Silver Brumby Echoing

  That call was, perhaps, for agony and loss. Burra, the big grey stallion, had seen Coolawyn and her foal swept down the river. Other mares had struggled out downstream and found the herd again, but never Coolawyn. A dead foal had been seen far downstream.

  Burra called again and listened, head up, ears pricked. Several times he called, and each time he waited and listened intently. At last, just when the thundering beat and roar of the flood paused in its rhythm, there came a neigh. It came from so high that it almost seemed to drop from the rainclouds in the sky. Night flowed over mountains and valley, seeming to be called up by the longing in that neigh.

  Burra’s heart jolted inside his grey chest. That call had to be Coolawyn’s — but what was that other sound in the dark? Galloping horses? Who were they? Horses did not gallop in the dark, like that, and the night was particularly black, with stormclouds. Drumming hooves were coming closer, then they seemed to stop quite near to the flooded river. Burra listened, straining to hear if the horses stood still or tried to plunge into the dark, swirling water.

  Then, through the night, there came a forlorn neigh — a mare’s neigh, filled with sadness and loss.

  Something about that call made Burra’s hair rise … he knew it was not Coolawyn’s call. It was a sound made by a totally strange mare. For a long time he listened and waited.

  Much later in the dark night he heard a far away sound of galloping hooves again.

  At last he and his small band of mares and foals slept.

  As Burra stood, drowsing, dreaming, the memory of a tale that used once to be told by much older horses came to him. It was a legend about a herd that galloped through the darkest, most ghostly nights. Burra, half-sleeping, felt a shiver go down his spine. What was the rest of that legend? Was it that no good came to any horse who had heard the sound of the night gallopers? Or was it that when those horses stampeded through the darkened bush, something disastrous was going to happen — or had happened? Was it because of the huge flood that those horses of the night had come back?

  The wind was rising, the noise of it blending with the noise of the flood till, to Burra, the night seemed wildly savage and it all became part of a dream of disaster.

  Coolawyn, in her sheltered basin, did not feel the icy wind on her hide, but heard it roaring through the high tops of the mountain ash trees, heard the creaking of the streamers of bark and the noise of them flapping and falling as the wind caught them. Creaking strips of bark in the wind; a drowned foal floating down the river; disaster was all around, and anguish. Coolawyn touched the little foal at her feet. Surely the storm gods would cease tormenting her soon, and this little white foal would seem to be the one which she had lost. Surely this foal belonged to her now.

  Up above the hollow she heard branches breaking, splintering, cracking, and then the ground shook with an enormous thud as a giant tree no longer could stand the onslaught of the wind. Even over the sound of the storm and the flood she heard the quickly repeated, angry ‘Quark, quark, quark’ of a great glider whose sleep in his hollow must have been ruined.

  Falling trees in the wind, a foal being swept away in the river. Something was wrong with her world, and it was very uncomfortable to be parted from her herd. She wished the wind would drop and the torrential rain ease off.

  There was plenty of feed in this basin, and good shelter. Coolawyn was not going to leave that safe haven. She knew that nowhere was truly safe from that enormous wind, but this place seemed as sheltered as she could get, and here she would stay with her white foal.

  The wind buffeted and blasted, roared in the high mountains above, and moaned through the rocks, sounding more and more ghostly and threatening.

  A black-shouldered kite, tossed and flung hither and thither by the wind, dropped beside her. Coolawyn found herself shaking with fright until the bird, getting its breath back, took off and flew into a candlebark.

  It was in this night that she, too, first heard the sound of horses galloping in the dark. She was shaking all over with fear even as she woke.

  The galloping horses were far down, on flatter country, perhaps on the other side of the river, but she knew the sound was sinister, and as the sound grew fainter and fainter, old stories began to surface in her memory — things she had heard and forgotten a long time ago … old legends … old tales …

  Those horses who galloped unerringly through the bush at night were not in themselves evil — in fact, no one had really seen them to know … though, perhaps years ago? … It was just that they were only ever heard in the mountains when some disaster had happened or was going to happen. And there was that rather queer whisper in the wind that told of occasions when the horses of the night were heard and one filly would vanish; and perhaps died.

  There had been a sort of murmur amongst the mares, a story passed down of a half-seen vision of a splendid stallion driving on an almost invisible herd; phantoms leaping logs, dodging tree trunks. That was all so long ago that it must be a different stallion; maybe the stallion who now owned that impossibly imagined herd, would be a son of the one who once was so wonderful. Maybe, if he existed, he was wonderful himself.

  The drumming of hooves had faded right away. Coolawyn was cold. She wrapped herself closer round that little white foal, and wished that she could feel warm.

  The wind cried in the rocks, and sometimes it sounded like voices … voices talking, voices singing … distant and solemn …

  Then, all of a sudden, the eeriness was gone. To Coolawyn, the wind’s voice became the promise of spring, of scent and warmth. She leapt to her feet, for surely there was someone else, or a dream … or, a feeling of wonder … She heard a sound that was like music of intense happiness. The wind was dropping, or at least it only swirled round the timbered rim of their hollow. All time ceased … she lay down. Was there a faint and beautiful form of a horse — a white horse — in the stormy night? She slept peacefully beside the foal whom she had claimed.

  In the morning there was still the fragrance of spring. There were hoof marks like Burra’s, but the foal had trodden all over them, and they may have been just a dream. A currawong called, high in the sky. The storm was over.

  Far down below her, across the river, Burra called, and she threw a joyous neigh in answer. The dream was still with her, filling the air, half-faded, half-real. And Burra’s call told her he was coming.

  The following night Burra had brought his herd much further up the river. The water was dropping and he knew he would be able to get the foals across by morning at the same place as he had struggled across back and forth in the dead of that night. This was the last night that they would sleep on the western bank, and through the night there were stealthy movements that woke Burra. A few stars shone in the sky, but there was a red star shining through the thick, strong-smelling mint bushes that grew in the surrounding bush.

  Presently there came the strong feeling in every hair of his hide that he was being watched. There was no scent other than the mint bushes. That red star seemed to move back and then vanish. Surely it could not be an eye!

  Burra gave a great leap at where the red star had been in the bushes. Something sprang away, right away. A dingo howled and a possum barked. Burra bounded on through the scrub, but the bush was empty. All he had left was the memory of a red star in a prostanthera bush.

  Someone, Something, Trying to Cut Them Out of the Herd

  Burra called quite often, and Coolawyn answered him. She knew that he would have to find a good crossing of the river. In fact, that was what he was doing, and she thought of him going back and forth on slippery stones, and across onto great boulders, leading mares and foals through the swiftly-running river.

  Coolawyn led Yarra out of their sheltered hollow, through the cleft in the rocks, and then headed up on to the spine of the ridge. She looked back at their tree-encircled hollow and blew a soft farewell through her nostrils. The trees and shrubs, and the good grass, had protected and fed them, and seemed now as she looked bac
k into it, to be graced by some magic.

  Yarra had gone over and over again to the little quiet pool in the centre, and become frantic over something which he saw there. Finally, Coolawyn had gone with him to look into the still water. All she could see was her own reflection and that of Yarra. Yarra had given a sad snuffling sound and turned to her for milk. The only time he went back to the pool again was just when she was leading him towards the way through the rocks. He had darted back, looked into the pool, and neighed. Then he followed her, looking all around as he went.

  Coolawyn saw a black-shouldered kite hovering directly above the hollow. The same bird that had dropped exhausted at her feet in that wild night of the storm. Now it hovered and called. It was not the pure white hawk … the outward and visible symbol which the spirit of the Silver Brumby sometimes took, but somehow a sign of the ‘black and white of the hour’ — black foal, white foal. Then a thrush burst out singing.

  Coolawyn walked up the steep slope to the ridge, and it seemed to her that the rocks closed together behind them, and the trees and the scrub became impenetrable, so that the secret place would for ever be secret.

  Just for a moment the hovering kite hung over them.

  The mare with the white foal walked down the spine of the ridge, going to meet the herd.

  Foals that are going to turn grey are born black. Coolawyn was aware that her foal, which the flood had drowned and swept away from her, had been black. Here she was with a tiny white foal, the like of which the herd had not seen before, whose eyes were unusual and who obviously had lost something of great importance to him.

  It was evening when they came face to face with the herd, with the big grey stallion Burra greeting Coolawyn. His mostly grey mares, with some coal-black foals, were pleased to see Coolawyn. There was a certain air of surprise, but they were all tired, and there were flooded creeks ahead between them and their own bimble. Their usual grazing ground was in that wide valley of the Ingegoodbee River, south of the Cascades, with its beautiful big candlebark trees, its calm shelter. The biggest problems would be crossing Dale’s Creek and Tin Mine Creek; both could be raging torrents.

  The herd would have to make its way along Quambat Ridge, almost to Quambat Flat, because Dale’s Creek flowed through a deep, rough canyon. The canyon was Baringa’s, silver grandson of that mysterious Silver Brumby. Baringa would not hurt them, but the very young foals would not be able to get down the wall of the canyon.

  They slept one night to one side of the ridge, because the foals were tired, and the next night found shelter just off Quambat Spur. Burra went down, that evening, to see if he could find Son of Storm, the big, gentle brown stallion who was usually to be found on Quambat Flat.

  Down on the clear wide flat, above which is the very head of the Murray River, the rain had obviously been tremendous. Every footfall squelched, and water lay in any little hollow. Son of Storm’s herd was all spread through the fringe of bush on the side of the Cobberas Mountains. Son of Storm came to meet Burra and they walked about together. Even on Quambat Flat, Son of Storm had heard the beat of galloping hooves in the night, and was worried. Even he, Burra realised, was invaded with the uneasiness that had seeped through the bush. The tales of the brumbies who galloped at night had been revived.

  As Burra and Son of Storm walked together, stride for stride, there came the same neigh from far up the Limestone River. The two friends stopped, every muscle stiffening. The neigh came from a long way away, but it was not the neigh of a stallion whom either of them knew.

  Burra’s mares had heard that distant call, but only Coolawyn was disturbed by it. Her restlessness, and the obvious anxiety of the white foal, upset Burra. For himself, the stallion’s neigh had called up a vision of a red star shining through the mint bushes, and the scent of mint. Red star — or an eye gleaming red. Burra’s curiosity was ignited by that neigh and into his mind, too, came the sound of galloping hooves through the night.

  Days and nights slid by. Burra’s herd, going around the heads of flooded creeks, reached the lovely valley of the Ingegoodbee. Both Burra and Coolawyn knew that there had not been one stallion’s call to break the peace, but in each one’s head was that memory of galloping hoofbeats in the night.

  Any strange sound that came after the last birds had settled to sleep made Burra immediately wide awake, ears pricked as he listened tensely. Coolawyn was wondering what old tale was coming alive again, what truth was blowing in the wind?

  Somewhere there was a dream that might have truth in it. One of the many owls who lived in hollows in the wide-spaced, red-splashed candlebarks might be old enough to have heard these galloping hooves when the brumbies of the night had come before.

  She began wandering in the early darkness, listening to the first spring mating calls of the owls.

  It was then that she realised that Yarra, who stumbled over logs so often when he played with the other foals, could go sure-footed in the night.

  The soft whisper of owls’ wings as they flew through the evening had things to tell of time and of distance. Time — she saw that foal grow, day by day; time measured by the growth of a foal. Distance — where had her foal really come from; how far had he travelled? From whence came that far away neigh, those drumming hoofbeats in the night; yet from where came that wild fragrance of spring? And what was it that the white foal saw in the still, small pool?

  One evening, when the reflection of the sky was dim, and the earth all around one of the Ingegoodbee’s pools was dark, she had watched Yarra staring at the picture which he saw in the dark water. His own reflection was now of something bigger and stronger than the reflection in the still pool of the fairy hollow. Was that what was puzzling him? He did not look around and then start frenziedly searching, the way he had done before. He seemed sad and worried, filled with an unanswered question. He turned to her for milk and comfort as he had always done before.

  That night three or four owls were gathered together, murmuring amongst themselves. They were on a branch above where Coolawyn and Yarra were lying, Coolawyn listening and dreaming. Never had the owls seen so much water as in the recent flood. It was years since the night galloping brumbies had been driven by water from their grazing country lower down … Coolawyn knew that the owls were troubled. They kept looking down at Yarra, sleeping below. Owls could see in the dark. They travelled through the night in silent flight. Owls were all-wise, heard everything, saw everything, understood mystery. They probably lived to a great age, so that legends of long ago might not seem to them such ancient tales. They were bound to know if the night-galloping brumbies were real.

  Coolawyn herself barely believed that the owners of those drumming hooves existed. She felt that somewhere, and in some time, they were a fabulous dream. That that stallion who only seemed to be part of an age-old fairy tale, might just occasionally gallop across a thundercloud, be borne on the wings of the wind. Somewhere in the wind and in the rain, in the pulsing roar of the flood, there was the music of happiness even though there was fear.

  An owl took off, silent-winged, and its call of ‘mopoke, mopoke’ was answered far ahead.

  Then one bird called, just above, and rustled its wings. ‘Mopoke,’ it said softly. ‘All is well. Mopoke.’ Then it went on: ‘Foals were lost and foals were won. Mopoke, mopoke. Wind and water and raging storm — both take and both bestow. Mopoke.’ The owl shook its feathers again. ‘The dark of the night and the bright light of the sun, the months and the years, roll by, and the all-magic snow spins a vision that is true, seen in the waters that flow off the Crags and heard in the song of the thrush.’

  Another mopoke began to call. ‘Be wise,’ its voice said, and the night wind gathered the words. ‘We have the experience of years, storms, snow and burning sun, but the thrush sings of the secret of love.’

  Suddenly the owls were gone, floating for a moment above the pale grey mare, and the foal that had come in the flood. Then they made a pattern of flight against the moon and vanished into
the distance.

  It was Yarra who moved off and Coolawyn found herself following.

  They had come some distance from the herd as they followed the owls’ voices, as they listened and wondered. Now that the owls had flown off, Coolawyn realised with a shiver of fear that there were stealthy sounds and an invisible, strong presence, something between them and the herd. A strong, invisible presence that was actually pushing Yarra and herself away from the herd. No one seemed to be there, and yet there was the pressure to go in a certain direction.

  Yarra was a little ahead of her and she could tell that he was getting frightened. He turned back to her, and then suddenly broke away in a mad gallop, over logs and through little, squelching swamps, and she went with him, sometimes almost falling as she knocked her hooves against an unseen log, or as she stumbled in a hole. She galloped on as though animals whom she could never see were forcing them both up the valley of the Ingegoodbee to its source.

  Coolawyn did know every log, every wide-branched tree, and every hollow, yet in half-light or near-darkness, it was Yarra who went faultlessly.

  Yarra was driven by fear of he knew not what. He seemed to have no fear of darkness. Coolawyn could see his white legs twinkling as he galloped. A branch which she barely saw whipped across her face. Surely it was time to stop. Who was she, along with her white foal, to be thundering through the darkness like … like what? Like the never-seen brumbies of the night …? She propped to a standstill, threw her head up into the night sky, and called Burra with all her strength.

  Burra’s answer sounded immediately, and she knew he was coming, but between her and Burra was the invisible force. Suddenly something — several indefinite, but strong, presences — passed her, out on the wing. She heard them and perhaps saw vague, moving shadows … felt them pass, and knew they were gone …