Silver Brumby Kingdom

  Suddenly he stopped short, Right under an overhanging snowgrass tussock, as though the foot had slipped, a hoof print was pressed deep into the now dry mud, and filled with the wind-blown wattle blooms that had slithered into it. Thowra dropped his head down to sniff at it. It was not a fresh print:

  It had been made even before the last rain, but it was Baringa’s print, and it pointed downstream.

  Thowra began a careful search. It was hours later, and almost dark, before he found another trace of Baringa, and that was a few silver hairs on an overhanging branch, inland from the river. Here Thowra was forced to spend the night, because darkness was useless for a search.

  It was on this night that Lightning crept down from the Cobras where he had hidden his mares, and he came down because he was almost sure he had heard an unknown call echoing among the rocks. He did not go out of the fringe of trees, but stood carefully watching the flat. Even though the night was only lit by starlight, he could just make out a big, black horse moving restlessly about — or perhaps he heard him so clearly that he imagined him. Also there were some of the younger horses of Quambat, hidden in the bush, who told that this horse had rampaged around all the day before, obviously finding track and scent of his mares, and, also obviously, here to stay till he got them.

  Perhaps, by the morning light, this ill-tempered black stallion might track the herd up the Cobras. Lightning decided he would stay close to see what the horse did when daylight came.

  Also coming closer in, but hidden among the trees, were the two emus, anxious to see what mischief they had caused. Deeper in the bush, Yarolala was walking quietly along.

  Yarolala had gone right to the far end of the High Plateau, the day before. She had spent one lonely, frightening night pressed between two rocks, on Quambat Ridge. Then, getting more and more nervous, she had gone up on to that High Plateau where there was rarely a day in which the wind did not move, and where it seemed bad to be alone.

  Every golden chestnut hair had stood on end when she found the sunken, washed-out remains of rolling holes that had not been used for months and months. Someone had not come back — and she hastened on. When she finally reached the end of the High Plateau, she had stood with the wind lifting that lovely silver mane, so like Yarraman’s, and looked over the Canyon, over the deep gorge of the Tin Mine Creek, over the wild, blue ridges, right to the Main Range, and she had seen no sign of horses, only a vast depth that seemed to her a place where no horse could go.

  She had gazed for a long time over the tangle of mountains and gorges, then, frightened and lonely, she had gone back towards Qoambat, at least to spend the night near other horses before setting off again on her search for Baringa.

  Twelve

  When Baringa recovered enough to get up and leave the scene of his fight with Bolder, Bolder was still lying exhausted and considerably damaged. Baringa, himself, was trembling in every nerve and muscle. He knew he could draw up the strength to kill Bolder, even then, but he had no wish to do it. The whole look of him was the look of a completely defeated horse. Baringa had no idea why Bolder had attacked him, and no further interest in him. His enormous problem was how to find Dawn. So Baringa, stiff, and blood-stained, and exhausted, went off quietly through thick snowgums and teatree, crossed the Limestone with great care, and, keeping to the teatree, went down the west side of the river. He did not see Yarolala, half-asleep on the ground.

  When he had gone a mile or so he slid into a dense thicket and rested until be could start his search at daylight.

  Once he started off, he combed the bush from side to side, leaving no yard of the river bank unsearched, examining it for track or strand of silver hair: going inland, too, peering into snowgrass glades where she might have gone to rest: seeking out the hidden places among rocks into which a mare might go to give birth to her foal.

  Never a trace or track did he find — no hair entangled in a teatree limb, no hoof mark pressed into a wombat track. The rain that began to fall worried him because it would wash away all marks. When the rain changed to snow, his eyelashes were dogged with it, and it matted his mane, lay on his back, stinging all the kicks and bites which Bolder had given him, making them ache, but he only thought of Dawn, wondering whether this cold snow fell on her.

  On and on he went, resting at night because he had to have daylight. He passed below the place where Dawn had fallen into the creek, and intensified his search. Near here he did find fresh hoof marks, and could tell that there were a pair of young stallions and three or four fillies. He followed their tracks, but he felt certain, after a while, that even though their tracks were always all muddled up together, Dawn’s was never there. He thought he might find the little herd and ask if they had seen any sign of her, so he followed on and at, but went a long way without finding them.

  To and fro, back and forth, be searched, often calling, because he did not care who heard him. The warm sun had come through again. He saw a hanging curtain of sarsaparilla bursting into bloom, and there was the liquid song of the thrush in the air, rising high above the sound of the river. Baringa felt his step growing light in time with the spring. Dawn was his. Soon he must find her.

  He had passed the mouth of the Tin Mine Creek, coming in on the opposite side, bringing the water from Dale’s Creek too. it swelled the river even wider and deeper. Ahead, a creek came in on this west side, and the water made a great noise.

  The sun had set behind Davies Plain, and all the light was red-gold when Baringa stood on the bank of this deep-flowing, narrow creek. He thought he would have to go upstream in order to cross it.

  Partly because of the lovely spring evening, but also with the never-dying hope that he would get an answer, Baringa stood on the deep-cut bank and called as loudly as he could, so that his neigh might sound over the roar of the stream.

  He had thrown his head right up, and noticed a great lot of kurrawongs high in the glowing sky. He could not hear their song above the water’s roar, so how could he expect his call to be heard? How could he expect to hear an answer?

  Then all of a sudden, as be stood, still trembling from all the effort of his tremendous neigh, he heard something something blending in with the sound of the stream. Could it be an answer? Could it be Dawn? And where, exactly, did the sound come from?

  With his head still up, he called again, the whole of his immensely strong silver body quivering with the effort to throw his call far above the noise of the water.

  Then he waited.

  It was impossible to be certain that he heard an answering neigh, yet surely he had. He moved upstream and called again. This time he could not hear anything. He would try to cross but crossing was going to be difficult — the creek was so narrow, so deep, and so extremely swift. As he went further up the creek he kept on calling.

  After a while he saw that what he had thought was the opposite bank was in fact an island. The stream was broader above, and split by the island.

  He swam across the broader, less swift part of the stream. Even that was a struggle, because it was a very deep creek, full of snow water, and in it were a few massive boulders or rock ribs that twisted his legs. He climbed out on the far side, shook himself in a cloud of glittering spray, and trotted down till he was opposite the island. Already the light was beginning to fade.

  He threw back his head and called and called.

  Yes, oh surely yes. He must have heard an answer, and it must be from the island. He called again and waited. He was not imagining it, there really was an answer.

  He looked at the island This side of it was steep and rocky. Scrub grew right to the edge of the rocks and hung over towards the water. The other side would be better to get onto — if either side were good.

  He called and called. Each time he was sure he got an answer, but he saw no sign of any other horse, and there was nowhere on this side of the island where a horse could stand. He would have to go back across the stream and try from the other side.

  As he trotted back u
pstream he turned and looked at the topmost part of the island, where the stream split into two. Just on the upper side of the point there was a break in the rocks, a possible place to land, if the water did not sweep him past it, and a possible opening in the rocks through which to scramble up on to the island.

  He gave another neigh, but this time could hear nothing. However, he was certain that some answer had come from the island.

  He went a little further up the creek before going into the water, to be sure to give himself time to swim out of the main current that flowed down past the island and into the big river.

  Then, rather slowly, and watching the water to see which way the strongest eddies went, he slithered down into the freezing stream.

  This time he had to swim very hard to get out of the main current. The force of the water and the cold drove the breath out of him. He swam with all his strength, feeling all the cuts of the tight aching in the bitter cold. He was being raced down by the water at a terrific speed. He struggled furiously to get out of the current, only his cream and silver head showing above the muddy water. Then suddenly he was being hurtled towards the island at such a rate that he felt sure he would smash his bones if he hit the rocks full force.

  He made a last tremendous effort to steer himself to the one place where he could land. All at once he felt sand under his hooves. His quarters, in deeper water, were being swung round, but he managed to pull himself forward and upwards. With a great leap, he was standing breathless in a tiny niche between rocks, shivering with cold and effort.

  He pushed a way through rocks and teatree. A branch scraped one of his bites and made it bleed again.

  The teatree was very thick. At last he came to a flat-topped rock on which he could stand clear of the suffocating leaves and twigs. There he stopped and called.

  From quite close came the answering cry.

  “Here am I.”

  Baringa’s heart gave a thudding bound within his deep, silver chest. He was right. Dawn was alive. He leapt through the teatree, pushing it out of his way, calling and calling as he went, barely waiting for the answer.

  He burst through the bush into an unexpected clearing, and there, in the middle, stood Dawn, a little silver colt, trembling with fear, standing pressed against her flanks.

  Baringa was overjoyed. He propped to a standstill and just gazed. It was Dawn, Dawn who had loved him so dearly ever since he was only a yearling, who came forward, leading his little son.

  As soon as her sweet, soft nose touched his, he felt warmth flood through him. For all his courage in holding to the belief that she must live, Baringa had, like Benni, been very afraid for a mare in that flood, a mare so soon to foal.

  “I knew you would find us,” Dawn said. “I cannot get off this island with the foal, but there has been grass and leaves enough for me to eat. The foal was very weak, but he is stronger now.” She began to nuzzle Baringa all over, to warm him after the freezing stream, then she led him to a patch of sand in which to roll so that he got dry. She could not stop doing little dancing steps all around him.

  The foal became more confident, watching his mother nuzzling the great horse.

  That night the foal slept at his mother’s feet, beneath an overhanging rock. She and Baringa stood flank and flank, the warmth flowing from one to another.

  Baringa gradually learnt all that had happened since she had heard his last despairing cry on that dark evening, as she was swept down the river.

  Dawn had been almost unconscious with cold, and had felt deeply that she was going to drown, when suddenly there were trees looming beside her, and she had felt ground beneath her hooves. It had been an enormous effort to hold on and scramble out. If she had nor been washed against a log, she might never have succeeded in getting right out, but the log stopped the current sweeping her off the island to which fortunately, it had taken her.

  She had collapsed at the edge of the water and then felt the flood coming higher. The freezing cold, as the water lapped up around her legs, had made her get up and go inland to the grass glade, which was then more mud than grass, and even one patch of snow still remained. There, some hours later, her foal was born.

  Both she and the foal had been very weak for some days, but the warmth of the sun and the spring growth had helped them, and now they were much better, in fact Baringa knew that Dawn had looked more beautiful than ever, when he saw her standing there, in the glade, with her foal.

  They slept the night in great happiness. In the morning Baringa was awoken by the hungry foal stumbling to its feet and seeking its mother’s milk.

  Baringa yawned contentedly, and rested his neck over Dawn’s. As the light came he could see that her coat was indeed shining, that she gleamed all over.

  It was not till the sun was well up that he began to wander round the island . . . began to wonder how he was going to get Dawn and the foal off.

  The front of the island, where Dawn had landed, would be the only place where they could get the foal into the water, he knew, so he pushed his way through the teatree to have a look.

  For the first time, the idea sank into him that it might be very difficult to get the foal away till the rivet dropped a great deal. In his efforts to get on to the island, he had simply never given a thought to the problem of leaving it again. He had only thought of finding Dawn, and though he had known that the fact that she was going to have a foal was the main hazard in her being swept away by the flood, he had not thought of finding her with a foal at foot — not thought of the complications that would make as regards getting back to the Canyon.

  He walked into the water from the front of the island. No current pulled and tugged just there. He went in as far as he could go without swimming, but he could see that there was no possibility of getting away without going into the main river. He walked back on to dry land, shook himself in the hot sunshine, went back through the teatree and played with Dawn and the foal.

  In this weather the river must drop.

  Each day Baringa went to look at the river. He could see the flood level on the rocks and knew the water was dropping and dropping. At last he thought that he must go out into the river, himself, to see where the current would take him. He warned Dawn that he would be away for some time.

  Her soft blue and brown eyes filled with fear, though she knew they must go back, and also knew that the food on the island was not sufficient.

  “The foal will be so afraid,” she said. “He is so small, and he is not strong like Dilkara was. He had too hard a time.”

  “Wait till I see how the river is,” Baringa said, and went through the tunnel he had made in the teatree.

  He stepped into the water again, walking in deeper and deeper, hating the iron bands of cold. He started to swim, but only just enough to keep himself afloat, so that he would have an idea what would happen to the foal, when it got in. He floated along, finding that he was being taken quite fast towards the eastern bank of the river. Provided the landing place was all right, they might get the foal across.

  There was what looked like a good, shelving bank ahead, and the curve of a ridge to stop any of them being washed further. Already quite a lot of logs had been dropped by the flood on that ridge.

  Baringa landed safely and without much trouble. He immediately began to trot upstream, and went quite a distance. When he had rolled, bucked, reared and rolled again to warm himself, he sprang into the river again, and struck out as hard as he could. To get back across to the western bank was not quite so easy, and he was very cold when he landed. He still had to swim the creek to the island.

  He got there safely and it was very pleasant to roll in the sandy patch on the island, and to have Dawn with whom to romp and play till he was warm and dry. The spring sun beat down on them, filling them with vigour. Even the foal joined in the play.

  “We should name him for the flood,” said Baringa.

  “No,” answered Dawn, “nothing terrible like that. Name him for the marvellous beauty of
the frost on snow. Let him be called Kalina.”

  When Baringa tried to get Dawn to take Kalina to the river she would not move. Baringa gave in, because he thought Dawn should know, but when clouds started rolling up, he began to wonder how wise he had been, not to persuade her to come. If much rain fell, the river would rise once more.

  “Let us go,” he said. “It will rain again,” but she insisted on staying a few more days for her foal to grow stronger.

  So that wild thunder storm which had shown Lightning the dead dun, and through which he and Thowra had travelled to Quambat, through which Yarolala had taken herself to see if Baringa were alive or dead, lighted up Baringa and Dawn and their foal on the tiny island. The teatree was silvered by the flashing tight, Kalina neighed with fear and Dawn comforted him. Once she saw Baringa stand on a rock as though welcoming the great noise and the vivid light, as though he were part of the vast storm and its strength. And, in that flash, Dawn saw him as a magnificent mature stallion, one who should be free to roam wherever he wished, unafraid of any other horse. She knew it was time they should leave the island, and that her little foal, son of Baringa, should somehow have the strength to swim.

  The rain that came after the storm made Baringa fear for a rise in the river, but in fact the water did not rise much, and the rain did not fall for long.

  After the sun came out again, and they were playing in the glade, Baringa noticed that Kalina’s games were more vigorous, that indeed he must be strengthening.

  The time to try to move had come. Alter one more day he led Dawn and their son through his teatree tunnel. There was a sandy beach now, at the edge of the water, an encouraging place from which to step off.

  Baringa went in fist. Kalina watched trembling, but when his mother went in, he raced about on the beach, neighing with fear.

  Dawn called him quietly. After a while he calmed down and walked in, fetlock-deep, but scrambled out again. Dawn went back for him. Eventually he walked in beside her.