The two horses were locked together. Goonda could see that the black’s grip was not a strong one and that Lightning was striking at him, fighting with all his strength.
The black stallion’s grip slipped. Lightning broke free, landing a tremendous blow on the strong, black head.
For hours the fight went on, neither horse winning, but Goonda knew it was only Lightning’s spirit that kept him undefeated. And the snow fell in big flakes out of the grey sky, cold on hot backs and rumps of steaming horses, cold, so cold, as it matted Goonda’s mane. Slowly the ground became white. The day stretched on. Both horses were tiring, and it was now, when he was nearly exhausted, that the curtain of failing snow confused the black’s judgment — or hid Lightning sufficiently to make it difficult to strike at him accurately, so much did his cream hide, his silver mane and tail blend with the falling flakes.
Perhaps the snow saved Lightning. Just when he felt that he could dodge and strike no longer, no longer struggle, the black stallion’s blows began to miss him, waste themselves on air, so that the black swung off balance, and Lightning was able to rock him further with a well-placed kick or strike.
At last the black drew away, glowering. Lightning was able to return to Goonda, and even though his flanks were heaving and his breath rasped in his throat, he could still walk with pride.
The black only rested for a short time. Then, perhaps feeling that he actually had had Lightning almost beaten, he came up the flat again, snorting and pawing the ground, throwing up the snow.
Lightning was so tired. Somehow he must go forward through the snowflakes and try, by luck, to lame or maim that black horse . . . somehow . . . for he was exhausted . . . and tomorrow the snow might stop and he would not have the curtain of falling flakes to hide him.
Snow clung to his eyelashes, touched him cold, cold. One great blow on the black’s stifle, or on a knee . . . but he was so tired. . . .
He tried to strike.
The black rushed at him wildly. They were both exhausted. It was not possible to go on fighting. And the snow kept falling down out of the clouds and then out of the night sky.
Goonda rubbed her head against Lightning when he came back to her, and drew him away under some trees. Even if he would agree to go, to leave the black at his beloved Quambat Flat, he had no strength left with which to walk away and Goonda knew he would not leave.
In the night the snow stopped. Grey clouds were still overhead, when day broke, but during the day the clouds rolled away. Soon the sun would shine again.
The sheltering snow had gone.
The two stallions kept watchful eyes on each other. Neither had won: neither had lost. It was impossible for Lightning to drive the black from Quambat Flat; and it was impossible, only just impossible for the black to take Goonda, whom he wished to have.
There, at Quambat, the silver stallion who was tired and the black one who looked thoroughly rested watched and waited.
Fifteen
Thowra, when he heard Baringa’s call from across the river and high above him, had felt a sudden tremendous lightning of his spirit.
“All is well, is well,” the cry had come floating down from the heights above the mouth of the Tin Mine Creek. Thowra, who was at that moment not very far from the creek that divided around the island, knew he need no longer search for Baringa, and turned up river again, light-footed with joy. He would not try to catch them up. Far better that Baringa should have the surprise of the new mares in the Canyon, without his company He, Thowra, would seek an easy crossing place higher up, perhaps take a look in at Quambat, perhaps not, but anyway he would then go the Canyon, possibly a day after Baringa had found his increased herd. Gaily, gaily, Thowra went up the river.
Since there was no real need to plunge into that muddy, cold stream and struggle his way across it, he trotted happily upstream to the Limestone and crossed where it was shallow and easy, then he tuned towards Quambat, keeping off the path and watching out for signs of the black. Having seen nothing of him, he took a look at the bare earth of the track and there, of course, were his hoof marks, also heading to Quambat.
Thowra went on, through the sunset glow, and was just at the foot of Quambat Spur, when he felt sure there was a movement in the bush, some distance off, coming from Quambat. He waited, well hidden himself, and then saw the swaying, bouncing of feathers, the rhythm of the emus’ walk, before ever he could see the entire birds.
When they drew alongside, he moved out into the open, certainly, as he noted with some satisfaction, startling them, but his manners were so perfect, and he, himself, a horse of such importance and of such mystery, that they could not be annoyed.
“Greetings, O noble birds,” he said. “Greetings, O wise and all-knowing ones. I hope you have some news for me?”
“Hail, Thowra. Of whom are you expecting news?” The birds, looking, for them, quite friendly, stared unwinkingly at him.
“Why, my son, Lightning. I observe that the black stallion is at Quambat flat.”
Surprise flitted faintly over the two sharp faces.
“Yes, he is there,” they answered. “He and Lightning have not started to fight yet.”
“Haven’t they? Why on earth not?”
“The black has not yet seen his roan mares.”
“Lightning has them hidden on the Cobras, I suppose? Is he there himself?”
“Yes, somewhere in the bush.”
“Hm. Oh well, night comes soon,” said Thowra. Then, as though hit by a fresh thought, he added: “I am going to the Ingegoodbee to see Son of Storm. If you are about the Tin Mine track in a couple of days’ time, I might hear more news from you then, before I go to Quambat Flat.”
The emus nodded their heads wisely. Thowra turned into a thicket of lightwoods and sallee gurus, feeling that a peaceful sleep, now that he knew Baringa and Dawn were safe, would be very pleasant, and the emus went on up the Limestone.
Thowra slept through the night, and grazed through part of the next day, then went carefully towards Quambat. He got there in time to see the last part of the first days fighting between Lightning and the black stallion, and he watched till they drew apart, glowering at each other, neither winning, neither beaten, and he could see that the situation might remain like this for a while, so he moved on, without being seen, towards the Pilot Gap and then Dale’s Creek.
Thowra kept well away from the dead dun, so he did not see any trace of Yarolala’s movements, or pick up her scent, Benni’s or Baringa’s till he was going down the cliff, then he learnt that Baringa had taken her into the Canyon.
He walked on through the late afternoon, another proud silver horse striding down into the Canyon. There he would be greeted by his own mare, Koora. There he would greet Baringa. But first Thowra stood for a moment, looking at his grandson and all the mares, at Dawn, and her colt foal. He had felt such great anxiety for Baringa and Dawn, but now, here they were, and a lovely foal — his great-grandson. The Canyon, of course, was not large enough to hold all this herd. Baringa would have to move to Quambat and only use the Canyon if men came. But there was one thing Thowra wished to do, while the mares were still all safely hidden: he wished to take Baringa with him, back to the Secret Valley for a night and a day, provided the situation stayed the same at Quambat so that neither Lightning or the black were free to come seeking Baringa’s males. He had no doubt that the emus would bring him news along the Tin Mine track tomorrow.
In the Canyon a peaceful quiet settled down. There was the occasional snort or shuffle of hooves, but the herd slept in the stillness of the eucalypt-scented night.
The next afternoon Thowra climbed up the cliff, went himself into the cover of some thick saplings near the track. It was not long before he saw the emus walking along with their great strides and bouncing feathers.
This time Thowra stepped quietly out on to the side of the track and walked towards them.
“Well met, O Silver Horse,” the male bird said. “We have not much news for yo
u. The black and Lightning are only looking at each other. The black has his roan mares back again, two of them being rather unwilling, and Lightning still has Goonda, though it is quite obvious that it is she whom the black wants.”
“I thank you, Wise-ones,” Thowra said. “I will go back now, from whence I came, and possibly return in a few days. It seems that neither the black nor Lightning can beat the other.”
“The black is the stronger,” the female said, “but Lightning fights with more courage than I would have expected for him. He fights as a son of yours really should — something he’s never done before,” she finished tartly.
Thowra’s good manners were not quite up to answering this.
Back in the Canyon, he called Baringa. It was time they set forth together, so they climbed the cliff in the night, and headed for the Tin Mine and then the Ingegoodbee, two silver horses trotting along through darkness that was barely lit by the stars and by the faintest outline of a new moon.
When they were going down on to the head of the Ingegoodbee, Thowra thought they would go close to the huts to see if the men were there bringing cattle out yet He and Baringa ghosted like a breath of wind down through the candlebarks till they were beside the hut. There was the smell of smoke. There was the glow, through the slab walls, of a fire, then there came the sound of men’s voices. Presently there was the rattle of a chain. The tame horses must be hobbled.
Thowra and Baringa walked carefully round the outside of the fence. They could hear the sound of the hobble chains as the tame horses moved about. Apparently they did not know that the wild horses were close.
Baringa listened to them for a moment, then he called, a sweet, quiet call beyond the hearing of men, but so thrilling and disturbing to horses:
“Come,” he called, “come,” and the soft call seemed to contain all the profound attraction of wild freedom — wind flowing through granite peaks, lifting mane and forelock, the gentle touch of snow, the uncommanded gallop over snow-grass — a dream that even a well-trained stock horse might never forget.
The stock horses neighed and came rattling and leaping towards them — but Baringa and Thowra had slipped away and were soon calling from the other side of the paddock.
As the hobbled horses began to neigh more wildly, the door of the hut with the fire in it opened. For a moment or so Baringa saw a man stand in the rectangle of light, heard voices clearly.
He and Thowra moved quietly away through the bush — their bush — and they went light and free, without rein or saddle.
As the hours of star-bright darkness slid past, they went over the saddle between the head of the Ingegoodbee to the Moyangul. There they found Son of Storm sleeping, disturbed him, danced and played with him, and then went on till they were in the mountain ash country, and the night wind whispered down the aisles between the towering trees, the pungent scent of the eucalypts enfolded them. On they went though the thrilling night, half-startled sometimes by the call of a mopoke or quark of a possum, and the stars shone through the tracery of eucalypt leaves high, high above them — leaf and branch making a net across the sky, but a net through which the moving stars slid as the hours passed by.
A dingo howled, Thowra neighed an answer, for what did he care if he were heard? In a few minutes they would be somewhere else. They went on eagerly.
They found Storm asleep on Stockwhip Gap, and disturbed him, so that Old Whiteface, down below, shivered in his sleep, dreaming that he heard the silver stallions. Did they, in fact, pass quite close? What caused the restless movement among his mares?
The silver horses had passed by. They were splashing, now, though Bill’s Garden Creek, drinking draughts of star-marked water. They were ghosting on through the mountains — silence of silver horse, whisper of south wind to lift a silver forelock, whisper of wind through the snowgums.
They came to the cliff.
Baringa had been up it just once, when Thowra took him to the south, but he remembered it, remembered best the Lookout Platform, and he and Thowra stood there together, now, just when the first light came across from the east.
Baringa peered down into the dark valley with interest. This was his birth place: here were his mother and an unknown filly sister: here were other yearlings and foals, all related to him; here were the mares whom he could barely remember.
The fiery silver stallions walked down the faint cliff path together, and through the barely stirring darkness there came the soft rustling of hooves, then nose after nose, inquiring, sniffing gently, offering greeting. When the light came, Baringa felt that all eyes were fixed on him. He went straight to Kunama and Tambo, and did not hear the whisper:
“He is Thowra over again . . . Thowra . . . Baringa is Thowra. . . .”
These mares were used to the beauty of their own stallion, yet were they deeply moved by the beauty of this young horse, so like his grandsire, but himself entirely. They remembered him as a foal and then as a spirited, but shy, yearling who went off with Thowra and Lightning, and had never returned until now.
Baringa stood in front of Kunama, his nose extended to her quivering nose, and then, coming up beside her, was an older mare, still handsome, grey and tall. It was Boon Boon who had taught all she could of wisdom to Kunama years ago, and often taught the young Baringa.
She looked at Baringa now, her eyes soft and dark with pride.
“It is fitting,” she said, “that you should come back to the Secret Valley to see us once, now, when you are about to enter your kingdom.”
Baringa barely heard the last words because of a thundering gallop of young horses coming to see him, but it seemed as if there was some great significance to the day, growing, growing with each passing moment — this one day when Baringa came to see his dam and the place of his birth before — before what?
All day he grazed in the sun with Kunama, Thowra, Tambo, Boon Boon and Golden. All day the others came close for a moment and then moved on. Kunama stood beside him, sometimes her shoulder, ribs, and quarters touching his. When it was time to go, she nipped him gently on the wither.
“I named you for the swift light of the dawning,” she said, “and for the sunlight that is life. Good fortune go with you, my son.”
So Baringa climbed up the cliff path alone, out from the Secret Valley to trot on and on through the night till he reached his own Canyon . . . and thence to whatever the future held.
The weather was changing, he could feel the warmth in the wind, and knew that clouds were beginning to roll over the sky. When the ground permitted, he cantered. Sometimes, when there was soft snowgrass underfoot, he galloped, touched thrillingly by the night, and filled with a great excitement. His silver ears were pricked. His silver mane and tail were lifted by the wind and by his own speed through the air. . . . Powerful silver horse thrillingly possessing his own world, galloping back to his hidden, lovely herd.
So Baringa seemed almost to leap over the mountains, crossing the Moyangul, passing round the head of the Ingegoodbee, splashing through the Tin Mine Creek — till he was standing above the Canyon, then stepping down, down, down to his mares.
A current of excitement seemed to vibrate through each mare in the Canyon as he stepped down the last few feet of the cliff.
“He is here. Baringa. Baringa.”
Benni hopped out of the bush. Only he and Silky of all the animals there, realised how this excitement was the same wildfire excitement that used to go wherever Thowra went — that indeed still burnt for him — and was now a leaping, crackling flame, fresh-lit for Baringa. There had only ever been one such horse in the mountains, king of all the brumbies, Thowra, the Silver Stallion. Now there was another, another silver stallion, alive with light and fire, with the spirit of the wind, some of the wisdom of the bush.
The eagles had seen this quality burning in Baringa from the sky above the Pilot, when he was still only a yearling. Benni himself had seen it. Dawn had known that there was something about the silver colt whom she had chosen. Now was
the time.
No one really slept in the Canyon that night; there was too much burning excitement. Something was going to happen. The pale, blue roan mare and the pert white mare were, at last, aware of how thrilling it was to be in Baringa’s herd. Now, indeed, they knew that they belonged to the most beautiful stallion of all the southern mountains.
In the morning, with the heavy clouds pressing down and shrouding the mountain-tops, meaning something — storm or snow — Baringa asked Benni what news, if any, had come from Quambat.
“Lighming and the black are still at it. Neither can win,” Benni replied, and as he spoke, the first snow-flakes began to drift through the air, falling down as though from a great height into the Canyon. Then, planing through the snow, came the eagles, low down, resting on the air above the Canyon.
Baringa enjoyed the snow. To all the silver horses it was as though snow befriended them. The horses played in the Canyon. Only Yarolala was completely visible in the drift of flakes. Baringa was without any anxiety, and his happiness sprang up in gay galloping and prancing, in hiding and in springing from invisibility to invisibility, in teasing, in loving. Only Moon was nowhere to be seen, but Dawn had assured Baringa that she would return any time, with a foal at foot.
In all his dancing, leaping games, Baringa watched for Moon, feeling certain that she would come through the snow with her foal. Until she came, the herd could not move. . . .
Late in the afternoon Baringa climbed out of the Canyon, over the bluff, and up on to the Tin Mine Track There he watched for a while, because Thowra had said the emus might come with tidings of Quambat Flat. And through the snow they came.
Baringa hesitated before showing himself. While he hesitated, the bush parted and Thowra stepped out.
“Well,” said Thowra. “What news, O Wise Ones?”