Elyne Mitchell - The Silver Brumby

When Mirri saw them coming she gave a whinny of greeting, and Bel Bel arched her neck a little and stepped proudly beside her creamy son, thinking how his mane and tail were silver and would someday look like spray from a waterfall as he galloped.

Mirri was pleased to see her.

“Well met, Bel Bel,” she said, “and what a fine foal you have – creamy too! I must stir my sleepy-head to show him off!” And she nosed the bright bay at her feet.

The bay raised his head sleepily, but, seeing strangers, he became wide awake and struggled to his feet.

“A fine intelligent head,” Bel Bel said. “What do you call him?”

“Storm,” Mirri answered. “He was born in the worst of the weather, two nights ago. And yours?”

“Thowra, for the wind. He was born then too. They will be great mates for a year or so,” and both mothers nodded wisely, for was it not the way of the wild horses that the young colts should run together, after they left their dams, until they had reached the age and strength to fight for a mare or two of their own and start their own herd.

Storm and Thowra sniffed at each other curiously and then both turned back to their mothers for a drink.

Sunny spring days came, day after day, and the grass grew fresh, and green, and sweet. The two mares stayed in Snowgrass Plain, eating, basking in the sun, drinking the cold, clear water, growing strong and sleek after the hard winter, and giving their foals plenty of milk. The foals grew strong too, and romped and galloped, and rolled in the sun.

Soon they learned to recognise the great wedge-tail eagles floating in the blue arch of sky above them, knew the call of kurrawongs, and were unafraid of the friendly grey kangaroos or little brown wallabies.

The two foals were equal in strength and size, and when they were able to follow their mothers for quite a long distance, Bel Bel and Mirri, who had become restless to rejoin the herd, started moving off to the south.

For an hour or so they travelled across the ridge tops, in the fringe of the snowgums, and by mid-morning they came out on an immense open hillside, which was half of a great basin in the hills. Bel Bel and Mirri checked the foals at the edge of the tree line.

“Never run out into clear country without first taking a very good look,” they warned.

The foals could see nothing except steep snowgrass and rocks dropping down, down beyond their sight, and away over opposite, a rough, timbered hillside.

“That’s where we will spend some of the summer,” Bel Bel said. “It is too rough for the men and their cattle, but we get a good picking there.”

Neither Thowra nor Storm knew what she meant.

“Down there,” said Mirri, “is the Crackenback River. A nice, cool stream to drink at on hot days, and good sandy beaches, in places, for young ones to roll on.”

They moved out on to the clear hillside, but never went far from the shelter of the trees. Thowra and Storm were too pleasantly tired to want to play and soon dropped to sleep in the sunshine. Bel Bel and Mirri grazed contentedly, a little distance off. All was quiet. There was the far-off sound of the river, running full and strong with water from the melted snows, and the sound of kurrawongs, but otherwise a profound silence. Even the mares had grown sleepy, when all of a sudden there was a shrill whinny of fear from Thowra.

Bel Bel whipped round in time to see Thowra and Storm leaping up from their sleep, and there, grabbing at Thowra as he leapt, was a man. She neighed, calling her foal to come quickly, and started galloping towards them, ready to strike at the man. The foals, with long legs flailing, were racing towards her, wild with fear.

She heard Mirri scream with rage behind her. Then the man turned and ran into the trees.

The mares stopped in their headlong chase to snuff their trembling foals all over and make sure they were unhurt.

Bel Bel was all for chasing the man.

“He was no stockman, he had no rope or whip,” she said.

“No,” answered Mirri, “but even a man alone, walking through the mountains, sometimes has a gun. No, we will thankfully take our foals and go.” She turned to Storm. “See, my son, that was a man. Never go near Man, nor his huts, nor his yards where he fences in cattle and his own tame horse. Man will hurt you and capture you; put straps of leather rope upon your head, tie you up, fence you in, beat you if you bite or kick…” She was sweating with fear as she spoke, and the two foals’ trembling increased.

“And you, Thowra,” said Bel Bel, “I told you you would have to be as fleet as the wind. For your creamy coat and your silver mane and tail they will hunt you, so that they may ride astride your back over your own mountains. Beware of Man!”

Still sweating with fear, the two mares led their foals away, slipping like wraiths between the trees, trotting steeply down, trotting, trotting.

After quite a long way they were getting near the head of the stream. Here the mares went more slowly, stopping to sniff the air.

“It is from this hut he must have come, but he is not back yet,” Bel Bel said.

“There may be others.” Mirri’s nostrils were quivering.

“I can smell no fresh smoke.”

“But, still, let us drop much lower down and cross the stream there, rather than follow the track near the hut.”

Bel Bel rubbed one ear on a foreleg.

“The foals are very tired,” she said. “We had better spend the night near water. A drink for us will make more milk for them too.”

They slept that evening well below the head of the Crackenback, with the singing stream beside them, but occasionally when the north wind blew, the two mares would wrinkle their nostrils and mutter between their teeth, “Smoke!” So when the moon rose, they nosed the foals up on their tired legs and started the long climb up the Dead Horse Ridge. Once up on top, they could afford to rest again, but it took the poor foals hours to climb it, and when they found a soak of water to drink, just beyond the top, the mares let the little ones drop down on the soft ground and sleep undisturbed till daybreak.

From there on the travelling was easy, and Bel Bel and Mirri were not so anxious. They were a long way from the hut, and getting very close to the wild horses’ winter and spring grazing grounds where, until the snows had all gone, they were never bothered by men.

There had been a time once, years and years ago, when four people had come whizzing down the snow-covered ridges with great wooden boards on their feet, and one of them had a lasso and had roped a bay colt; but they had been laughing, laughing – mad, in fact – for all they wanted was to cut off some of his tail to wear plaited and pinned on their coats. This was a legend among the wild horses, a tale every foal heard… but it had happened a long time ago, and Man was not expected in the Cascades until the herds of cattle came for summer grazing.

It was evening when the four of them looked down into a narrow valley off the Cascades, and saw their own herd grazing. Just then the great golden chestnut stallion, leader of the herd, raised his head and saw them and let out a shrill trumpeting cry of greeting.

The two mares neighed in reply and started trotting down the long slope, followed by their nervous foals.

THOWRA AND STORM were both really frightened by the excitement of the great stallion, their father, and the curiosity of the other mares and foals.

One huge chestnut foal sniffed at Thowra and then gave him a sharp, unpleasant bite on the wither. Thowra dodged behind Bel Bel who promptly laid her ears back and chased the foal away. A small, mean-looking brown mare came prancing up and bared her teeth at Bel Bel.