks, it has inherited its mother’s mean spirit.’

‘What’s more,’ said Mirri, ‘Brownie will be trying to queen it over everyone just because she has produced a foal so like Yarraman.’ Then she called out loudly to Brownie, ‘What have you named your colt?’

‘Arrow,’ came the answer.

Though the weeks that followed were peaceful for the herd, they were not really peaceful for Thowra and Storm. Arrow seemed to hold it against them that they had been born far off below the Ramshead Range, farther and higher than he had ever been. Whenever Bel Bel and Mirri moved off grazing, or the foals galloped away from their mothers, Arrow would appear slyly beside them, giving a quick bite, or kicking as he galloped past. The other foals were mostly afraid of him, too, but apt to follow his lead — when they could be bothered. Fortunately for Thowra and Storm they could not often be bothered, it was so much pleasanter to gallop and prance on the soft grass, or to splash in the ice-cold creek, watching the golden spray fly up.

Bel Bel and Mirri knew that Arrow was bossing all the foals, that he was being particularly spiteful towards Thowra and Storm. They kept an eye on any rough games, but realized that the foals must learn to take care of themselves, too.

The days, to the foals, were almost all the same. They drank the good milk from their mothers, slept in the sun, and played. They learned to stand with forelegs far apart so that they could stretch down and nibble the sweet snowgrass. They learnt other things, too. Bel Bel and Mirri taught them to recognize the track of a dingo, whose cry they heard through the darkness of the night, to tell the wombat paths through the damp bush, and the narrow trail of the Evil One, the snake, over sand; they taught them, too, to recognize the hoofmarks and scent of each member of their herd, and to tell when strange horses came close.

Several other herds of brumbies grazed in the Cascades. They saw one quite large herd one day when Bel Bel and Mirri felt they must wander and took the foals up Salt Yard Hill at the head of the huge Cascades Valley. Thowra became very excited over their tracks, and proud of himself for recognizing them as strangers. He became prouder still when Bel Bel and Mirri showed great interest in one particular set of hoofmarks, one particular scent.

‘That’s The Brolga,’ they muttered, and blew through their nostrils with excitement. ‘And he’s got quite a big herd.’

‘Who’s The Brolga?’ the foals both asked.

‘He is a young grey stallion. A fine horse. Very strong. Some day he may be the leading stallion, for he will beat Yarraman when he attains his full strength.’

Thowra and Storm had learnt enough by now to know that this would be a terrific fight, and they wandered up on the grassy hill dreaming of perhaps seeing the great Brolga and his herd.

The restless mares grazed their way on to the southern-most flank of the hill and there, below, on a flat valley floor, were The Brolga and his mares and foals.

Storm started to whinny with excitement, but Mirri gave him a swift nip on the shoulder.

‘Be quiet, silly fellow,’ she said. ‘They might not be pleased to see us.’

Thowra was trembling.

‘See,’ said Bel Bel, ‘three grey filly foals.’

‘Come on,’ Mirri nudged Storm, ‘we’d better get back the other way.’

The sun was lovely and warm, and it was good to be up above the valley looking down on all the familiar country with its gleaming creeks that ran on down till they joined together and rushed over the rocky rapids. These rapids were the start of the huge waterfall that tumbled down, and down, and down, how far, no brumby knew.

That day there was a particularly shining look to all the snowgums, as if the sunlight was dripping off their leaves. The four looked around with satisfaction, grazed back across the face of the hill, slept for a while in the sun, and then started wandering back towards their own herd.

Bel Bel looked behind her several times, as was her usual habit, and just as evening was drawing on, she saw something which made her heart jolt inside her. Nose down to their tracks, following a long way behind, was The Brolga with several other horses — young colts and dry mares, she guessed.

‘We’d better run for it, Mirri, as fast as the foals can go,’ she said. ‘Look behind!’

Mirri looked back over her shoulder and snorted quite quietly, but her ears flickered back and forth.

‘You two should know your way back to the herd,’ she said sharply to Storm. ‘Bel Bel and I will just plod along and keep The Brolga thinking.’

‘It would be better to keep together,’ said Bel Bel, knowing that even in the dusk her foal would show up clearly. ‘Come quickly.’

She led off at a hard gallop with the foals following and Mirri bringing up the rear. She knew that The Brolga and his companions would hear them as soon as they started to gallop, but there was a good chance that, despite the slow foals, their lead on The Brolga would allow them to reach their own herd before he caught up with them.

‘Hurry,’ she called back over her shoulder. ‘Hurry!’ And though she could hear no sound except their own hoof-beats, she caught a glimpse of galloping horses way behind.

They galloped on and on and she could hear the foals beside her blowing. Then she led them splashing through the creek and swung round some rocks and up into the narrow valley where Yarraman’s herd had spent each night for some time now. There, she raised her head and let out a high-pitched neigh for help, urging the foals on.

In the gloom near the top of the valley she saw Yarraman, head up, light golden mane and tail foaming, trotting along, looking inquiringly down the valley. She called again and he and some of the herd behind him started to gallop.

From behind her she heard the wild scream of a stallion. She looked back again. The Brolga was standing at the turn into the valley, one foot raised, his head thrown up as he called.

Bel Bel whistled through her teeth. Now what was going to happen? She slowed up. The foals need not gallop so fast; The Brolga would forget all about everyone except Yarraman.

Yarraman began to gallop in earnest. He went thundering past them down the valley, golden mane and tail streaming out on the wind that was made by his own speed. The two mares stopped and turned round to watch. The Brolga was advancing up the valley, rearing and screaming. Bel Bel looked at Thowra, who was giving little whinnies of fear, his eyes and nostrils dilated.

‘Oh, well, he must learn what fighting is like,’ she thought, ‘because he, too, will have to fight.’

As he drew close to The Brolga, Yarraman stopped in his headlong gallop and pawed the ground, screaming. Then the two horses advanced, rearing and trumpeting until they were within striking distance of each other and could aim wicked blows with their forefeet.

Even in the half light into which, being grey, The Brolga seemed to fade, the other horses could see how much less heavy and less developed he was than Yarraman. They all knew, too, that in years of fighting, Yarraman had learnt every trick. Perhaps, they thought, he will not consider it right or worth his while to kill or maim a much younger horse, and will only punish him for following some of his herd.

The screaming was tremendous. All that could be seen were the two horses, on their hind legs, one a streak of chestnut, pale in the pale light, the other a fainter streak of grey in the gloom, sometimes locked together, biting, striking. Occasionally they broke apart, dropped to the ground and danced around to get in a good position to kick. Yarraman tried not to let The Brolga break away too often because the lighter, younger horse was more nimble on his feet and he had already managed to give one very savage kick.

All the watching horses were trembling and sweating with fear and excitement. Those from The Brolga’s herd had drawn a little down the valley. Sometimes their neighs could be heard above the noise of the two stallions.

‘Listen! They are calling the foolish one away,’ said Bel Bel, and added softly, ‘it grows dark.’

Soon they could barely see the two horses.

‘See! They are backing off, looking at each other,’ Mirri murmured. ‘It is too dark, and Yarraman has punished him enough.’

Bel Bel could just distinguish the grey shadow of The Brolga, risen on his hind legs again, but backing down the valley. Then it was night.

Yarraman, snorting, whinnying, and tossing his fine head, a dark stain of blood on his shoulder and neck, came trotting up the valley.