Wurring slept under a tree near some of the old, wise mares. If the snow came more heavily, and they moved, he would wake up and go with them.
In the morning it was only rain that fell, but, by the clouds, snow still fell heavily, higher up. Was Ilinga up there? Wurring felt certain that she would have made down somehow.
Two more days and the rain had stopped. Perhaps it still snowed up there... Whether it had stopped or not, a lot of snow must have fallen. Somewhere, when the sun shone, there would be peaks glistening against the sky.
Wurring searched around for food. There were some bushes whose leaves and seedpods satisfied his hunger more than anything else did, bushes that in summer had a pea-shaped flower. These grew some distance up a little creek where, when the sun was out, it was mild and warm. No one else seemed to bother to go there.
The iron-grey had come down the valley, but his leg was horribly swollen. The pain made his temper even worse than usual, but since he could not gallop after anyone, and could not kick, it did not matter. No one went close enough to be bitten.
The two fillies arrived too, and were as restless as all the others of the herd, old and young. Perhaps it was because the stallion, whom they disliked, was hurt, and they had the feeling that they might escape. The valley of the caves was a good home, but since the iron-grey had destroyed their old and beloved stallion, life had not been happy.
As the days passed, Wurring’s shoulder began to improve and, though he had a thick winter coat, it was a good colour, and his mane and tail were good too. He found he could use his leg for walking, then he could even trot a little. The leaves and the seedpods were good, healing food. He never went near to the iron-grey, but one day he trotted past him by mistake and saw the older stallion eyeing him rather thoughtfully.
Wurring stopped and looked at his lame enemy. Perhaps by the end of the winter the iron-grey might not be the strongest.
Who cared? Wurring did not wish to fight. He only wished to search the mountains for Ilinga and then to gallop, gay and free, with her.
Some mare or filly in the herd started the feeling that went through them all, the feeling that the iron-grey was done and that Wurring would take over. It might have been the most handsome of the two fillies, the brown one, for she was a mischief maker.
Wurring felt this, and saw the herd appraising him, and, though he felt stronger and better each day, and it would only need the spring for life to surge through him, something told him that the iron-grey was not finished yet, something told him: ‘Danger, danger. The light of the sun will go.’
15: Darkness on the Midday Mountains
Though most of Winganna’s herd had gone down the Tumut River, they had eventually made their way back to Ravine and Numeramang. They were leaderless, and this is unusual because a winning stallion usually takes a herd. The iron-grey had only taken one filly - and lost her. None of them knew that he had maimed Wurring and taken him, after losing Ilinga.
Yarran had had Wurring and Ilinga run with her for so long that she missed them and kept expecting them to come out of the bush, also her foal had died.
When the winter snow began to fall - so early, so heavy - it was she who led the horses away from Numeramang, and she led them to Ravine, because this was the way Wurring and Ilinga had gone. Ravine would probably be free of snow, but she had no intention of staying with the Ravine stallion when the spring time came. Then would come a time to wander the mountains until she heard some wild, thrilling call, or saw some stallion that was worthy to be her mate - for Yarran was a beautiful mare. Now she was not thinking of springtime - she was wondering most about Wurring and Ilinga. She remembered that the iron-grey was a savage, ill-tempered horse.
Snow did fall in Ravine, feathering with white the plum- coloured cliffs, but it did not lie except in the shadowed, roofless rooms of the mud-brick buildings. The horses had nothing to fear. The grass was not covered for more than an hour or so.
Yarran and the small herd came down to Ravine as the snow was falling, and because of the dense drift of flakes, no one
took much notice of them - and then, when the snow stopped, they were there, and everyone was used to seeing them.
The wind blew the snow round and round in the valley and voices were in the wind - snow voices, wind voices, and the remembered echo of the brolgas’ crying at another time.
Yarran was not long in Ravine before she knew that both Wurring and Ilinga had been seen there, and that the iron-grey had come in the most furious temper. Something had happened to Wurring. She even knew that the bay stallion had gone after Ilinga - but he had returned alone, She learnt that the way he had gone was through the high, rolling country where the snow lay all winter: he had come back through the start of the blizzard. It seemed that something strange had happened. Even the stolid bay horse was disturbed by whatever it was that had come to pass.
A few days went by. No one worried the new horses that had recently arrived. The snow began to melt even in between the thick mud walls. A wind blew, shimmering the snowgum leaves to silver, and Yarran knew that Ilinga had vanished in a mysterious way, a way that was not to be understood at all.
Yarran was filled with curiosity as to what had happened - and she was missing both Wurring and Ilinga very much. All these things she had learnt about them stayed in her mind during the winter, and they blended with the old bush legends that had been in the air ever since Ilinga’s dam walked into Numeramang. Wurring was the sun - but in all the herds of wild horses, over seasons and seasons uncounted, there had sometimes been born these chestnuts who burnt with the sun's life.
The breed of the moon, the legends went, had silver moonlight through their hair.
As the winter went on, she learnt of a wide valley through which the Tumut River ran, not so very much further down, and where many horses wintered, but she had it in her mind that both Wurring and Ilinga were far to the east where both sun and moon rise, or she might have tried going down there. To go to the east was impossible, now the snow had come.
The bay stallion had not settled down, Yarran noticed. He was nervous. Whenever snow fell, he moved round ceaselessly, as though expecting something to happen. Day after day the feeling grew among all the horses that something was going to happen. Then one bright winter’s day, when the sun glittered on the snow-capped hills, every horse seemed to know that sometime, quite soon, the light of the sun would go.
How could they believe it when the sunlight streamed gold and silver fire on the snow, but they did believe it. All the animals of the bush were restless, too. The currawongs cried the legend aloud, and when the storms came, the black cockatoos called of darkness. At night the howl of the dingos told the same story. All the bush was waiting.
Then a blizzard darkness came - the sort of darkness that everyone knew - and more snow and more rain fell. For a while the stories could sound unheard, while the search for food was the most important thing.
* * *
Lower down the Tumut River the same tale echoed in every bird call. Even the harsh bark of the flying phallangers held a warning of darkness.
Often Ilinga would start upwards, hoping the snow had gone, only to find, after she had ploughed through a mile or so of soft snow, that her way became blocked by the white and gleaming hills, and she would have to return, each time feeling more desperately that Wurring must be in danger, or perhaps stranded somewhere in the snow, dying of hunger.
The weeks went on, and Ilinga became more and more restless - and indeed the other horses were too. Heavy rain came, pouring down, beating the dead leaves into the ground, glistening on the rocks. The river rose.
Then there was warm sunshine, and Ilinga started forth again, and this time found fresh snow even lower than before.
She stood staring at the bright white hills, rolling away against the blue sky, higher and higher, and knew, as she let the urge to climb them go rushing through her, that she herself was growing stronger as the weather tur
ned towards spring. The grass had been good, and the Tumut Valley was warm already.
She rolled in the snow to remove some of her winter coat, took one last look at the gleaming mountains which separated her from Wurring, and started down again. A clear pool of water lay where a little creek flowed over a hollow rock. She stopped to drink. There was a filly looking at her again - a different filly with strands of silver in mane and forelock.
Ilinga, startled, looked over her shoulder, but no one was there. Had a moon filly been behind her? No, there was no one else but herself. Who could she be?
The young brown stallion was watching out for her as she arrived back. Sometime soon she would have to leave, and leave in the night so that she just vanished and he would not know where she had gone.
That night the warm wind of spring started to blow.
* * *
Wurring’s valley was getting warmer too, and Wurring, himself, was strong. His shoulder was mended. Here, also, the future was cried aloud by the wind through the rocks, so that all those who heard would shiver, and then the liquid spring song of the thrush would make all the beauty of moonlight and sunlight blend together, making it true, so true, that happiness must come again.
For days a warm wind blew, and then there was rain and the river came down, swift and fast. It was brown with mud, and it carried logs and branches. Spring had come.
After the rain, the sun shone. It shone, warm and wonderful, on Wurring’s coat. He bucked and reared, and galloped round, thinking how wonderful he felt and that he would find Ilinga soon. His coat was beginning to shine, and his magnificent mane and tail - silver, or gold, or simply sunlight - made every horse look at him.
Unfortunately this magnificence made the iron-grey look too. Wurring may have had no thought of fighting, but the iron- grey, older and heavier - his leg still not as well healed as Wurring’s - only felt fierce anger and jealousy at the admiration the young horse got from the mares.
So the iron-grey waited his chance - or just waited and watched.
Three days after the rain, when the river had dropped again, Wurring started off upstream. He was so tense with expectation of some strange happening that he could not have stayed still. Every horse was tense. Even the birds were quieter, having called for so long that darkness would come, and the sun vanish.
The iron-grey followed.
Twenty-four hours later, in darkness, Ilinga left the Tumut Valley, and the young brown stallion did not know she had left till morning.
***
Wurring followed the river back up towards the valley of the caves, and he walked with springing strides, or he trotted. Once where the ground was flat and open, he broke into a bouncing, bucking canter, and the sunlight blazed in his hair.
The iron-grey had some trouble to keep up, but he was close enough to see this exhibition of joy and vigour - also beauty - and his jealousy smouldered all the more.
They were coming to quite a large open flat, and he determined to catch up, there, and finish Wurring off. He hurried, but Wurring had heard him and was not bothering about him, and just went cantering on, kicking up his heels rather disdainfully. The iron-grey was too out of breath to get round in front of him. Wurring kept purposefully trotting. They covered the ground a lot quicker than they had when they were driven down by the snow. The iron-grey found it hard work, the knee was still quite sore.
He did not catch up with Wurring all day.
It was evening when they reached the valley of the caves. Here there was still some patches of soggy snow left, and many solid snow banks that would stop quick travelling. Wurring was feeling full of strength still, and he was tired of the iron-grey always following. He decided to hide in a cave, wait till the iron-grey came, and then fight him.
It was a few minutes or so before the iron-grey came into sight, and he was lame and blowing. Even so, he looked far
stronger and heavier than Wurring knew he was himself.
Wurring did not spring out. Perhaps it might be better to stop the night there? But some instinct told him that he should fight the iron-grey while he was lame and tired. Night... darkness ... danger. Better to fight him now. Wurring came out of the cave. The iron-grey was still pounding up the valley, thinking he was ahead.
Wurring leapt after him, his hooves almost soundless on the wet sand. The iron-grey only heard him at the last moment, and swung around, with barely time to steady himself.
The iron-grey had fought before. Wurring knew this, but Wurring had learnt some wisdom in the last few months. He had the most speed, he was much more nimble. If he kept out of reach until he could get in a really good blow, he might never win, but he might not be hurt this time.
Presently he realized that he could drive the iron-grey nearly mad, by simply dancing out of reach, and it was great fun to do this, but the very smell of the heavy horse reminded him that this was a cruel, bad-tempered animal. Wurring did not think - even if he managed to exhaust him - that he would have the strength to kill the iron-grey... yet. He had to kill him sometime, to avenge Winganna.
He would play safe now, while night closed in. Try to exhaust the bigger horse, then leave him. But Wurring got tired too, and when he found himself tiring, he decided to draw off and see if the iron-grey followed.
The grey horse had had enough for the night, but he did start to follow upstream, so Wurring decided that he might as well rest. The morning would be another day.
The morning was indeed another day. A few clouds floated over the sky, dark-based, lazy, presaging rain. For some reason both horses were nervous. The day was unusually hot. There was also a frightening feeling of hurry and constant movement in the bush. Wurring was afraid to go on his way, because he was certain something vast was going to happen - and he did not know what.
The iron-grey did not disturb him, though he kept a careful watch on the younger horse. They both grazed half-heartedly, both kept watching the lazy clouds, kept sniffing the air.
All the other animals that Wurring saw were furtive, and scuttling along as though really afraid of something. He saw a dark brown wallaby hopping through undergrowth and it stopped often to point its trembling nose up towards the sky. Then it vanished. The birds were quiet: there was no joyous carolling, only a few necessary calls for communication. What worried him most was when he saw two snakes - and then a third - making up on to the ridge above the stream. They, too, seemed in a hurry. Wurring felt profoundly uncomfortable.
He did not move off until almost mid-day, when he felt quite unable to stay still amid the tension he could feel in the bush and in the weather. Any animals which he saw were still going fast and some were looking over their shoulders. The hot, lazy wind came in puffs, turning the snowgum leaves to glittering silver. Puff! and then the wind would die down so that the leaves hung quite still and were olive green again and there was no sigh of bark or branch. Something was certainly going to happen, and he could not bear to wait any longer to see what it was.
He moved off up the valley, and the iron-grey immediately followed, almost immediately began to canter up alongside.
Wurring had no intention of running away. He knew he could keep out of reach of the big lame horse. As he swung round to fight, he forgot all his foreboding about the day, forgot the scurrying animals, the birds who did not sing, the snakes that slid swiftly through the bush. He remembered the iron-grey, and he remembered Ilinga, too, and Winganna, because there are some great reasons for fighting — a horse fights for a mare, or a herd, or he fights for vengeance. Wurring was fighting for his mare, and to avenge his sire - he was also fighting for his own life.
The day grew more and more sultry, and the sweat streamed on the older horse, who was striking out with venom and force, and it darkened the coat of the young, gleaming chestnut.
Wurring kept hopping gracefully out of reach, and aiming his own blows infrequently and only when he got an opportunity to hit at the most vulnerable places.
Tod
ay, however, was indeed another day. Whatever made it so oppressive affected Wurring rather more than it did the more stolid horse. For Wurring the day was becoming nerve- wracking: the iron-grey had not noticed all the signs that something strange was going to happen: his whole attention was towards maiming Wurring again. Half of Wurring’s attention was feeling for something in the weather - in the day itself.
The iron-grey got in one stinging blow on Wurring’s shoulder; the same shoulder which he had hurt before. It was painful for a moment, but no real damage had been done, and it did serve the purpose of making the young horse more careful. Wurring reared away from the blow and brought his own forefeet crashing down on the iron-grey’s head.
On and on the fight went. Two horses swaying back and forth. By now there seemed even more hasty movement of animals through the bush. Two big kangaroos were hopping in great leaps down the valley. While Wurring’s attention was partly distracted by the kangaroos, the iron-grey came for him. Wurring got a dizzying blow on the head before he knew what was happening. He shook his head, but everything looked a little dark. He realized that the kangaroos had become as still as tree stumps among some rocks, and that there was no more rustling, only complete, deathly silence in the bush.
The iron-grey came rushing at him again. Wurring stepped swiftly aside. The world might look dark, but he was not unsteady on his feet. He felt quite clear in his head. The iron- grey sprang at him again. This time Wurring jumped away and aimed a considerable slash at the other’s eye, missed the eye, itself, but drew blood from above it.
Everything seemed even darker. Wurring cast an anxious glance at the sky - for it appeared as if night were coming and yet it was mid-day, he was sure. As he looked up, the infuriated grey stallion, with blood running into his eye, sprang.
One blow stupified Wurring for long enough to allow the iron-grey to strike him again. Wurring had to collect himself quickly, to get out of the way, and his head was spinning.