Silver Brumby Echoing

by Elyne Mitchell

  Dandaloo gave Son of Storm a gentle nudge, and led off, up on to Rawson’s Pass and then higher up still, on to a track that led round one of the main heads of the great Snowy River. This was a wide, gravelly track that had been cut into the mountainside by men. Dandaloo led at a trot. She did not go too fast for Choopa, but she was quite definitely going very purposefully, as though making some sort of pilgrimage, or celebration. Indeed, each one of the five brumbies was celebrating their survival, thrilled with the enjoyment of being alive.

  Sometimes Dandaloo would give a cheerful prance or two, and her foal would do a few dancing steps on his hind legs.

  Dandaloo knew that Choopa could trot on and on for a long way, so she was unworried about the distance they would have to go. Her longing for the Blue Lake — and Albina — had become an obsession since the terrible storm at Cootapatamba. Presently they were trotting along the crescent curve of the Northcote Pass. They were strung out in single file because the pass and the track were narrow, and they were — all five — silhouetted against the skyline for anyone to see … but there was no one. Perhaps the birds alone saw the blue roans, the browns, and the buckskin daughter of Thowra.

  Below them, on the west side, was that double lake, Albina, beautiful and enticing, but Dandaloo had made up her mind to go to the large, round, deep Blue Lake first, and come back by Lake Albina. They must stand in both lakes … drink at them deeply, receive whatever it was that they had to give.

  The gravelly track turned upwards after going round a rock bluff, and went steeply up on to the spine of the Range. Dandaloo and Son of Storm had both been up there, on the very top of the range. They both knew the excitement of having steep drops on either side.

  There was another lake, held within arms of almost vertical cliffs, and when they had passed that, there was still quite a long way to go on that man-made track that winds along the spine of the mountains.

  The shining Snowy River was at the foot of the gentler slopes to the east, and on the other side was the deep gorge of the Geehi River. The five horses were too far above to hear the sound of the Geehi, but Dandaloo knew it sung of great mysteries.

  For each of the brumbies, every touch of a hoof on the track increased the thrilling excitement of their journey. They climbed on to the top of Carruther’s Peak, and the miles and miles of mountains completely overawed the two foals. A man walking alone, down on the road towards Kosciusko, filled Dandaloo with a certain unease, but she soon forgot him, because he was a long way away.

  If there was one man, of course, there might be more, but there were no cattle ‘on the tops’ now, no men on horses riding around the cattle, no blue heeler dogs or slim black kelpies. She remembered that man who had stood on the rock above Dead Horse Gap — he had thrown such a long, long shadow across the snowgrass … a shadow that seemed to stretch on and on. Even that long shadow, and the man far away on the road, could not really worry Dandaloo in her present mood. Her foal had survived the blizzard, and here they were on the high track. She felt as though she were feather-light, skipping along the track, then they were there. She saw the dark cliffs first, and then the sparkling blue water of the great, round lake.

  They were standing on a loose shale and snowgrass slope. It was studded with eyebrights, paper daisies, golden everlastings and white purslane, and the scent of the lemon-gold cushions of Stackhousia rose around them.

  Then they hurried down to where the lake overflowed and made the beginning of the Blue Lake Creek, which would eventually become a big stream flowing into the Snowy. Dandaloo and Son of Storm buried their noses in the water to drink. Then they stood gazing. They had been here before. This was a place of dreaming.

  Dandaloo turned her head to look at Choopa. He was standing among the golden everlastings, right at the edge of the water. This was quite a different lake from the Cootapatamba. He would not yet plunge in. The slope down which they had galloped — trotted, bucked — was the only comparatively gentle one around this steeply-enclosed circle of water. Somehow Choopa knew that the lake was very deep. It was the memory of this magic water, this magic place, that had so obsessed Dandaloo, and made her so anxious to bring her dwarf foal here. She led him in, and watched him leaping and splashing.

  It was when he stood still for a moment, exhausted, that he heard voices, and he, with his sharp hearing, was the only one of the five who heard them.

  Men on foot did not yet send any shock waves of fear through him, and voices — unless they were shouting and mingled with the sound of whips cracking — meant nothing. He could not understand the words, the exclaimed, ‘Blue horses in the Blue Lake!’

  The warning cries of two black cockatoos who flew over were much more alarming. Dandaloo heard them, as did Son of Storm.

  Only Choopa had seen the men standing on the top of the cliffs. Only the black cockatoos knew there was a web of men’s tales concerning a dwarf blue foal — concerning this little foal that somersaulted and danced. One man had half started, in the pub, to tell a story about seeing a foal touched by St Elmo’s Fire, and then he had stopped talking. Another man told of a circle of young animals watching every move as the dwarf blue foal spun his spell around them.

  The black cockatoos were over Lake Albina within seconds, and they dropped to drink, as though they, too, knew in every bone and feather — right to their yellow ear coverts — that they must drink of one or other of these lakes’ magic water. For men meant trouble.

  Different men told different tales, but slowly these tales were coming together. The Quiet Man was one who had been in the Jindabyne pub and heard of the blue horses at Cootapatamba. Franz, who had been caught in the blizzard, now realised that the old blue roan mare and her foal came from Quambat way.

  The water of the Blue Lake was ice-cold, but its touch was thrilling. Choopa was standing knee-deep near the edge, looking up at the high cliffs, when the voices came again, and the two men walked right to the edge of the cliffs.

  This time both Dandaloo and Son of Storm had been alerted by the black cockatoos, but when they looked, and listened, the two men vanished.

  Just as Dandaloo had been obsessed with the longing to get Choopa to the Blue Lake, she was now determined nothing should stop them going to Albina, that beautiful double lake, before they left the high mountains for their well-known home. What could those men want? They had no dogs, no whips, no lassos.

  Son of Storm, without such a strong longing for the high lakes, was uneasy, and quite suddenly he decided that they should go.

  Dandaloo stood in the cliff-encircled water, watching him lead Wingilla and Bri Bri up the snowgrass slope, saw his hooves brushing the white paper daisies, knew she had to go too, taking Choopa. Choopa splashed the water over her in clouds of golden and silver spray. The men walked closer to the cliff edge, watching, till Dandaloo and Choopa began to follow the other three. Then the men started to climb up and around the cliff.

  Choopa lagged behind, looking back at the beautiful lake. An unfelt wind ruffled the surface, and Choopa stood, one foreleg raised, undecided for a moment, and then suddenly trotted back to the water and plunged in, breaking the ever-widening circles. The Blue Lake was offering him something — was giving something to him.

  Son of Storm had started to trot. Dandaloo, following him, looked back. There was Choopa racing out of the water, and the men were hurrying along the top of the cliffs.

  There was quite a distance to go to Albina, and the climb up on to Carruther’s Peak before the long, steep jog down to the double lake was tiring. Dandaloo knew the men must be a long way behind, and none of the horses really knew if they were following at all. In fact, they were on their way back to Jindabyne with more tales.

  Ahead was that sparkling lake in the floor of the Canyon.

  Dandaloo stopped, as though frozen. She was staring at the foot of the Northcote Pass. A man was sitting on a boulder, looking towards them.

  All Choopa saw was a ruffling of the waters by the same unfelt breeze as
before, and all he knew was that he must go down to this lake and plunge in, too — right into where the water was ruffled.

  The shale shelf around the rim of the lake ended abruptly. Suddenly there were no stones beneath his small, hard hooves. Then he was floating — there in the rippling lake for the man to see.

  That man was the man who had been lost in the storm and the fog, as he had dreamt of the 100-year-old blizzard that had nearly brought disaster to the artist, the scientist, and the horse named Tommy. Now that man, having learnt that the blue mare and foal had survived the terrible night, saw that weird foal plunge into Lake Albina, into the very centre of the ruffling where the wind had moved over the waters.

  Franz, the man of the blizzard, sat quite still and watched, almost as though he expected to see an angel above the water.

  Later on, Dandaloo and Son of Storm saw the man climb up on to the Northcote Pass and disappear over the other side. He did not reappear.

  The day was getting late and a peacefulness had descended on the Canyon. Each one of the group of horses was tired, each one was enjoying the calm weather, the serene place, so they simply stayed, and, as night fell, they found soft hollows in which to sleep, there above the double lake.

  Choopa curled up close to Dandaloo.

  The man of the blizzard had not let himself be seen again, but had crept round behind rocks on Mueller’s Peak, and later went silently down nearer to the lake, by starlight. He had not found his tent below Mt Etheridge, but his sleeping bag had still been there, where he had put it before the blizzard, wedged by rocks, so he spread it out by the lake and slid into it. He was fairly warm and fell into a half-sleep, waking often to make sure the brumbies were still there.

  A little wind blew gently up the Canyon, just before dawn, and ruffled the waters of the lake, breaking up the reflections of the stars.

  Then the blizzard man saw one of the brumbies stir and get up from its hollow. It seemed to him quite certain that it was that weird blue foal with the legs that flew out circling sideways, and who reared and danced on his hind legs. An idea and a wish that could not be denied leapt into his consciousness.

  He watched the foal walk down to the lake and walk in where the wind, blowing where it listeth had stirred the water, and there, before the stony shelf ended, he rose in a rear and stood poised — silver blue, silver black, in starlight, small foal clothed in mystery.

  A Hand Coming Out of the Mist

  Winter’s great gales were coming — blizzards to blow the man-made tales away into gullies and rock caverns. Winter’s white cover would soon come to the mountains, and queer tales would all be buried under the snow.

  Dandaloo had ceased to feel certain that Choopa would grow. Even their visit to the high lakes had not helped him grow as much as Bri Bri had, but the dreams that Dandaloo dreamt about the gift the lakes might give her foal were like a truth, hovering.

  Before the snow-laden winds came, before the frosts made the mountains so hard that the earth rang at the touch of horses’ hooves, several men went out into the mountains, some to the area at the head of the Limestone Creek — the real source of the Murray River. They did not go together, and did not know anyone else had gone, for it was already getting close to dangerous weather. One man was curious to know if the foal whose ears had been momentarily touched by St Elmo’s Fire was still alive. Another man — the man who had lived through that blinding blizzard — had a dream in his head, a vision of a blue foal poised in a rear, in the waters of Lake Albina. Others were drawn to go out, as though pulled by curiosity.

  One of the men had been hunting brumbies during the autumn, but Dandaloo and Son of Storm and their small band had missed these hunts because they had stayed up in the high country, grazing among the rocky tors, even going down into the head of the Leatherbarrel Valley. Choopa and Bri Bri learnt the whereabouts of all the good grazing grounds — perhaps they also learnt hiding places and ways of escape.

  Choopa had barely grown at all, although he was undoubtedly well muscled for a five-month-old foal. Dandaloo could see that he had learnt a lot in that lovely time in the high country — but still he was a miniature. He had tasted the silver leaves of the snow daisies, he had breathed in the scent of heath, touched with his nose and smelt the sweet fragrance of the alpine marsh marigolds that flower beneath the Cootapatamba Drift.

  Dandaloo had learnt a lot, too. The main thing that she had learnt was that, though there were no cattle out in the mountains, no stockmen riding the snowleases, there were men on foot. They did not carry lassos, but she felt that they posed some danger to Choopa.

  The time came to think of going into the lower country, and Son of Storm and Dandaloo began slowly heading in the direction of Dead Horse Gap. After a few sunny days and freezing cold nights, they turned down off the tops and into that lovely snowgrass basin, below the South Ramshead, and were trotting down towards the trees, the first stunted snow gums.

  Dandaloo noticed that Choopa kept looking towards the trees. Presently she felt sure she noticed some slight movement which was not just branches being stirred by the breeze. Choopa stopped, poised, listening. Suddenly he neighed and began to gallop, tossed his blotched blue and white head and his furry mane, and neighed again.

  Dandaloo, catching up with him, saw a flicker of movement in those topmost snow gums. She stopped and stared. Something was hidden in the trees. She heard the pardalote’s double call. That red-tipped pardalote — or its children or grandchildren who had lived there in the snow gums for years — was calling.

  Choopa started to gallop as fast as he could — falling, somersaulting and leaping. Finally he stopped and reared up, then started walking on his hind legs just as shapes began to emerge from the small, gnarled trees — and some kangaroos hopped out, followed by little wallabies, one fat wombat and an echidna. A circle of young animals formed round Choopa, there on the basin below the rock peak of the South Ramshead.

  Dandaloo stood on a little rocky hump and looked on uneasily. It seemed that the feeling that they were being watched was with her always, yet she had not seen anyone for some days.

  What harm could men on foot do? But the old mare, looking at Choopa with deep yearning, was afraid. Somehow she was certain that he would not grow into a big, strong stallion, and certain, too, that men were interested in him for his rhythmic dancing and the spells he could weave. Then, because she longed to touch him, she walked down, off the little tree and rock-capped mound, and into Dancing Brumby the circle of young animals. She touched her nose to his, and he, in turn, reached up to his mother’s gentle lips.

  If anyone had been watching, they would have seen this, and seen the young animals moving round them with slow steps and graceful hops, as if each movement had special meaning.

  Dandaloo rubbed her head on Choopa’s neck, then she started to lead them all down through the snow gums towards Dead Horse Gap. Choopa followed his mother, his head beside her flank, and all his little troupe of young animals strung out after him through the trees and the rocks.

  Dead Horse Gap is a place where rainbows arch. It is the lowest pass across the high mountains — a migratory route for birds, and where they make a short journey between the Murray Valley and the high lands of the Monaro carrying with them all the mysteries which are part of their lives. Winds blow through Dead Horse Gap, singing the music of the spheres.

  Above Dead Horse Gap, the wisest of all brumby mares, Bel Bel, gave birth to Thowra, the Silver Brumby, and years later Bel Bel came there when her time came to die, so her bones are up there, bleached by sun and wind and the marvellous snow.

  The little group of brumbies, kangaroos and wallabies reached the Gap at evening — at dream time, when no cars were on the bitumen road.

  There, in the centre of the clear snowgrass pass, beyond the road, Choopa and his little troupe played.

  A mist crept up with the dusk from the Crackenback Valley, and all the young animals were wound around with mist, Choopa’s blue and white
body and the silver grey of kangaroos merging with the fog.

  Mist seeped into the snow gums that grew thickly up Dead Horse Ridge. Occasional soft bars of reflected light filtered through that eerie fog and sent a soft, searching beam from the west.

  Once Dandaloo wondered if she saw a man’s face among the snow gum leaves, and a horse’s head. It was then that Son of Storm heard the clank of a stirrup iron, and he succeeded in drawing Choopa away, out of his dream of rhythm and music.

  The mist began to thicken. Choopa pressed close to his mother. This dark fog was without wind or pellets of snow, but it was as dense as that fearful cloud that had made the mountain world totally dark, up there by Lake Cootapatamba.

  Choopa had been desperately afraid that night. Now, he wanted to escape this dark fog — get right away — but in no way would he leave his mother. He was making little tremulous noises and Dandaloo, realising that he was very frightened, turned her head to comfort him. She rubbed her face up and down his small, ugly head, but, just then, there was a sound quite close — a shod hoof hitting a stone, a sound that was muffled by fog, but yet unmistakable. The mist thinned around them for one drifting moment, and Dandaloo felt sure that she and Choopa must be visible, though the mist was like a grey wall in front of them, and she could not see any horse who had made that sound.

  Choopa could feel her shaking and trembling, and her fear made Choopa’s terror much worse. All of a sudden he felt that he must leap in the air, twist around like the willy-willies, call up all the magic that he could bring from the bush, to protect them from evil.

  This time the rhythm did not protect them. No silken string came to join them to the stars.

  Terror shook Choopa, from hooves to ears.

  Dandaloo was shaking too. Eyes seemed to stare out of the mist all round them.

  Eyes watching. Eyes … and there was no sound. Were there really eyes? Perhaps a man had been hidden in the snow gums on Dead Horse Ridge, and had come closer in the fog, but Dandaloo was certain that there was more than one pair of eyes, more than one man. She was trembling all over. How could she protect this beloved foal of hers, this foal who had never grown. How would she protect him if a man crept up out of the fog?