Coolawyn made her mind like a blank wall against the suggestion that there was a link between Yarra and the brumbies who galloped by night, that they might take him away. They were trying to capture her. She knew that because of their hunt for her she had become a danger to Burra’s herd. Most worrying of all was the deep attraction the other white foal had for Yarra.
There was that white foal again, standing haloed by lightning. She could have believed it to be Yarra as soon as the lightning faded, but Yarra flung himself towards it in a wild gallop. The foal waited for one second only before melting away.
At the foot of the track there was a small, grassy flat alongside the river. There was also the sound of falling water.
Clouds rolled overhead and thunder crashed. The steep track flattened just before it reached the grass. Another sheet of lightning lit the sky, and the water gleamed in front of them as the river rushed by. The little flat was empty of anyone else.
Yarra made a distressed sound. He had followed that other foal all this way, and now … there was nothing. There was absolutely nothing. Coolawyn felt as if they were prisoners — prisoners of the dark and of the steep spur down which they had come, of the river, and the waterfall which they could hear. Coolawyn knew it was a long, long cascade of tumbling water.
Their real captor — the idea of the brumbies that galloped by night — had vanished away.
Thunder crashed, cracked, rolled and rumbled, and the whole area was lit up. The river glittered by. The waterfall, the cascading creek, was a thousand diamonds. Coolawyn thought she heard something else, too, in any pause in the noise of the thunder, but then the light was gone. The continuing thunder began to drown even the song of the river.
Yarra felt tired and despondent. He pressed tight against Coolawyn’s flank. The darkness, in between each blaze of lightning, was intense. It was strange standing there, far below the Cascade Valley and beside the huge waterfall that gave the creek and the valley its name. The almost invisible, hurling water was not like the flood in which they were nearly borne away, but it was frightening. Yarra pushed his head under Coolawyn’s near foreleg. She was real and comforting.
There was another sound … a footfall. Then, in the next blaze of lightning they saw the other white foal standing, stopped in mid-stride by the brilliant light, eyes closed. It was a vision which vanished when the light vanished, then they could again hear the foal walking.
Yarra stood quite still, every hair tingling. He knew the foal was coming to welcome him.
Another rumble of thunder brought a lingering, soft light into the sky.
Coolawyn gazed at the two foals — the two trembling noses touching, the two pairs of flickering ears.
She, too, put her nose to the head of the second foal, to make sure it was real. It was flesh and bone, as solid as Yarra. Its scent was the same as Yarra’s, but differing slightly. He was not a dream, but who was this second foal? Who was Yarra?
There was almost silent movement down the steep ridge and along the riverbank. Shadow horses were gathering around.
That mare, the mother of the second foal, was close.
Coolawyn felt a sudden anger as the mare sniffed Yarra, then she calmed down. She, Coolawyn, had herself sniffed at the second foal, but she could not help snorting with annoyance when that white mare seemed too interested. Yarra was hers. For a moment she felt again, in all her body, that fierce struggle with the flooded river, felt Yarra being torn from her grip of his mane, then her wild grab at him, the desperate effort to pull him to the bank.
There was a long drawn-out roll of thunder, and sheet lightning lit up everything around them. Even the great, tall alpine ash that grew much farther up the ridge, showed clearly. To Coolawyn, it seemed as if there were white horses, frozen to statue stillness, scattered everywhere through the bush.
There was one beautiful white stallion, stopped by the lightning to an intense stillness, on the last steep pitch of the spur, so that he stood as if struck to stone for ever. Even at that distance, Coolawyn could see that his eyes were closed against the glare, see that there was something unusual about his head.
Yarra’s eyes were closed, too, in that bright light. It was as though each one of those white horses was totally arrested by the light. Then the light was gone. She saw that still picture breaking up into numbers of pieces; the white horses were moving again, all converging on herself and Yarra. That noble stallion would be close to them both in a few moments.
The three white colts had failed to capture her, but the white foal and its dam had called to Yarra to go with them, and there they were, drawn by some mysterious current between the two identical foals.
With a sudden jolt of fear, Coolawyn realised that she and Yarra had gradually become encircled by these horses who galloped through the night. They were all white: she wasn’t white, but Yarra was.
She stood with the white horses getting closer and closer. She realised that there was nothing she could do, only wait and see what happened next. Her own herd would miss her, but she and Yarra had brought trouble and fear to them. Brinda had been taken in mistake for herself, and there was no sign of Brinda here.
The thunder’s rumbling and crashing ceased briefly. The bush was quiet except for the sound of the river and the cascade … the river, it was the river which had given her Yarra. Yarralala, the foal of the flood. Once again she felt that icy water grasping and tugging at her, felt the desperate struggle to keep hold of that white foal as the drowned black moved with the force of the water.
There, again, in the dark, with the barely visible circle of eyes staring at her, she knew that Yarra had to be hers. She could hardly see him, or the second foal, the darkness was so dense after the sheet lightning. But he was Yarralala, and he was there. Had not her milk spurted all over his head, binding him to her, at least for some months while he needed her life-giving milk, for that is the law for young of the wild.
Sheet after Sheet of Lightning, and the Horses were Gone
Then it came: blazing sheet lightning, filling the small grassy corner between the river and the cascade, a long-continuing light. Every horse was afire, glowing, haloed. Coolawyn looked all around at the white horses. She felt Yarra put his head underneath her, then she realised that every one of the lovely white horses had its eyes shut, that they were backing away into the dark forest.
Yarra did not move. Sheet after sheet of lightning filled the sky and lit up the little triangle of sweet grass, and the horses were gone. She saw that beautiful stallion melting into the trees, saw him take one backward look and hastily shut his eyes against the brilliant light.
She moved away from Yarra and saw that his eyes were closed, too. As the light became brighter, his eyes screwed up.
There was not a white horse to be seen, but there was Brinda walking down the track towards them, wide-eyed and anxious.
Coolawyn hurried towards her, and Yarra followed, his nose against her flank so that, blinded by the glare or not, he could walk safely beside her. Coolawyn turned her head back to him. He must be told over and over again that he was safe with her, he would be protected by her.
She and Brinda rubbed their heads on each other’s necks, and then the three of them headed up the track, to safety and their own herd, so when the lightning ceased briefly, Coolawyn, her white foal with the strange eyes, and Brinda, had all gone.
The horses who sought darkness were still there, in the trees.
Perhaps Yarra did not want to go: perhaps Coolawyn had a picture in her mind of a splendid stallion, cast in shining light, but there was a sort of quietness over the mountains. Nothing, except the pale grey mare, her pale grey half-sister, and the white foal, made any movement.
The sheet lightning came again, breaking up the quiet. Up, out of a deep, tea tree-filled gully off to the south side of the ridge, there rose a swirling cloud, and a faint, rushing sound. Coolawyn shied away from the sound, but in a moment the cloud covered the three of them.
Yarr
a screamed as he felt the cloud touch him with soft, moving wings. The sky darkened again, and they could only feel that the cloud was made of living things, bats or birds, and they were terrified. Then in another blaze of light, there were half a hundred red eyes peering out of moth faces, as the soft wings, like great sheets of paperbark, nearly blinded them.
Then it was dark, and though the eyes were still there, they were not as bright, but the clouds of wings closed around them and drove them on and on, up the steep ridge.
The sky lit up again, and there were the myriad red eyes.
Yarra’s eyes closed as the lightning flared, but as they closed Coolawyn caught a glimpse of eyes coloured like those of the moths, shining in the lightning.
Who was Yarra? She rubbed her head against his neck. This foal was hers.
The cloud of moths would not let them stop. They were being driven by the moths — driven by half a hundred burning red eyes that seemed to pierce their hides. Those moths knew some secret. Were they trying to drive the two greys and the white foal away from danger, away from something that may be bound to happen wherever they went?
Burra’s herd would hold some sort of safety and certainty, when they rejoined them — if they found them. Coolawyn knew that she should never have left. Yarra knew he should never have followed the call of that white foal who was completely the same as himself.
The moths were driving them on, darkness enfolding them again.
Coolawyn nudged Yarra onwards and upwards. It was best to keep going and anyway, the moths would not let them stop.
From far below, and very faintly, there came a neigh.
Coolawyn knew it was calling her, and somehow a vision came into her mind of that small and secret hollow with its round, quiet pool, and the misty form of a stallion looking down at her.
Coolawyn threw a far-carrying neigh to the sky, to the dome of sky above the river and above the high mountains. It was Burra whose answer came through the night, and she called him again.
After a while there was a last dying rumble of thunder, and then the rain started. It was quiet, whispering rain to begin with, and the moths were still there, pushing them upwards through the alpine ash. But then the wind began.
First there was a sort of moan, and then the creaking as the hanging strips of bark on the tall trees swayed. Those eerie sounds became even more eerie when the moths gathered together into a dense cloud and seemed to vanish down the south side of the ridge. Moths with big, soft wings like paperbark would not survive such rain and wind.
The two greys and the white foal were there, alone, listening to the wind-swayed ribbons of bark. No soft wings fluttered over their backs, there were no red eyes to frighten them and yet to be mysterious company. Nothing drove them on or upward and they were tired, so they stopped there amongst the creaking, sighing strips of bark, listening, too, to the moaning wind.
Yarra’s flanks were heaving as he panted for breath after their long climb. He was almost unable to suck. Each one of them trembled with fear as a streamer of bark fell from one branch down to another, and then to the ground. Two boughs, nearby, were screeving together as the trees moved in the wind.
An owl, dislodged by a falling branch, fluttered and flew, alighting up above them. A giant glider peered out of a hollow in a tree trunk and then retreated. The wind blasted the long leaves, bruising them so that the strong eucalyptus scent flowed around them. A rat or a possum scuttled over the shaley track, near their hooves. A dingo howled in a deep hollow to the north. This was Coolawyn’s land, and it was the land to which Yarra belonged, but tonight it was frightening.
Yarra pressed in close to her. The departure of the moths had left them exhausted and without the will to move.
Brinda was shivering. Her legs were sore. She had had to gallop through trees at night, forced to keep up with all the white horses, and her legs had been bruised and cut by rocks and fallen boughs. She was lame.
The wind wailed through the rocks high above the alpine ash, and the sound came blended with a distant trumpeting neigh. Then Coolawyn heard another sound. Someone … something, had cut across through dense forest on to the ridge, just below them, and was coming quietly. It was not blundering, not creeping, just walking, perhaps hoping — walking through the darkness.
The wind was too strong to carry scent, but somehow Coolawyn knew that there was a stallion, an unknown stallion, and she was nervous. The bark streamers sighed and creaked, and there, with rain dripping off the long leaves onto their backs and the night pitch dark, she knew with absolute certainty that there was no space in all the great mountains for three stallions, all wanting her for their herds.
Then Burra’s neigh sounded up above, and from below came a strange and thrilling neigh, for the white stallion was climbing fast through the darkness and the rain. The one cutting across the steep gullies towards the ridge, made no sound.
Coolawyn listened for a moment and then began to urge Yarra and Brinda upwards again. There would be safety with Burra, but there might be no way of stopping the three stallions meeting.
Coolawyn hurried her companions on, and she neighed once or twice as they went. When she heard the answer that came rising up from below, she did not call again. That white stallion was so beautiful, but if he captured her, it would surely mean that she would have to run with the horses who galloped by night. She looked at Brinda. Brinda had not been really happy with that strange herd and her legs were badly hurt. Also, Coolawyn knew that the only horse she wanted to run with, all her life, was Burra.
The rain beat down, and she heard Burra call. His call came from much further down than from where his last call had come, but the white stallion’s echoing neigh had sounded as though he had climbed a long way and was already much closer.
Coolawyn knew that the horses who galloped through the night were deeply feared by all the other brumbies. For one thing, they behaved so strangely; was it a madness? And the legend that when they were heard in the bush, a filly always vanished was undoubtedly true. Sometimes they died, becoming too lame to find food. Brinda had been stolen and she was dangerously lame.
Now, Coolawyn heard the fury in the call that Burra threw to the clouds and the rain. Then she heard him give another neigh, and this one was calling her … ‘Come to me, quickly, quickly.’
In the distance there was the sound of a horse racing downhill. Burra was coming to her with all speed. Coolawyn forgot the third stallion who was moving across the spurs and gullies, because the white stallion also called her and her alone, and he was coming closer and closer. She urged Yarra and Brinda onwards, quite desperately. She could tell that Brinda was frightened, and she, Coolawyn, had seen all the cuts on Brinda’s legs which she had got when racing with the mob through the night.
Suddenly, just ahead of them, on the track, in deep darkness, she could make out the shape of a strange stallion standing waiting.
Coolawyn’s heart seemed to miss a beat, jolted inside her pale grey chest. Yarra was shocked into stillness, and felt himself trembling all over, but Brinda cried out in fear.
The stallion simply stood, waiting, perhaps willing the mare and filly to come to him.
Brinda took some steps backwards, till she was behind Coolawyn. Then that wild neigh came from just below them. The strange stallion who was waiting rose on his hind legs, almost disappearing into the black clouds, the rain and the night.
Only for the presence of Yarra, pressed against her, Coolawyn would have galloped straight at him. Suddenly she decided that that was exactly what she had to do. She gathered herself together and sprang. The horse could not see her coming — not through the rain and the night. He did see a ghost of a white foal, but he was nearly pushed over, off his feet, at the same moment as he shied with fear at the little ghost.
Burra had heard Coolawyn’s neigh and also the neigh of the white stallion, drifting up through the tall trees from lower on the spur. The neigh of another stallion usually called up Burra’s wild fighting
spirit. Even he could tell that the call from below had an infinite attraction. It spoke longingly of far away forests of snow gums, and dark nights among high rock peaks. Burra knew that to a young mare it would say, ‘Follow me. Ours will be the joy of the night sky, and the whispering trees, and the singing creeks that reflect the stars.’ That neigh was offering all the mystery of the night.
Burra knew that he could offer the high country by day and by night, offer ‘the glorious sun’s life-giving rays’, but somehow he knew — and Coolawyn knew, too — that the white stallion was king of the night.
No-one understood why the white herd were lords of the darkness — or why the brumbies of the night only came occasionally. This time the flood must have driven them to the higher areas. Everything was worrying, and Burra knew that Coolawyn had been restless ever since the flood. Were there dreams or were there questions that kept troubling her? Surely there was a tragedy. Where was the black foal whom she had borne?
Burra himself was always uneasy about the memory of that red eye, or red star, that had seemed to stare at him through the prostanthera bushes, down by the flooded river … all this flashed through Burra’s mind as he went crashing down the spur, neighing to Coolawyn as he went.
He knew, as he raced, that it was a brumby of the night who had called to Coolawyn, so he kept neighing urgently himself, telling her he was coming, and in no way must she answer the other call, and not possibly go back down the rugged track.
Then Burra was confronting the stranger stallion, whom he did not know had cut across the gullies and, there, immediately, was the white stallion too; three stallions, and the mare, the filly, and the white foal.
There they were: three stallions on the steep ridge in the rain, and the tall alpine ash sighing in the wild wind.