Silver Brumby Echoing

by Elyne Mitchell

  Seven

  Son of Storm knew full well that Socks was a peaceful character, even though with a reputation for ferocity. He also knew that the whole family came from the Ingegoodbee.

  Son of Storm showed them around his Hidden Valley and then led them to a track going south — a faint brumby track — which they followed with joy, after first farewelling Son of Storm very gratefully.

  There they were on the route to home. Before evening they came to those pools that are the Ingegoodbee’s head, and they splashed in there with joy and gratitude for that water, their water. The ducks rising off the pools did not fly far away. It was their water, too.

  The family hurried on then till they reached the wide valley and the candlebarks. They galloped, all of them — dingoes, Lightning, and Socks — all going home.

  Socks stood by the entrance to the hollow tree and each pup raced in, then dear Lightning put his paw up to Socks’ nose and seemed to lead him in. It was their cave, where Miss Dingo had had the pups, and now she would give Lightning another part-dingo son. Her own little female pup would have an almost entirely dingo pup, but with its mother’s gentle nature, and no sign of the mad, bad father.

  Socks found his increased family slightly embarrassing, but he and Lightning went off hunting together, and all that mattered to both of them was that they could be together.

  Socks had definitely taken the place of the old bushman who was once Lightning’s master, and whose bones were now bleached above Cascade Creek. And Lightning happily regarded the hollow tree trunk as home. Sometimes Lightning and Socks took Miss Dingo to their old cave near the Cascades, but mostly they stayed in their beloved Ingegoodbee Valley and the hollow candlebark tree.

  They knew, now, where Thowra’s Secret Valley was, and also knew that they would all be welcome at Son of Storm’s Hidden Valley. Sometime they would all go there, but mainly the dingo family felt most at home in the hollow tree on the Ingegoodbee.

  A day did come when Socks decided to visit Son of Storm, and he gathered the increased family together and set forth back along the faint brumby track.

  They stopped that night at the Ingegoodbee pools, and Miss Dingo successfully caught a black fish — she slipped a paw beneath it and had it.

  The pups all splashed in and out of the water and were quite happy to spend the night there. There were a lot of taffy-coloured brumbies about, but they were not inclined to be bossy. They told tales of Dancing Brumby and of his beautiful rainbow-tinted mate, lovelier than a snowflake. In fact, the bush seemed to be full of tales and the most persistent tale of all was the legend of the silver ghost, the white hawk, the spiralling willy-willy of snow.

  Socks grew very restless and Lightning understood because he, too, had felt that there were spirits abroad in that Ramshead area — had felt that the white hawk was leading them somewhere — so Lightning understood in his heart that Socks must go seeking; also, perhaps, that he might never find. Surely if any dog ever sent thought waves to his master, Lightning did, and they curled up to sleep together by the head of the Ingegoodbee, each one knowing it would be an early start in the morning.

  So in the strange shadowy bush of pre-dawn, the whole family set off. The dingoes, too, knew where they were going, and everyone was happy and dancing along. Miss Dingo saw a fox but not one of them caught it. Maybe Lightning got closest, and was thus very proud of himself.

  A beam of sunlight came through the snowgrass near the head of Cascade Spur. Suddenly, lo and behold, there was the white hawk flying across the Cascade Valley, and a new excitement flowed through Socks and Lightning and on through the dingo family. Would it fly ahead, leading them? It certainly kept ahead.

  The alpine ash were just starting to flower and their blossoms scented the air; the tea tree lining the creeks were flowering, too. Lightning was disappointed that there were no men with a herd of brumbies which he could cause to stampede. Socks was rather relieved, but they both kept their eyes open for anything strange.

  In fact, it was a day they would remember, because intense heat began to promise a thunderstorm, so Lightning’s hair was bristling on the back of his neck, and the birds all seemed to be disturbed — except the white hawk who just kept serenely on, often hovering ahead of Socks. Then two nankeen kestrels came flying swiftly and seemed to be going to claim this part of the mountains, and hunt the white hawk.

  Socks was amazed to see it just fly on, taking no notice. When the kestrels went off, up the Cascade Valley, the white hawk came back to the family, hovered over them, and then seemed to lead them on in the general direction of what was Son of Storm’s Hidden Valley, or the general direction of Thowra’s Secret Valley. The lack of interest showed by the white hawk bored the kestrels, and they departed, but the white hawk seemed almost to cut a swathe through a huge flight of black cockatoos which had come screaming out of the north.

  Socks and Lightning were disturbed, but the dingoes did not take any notice. Socks was sure that there was bad weather coming. The white hawk flew a little faster and the family all went faster, too.

  Bad weather would not bring snow at this time of year. Late summer was not the time for snow, so no moving spiral of white would suddenly envelope that white hawk, but whatever was coming was worrying, and the thought of those good, dry sandy caves of Son of Storm’s kept sliding into Socks’ head, yet he still felt certain that the white hawk might be going to show them Thowra’s Valley.

  The rain was starting to fall. Another small flight of black cockatoos skirted around the track of the white hawk.

  Then the hawk dropped lower, and they were at the entrance to the Hidden Valley — once Storm’s, and inherited by Son of Storm — and there was Son of Storm himself, welcoming the whole family. But the white hawk was flying on up the valley and Son of Storm, after greeting them, was urging them on and following the white hawk himself.

  Socks gave Lightning’s ear a little tug so that he followed, and soon they were on the faintest of slippery tracks up a hillside, out of the Hidden Valley. The white hawk was leading them onwards, up what seemed an impossible task. To turn back was not possible for Socks, perhaps possible for a dog or a dingo …

  Socks went on, the faithful Lightning at his heels, and the dingo family making light of the steep, slippery way.

  There, in front of Socks and Lightning, was a beautiful valley, and the white hawk hovered over a silver horse.

  They would know the way to a safe hiding place for the rest of their lives, but the hollow candlebark, birthplace of Miss Dingo’s pups, at the Ingegoodbee Valley, would always be home.

  Lightning put a paw up to Socks and the white hawk and silver horse led them to a sandy cave and the grassy bank of a stream. There were four freshly caught rabbits there for Lightning and the dingoes. Socks and Lightning and the dingo family were made marvellously welcome by that legendary silver horse. Lightning curled up beside Socks that night and all the family were happy.

  Much later in the evening the rain stopped and the moon came out through clouds. Thowra and his favourite mare came and stood at the entrance to the cave and looked at the sleeping family.

  Lightning and Socks both woke and saw them, outlined in moonlight.

  Eight

  Home was home! That hollow tree on the Ingegoodbee might have been more loved now by the dingoes than by Socks, but Miss Dingo was getting a bit restless because more pups were going to be born. She would even leave Lightning and Socks and her older pups in order to get home, but in the end they all went; they all went back to the Ingegoodbee.

  Soon they reached their hollow tree, inspected it and found everything in order. No possums, no rats, no ridiculous gang-gangs; Miss Dingo hunted them all away.

  It did not need a strange whimpering coming from the hollow tree to make Socks realise that another pup or pups had been born and that his family had been increased by one, two or three, or even more. He dared not risk a savage nip on the nose from Miss Dingo to find out. However much she loved him, he
knew that no one, not even Lightning, should go and look at the new pups. Later, when they were fat roly-polies, everyone would play with them.

  So Socks lay down to sleep near the hollow tree, listening to the music of the Ingegoodbee River, and presently Lightning and the now-older pups lay down beside him. Miss Dingo came out once in the night to get a drink; she walked over and licked Lightning on the nose, and gave a quick lick to Socks. For Socks was their protector and giver of love.

  He also knew that he had to urge Lightning on to being the producer of food. He had seen a few rabbits!

  For a while the dingoes and the dog were kept busy catching rabbits and rats, and even fish, to feed Miss Dingo.

  One hot day in late summer, Miss Dingo ventured out to see the others in the family, and to get a drink, and Socks was amazed to see a fat, short-legged pup follow her down to the river for a drink.

  Socks watched in surprise and saw the pup step into a swirling eddy of current. Socks felt a shock of alarm go through him, just as the pup fell into a deeper hole and was whisked away by the river.

  He heard Miss Dingo give a whimper of fear and misery, but he was already up on his feet and springing downstream from the struggling pup.

  The water was not deep for Socks’ long legs and he got in below the gulping, crying pup, grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and lifted him up out of the water.

  Then he turned around in the eddying current and scrambled over to where Miss Dingo was whimpering on the bank, handing her the soaking pup.

  He was rather proud of himself. He had seen Miss Dingo carrying her pups by the scruff of their necks. He could do it just the same.

  Miss Dingo rolled her pup in the dry grass and then licked him dry. Then she came over to Socks and licked him on the face.

  When the young pup saw the other young ones swimming, he kept well away and retreated to the hollow tree.

  The pools at the head of the Ingegoodbee were great places to swim, and they went there on their way to the Cascades a little later, then they went on towards Packsaddle Gap. The fat pup was tiring so Miss Dingo went on ahead till she found a soft place to rest.

  Socks kept sniffing the air rather uneasily, and then stopped. In the end he decided to go on — mostly because Miss Dingo had gone ahead anyway, and he felt stupid if he changed his mind now.

  Sometimes, however, the faint whiff of smoke on the air grew stronger.

  That cave above the Cascades had always been a safe haven, though, and it surely would be now. It was evening before they got near and the smell of smoke was stronger — more frightening.

  Voices sounded from the stockmen’s hut. Socks hurried his family out of range as he heard one man saying, ‘Old Lightning.’

  Though they were not really close to the slab and shingle hut, the men’s voices drifted through the dark. Socks and Lightning trotted on, away from the Cascades Creek, and up through the tea tree and bitter pea scrub towards that swamp below the cave where they had lived, undisturbed, for quite some time. Words, which they did not understand, but were said in a menacing tone, followed them.

  ‘Goin’ to that cave, I’ll bet. We can smoke the buggers out of that.’

  Another voice saying, ‘You can have old Lightnin’. I’ll take the youngest dingo pup.’

  Socks could hear the menacing voice and was afraid. Lightning knew it was the same man he had escaped from before, the man who had ridden close by the cave.

  Between them, Socks and Lightning escorted the young dingo family as fast as possible towards the cave.

  The smell of smoke was a little stronger.

  Presently they heard horses being caught and saddled.

  A voice said: ‘We’ll catch them — they’ll be smoked out of their cave.’

  The wind was becoming stronger. Then a drink-slurred voice said: ‘It’ll all burn. You get out on the swamp and catch ’em as they run. I’ll flick a match into the bush above the cave.’

  Neither Socks nor Lightning understood the words, but they did hear a horse going up the ridge around their good cave. Then they were in the cave feeling safe — invisible, too — but the sound of horses coming towards them worried Lightning and Socks. Worse still was the sound of one horseman sneaking up behind them on the ridge.

  Even the swamp was not as wet as usual, and the bush was drier than Socks had ever seen it.

  Suddenly the smell of smoke grew stronger and there was the horrifying crackle of burning scrub, and then the roar of fire.

  Neither Socks nor any of the Miss Dingo family had experienced a bushfire — they were too young — but Lightning had, and he knew they must make for water.

  He rushed to the mouth of the cave just as a billow of smoke came over it from the burning scrub behind, and turned him back.

  Socks was right beside him and heard, over the roar of the fire, men’s voices coming from the swamp below.

  Perhaps escape was cut off. A change of wind cleared away the smoke for a moment. Two men on horseback were below in the green grass that had been the swamp. Socks looked back into the cave. Little Miss had gathered her pups into the farthest corner. They would be safe for a while. The smoke thickened.

  He and Lightning should try to drive the horsemen away. They had done it before and they could do it again — and look like ghosts in the smoke!

  They waited a second while the smoke strengthened, then Socks gave Lightning a quick tug on one ear and they moved quickly and quietly towards the swamp, Lightning’s paw sounding on the hard ground, and Socks squelching as they got into the wetter area.

  Socks realised that they could not be seen through the smoke, because even Lightning seemed invisible. Then he nearly ran into an invisible man on horseback. First the horse’s head loomed in the dense smoke, then the man’s face and a bridle ring and buckle. Nothing was real, perhaps he did not see anything. Then the smoke blew around even thicker. Lightning bit an almost unseen horse’s head. The horse lashed out and took off.

  ‘There are ghosts about,’ a man’s voice said.

  ‘Nonsense. Don’t be a bloody fool. Smoke’s hidin’ everything.’

  Then there was a yell as the bolting horse went under a tree.

  ‘What’s wrong with you? Cripes!’ the second man exclaimed, as his horse swung around into the creek and the smoke partially cleared, and for a moment he got a glimpse of Socks.

  ‘You’re right, mate! There bloody well are ghosts!’ and, as Socks aimed a vicious bite at his horse’s withers, ‘We’d better aim for the Cascades hut between the creeks while we can get there unburnt.’

  But the other horse had bolted, Lightning at its heels.

  The fire was getting fiercer. Socks made his way back to the cave, followed by Lightning. Both were hurrying, wondering how Miss Dingo was. Lightning seemed like a ghost beside Socks, quite insubstantial.

  So another legend of the Cascades was born — ghost horse, ghost dog, who appeared and vanished, partially apparent and then gone …

  The story grew and grew because Socks, remembering how he had saved the pup from the current, took her by the scruff of her neck and, leading Miss Dingo, headed for the deep hole carrying the pup.

  Socks knew that there was a reasonably deep hole — and cold — before the creek cut through the snow gums and headed for the big waterfall. He and Lightning and Miss Dingo, and her other pups, had to get there before the fire.

  Miss Dingo and Lightning kept talking to the terrified pups.

  The smoke blew in thick billows and breathing became very difficult. Socks even became afraid of losing sight of Miss Dingo and the pups. Lightning kept them herded together, but the smoke clouds became thicker than ever, and the noise of fire and wind was terrifying.

  The two stockmen had already reached the deep pool, but Socks did not see them, and to them the new arrivals in the dense smoke were invisible, too. One stockman called out suddenly: ‘I tell ya, there are ghosts. I just seen a horse’s head, all transparent like, and it had a dingo pup by the
scruff of the neck.’

  ‘Garn,’ said the other man. ‘You are bloody seeing things.’ Then suddenly he yelled, ‘Gor blimey, you’re not! I seen a horse’s head and its eye!’

  ‘But can’t you see it carrying the pup, too?’

  ‘Yes, I seen a dog — you aren’t a liar after all.’

  ‘I’m no liar! I can’t see him now for smoke, but I did see him, and I tell you what! It’s that mad black brumby.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll believe you, but I still think you may have been right the first time, about it being a ghost. I don’t like it. This Cascades is a queer bloody place.’

  ‘Queer bloody place, all right. I seen the silver ghost myself once.’

  ‘To hell with ghosts. You never had the guts to say you seen the Silver Brumby before … Look! Look! There’s old Lightnin’, playin’ with dingoes. Go on now! Talk about bloody ghosts!’

  ‘Sooner we can get out of here the better.’

  ‘Best stay, if we don’t want our hides burnt off.’

  The first man was silent for a while, then he gave a yell as the smoke blew up in a spiral.

  ‘Look, look, there they are again,’ and there just for a second was the black head of a horse picking up a pup by its scruff. Then they were gone.

  ‘Ghosts, all right.’ The second man had tightened his grip on the reins. ‘It’s no wonder the herd of brumbies and the stockhorses bolted down the Leatherbarrel track. Let’s make for the hut now.’

  ‘Okay, there’s a wind change. We could do it safely now and leave the ghosts behind.’

  There was the hint of laughter in the second man’s voice.

  ‘You don’t reck’n they are ghosts? You’re just laughing at me.’ His voice had sobered up a little, and he pulled his horse out of the water and set off through the smoke in the direction of the hut. ‘A creek on either side,’ he called. ‘We can escape if the fire comes.’

  Socks saw them making off, like spectres. The water where he and the dogs were was good, although it had been a struggle to get them all there through the smoke and the heat.