Whispering in the Wind

by Alan Marshall

‘That would save a lot of trouble,’ said Crooked Mick. ‘What is his name?’

  ‘The Willy Willy Man. Greyfur and I met him when we came to the Lonely Desert. He has a telescope that enables him to see things hundreds of miles away.’ ‘How do we get in touch with him?’ asked Crooked Mick.

  ‘That’s the trouble,’ said Peter. ‘How do we? He lives a long way from here.’

  ‘Does he live in the Lonely Desert?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, we’ve got good horses. We’ll ride round that way. It won’t take us much longer.’

  ‘How are you going to tame Firefax when you catch him?’ said the Bunyip. ‘I know two Knights who tried to yard him and they failed. He is a big horse with a bad temper.’

  ‘When we catch him Peter will ride him,’ said Crooked Mick. ‘You see I taught him to ride.’

  ‘I’m sure I can ride him,’ said Peter doubtfully.

  ‘I’m sure you will,’ said Crooked Mick. ‘You have the courage and the heart. You’ll have to change your clothes, of course. That plume in your hat would thrash like a reed when your head begins to jerk. You’ll have to watch your head when riding Firefax. Once you lose control of it, you’re gone. I’ll lend you a pair of riding trousers and my old red shirt. You can use your own saddle and bridle. Ride long. Keep your feet firm in the stirrups and take your weight on your legs. Go with him. Look ahead. If he’s going to reach for the sky start off before him. Don’t become too stiff. Relax. Nice and easy does it. Don’t rake him. Leave that for the rodeo riders. Remember he’ll only buck as long as he can hold his breath. Then he’ll grunt and into it again. Gulp a breath when he does this. You’ll ride him. You’re a champion.’

  Crooked Mick clapped him on the back. ‘Now let’s go. We’ve got a big job to reach the Lonely Desert first. When the Willy Willy Man tells us where he is, we’ll go and find him.’

  ‘What about a horse for you?’ asked Peter.

  ‘Yes, what about a horse for me?’ Crooked Mick asked the Bunyip.

  ‘If you follow the moat around behind the castle you will come to a stable,’ replied the Bunyip. ‘There are several horses there left by Knights and Princes I killed before Peter gave me the Magic Leaf. Take the bay with the white blaze. I think he’s good.’

  When Crooked Mick returned Greyfur was waiting with Moonlight, saddled and bridled and ready for the journey. The horse Crooked Mick had chosen was not the equal of Moonlight in grace and strength. His head, too, did not have Moonlight’s proud, confident gaze. The bay did not look as if he were listening to the sound of trumpets or the noise of battle.

  Moonlight had filled out. His sloping shoulders were those of a horse that never tired. His hindquarters were well muscled, and he moved with such lightness that, at a gallop, he appeared to skim the earth. He had changed each time Peter had brought happiness to some person by giving away a Magic Leaf. As Peter had grown into a noble Prince, so Moonlight had become a charger worthy to carry him.

  Crooked Mick adjusted the stirrups and swung himself into the saddle. The bay circled and Crooked Mick muttered, ‘This horse has been badly broken.’ But he stood steady when Crooked Mick tightened the reins.

  He touched him with his heels and the horse leaped forward. ‘We’ll be seeing you,’ he called to the Bunyip. Peter joined him and the two horses galloped side by side towards the bush beyond which lay the Lonely Desert.

  ‘We’re on our way,’ shouted Greyfur and bounded after them. She moved like a wave of the sea and soon she was beside the two horsemen; after they disappeared into the scrub her head could be seen rising and falling above the tea-trees.

  They travelled all that day and towards evening reached an area of waving grass and clumps of belah. Crooked Mick was delighted when he saw such perfect grazing for the horses.

  ‘We’ll camp here,’ he said. ‘On the other side of that rise there’ll be a lagoon. You water the horses, Peter, while Greyfur and I prepare the camp.’

  By the time Peter returned with the horses a camp fire was burning beside some rocks and Crooked Mick was grilling chops. He unsaddled the horses and turned them loose to graze, then joined Greyfur and Mick before the fire.

  They were away before dawn next morning and rode hard to reach the edge of the Lonely Desert before lunch-time. They approached it over some sandhills and when at last they saw it, stretching away into the distance ahead of them, it seemed more lonely and desolate than ever.

  They pulled up and sat on their horses. There was no sign of the Willy Willy Man in that wide expanse of waterless country.

  ‘We’ll send up some smoke signals like the Aborigines,’ said Greyfur. ‘When the Willy Willy Man sees puffs of smoke rising he’s sure to come over to investigate.’

  Peter and Crooked Mick dismounted and gathered some green gum leaves which they piled in a heap on a clear patch of ground. Greyfur had broken off a big branch from one of the stunted gums and said she would use it to make the smoke rise in puffs from the burning leaves.

  When Crooked Mick set fire to the heap, thick smoke rose from its centre. Greyfur kept hitting the heap with her leafy branch and pulling it away again. Her blows blanketed the smoke which rose in greater volume each time she jerked the branch away.

  Soon there was a chain of puffs rising high into the air and floating out over the desert.

  ‘That will bring him,’ said Greyfur, pausing to rest.

  She kept looking out into the desert, her sharp eyes half closed against the strong sunlight.

  ‘Here he comes!’ she exclaimed at last. ‘He’s travelling fast, too.’

  ‘I can see him,’ said Peter, and pointed out the distant column of dust to Crooked Mick, whose eyesight was not so good.

  The Willy Willy grew in size as it came towards them. It slowed down when it drew near, then stopped and slowly collapsed. The Willy Willy Man, accompanied by Tom, stepped out of the settling dust and walked over to them.

  ‘I thought it might be Greyfur sending up those signals,’ he said. ‘How are you, Peter? I’m a different man from when you saw me last. Tom, here, gave me a complete overhaul. I’ve never been running better. And that leaf you gave me makes life much more exciting.’

  They sat down for a yarn and Tom told them how much his life had improved since he met the Willy Willy Man. Peter talked about his adventures and their present search for Firefax.

  ‘I knew if I came to you, you would tell us where we could find him,’ he said.

  ‘You came to the right man,’ said the Willy Willy Man. ‘Tom, go over to where we landed and bring me the telescope.’

  When Tom returned with the telescope the little man pulled it out to its full length and rested it on Peter’s shoulder.

  ‘Now, let me see. Hold steady. What’s this? It’s exactly twelve o’clock by the Town Hall clock in Melbourne. That’s no good. Swing it round towards the mountains. Good. Now raise your shoulder a little. That’s right. Hold it. Yes, I can see Firefax. He’s grazing with a mob of mares in the Valley of Springs. I’ll just tell you how to reach the Valley of Springs.’

  He snapped the telescope shut and pointed to a range of mountains rising above the horizon.

  ‘See those two peaks? One is slightly higher than the other.’

  ‘I can see them,’ said Peter.

  ‘The Valley of Springs lies right between the two peaks. Ride towards them until you come to a creek. Follow the creek down and it will lead you into the Valley of Springs. Now I must go. Good luck to you all! Start me up, Tom.’

  Tom wound the starting cord around his waist and pulled. The Willy Willy Man fired immediately. Then Tom leaped into the whirling dust and the Willy Willy moved off into the desert.

  ‘He’s a good fellow, that,’ said Crooked Mick. He mounted his horse and turned its head towards the mountains. Greyfur and Peter followed.

  It took them two days to reach the creek the Willy Willy Man had described. They followed it until they could see the Valley of Springs opening up ahea
d of them.

  Crooked Mick turned the bay and made for a small rise, from which it looked as if they would get a better view. They climbed it on a track that must have been made by horses. Near some trees that crowned the hill they drew rein and looked down into a valley watered by the creek. It was rich in grass and wild flowers.

  A mob of horses was grazing on a wide stretch of grass below them. Standing a little apart was Firefax, a huge stallion whose size dwarfed the mares grazing near him. He was savage and untamed and his chestnut coat shone in the rays of the setting sun. He pawed the earth and galloped round the mares as if to protect them.

  Crooked Mick could see that he was already suspicious even though he could not see them, so he beckoned to Peter and Greyfur and they withdrew behind the hill, and continued down along the track until they came to a sheltering rock that rose free of the earth beside the creek. Here they camped for the night.

  18

  Firefax

  Next morning they rode back to the top of the hill and stayed there on their horses, hidden by the trees, while they worked out a plan to capture Firefax. Most of the valley was cleared and covered with grass. The creek they had followed wound itself across this flat, sheltered by a guard of trees that followed each turn and twist of its flow, till finally it entered a narrow gorge at the end of the valley.

  The horses were grazing at the far end but Crooked Mick was more interested in the track which led from the horses towards the opening of the gorge. Evidently it had been made by the brumbies when they left the higher pastures of the valley and it suggested to Crooked Mick a way in which Firefax could be captured.

  He explained his plan to Peter and Greyfur and soon they were riding round towards the gap in the mountains where the track disappeared. Crooked Mick intended to gallop the brumbies along this track, the only escape route they knew.

  When they reached the head of the gorge, they turned and rode down it till they found themselves in a high, narrow defile. Huge rocks that had tumbled from the precipitous sides of the canyon lay scattered along the track worn by the hooves of the brumbies entering and leaving the valley.

  Here they halted. Crooked Mick decided to build a high fence from wall to wall, forming a barrier that would halt the brumbies when they galloped away from the valley. Beside the track the creek was shallow and stony and it would not be difficult to build a fence across it.

  ‘We must finish the fence before we do anything else,’ he said. ‘Greyfur will supply us with all the tools we need.’

  Greyfur responded to Crooked Mick’s faith in her by pulling a post-hole digger out of her pouch. She was pleased that the success of the plan depended on her. Smiling to herself, she pulled out a crowbar, two coils of barbed wire, a shovel, a chainsaw, an auger and a wire strainer.

  ‘These are all the tools we’ll need,’ said Crooked Mick, not noticing the pleased look she was giving herself. ‘We’ll saw down those tall saplings ahead of us. Peter, you take the saw and make the posts and, Greyfur, you can sink six post holes across the track and over this shallow section of the creek. I will climb as far as I can up the rock walls and loop the barbed wire across from wall to wall.’

  They worked all that day and, after a big meal of grilled steak, they crawled into their sleeping bags for the night.

  They spent the next morning further up the gorge building two converging fences which met at a huge gate made of logs, which Crooked Mick left open so that the brumbies would gallop through it when fleeing from the valley.

  ‘Now, Peter, you and Greyfur take the track we came in by,’ he explained. ‘Ride into the valley at the top end. Start them moving down the track then get in amongst them with Thunderbolt. They will come through the gorge at a gallop. After they pass through the gate I will close it, then lassoo Firefax. Now, get going.’

  It was not very far to the head of the valley, and Moonlight sped round the hill side with Peter crouched low on his withers and Greyfur bounding beside him.

  Firefax raised his head and snorted as a horse and rider appeared galloping towards him. He was not afraid of the kangaroo that accompanied them. Kangaroos were harmless but a galloping horseman swinging a whip was another matter.

  He trotted towards Peter, lifting his legs high and pounding the earth with each stride. His nostrils flared in anger. He arched his neck and tossed his head and trumpeted a challenge to this intruder. His chestnut coat blazed in the sun and Peter looked at him in admiration as Moonlight drew nearer.

  Peter whirled Thunderbolt around his head then jerked it back with a crack that echoed across the valley like the shot of a gun. At this Firefax stopped, wheeled in fear and galloped back to the watching mares who had drawn closer together. He charged in amongst them, nipping their flanks and urging them into a run. As they gathered speed he galloped round them goading them to greater effort, but when they were fully extended he raced to the front and led them along the track towards the gorge. His mane whipped in the wind like a flame along his neck, and his long tail streamed behind him.

  Peter held his horse in check. Although Moonlight could easily have outpaced any of the mares, now, as if conscious of the role he was playing, he stayed effortlessly, just behind them.

  As the mob entered the gorge, Peter closed in on them and Thunderbolt snaked out and back in a volley of cracks. The brumbies were now flat out. When Firefax reached the gate the press of bodies behind him forced him through and the mares followed like a river. Crooked Mick, who was hiding behind a tree, dashed out and slammed the gate shut.

  Firefax had now reached the fence. He propped and tried to turn, but the terrified mares were hemming him in and there was no room to launch himself at the fence in one great leap for freedom.

  Crooked Mick waited till Firefax had forced his way back from the fence in an effort to reach the gate before he flung his lassoo; the circle of rope dropped over the horse’s neck.

  The great horse screamed with rage. He flung himself upwards, his forelegs striking at the air. But Crooked Mick had put a hitch round a post to take the strain and the taut rope only tightened round his neck so that, half strangled, he fell to the ground amid the frantic hooves of the mares who were struggling to avoid him.

  ‘Open the gate,’ yelled Crooked Mick.

  Peter, who was waiting on Moonlight near the entrance, flung himself from the saddle and dashed towards the gate which he hauled open with desperate speed. The mares, when they saw the opening, plunged through in a jostling pack of bodies and went speeding back towards the valley with its wide expanse of grass.

  Crooked Mick was left alone in the yard and the gasping stallion lay at his feet. He quickly loosened the noose around his neck and slipped a halter over his head. He tied the end of the halter to a post in the fence. Firefax struggled to his feet then, feeling the clasp of the halter, fought like a fish on a line, but the halter held and after a while he stood trembling, the rope taut between him and the post.

  Crooked Mick flung a bag over his head and now, finding himself in darkness, Firefax ceased pulling back on the halter and stood quietly.

  Peter and Greyfur joined Crooked Mick beside the stallion and between them they girthed the heavy saddle on to his back and tightened the crupper. They slipped a bridle on his head beneath the bag. When they were ready Crooked Mick said, ‘Mount him, Peter,’ and Peter was in the saddle before Firefax realised what had happened to him.

  Then Crooked Mick pulled the bag from his head and, for a moment, the great horse stood deadly still. He left the ground in one mighty bound that carried him halfway to the open gate but Peter sat him as if he were part of the saddle. There was a smile upon Peter’s face and he waved an arm aloft and shouted, ‘Hup, hup!’ as Firefax went into his second buck, a high leap that arched his back and brought his head down between his front legs. He landed with his legs rigid and close together, and the jar that jolted him as he struck the earth shook every bone in Peter’s body.

  Peter was learning how Firefax bucked.
He could feel the powerful body beneath him, could anticipate the next move of the driving legs which, he felt sure, would hurl the horse up and backwards in an effort to throw him.

  And this is what happened. Firefax leapt high, then bucked back, with such savage swiftness that Peter would have been hurled to the ground had he not braced his legs to meet the sudden change in direction.

  Firefax screamed with rage when his buck failed. He sprang forward and in a few long strides had launched himself into a gallop that carried him up the gorge with such speed that the trunks of the saplings skirting the track looked like a picket fence to Peter.

  Crooked Mick mounted Moonlight and followed with Greyfur bounding behind him. They burst out into the open valley in time to watch the greatest ride of Peter’s life. Firefax was determined to throw him, and he put on an exhibition of bucking that Peter was to boast about for years afterwards. He shot into the air as high as a tree. He spun, and dropped a shoulder, and gave mighty grunts that Peter answered with wild stockman yells.

  He tried to scrape Peter off against the trunks of trees but Peter whipped his legs from the stirrups and out of the way, so Firefax only hurt himself. Then he left the trees and returned to the clearing where he had the space to buck unhindered. He was tiring now and his proud head was beginning to droop. One more trick was left, to rear and throw himself backwards, crushing Peter beneath his body. It would be his last desperate effort to avoid defeat.

  Peter had anticipated him and was ready when the huge horse reared upwards. For a moment he clung on as Firefax teetered on his back legs, striking at the air and roaring through his open, foam-flecked mouth. He paused there for a moment, tall as a tree, then crashed backwards to the ground. But Peter swung himself out of the saddle as the big horse was falling. He freed his feet from the stirrups, pushed himself away from Firefax and landed lightly beside him. He kept the reins and, as Firefax struggled to his feet, Peter leaped back into the saddle and was ready for the next move.