Silver Brumby Kingdom (2 page)

The wind blew stronger, hotter, as the following day wore on, and neither Baringa nor his mares, nor Benni and his mate, Silky, knew why they felt that they should be moving upwards.

Evening came. The wind was still blowing, and, instead of cold air closing down on them, the night was hot. All the next day the wind blew, and all the next night. More and more water ran down the hillsides from the fringes of the snow. Once Baringa pawed at a thick patch of snow and found that it was rotten through and through. It crumbled and broke, then began to melt and join the little streams, the slowly moving sheets of water and the squelching swamps.

The horses and the kangaroos moved about restlessly, grazing here and there, filled with a dread they did not understand, and unable to obey their instincts and make upwards, because above them, everywhere, the snow was deep and now it was rotten, so that they could not get far through it at all. Baringa tried to force a way up once, the need to be higher was so urgent in his veins and his nerves, but soon found he was floundering, belly-deep, in glutinous, wet snow, through which he could no longer push his way. With every hour, of course, the snow retreated up the hill-sides, slithered off the rocks, broke and slid, became water; but even though, with every hour, they could walk higher on wet ground and pressed down grass, the animals began to feel desperately that they should be higher, yet higher.

By the afternoon of the fourth windy day, heavy black clouds were moving over the sky.

It was Benni who, with his great wisdom, knew it first.

“We can’t get high up the hillsides here,” he said. “We must go further up the river.”

“Even if Lightning sees Dawn and Moon?” Baringa asked, but he answered his own question by calling his mares and starting upstream. With them was Koora, a lovely, pale strawberry-roan mare owned by Thowra, and Dilkara, her foal, now nearly a yearling.

Benni wondered if they might get as far as Lightning. The river became narrower above where they had been grazing around the mouth of the Tin Mine Creek. Perhaps if they crossed the river . . . but it was already too late, at least for him and for Silky. The river was high.

“Baringa,” he said. “Your mares might be safer on the other side. Over there, the country up above is not so steep.” Baringa looked at the water.

“Even now it is very deep and flowing fast,” he said, and he looked at Benni, whom he loved dearly. “We will stay with you and Silky.”

Night would fall soon, and it would come quickly because the world was already dark with cloud. The horses and the kangaroos kept on, scrambling along the rugged, steep sides of the river. Often they were held up by crags which were difficult to get round.

Baringa had been up the river three times since they were forced to come down the Tin Mine Creek from his Canyon during the winter. Once he went with Thowra and Storm, Thowra’s half-brother, who had also been forced down this way from the Cascades when the very heavy snow fell, and who set off to work their way south and through the mountains, back to their herds. A second time Baringa went up the river merely to see if Lightning was still there — not to talk to him, because he had no wish for Lightning to know where he was wintering, or where he had his mares — and the third time was only a few days ago. Even if he had been over this country quite often enough to know it, it seemed strange and Unfriendly in the hot wind and the gloom, and with the ominous sound of rushing water all around.

Rocks and earth were slippery with melting snow and water, and sometimes they had to plough their way through deep, rotten snow. It was a bad journey, and Dawn could not travel fast because she was very heavy with foal. Even Moon, whose foal would not be born till after Dawn’s, found it hard going. The mares were anxious, too, for mares in foal or with young at foot are peculiarly sensitive to danger.

Each one, perhaps even the young colt, Dilkara, knew that it was water of which they were afraid, great water caused by the melting of the snow in the wind. They knew, too, that rain must be coming, but not even Benni could imagine what was going to happen, because snow as deep as this last winter’s had never been in his experience, nor four days of constantly blowing hot wind on snow, followed by rain.

It was the instinct of the wild animals that told them all that here, in this narrow valley, with steep, high mountains on one side of them and the rushing river on the other, they were in great danger.

The rain started to fall — heavy, splashing drops of rain on their backs, on their ears. It made the going even more difficult, and made each animal more afraid.

Almost as soon as the rain started, the sound of the river grew louder, and the water through which they walked on the steep hillside grew deeper.

Then the rain began to pour from the sky so that the horses seemed to be pushing their way through a wall of raindrops, and the roar of wind, and rain, and water, began to sound in the hills all round them. They plodded on and on, still unable to climb upwards through the mushy snow on the precipitous hillsides. Once they tried climbing, and Moon slipped and fell, sliding fast in the mixture of snow and water on the shale surface. She gave a whinny of fear, but stopped sliding well above the river, and got shakily to her feet. Baringa and the others came down to her and, instead of trying to get higher again, kept on a lower level route, still going up the valley. And always the rain fell in unceasing curtains of beating, heavy drops: always the noise of the storm and running water increased.

A small flat where Baringa had grazed with Storm and Thowra was under water. The waters were gathering, rising and rising, and because they had never seen anything like this, and were still some distance from any place where they could climb to safety, the horses were becoming desperate.

Benni and Silky looked about them with their little anxious, pointed faces, trying to see somewhere to which they might go.

They passed a band of rock, difficult to climb over and round, and the footholds were not apparent in the gathering dusk and with the water pouring over the rocks. On the other side of it the river was far higher, half-dammed by the rocks, booming, coming up, up, up, rising faster than any of the animals had seen water rise before in ordinary springs. The river had a black, oily look as it rushed past.

Ahead of them, their way lay along cliff sides for several hundred yards.

“Get across here, and then we can work upwards,” said Benni, but to get across the cliffs, with their slithering, sliding snow and pouring water, and all the time the rain beating down, was going to be very difficult.

“You lead,” Benni said, “and I will come at the back, making sure that they all get over.”

Dawn, looking frightened and tired, followed behind Baringa.

The cliffs did not seem the same as when Baringa had crossed them before. The water that rushed down them made them appear to move in the gloom, made each foothold precarious. Baringa picked his way with great care, becoming more and more nervous as he heard Dawn’s short gasps for breath behind him, her occasional little half-whinnies of fear when her feet slipped and she fought to regain balance for her heavy body. And the river was roaring, rising, roaring.

There were only a few yards to go and then a fanning out of less steep ridge. Baringa looked behind. They were all still coming along, his line of mares, the foal and the two kangaroos. They had travelled like this, strung out across cliffs, three months before, but then it was through a curtain of falling snow that he saw them. Now it was this solid grey rain and oncoming night. One foot after another he picked his way on the wet, slippery rock.

There was a wild neigh and the scrabbling of hooves. He swung round, nearly falling himself. Dawn was over and sliding fast towards the swollen stream, desperately tying to right herself. He bounded down after her, neighing, with no thought of how he would stop himself. Even as he went, he heard a bark from Benni, but it was too late to answer — or to stop.

He had almost reached Dawn as she slid into the water. He saw her forefeet grabbing at the rocks: then she was rolled over and borne away by the fast-moving water.

Somehow, on small, wet toe-holds, Baringa managed to stop himself just at the edge, just before he, too, went in. He gave one anguished call, and then went leaping back the way they had come, though lower, near to that black swirling water, trying to race Dawn, trying to get down to some place where he might call her out on to flatter ground.

Below that narrow place of rocks, the river was not quite as fast; but what would happen to Dawn at the rocks? Clattering, crashing, splashing over precipitous stones and through water he went, looking towards Dawn’s head which showed white, strained up out of the dark river.

When the river narrowed into the little rocky gorge, Dawn was near the furthest bank and swept up against the rocks. Now, surely she would be able to get her feet down and fight her way out. Baringa watched her apparently feeling for something on which to stand, but the force of the water pinned her to the rocks and seemed almost to be building up against her, submerging her. She gave a despairing cry, and seemed to push off into the middle of the stream. There the water caught her and whirled her down between the rocks, out of Baringa’s sight—and he had the rocky bluff to climb and get round.

Gasping, because all his breath had gone, he scrambled up and over, his eyes seeking the river on the other side of the rock barrier.

There was no sign of Dawn. Yes! Perhaps that was she, in midstream, being rushed along with the current — perhaps it was a white head in the darkness. Baringa galloped as best he could on the steep hillside, calling her. Then night came. There was one startling last cry from the kurrawongs somewhere in the sky.

Baringa could no longer see Dawn from the bank, and he sprang into the ice-cold river, swimming strongly down the stream. The cold was fierce, binding with steel bands, binding lungs and heart so that his breath became laboured and his movements weaker. How could Dawn survive in this? He was crashed into a rock, bruising his knees. He bumped his shoulder on another. He raised his head and tried to call, and his neigh sounded strange in the roar of the stream. There was no answer.

The dark, freezing water and the rain on his head were all that he could see or feel — a world of dark water and terrible cold, and the pain of the cold aching in neck, shoulders, ribs, quarters and all down the less protected bone and muscle of his legs, the pain of freezing. He swam on and on, his longing to find Dawn greater even than the deep instinct that was telling him to get to the shore, to get out, to save himself.

At last that instinct told him that, if he were to live, he must indeed get out, because he was so frozen by the snow-water that he was barely able to move.

The current had hitherto taken him down the centre of the stream, but now it started to whirl him towards the western bank. Baringa began to feel afraid, and wonder if he could find strength to swim across. He must get out on the eastern bank, so that he could get back to Benni and the mares. Now even the pain of the cold was dying down. It was fear that suddenly made him struggle to swim, fear and a sudden tremendous determination.

For quite a distance the current bore him racing on, as though he, a huge silver stallion, were no more than a dry gumleaf, but slowly his efforts got him towards the other side, he felt rock under his hooves, he plunged towards the bank, fell, felt rock again and leapt. This time the bank was flatter and he dragged himself out of the current, on to the ground and into the lashing rain.

His great gasps for breath hurt his chest. He could barely move. Then, as he began to grow a little warmer, there was a different sort of pain all over: but there was no time to stop. Baringa started his weary struggle back to the others, splashing through the streaming water that came down from the snow above.

He took as careful note as was possible, in the darkness and the sheets of rain, of where he had pulled himself out of the river. He would have to get back, when daylight came, try to see Dawn, try to cross, try to get her back. On and on he went, trotting where he could, scrambling over rocks, slipping in the water.

Gradually the pain turned to a sort of tingling, and then he began to feel warmth again . . . and exhaustion.

He had to go very slowly over those cliffs where Dawn had fallen, so much water poured down them now that they were like an immense waterfall. When he came to the end of them, he threw up his head and called. Moon would surely answer him. He might even hear Benni’s bark. He wanted desperately the comfort of being back with Moon, Koora and Benni . . . wanted their company because he so deeply wanted Dawn. Dawn meant more to him than any other mare ever would. She had run with him even when he was a yearling. She had refused to leave him and go with Lightning, who was already a handsome stallion when he was still a nervous colt. Dawn and he belonged to each other, and now she was gone. He called and then he listened.

An answering neigh, Moon’s he knew, came from up above and a little further on. Presently he was walking on squelching ground instead of rock, He called again, heard the answer, and turned upwards.

Terribly tired, and more miserable than he had ever been, Baringa joined the waiting animals.

They had heard only the one set of hooves squelching through the mud, and knew he had not brought Dawn. Soft noses touched his nose, and Benni’s gentle paw patted him.

“What happened?” Benni asked.

“I do not know,” said Baringa. “I thought she went through that narrow gorge of rock. I could not really be sure I saw her head above the water on the other side of it, but I thought I did, and then darkness closed right down, and I went into the river to try to find her. I was swimming for so long, so very long, but I never found her.” His head drooped down to the kangaroo, and the little soft paw touched his nose again.

“You got out,” said Benni. “I think she will. Dawn has great courage.” But he thought of Dawn and her foal so soon to be born, and he thought of the intense cold of the melting snow in the water.

“As soon as it is light, I will go back,” said Baringa. “Are you and the mares safe here?”

“Wait and see what morning brings,” Benni answered. “Here there is no food. We could not stay long, but I do not think the water will touch us.”

Baringa listened, then, to the roar of the river, and if he listened carefully he could also hear, closer than the river, the strange, sibilant rustle of the water moving over every hillside as the snow melted. There was also the sound of rain.

Though the night was warm, he felt cold. He had been too frozen, he was also deeply tired, and he had lost Dawn. He went into a sort of troubled doze, standing there between the two mares, but he felt, all through the hours of darkness, that he was battling in the icy stream.

As daylight came, they could see the river was far, far higher than the night before, and so fast that logs and branches

were hurtling down.

Baringa looked at it, feeling that he would have no chance in water that went at that pace, but he knew he must try to find Dawn. He looked round at the place they had spent the night. It was certainly the safest place he could see, but Benni was right: there was no food. It was a grass slope between rock outcrops and cliffs, and all the grass had been under snow until last night and was pressed into the mud. They would be quite safe there for a day or so, particularly as the sky, grey and misty, looked as if it would fine up.

“You cannot try to cross that river today,” Benni said. “Wait. It Will drop, probably by tomorrow.”

“I think I could cross it, if I saw her,” Baringa answered.

“I must go down.” And Benni knew he must.

The little herd stood dejectedly as Baringa left them, and they watched him start again over the streaming cliffs. He soon vanished from sight, and they had nothing at all to do but wait, and watch what went down the river. After an hour or so, the sun began to come through the mist and warm the air . . . the sun that would also make the grass grow, though not today, and today they were hungry.

Baringa was below the rock gorge when the sunlight began to break through and fall in shafts into the opposite bank. If a silver mare stood in the bush, perhaps the light would gleam on hide or hair? He walked slowly, his eyes on the other side. He came to the place where he had dragged himself out of water the night before, and where, now, the river was much wider and deeper, and still he had seen nothing. He looked at the water, the brown, swirling water, and saw the back of a dead wombat being swept down. He hated the look of that river. He walked on downstream for a while, still staring across the river, and he still saw nothing. He called, but he did not know whether, standing so close to the roar of the water, he would ever hear an answer. He went back to the place where he had got our of the stream last night, then remembered that, just above it, there was a stretch of the river where the current swept towards the other side. He went a little further upstream, stood and looked for a while, at the great power of the steam, gave one more call, and plunged in.

He was immediately gripped by the iron cold, seized and twisted by a far stronger, faster current than he had dreamt possible. His chest crashed into a boulder. The water dammed up behind him for just one second, then poured over him, spun him, rolled him, he was past the boulder, legs bruised, water going into his ears, up his nose, tugging at mane and tail.

At last he came up, gasping for air, but the iron bands of cold around him made breathing almost impossible. Then a log hit his head and he swung round. His legs were among rocks, being twisted again, and the cold, the iron cold, froze him. He was swimming wildly, more to keep afloat than anything, but he saw that the current was indeed carrying him towards the further shore. How easy it would be to get out, he did not know.

Soon he saw that he was going to be swept against some rocks and then probably swirled out into the stream again. He struggled harder, trying to reach the bank upstream from the rocks. He felt his feet on boulders again, he tried to press himself on to them and make his way to the bank. Each time he slipped, he went further down in the current. Slowly, slowly he got closer to the edge of the flood. There was grass underfoot, he might make it. But every second he was also getting nearer to the rocks. Once he was swept against those, he would have no hope of getting out. He dug in his hooves and struggled at an angle across the current. His forefeet were on higher ground, his quarters were being swept away. With a prodigious effort, he got himself into shallow water and then leapt away from the river as though it might rise still further and catch him. He was weak and trembling.

It was time to start his search. He moved into the bush, wondering where to go. He called once and then listened, but the sounds he heard, blending with the roar of the flood, were only those of the birds. He searched the ground for tracks, and the only tracks were made by wombats or kangaroos. He turned downstream and walked on, searching and calling. Everywhere a great deal of snow had gone, and, in the warm sun, there was already the feeling of upthrusting life. This feeling, for all his misery, communicated itself to Baringa but there was neither sign nor sound of Dawn.

Perhaps she had gone upstream. He turned back, moved further away from the river, and searched all the way back. When he was level with where he had crossed he went over to the river and continued upstream within the first thick cover of the bush. Not only could he see no trace of Dawn, but he was certain that no other horse had passed that way since the rain.

He went on and on till he felt he must be nearly opposite where he had left the kangaroos with Moon, Koora and Dilkara. He went to the waters edge and looked across, presently he saw them, way up above the water. He turned back into the bush and went on up the river. Not only did he still hope to find Dawn, but he had to get across somewhere where the water was not so high. Several times there were creeks to cross, each one swelled far beyond its normal size. In terror of being swept into the river, he went as far up every creek as the snow would allow, before trying to cross.

The sun had come out quite strongly, and he was hot. If the night were dear and frosty the melting snow would freeze again, and the water be stilled a little. He trotted on and he trotted hither and thither, eyes seeking track, nose seeking scent, ears listening for a call, but always there was nothing. The sun was sinking before Baringa was far enough up the river — to be able safely to cross. He was just below Lightning’s grazing place and was amazed how much snow had gone from there.

Even that crossing was a struggle, and cold and bedraggled he turned back towards the herd.

Could it be possible for Dawn to be there when he arrived back in the half-light of evening? But it was Koora who extended her nose to his, Moon who rubbed against him, Benni who gave him a little pat.

“Tomorrow we will have to find a better place,” said Benni gently, “somewhere where there is a little food to eat. I think there will be a few nights of frost, with less flood-water, but after that more rain may come.”

Baringa shivered. He must find Dawn before rain started falling again.