Brumby's Run

by Jennifer Scoullar

  Last night Sam had told him about Dr Robert Miller’s theory for imprinting foals. It was all about bonding with humans in the brief window of time straight after birth. Such foals began to see humans as fellow horses instead of predators. The deep trust they established in their handlers often lead to miraculous training results later on. Sam smiled. She’d handed Drew the perfect excuse to spend all day with the new colt. Flicka laid back her ears as Drew tried to hijack the foal again. Sam fed her the carrots. ‘You’d think he’d done all the work himself, wouldn’t you?’ she said to the mare, before heading for the car.

  Phoenix’s piercing neigh greeted her as she came in sight of the showground yards. He knew her car. At first Bushy had put it down to coincidence, but he agreed now that the colt recognised the blue beetle, and even responded to its engine noise coming up the track. Sam parked and went to say hello to Phoenix. The young stallion performed excited pirouettes as she approached, and accepted the carrots she offered with a regal nod of his head. The newborn foal was adorable, true – but no horse could take the special place Phoenix held in Sam’s heart.

  Sam headed for Bushy’s ‘kitchen’, the narrow porch between the horse wash bays and his room. She needed a big mug of his strong, sweet tea, and a plate piled high with hot buttered toast, chock-full of fat raisins. A sugar hit might chase away her weariness.

  Sam told him about the foal, but instead of being excited Bushy was uncharacteristically quiet. He stirred the tea and handed her a mug. His deep-set dark eyes searched her face. ‘I’m glad you’ve got a little ’un. That fella’s going to teach you a lot.’ He smiled. ‘That’s if Drew ever lets you near him.’

  Sam nodded and grinned. ‘He’s head over heels, all right.’

  Phoenix burst into a series of commanding neighs. ‘How do you reckon that colt’s been going?’ asked Bushy.

  ‘Phoenix? He’s fabulous, doesn’t put a foot wrong. Soft mouth, good transitions, great laterals. Awesome stop. He’s good to catch and float. Opens and closes gates. Stands for the farrier. You can even crack a whip off him.’

  ‘You’re a fair hand with that whip these days,’ he said. Sam nodded, curious. She knew Bushy. He was getting around to saying something important. Bushy finished a mouthful of toast. ‘How’d you like to take Phoenix home?’ he said. ‘That horse could use some bush work.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Sam, hardly believing her good fortune. ‘I can take him home to Brumby’s Run?’

  Bushy nodded. ‘That you can. Ryan said it himself, just this morning.’

  Sam’s smile grew larger. This was truly wonderful news. Then why did Bushy look so gloomy?

  ‘You’re to finish Phoenix for his new owner,’ he continued, looking into his tea.

  Sam’s smile faltered. She couldn’t make sense of his words. ‘New owner?’

  ‘That colt’s been sold.’

  Anger and panic formed a heavy stone in Sam’s stomach. ‘Unsell him then,’ she said swiftly. ‘I’ll buy him back, whatever the cost.’

  Bushy shook his head. ‘Can’t be done. Apparently the buyer’s promised Ryan a major sponsorship. He can’t afford to welch on the deal.’

  No. It was impossible. Impossible to contemplate that this could happen to her again. Sam reeled from the kitchen and pelted to the yard where Phoenix pranced about, impatient for his morning feed. The colt was heartbreakingly beautiful, haloed in morning sunshine, framed by the majesty of Maroong Mountain. But Sam’s eyes were brimful of tears, and she couldn’t see him any more. All she saw was the formless shape of her own loss.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The tail end of a bad dream slipped away, and Charlie emerged from the fog of sleep, knuckling sleep from her eyes. What a relief. This wasn’t her hospital bed, and she wasn’t ill again. This was her own room at Brumby’s … and someone was knocking on the door. She pulled on her clothes, and ran down the hall. It was Karl.

  The three weeks since she’d met Karl had been the most fascinating and rewarding weeks of her life. Nearly every day now, Karl swung by and collected her on his way up to Balleroo. He was conducting a field review on the impact of the grazing trial, and Charlie was helping him. She didn’t know what was more exciting: being involved in a serious scientific research program, or spending hours on end with Karl. With each day they spent together, Charlie felt more drawn to the quirky, sexy ranger.

  She opened the door to Karl, gave him a huge smile and grabbed her bag from the porch.

  It had started with the emails. Then one morning Charlie had woken to the sound of a car coming up the track, had crept down the hall and peered out the bathroom window. A government vehicle and a khaki-clad figure in the drive. Karl.

  Charlie had stepped into jeans, leaving off her belt for once, letting them sit low on her hips. She gave a little shimmy. The mirror told her she looked good – no longer skeletal, but slim and healthy. The knock at the door had come again. This time she’d opened it to find Karl standing there, holding a cardboard box. He’d combed his sandy-blond hair, slicked it neatly back in an obvious effort to be presentable. With his boyish features, his pressed khaki uniform and polished boots, Karl had looked like an overgrown scout. Charlie had almost expected a three-fingered salute and an admonition to be prepared. She’d tried to restrain herself, she really had, but laughter had crept around her edges and spilt from her seams.

  Karl had looked perplexed, unhappy even. That wasn’t what she wanted. Charlie had slapped her hand resolutely over her mouth.

  ‘Miss Kelly?’ He’d inspected her face. ‘It is Charlie Kelly this time? You have not transformed into another?’

  ‘No, it’s me. Charlie.’

  He’d proffered the box. It looked heavy. ‘For you.’ She’d gestured for him to come in, and he’d put it down on the kitchen table. ‘Open it.’

  Inside were copies of government field notes for Balleroo, dating back to the 1950s. Endangered species reports, flora and fauna surveys, bog water-quality assessments, frog population reviews. Charlie couldn’t believe her eyes. It was a veritable treasure trove. ‘Where did these come from?’

  ‘The Department of Environment library. I made copies.’

  Charlie had flipped through volume after precious volume. ‘It must have taken forever.’

  ‘It took some time, yes.’ His eyes had locked onto hers. ‘Do you like them?’

  ‘No,’ said Charlie. His face fell. ‘I love them.’ She’d moved closer, taken his arms and pressed her lips against his cheek, sliding them at the last minute to his mouth. He’d quivered a fraction but not pulled away.

  Then Drew had pushed in through the flywire door, with impeccably bad timing. ‘What’s going on here?’

  Karl had seemed wary. Charlie had introduced the men, then pulled Drew out the door. ‘Haven’t you got some cows to chase or something?’

  Drew had put on his hat. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Of course I am. Just piss off, will you?’

  ‘Is that your boyfriend?’ Karl had asked her after Drew left. Charlie shook her head and Karl had smiled. ‘Very good. May I see you tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes Karl,’ Charlie had said solemnly. ‘You may.’

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Sam rose at first light and put the kettle on. The first week of April and there was already a nip in the early morning air. Fog had crept down from the range overnight. Outside the window, trees loomed grey and amorphous in swirls of mist. Sam prayed it would clear to the sunny day promised by the forecast.

  Charlie emerged from the hallway, pyjama-clad and yawning. The physical change in her sister these past six weeks had been nothing short of remarkable. She seemed taller. Her body had filled out, in spite of Sam’s fairly limited recipe range and Charlie’s own laziness in the kitchen. Her limbs, once skinny sticks, had grown ripe and smooth. Muscles were beginning to define her upper arms and calves, rounding out the knobbly bits. Her sister no longer peered at the world through gaunt hollows. Clear amber eyes gazed from an a
ngelic face, its heart shape enhanced by a newly defined widow’s peak. Charlie’s hairline curved back from the dark triangle in a way identical to Sam’s own, exaggerating their resemblance. It was kind of flattering, to think that people had mistaken her for this gorgeous girl.

  ‘When are they supposed to get here, again?’ asked Charlie, slipping bread into the toaster.

  ‘Ten o’clock, and Drew will be over at nine to help saddle up. Is Topsy’s gear back up at the yards?’ Charlie nodded. ‘It’s a miracle you found that crupper. That pony’s got no wither at all. I lay awake half the night imagining the saddle and the girl too, slipping straight over his head on the way home.’

  Charlie applied slabs of butter and lashings of honey to the toast, then popped another round of bread into the toaster. You couldn’t fill her up lately.

  ‘I’m still concerned about time,’ said Sam. ‘A twelve-year-old could slow us down more than we bargained for. Are you sure that track down to the creek isn’t too steep for a child? I’ll die if she falls off.’ Sam started going through papers on the table. ‘Where are those “waiver of liability” forms? Thank God, here they are. I wonder if we’ve got enough spares? People could make mistakes. Would it be enough for them to initial the correction, do you think? Or should we give them a completely new form? I think a new form, don’t you, just to be on the safe side?’

  Charlie plonked down tea and toast in front of Sam. ‘Jesus Christ, will you chill already?’ She rolled her eyes and put more toast on. ‘It’s only five people. We can do this standing on our heads.’ Then she yawned and stuffed more toast into her mouth.

  Sam pressed a hand over her eyes and squinted them tight shut. Her sister was absolutely right. She needed to relax – although not quite as much as Charlie, perhaps. Charlie appeared to have gone back to sleep, hunched over her coffee cup. Which was pretty remarkable, really, considering what a momentous day it was. Today, Brumby’s Run High Country Trails welcomed its very first customers. They’d put a test advertisement in the Currajong Gazette.

  The majestic mountains of north-eastern Victoria abound with fascinating wildlife, ancient forests and stunning views. Brumby’s Run High Country Trails offers rides through the heart of the High Country. Explore spectacular Balleroo National Park. Visit historic huts, ride through unspoiled wilderness and breathe pure mountain air. An unforgettable horse-riding experience. Knowledgeable guides, and horses to suit.

  Their target market wasn’t locals, of course, but tourists. City slickers after an authentic bush experience. But for now it seemed sensible just to dip their toes in the water – run a few rides and see if they worked. If all went well, they’d launch an internet advertising campaign in the spring.

  Charlie and Drew had done a good job planning the course of the ride. It wound its way through the wildflower-strewn creek flats of Brumby’s Run, up to the entrance to the park, where Drew had built an imposing new bush-timber gateway. Then it struck out through the forest of candle barks and peppermint gums, stopping twice at lookout points. These offered sweeping views across the range and down to where Currajong nestled beside the Merri River. These stops would also allow any beginner riders to catch up with the faster ones. The forest leg of the ride gave opportunities for spotting kangaroos, echidnas and perhaps even a rare brushtailed rock wallaby or two. Near the end of the first hour, they’d ford Snake Creek and stop for photos at scenic Bluff Falls. Platypuses could usually be spotted in the ferny pools below the cascade, and eagles often soared above the bluff. Then it would be just about time to head for home.

  Their first clients were locals from nearby Tallangala, experienced riders all of them, and a perfect group for a test run. Sam had chosen their horses with great care. The skewbald pony Topsy was for the girl. Gemma and Golden, the two creamy brumby mares, for the older aunts. And the pair of flaxen-maned taffies for the mother and father. Sam would ride Tara, a sensible brown mare, and Charlie, of course, would ride Tambo. Drew was coming along too on Clancy.

  They’d groomed the horses to within an inch of their lives. Their coats gleamed. Their manes lay combed and smooth. Even their hoofs were oiled and freshly trimmed. ‘We’re not off to the Royal Show,’ Charlie had said. But she’d still seemed pleased at how well the horses scrubbed up, especially Tambo. The two of them had cleaned and polished the old tack that had been thrown in as a package deal with the Mitchell horses.

  There was something marvellously therapeutic about the process. They’d sat together in the kitchen, watching the ancient leather soak up warm neatsfoot oil applied with paint brushes, past differences forgotten. A final buff up with saddle soap completed the procedure. Bridles that looked like they’d never been cleaned in their lives hung shining and supple. Buckles and bits gleamed. Saddles that had been covered in green grime came up as good as new. Sam had been looking forward to this day; couldn’t wait to show off their beautiful new horses and equipment. But now the day had actually arrived, nerves had got the better of her.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’d go into town for more milk?’ she asked Charlie. ‘We mightn’t have enough if they all want loads of coffee.’

  ‘We’ve got plenty of milk,’ said Charlie, in the sort of tone one might use to reassure an anxious child. ‘They’d need to drink about five mugs each for us to run out. And anyway, you know I don’t go to town.’

  ‘Charlie,’ said Sam. ‘You’re being ridiculous. You can’t just never go into Currajong again.’

  ‘Why not?’ she said, licking honey from her fingers. ‘I’ve managed it so far. Don’t blame me. If you hadn’t decided to steal my life, I wouldn’t be in this position.’

  Sam sighed and nodded. ‘If that’s what you want … and I suppose you’re right about the milk.’ She put the forms into a plastic sleeve, and grabbed her hat from the hook near the door. ‘I’m going up to feed the horses.’

  Sam emerged into the chilly morning, wrapped her coat tight around her and looked up. Streamers of pastel blue showed beyond the mist, and a wan sun seemed determined to break through. Good, the day promised to be fine. A volley of neighs greeted her on her way up the hill, and Phoenix reared and boxed the air. Even the prospect of losing him wasn’t enough to spoil her happiness today. Sam was firmly in denial on that score, determined to believe in miracles.

  She smiled and broke into a small dance, finishing with a twirl and a curtsey as she reached the yards. A row of curious heads were lined up all along the rails. Jarrang snorted and turned his back on her foolishness. She laughed and plucked a sprig from a fragrant native mint bush that was blooming beside the yards. She buried her nose in its snowy-white flowers. They really were very beautiful, like little orchids. Trumpet-shaped, with splotches of colour – purple, red and yellow. She breathed in deep lungfuls of perfumed air, held the tiny bouquet aloft and bowed to her watchful, prick-eared audience. It would be impossible, at that particular moment, to feel any happier.

  Sam took hold of the wheelbarrow and headed for the shed. Soon all the horses were happily munching their hay – all except for Whirlwind. She sulked in the yard next to Jarrang’s, refusing to touch her food while Sam was watching. ‘You’re just like Charlie,’ Sam scolded the mare as she poured a measure of oats into her feed bin, and another into Jarrang’s. ‘You’ll bite your nose off to spite your face.’

  After feeding up, Sam went to the little room beside the hayshed that was to serve as their office. She stacked the liability-waiver forms neatly on the desk, and tested the mobile eftpos machine. She picked up a business card and read it aloud. ‘Brumby’s Run High Country Trails. Horses to suit all riders. Proprietors Charlie Kelly and Sam Carmichael.’ They were partners now, practically and legally.

  By quarter to ten Drew had arrived and Sam and Charlie were ready. Horses saddled and brushed, forms waiting to be signed, hard hats lined up on a bench. Sam had brought the portable butane cooker up to the office, and a bright new kettle was on the boil. Milk in an icebox, mugs and spoons in a row, Tim Tams for af
terwards.

  Charlie was trotting Topsy up and down the drive so he wouldn’t be too fresh. ‘Don’t get him all sweaty,’ yelled Sam as they swept past. Bess was barking now, and Sam could hear a car. Their first-ever clients had arrived. Sam walked down to meet them, resisting the impulse to run. A pretty blond child was hugging a happy Bess around the neck.

  ‘Welcome to Brumby’s Run,’ Sam said, smiling. Everybody introduced themselves. Sam kept repeating their names in her head to ensure she’d remember. The blond girl was Meg Morgan. Her even blonder mother was Sue. Her good-looking father was named Craig. The two older aunties were Tracey and Mel. Five wasn’t too hard. She wondered how well she’d manage with more.

  ‘Are there brumbies here?’ asked Meg, her eyes shining with expectation.

  Sue hushed her. ‘Don’t mind Meg,’ she said to Sam. ‘My daughter’s obsessed with those Silver Brumby books. I told her there wouldn’t be real brumbies.’

  ‘Oh, but there are,’ said Sam. She did a quick mental calculation. Jarrang, Phoenix and Tambo. Whirlwind and the two creamies. ‘We have six brumbies,’ said Sam. ‘Two stallions and four mares.’

  Meg exploded with questions, and Sam answered them as best she could. ‘Can I ride one?’ the girl asked excitedly as they walked up the hill to the yards.

  ‘I actually had a lovely pony picked out for you,’ said Sam.

  ‘Couldn’t I ride a brumby,’ begged Meg. ‘Please?’

  ‘My daughter’s an excellent rider,’ said Craig, ruffling the girl’s hair. ‘She’s done five years of pony club, and has outgrown her Welsh mountain pony. In fact we’re looking around to buy something bigger. It would be a real thrill for Meg to ride a brumby.’

  Sam considered her options. This was proving to be more difficult than she’d imagined. Their first clients weren’t even mounted, and already things weren’t going according to plan. She compared the temperaments of the two creamies. They were equally quiet, especially if allowed to follow along in the middle of the string. Gemma was a little friendlier, perhaps more affectionate than Golden. Sam excused herself and went to talk to the others.