Silver Brumby Echoing

by Elyne Mitchell

  The silver radiance of the moon filled the hollow. Choopa’s white fetlocks flashed silver, as he began to gallop with happiness and relief. Round and round he went, then he leapt in the silver air, landed, somersaulted, reared and danced, cantered, spun around.

  He had not heard the rustling in the bush, but now there were wombats following him, young wallabies and kangaroos, even one echidna shuffled around, on the outside of the ring.

  It was not only the moon looking down on them, that night.

  When daylight began to turn the silver light to grey, and the full moon was no longer shining, but becoming white in the western sky, Dandaloo and Choopa were on a ridge above the Indi River. They both looked up just when three black cockatoos flew across the sky, as though straight into that white and secret moon. Black cockatoos getting smaller and smaller, vanishing into the mysterious, opaque moon.

  A desperate restlessness seized Choopa. Those three, with the slow grace of their wing beat, could disappear into magic and mystery. He needed to be able to vanish, needed to be able to cast a star-inwrought cloak over Dandaloo, so that she was hidden from the eyes of men, and would never be caught again.

  Something lay in the future, something disturbing, and how could he escape it — escape with Dandaloo? How could he fly to the moon at morning? How would he urge Dandaloo to go with him?

  Dandaloo saw the black cockatoos getting smaller and smaller. They had not uttered one call — had given no warning of storm or blizzard, no warning of hunters with dogs and ropes. She shivered and looked around. She and Choopa were standing in dangerously open country. The black cockatoos had gone now — gone with whatever message their wings wrote on the sky.

  They might have seen the men.

  Dandaloo began to feel very strongly that the flight of three, straight towards the moon, was telling them to hide. She did not need to nudge Choopa. He, too, was ready to move across the ridge and go down into the densely forested gully.

  Dandaloo hoped they would find Son of Storm, and that, together, they would climb the Ramshead Range and go over the top, steeply down the other side, to the headwaters of the Leatherbarrel Creek.

  They would be safe there. No wheeled vehicle could go down into that steep cleft. They could stay there long enough for the men to forget their wish to catch Choopa.

  If they spent a winter there, they could go down below the snowline, but in time of hard frosts, they would be able to climb up on frozen snow to take part in a miracle of the mountains, when frost-flowers bloom on the frozen pools. They might hear the ice music chiming over the snow, as the wind moves the ice-encased leaves of the snow gums, and Choopa would be able to hear that fairyland music blending in his mind with the waltz he had heard that summer’s night above the Snowy River.

  When the time came, Choopa was not there to hear the ice music.

  Since the day Dandaloo had been caught, it did not seem safe to travel across open country in the mountains in broad daylight, so, joined by Son of Storm, Wingilla and Bri Bri, they climbed the wide open slopes by the faint light of the fading moon, and they went towards the rocky summit of that Ramshead which is south even of the South Ramshead.

  Even pale moonlight can betray, and in that faint light, the horses were silhouetted for a few moments, for one man to see. He saw them on the skyline before they turned down into the Leatherbarrel Valley. This man made up his mind that he would use all his skill and all his cunning to catch the blue dwarf, the one he had seen somersaulting and dancing, and weaving spells that enfolded all the young animals, in that little round hollow in the hills.

  Other men wanted to catch that blue dwarf colt — perhaps for a plaything for their children. He had a different reason, and much more determination.

  He knew that the cattlemen had nearly caught Choopa not long ago. Now, since seeing the colt’s amazing dancing, he knew that no one but himself must have him. Dreams flowed through the man’s head, too — visions which were part of old memories of a faraway country where magnificent white stallions danced in an indoor riding school.

  That little group of horses had gone down into the deep valley. It seemed most likely that they would sometime come out over the headwall towards Cootapatamba Valley.

  He must offer a big enough reward to the man with the four-wheel drive and the cage … if they caught Choopa near Cootapatamba, he would have to be transported in that trailer.

  Choopa and Bri Bri had wandered all over the steep slopes at the head of the Leatherbarrel Valley. Then one day they succeeded in scrambling up the headwall. This wall is a precipitous slope of hard rock that separates the Leatherbarrel from the creek that flows down from Lake Cootapatamba. On the top they were suddenly in the wild mysterious country above the treeline. They cantered excitedly up the Cootapatamba Valley towards the lake that lies below Kosciusko.

  That man who was so determined to catch Choopa had guessed correctly that Choopa might come up over the headwall. He had already spent a few nights in the hut built near the lake by the Snowy Mountains Authority for the workers who came to gauge the water level of the lake. That was how he came to be sitting on the shores of the sun-shafted lake soon after dawn, the morning that Choopa and Bri Bri had come up out of the Leatherbarrel, and Choopa cantered through the golden paper daisies.

  The man always had his lasso with him, and he was an expert with it.

  When he saw Choopa at the furthest end of the lake, he lay back in the prickly candle heath and waited. Through the stiff, dark red spikes of candle heath, and its creamy flowers, he watched the blue and white minute colt cantering with flying legs. Occasionally he bucked. Then, quite close to the watching man, the strangely ugly, strangely fascinating little horse stopped on the edge of the lake.

  The pewter-coloured water sparkled here and there, as though the dawn had touched it with a wand, and the little horse reared up, made a few dancing steps, and then bowed to the water.

  The man rose to his feet in one astounding action, and cast the lasso. The rope flew through the air and fell, encircling the blue and white neck — grey rope settling into blue hair.

  Choopa dropped to his feet and sat back, all in one action, trying to get out of the circle of rope before it tightened, but the rope tightened immediately. The little horse flung himself down and rolled, trying to rub the rope off. The rope was just kept taut.

  He tried to gallop away, dragging the man through the lake. Then suddenly there were more men running down the slope, and the awful sound of the engine and the clanking sound of the cage.

  Bri Bri was galloping towards the headwall from whence they had come.

  Had she attacked the man, as Dandaloo and Son of Storm would have done, instead of galloping away with fright, she might have freed Choopa, but aggression was not in her nature.

  By the time Dandaloo had climbed as fast as possible up the headwall from the Leatherbarrel, and galloped into the valley, all the men and the horses were milling around, and they had managed to force Choopa into the cage.

  He had been lifted in, because his refusal had been adamant, and his kicking, striking and biting was dangerous.

  The men tied him to both sides of the cage so that he could not fall, and the same dark, rather small man who had caught him got into the cage, too, to steady him. Then the four-wheel drive started steeply upwards, bumping slowly over the snowgrass tussocks.

  The small man — Franz, the others called him — offered Choopa a drink, but a bucket was terrifying, and he would not drink. His coat was all streaked dark with sweat. He could barely get his breath, and his heart was thundering.

  The man, Franz, tried to stroke him behind the ears. He said something in a strange accent, and his voice was kind, and rather sad: ‘Armi pferdl. Ah, he weeps.’

  They bumped and crashed upwards, the horses and riders going slowly up beside the cage, till they reached that road along which Choopa and Dandaloo, with Son of Storm, had trotted in that summer evening with the sound of the music still in their e
ars.

  Dandaloo had come up behind them, though no one had noticed. Now the car was on the road and could go faster, and she just stood watching. She could not possibly keep up. She stood, head drooping, flanks heaving, totally exhausted.

  Somehow Choopa knew she was there and he felt a terrible grief. Then he called and called. Her answers became ever fainter in the distance, as she stood with a breaking heart on that high, lonely road.

  Waltzing Among the Camels

  Their journey was long, and Choopa’s fears grew with every mile, every bump on the rough road. He tried desperately to get free, when they stopped to take him from the cage and put him into a real horse float. He fought furiously, but his wild efforts were useless. He called and called, then, but there was no answer. In his heart he knew that no one would hear, because he had already been taken too far from his beloved mountains, and from Dandaloo and Son of Storm; a long way from where he had last seen Dandaloo on the mountain road, her head drooping with misery.

  Franz offered him water again, risking his hand getting badly bitten as he dipped it into the bucket and then put his dripping fingers between Choopa’s soft lips. Over and over again Choopa felt the longed-for water on his poor dry lips and tongue. At last he sucked the fingers, and Franz dipped them into the bucket again. Finally Franz cupped both hands together, filled them with water and held them up to Choopa. So Choopa got some water, and once he had started to drink he could not stop.

  A vision came into his mind and it was as though he could see Lake Albina — the marvellous double lake. He saw it with the waters being ruffled by a dawn wind, and Dandaloo was sleeping on the shore.

  ‘Ah, Pferdl. Little horse,’ Franz whispered, as the vision seemed to glide over Choopa’s face.

  The journey became longer and longer, and faster now there was a proper horse float. Choopa knew they were getting further from Dandaloo, and from his high mountains. They were now a long, long way from Quambat Flat and all the little animals for whom he danced and played.

  At last the car and the horse float stopped moving. Franz opened the door behind Choopa. A frightening mixture of many animal smells — strong and pungent — filled the air.

  Choopa began to tremble.

  Then somewhere quite close, a horse neighed; there was a strange grumbling noise, and the sound of many animals moving around, breathing, eating, coughing.

  Choopa snorted with fear.

  He refused to back out of the float, refused to move at all. He planted his feet wide apart and kept on snorting desperately. Then he lay down and stiffened every muscle. It would be better to be dead, dead high up on a mountain side, and he suddenly thought he smelt the scent of mountain heath at evening.

  A voice said: ‘For God’s sake, Franz, why worry with anything as ugly as that?’

  Franz just laughed, but he would not let any of the other men try to force Choopa out of the float. In the end, Choopa could not remember how he came to be lying on a pile of sweet-scented lucerne hay in a small yard. A big white horse stood quite close.

  He still had the lasso around his neck.

  Choopa closed his eyes in the utmost misery.

  The big white horse walked over slowly and put his head down to have a closer look at the strange blue and white bundle lying there trembling in the hay.

  Choopa jumped with fright when some white whiskers touched his nose. He opened his eyes to find himself looking into kind eyes that could have been those of Son of Storm. He did not know what to do, so he shut his eyes again and there was the picture of Dandaloo, with drooping head, standing on the road above Cootapatamba.

  The big white horse did not move, just stood munching hay.

  Choopa screwed up his eyes tight as if to hold a picture in his mind, of a marvellous time and a lovely world that had once been his. Choopa half-dreamt, half-imagined, that he was somersaulting in the centre of a ring of young animals, and the little animals were weaving a spell in which the stars flowed down among them, touching them all with shining light, so that it seemed that they were part of the sky. Clothed in stargleam, they would be invincible. No man could catch and keep them. Their’s was the kingdom …

  In some distant place he could hear a voice — the same voice that had coaxed him to drink, and called him Pferdl, but he was determined not to wake and find himself far from the star-bright circle.

  ‘The voice’ had come into the yard, but it was better to stay quiet, with his eyes shut tight.

  Darkness closed in and Franz was there still, in the yard, and he had tied the big white horse to the fence. He was doing something to his coat. Presently, Choopa could see through the hay in which he had buried his head that the big horse’s coat was shining, and every hair in his mane and tail was separate and gleaming. It was quite obvious that the big horse was pleased, and proud of himself. He pranced and held his neck arched as Franz led him out.

  Choopa was alone in the yard — and lonely. He closed his eyes again and was invaded by pictures of the mountains, and of Dandaloo — Dandaloo always looking desolate.

  Then a sound came softly.

  It was as though Choopa was no longer half-buried in hay, but standing in starlight on Charlotte’s Pass, and a miracle taking possession of the night as music came drifting up — a waltz to which he would dance.

  Now he felt the music in veins and bones, but he just buried himself deeper into the hay.

  He was asleep when Franz brought the big white horse back.

  After two days, it was time for the circus to move on to another town. It was quite clear that the move of the whole circus would frighten Choopa, so Franz had arranged that Choopa and his white companion in the yard should share the horse float, and leave long after the rest of the animals.

  The bustle and clatter of getting all the cages hooked up, the noise and effort of loading the elephants onto trucks, and of leading the grumbling camels away — everything was frightening. There were dogs barking and some very big cats snarling. Choopa shivered and sweated. He actually saw the enormous elephants, one on the tray of each truck.

  It was not a surprise to learn that each and every animal was captive. But, for Choopa, there was one nice thing about this circus — the distant music that played at night in every town in which they stopped and set up the huge tent. There was also the carrot which Franz gave him each time he had put Choopa’s bridle on and led him around the yard — the carrot and the gentle rubbing behind the ears.

  Sometimes Choopa called and called, but there was never an answer.

  Then one night in a new town, Franz led him with the big white horse into the huge tent and held him to one side of a ring where various animals were doing their tricks. He reared and plunged with fright, but Franz held him firmly. He saw a girl leap on the big white horse and ride around, then stand up on his back.

  The music was playing all the time, but almost too softly to be heard. Then he smelt the camels — a smell that had been so frightening at first — and realised that they were about to go into the ring. The music grew louder and Choopa heard that lovely, swaying waltz that had come up from the valley below Charlotte’s Pass. Out there, in the ring, the camels began to waltz. Heedless of anyone, Choopa took a few steps forward, the rope of his halter sliding through Franz’s hands and, with his strange forelegs swinging, Choopa waltzed out behind the camels. He did not realise that all noise had stopped, no children laughed or called out. He was entirely absorbed in the music and the dance, blue and white dwarf waltzing his way between the great tall camels, moving with a grace that gave him beauty.

  Choopa felt that he was fading into the air that surrounded him — becoming part of the music, part of the song of the Snowy River that had joined with the music, too, on that summer night.

  The sawdust on the floor of the ring was soft beneath his hard little hooves. The soft feet of the camels only whispered as they, too, waltzed. They looked as if they were in a dream, as Choopa threaded his way through them.

  Choop
a rose up on his strong hind legs and made his little bow to a dream — then did some steps, still in perfect time. A long, drawn-out sigh sounded from all the people sitting watching in the tent. Somewhere in the front row, a man was sitting, his face cupped in his hands, intently watching little blue Choopa.

  Then the music stopped. The camels, still waltzing, moved towards the opening in the ring.

  Franz went out — not hurrying, not doing anything to frighten Choopa — a carrot in his hand.

  Choopa was standing quite still, looking lost. He had suddenly dropped back into a reality which was deeply sad. He lifted his head and neighed desperately to the far away wild country.

  Franz started to hurry then with his carrots. Choopa barely saw him. His body was still full of the rhythm of the waltz. His whole self seemed to be on that crescent pass above the Snowy River.

  Before Franz had hold of the rope, Choopa took one wild look around, and knew there was no way of escape.

  They followed the camels out of the ring, and there stood the big white horse waiting for them, with a young boy leading him. Choopa found himself walking close beside the white flanks as though they were those of Son of Storm.

  Franz had carrots in his pocket, but even the carrots, even his growing affection for the big white horse, could not quieten Choopa’s trembling when they were in the yard.

  A man was talking to Franz, outside the fence.

  ‘Well, Franz,’ he said. ‘Your little dwarf was wonderful.’

  ‘Maybe he’ll learn to do a levade or capriole like my beautiful white horses in the Hofburg,’ Franz said.

  ‘Do you know how to teach him?’

  ‘I know that a young horse has to have absolute trust and affection for its trainer,’ Franz answered. ‘I’ve not had him very long.’ Then his voice dropped: ‘Trust and love,’ he whispered, as he walked into the yard, holding out some carrot to Choopa and some to the big white horse. Still whispering, he added, ‘and my Pferdl was born in the wild mountains, of a wild blue mare …’

  There was Choopa, who had been born in the whispering forests of the snow country, and who had received a baptism in the high mountain lakes.