Moon Filly

by Elyne Mitchell

  She tried to husband her strength so that on the next steep hill she might beat him, but no steep hill came for a long time, they just went on and on; and though that iron-grey seemed almost exhausted, so was she. At last he stopped. He had picked his resting place very cunningly. He stopped in a small, sheltering clump of snowgums in the centre of an open plain. Which ever way Ilinga tried to escape, she would have to cross open country.

  She felt certain that if she were to escape at all, she must do it before they reached his usual grazing ground, the place where his herd ran, and before he became rested. She looked at him standing with his head drooped, the thick olive-green leaves of the snowgums all around him. He was so strongly built that it would take more than a night’s tremendous fight­ing and a day’s travelling to exhaust his reserves.

  He raised his head and looked at her, and she knew that his mood was still evil. He would do anything to stop her getting back to Wurring. Anger seethed inside her, but she stood quite still, and let her own head droop with an exhaustion that was not all feigned.

  Slowly night seeped over the plain. Ilinga pretended to sleep - and, since she was very tired, slept fitfully - but she kept looking through her eyelashes at the horse. He slept, and, as the night grew darker, he slept very heavily. Ilinga knew this by his breathing and the relaxation of his solid body, even his ears.

  She stepped silently sideways - as though moving to an unheard music, gracefully, silently stepping to the side - slid­ing away from the stallion, out through the silver-limbed trees into the dark night before the rise of the moon.

  She was shaking all over, and it was difficult not to turn and gallop for her life. Controlling herself, she walked away, plac­ing each hoof with desperate care, and she went northward, rather than directly towards where Wurring would be.

  The stallion would roar, if he woke and found her gone. She would have that as a warning. On she went, slow-placed feet on clumps of snowgrass, barely allowing herself to breathe, ears straining back to hear if he moved, eyes straining forward, trying to pick the best line to go across the open plains, her coat iced-over by fear and by the cold south breeze.

  The dark line of trees grew closer, closer. Holding her breath, she entered into them.

  Was she far enough away, now, for the sound of a stick cracking under her hoof not to carry back to him? She did not know. She must creep still, allow no branch to swish off her shoulder or rump, tread on no stick or stone. There must not be a sound. When he woke he must not know which way she had gone.

  The trees were quite thick and it was difficult to be quiet. If only they would open out a little, she would be able to trot. Slowly radiance began to filter into the woods. The moon had risen. Time had passed. A narrow glade opened ahead of her. She cantered, soft-hooved down the snowgrass, every step tak­ing her further and further from the iron-grey.

  She would keep going north for a little while longer and then try to make her way west again. She hoped she could find a way through country that was not too thickly timbered and not so open that she would be visible for all to see. She kept listening - listening acutely - feeling with every hair for the moment she was followed.

  The only animals that saw her were a few wombats and a dingo that stood in deep shadow. She glanced sideways at the strong, yellow dog and knew that she had nothing to fear from him. She was strong and free, like himself. The dingo watched and saw a dark brown filly trotting gracefully through moonbar and shadow, not with pride in her movements but with a certain quality of magic - a quality of having been forever and yet ever renewed.

  Ilinga went on and on through the night and no sound of a searching iron-grey came to her. At last, when she was so tired that she felt she could go no further, she found a very dense thicket of snowgums and wriggled herself into the centre of it where there was just enough space to lie. She slept for many of the daylight hours.

  It was thirst and hunger that woke her. Before moving she listened carefully for quite a long while, then she got out of the thicket as silently as possible and went in search of grass and water. She spent the rest of the daylight grazing and drinking.

  Once she set forth on her journey again, she went slowly and carefully west, but she was still far further north than the course on which the iron-grey had brought her, or even than a line that would take her directly into Ravine. In all the hours of the night there was no sound to worry her. She saw some wallabies and many wombats. Once there was a small herd of horses. They neither saw her, nor smelt her, and she pressed on, with beating heart.

  Presently she began to circle a little southwards. She must be getting near Ravine, near to where the Lobbs Hole creek ran into the Tumut. She intended to drop into Lobbs Hole, cross the creek, work her way upstream through fairly thick scrub, into Ravine, and then quickly up the other side. Some­how she never thought of Wurring being anywhere else but Numeramang.

  As she crept up to Ravine she saw a large herd of horses. There was no horse, filly or colt that she knew among them all, and the stallion looked strong. Even from some distance off, she felt the extraordinarily powerful sensation of fear and danger coming from them. Something had happened not long before.

  6: Danger, Danger

  Wurring heard that furious stallion roar and his heart jolted and sent the blood pounding through him so that he was shak­ing all over.

  It was the sound of the iron-grey, and Ilinga might be with him.

  The roar rang out again, from somewhere above. Wurring began to creep towards the sound, keeping out of the moon­light. The fillies were following him, and when the roar sounded again, he forced them to stay back, then went on very carefully himself.

  That iron-grey was making no effort to be quiet. He started to crash down the hillside, screaming his rage.

  It was not till it was too late that Wurring realized that the crescendo of screaming had been caused by a warm current of air taking his scent upwards, straight to the stallion above him.

  In a few terrible moments of noise, and dust rising against the moonlight, that horse had found Wurring and then the fillies, and apparently realized that Ilinga was not in Ravine, so that he turned on Wurring, in a tearing rage.

  Then Wurring knew the brolgas’ cry of ‘danger’ was absol- utely true. Blows began to flail around him. He tried to fight. The horse was twice his weight and twice his age - and Wur­ring had had no experience of real fighting.

  He was knocked over, he was pounded, he was kicked, and when he got on his feet, he was driven up the hill, just as Ilinga had been driven, with no chance of escape.

  This time the horse was not tired, and he drove Wurring fast up hill and fast over the flat, fast along the ridge tops, and fast down into the valleys.

  Wurring was aching all over from the blows he had re­ceived, but slowly his brain began to work. It was obvious that the horse had lost Ilinga and that he was being taken instead, probably he might be used to attract Ilinga back.

  If Ilinga had escaped from the iron-grey, it would be doubly hard for him, the second one, to escape, but he would have to try to do it - and quickly. He thought that the only way for him to get away would be by going fast. Surely this horse was too heavy really to gallop fast.

  Wurring did not know that he, himself, was too young to go fast for very long. He learnt this, and learnt it very painfully, when he tried to gallop away, in a long, gently rising, snow- grass glade. His take off and speed gave him a start, but the older stallion caught him in a very few minutes, or even sec­onds, and leapt in front of him, striking him till he stopped.

  Wurring, when his head had cleared, wondered how Ilinga had escaped.

  He knew then that, if he were to remain alive, it would be better to keep going in front of this evil-tempered horse. Al­ready one shoulder was so hurt that he found it increasingly difficult to move fast. It was also difficult not to get so angry that he risked all and turned to face this iron-grey tormenter, the killer of his own sire. However Wurring knew, as the moon
sank, and the night faded into day, that he must stay alive and grow old enough and strong enough to kill this horse, avenge his father, and remove the danger to Ilinga.

  As they trotted on and on, they passed quite a few young horses. Wurring noticed that these usually galloped off. This was not to be wondered at. This iron-grey horse with the red, flaring nostrils and always the whites showing in his eyes, this horse with his ugly, thundering body, was enough to cause fear and hatred in any younger horse.

  Wurring had no real fear - not then. He still felt so strong in his youth. He went on, giving no trouble.

  They left the trees behind, and were on great, rolling, empty snowgrass hills and plains. A river wandered around the ridge ends. There were enormous collections of rocks piled one upon another. The sky was starting to cloud over a little, and a cold wind wailed among the rocks. The loops of the river grew steely grey.

  Wurring’s shoulder was becoming very sore, but there was no possibility of being able to stop. He kept going, and his natural pride showed in every line of his beautiful chestnut body - kept the fury ablaze in that iron-grey stallion.

  On these open hills they saw no horses. As they went stead­ily eastward Wurring began to remember that it was far to the east that the wonderful breed lived, the breed from which those older mares believed Ilinga must have come.

  Had this been the stallion from whom Winganna had stolen Ilinga’s dam? He almost stopped to look round - and got a sharp bite for being so foolish. He was sure - quite sure - that this hulking grey was not Ilinga’s sire. Suddenly he felt equally sure that he could give him a tremendous strike if he swung to one side quickly - for that heavy brute would not be able to stop...

  Quickly swinging, pivotting, rearing, Wurring did get in a fierce - and lucky - strike above the iron-grey’s eye. This only made the grey more insanely furious, but this time, feeling so elated at really hitting him, Wurring did manage to maintain his speed for a while, so a minute or so elapsed before he felt the flailing, striking hooves. He turned then, made a wild bite, got a hold and hung on as long as his strength allowed.

  The iron-grey had no feelings of respect for a valiant young fighter. He soon taught Wurring that, if he wished to remain alive, he had better do what he was made to do, and not try to hit back.

  Wurring had cut him above the eye and drawn blood on his neck. While these wounds hurt, the grey might easily get so savage that he killed.

  They went on and on and Wurring began to get very tired. They crossed a great plain with a clump of trees in the centre of it. There was a chance to rest in these trees because the iron- grey stopped and looked around, as though searching for some­thing.

  Wurring stood, breathing deeply and keeping a careful watch on his evil-tempered captor. Was he dreaming, or was there a faint, lingering fragrance? A vision of Ilinga rose like a ghost in the air in front of him.

  In a moment the grey was driving him on again, lashing out, biting.

  Wurring went. As he left, he noticed that there were a lot more hoofmarks among those trees than they had made. Then, staring at him out of the damp earth, was one imprint of Ilinga’s near fore foot.

  They went on and on, all through that day. By evening

  Wurring was very lame. His shoulder was on fire, and he was so tired that he got slower and slower. Fortunately the iron- grey had quietened down too.

  They were going through wide-spaced snowgums now, and the sudden call of a mopoke made both horses shy. The mopoke must have started moving along with them, because it called continually. Once, when it was on a low branch, the iron- grey took a flying leap at it.

  Wurring was surprised. Though the horses sometimes chased brolgas or emus for a game, he had never seen a brumby chase any other wild creature out of sheer bad temper. Wurring, young though he was, felt that a horse who could attack a bird did not seem to be part of his world. Every bird and beast, even the very storms could turn against him.

  The owl flew out of reach, and his double call mocked the horse. The birds, Wurring knew, were wiser than horses. They were thought to be wiser than any animal, for, flying through the air, they saw so much of the world, could see what was happening everywhere, knew what was going to happen. Also they never forgot anything, and seemed to live forever.

  The mopoke hooted again, and the horse screamed with rage. Wurring shivered. How could any horse defy those who might hold the secret of his life?

  His ears pricked. Had there been a far-off neigh? He got a nip from behind to urge him on. They must be getting to their journey’s end. He felt a sudden surge of interest. Could it be that he would learn, now, where Ilinga had come from?

  As they dropped down into a valley, the moon rose - the moon rose over this country that must have made Ilinga. There was another neigh from below, but the iron-grey did not answer, and though the mopoke still mocked him, and he made another rush at it, he did not roar again. It was as if he wished to surprise his herd by arriving unexpectedly. Wurring did not think it would be a very pleasant surprise. He kicked stones down the slope on purpose, to warn them.

  Even if this were where Ilinga had come from, he was sure that the iron-grey was not her father, so the mystery still ex­- isted. Either she had not come from his herd, or he had stolen her mother. It seemed to him to be very important to know, and to know why all the birds and the other horses seemed to think of Ilinga as coming from a great past, and going to fulfil some important future. Were any of the horses, down below, of the same blood as Ilinga?

  The slope grew steeper. His near shoulder hurt so much that he could barely step on to that leg. The sweat of pain began to drip off him. The pain shot, burning from shoulder to knee, almost beyond bearing, but if he slowed up, he got another, harder bite.

  Then they were on the valley floor, and the horse stopped for a moment. If he had hoped that his herd did not know that it was he who was coming, the mopoke spoilt his plan, for it sat high in a tree and every call it gave was a warning.

  Wurring knew that his herd must fear him.

  He was forced to walk on again, and the agony of his leg put all else out of his mind, till suddenly he saw the ring of watch­ing eyes, the faces of well over a dozen mares and young colts and fillies.

  * * *

  While Wurring was so lame that he could barely move, he meant less than nothing to the iron-grey stallion - less than nothing, except as a bait that might attract Ilinga.

  Wurring’s shoulder was so bad that in fact it was difficult for him to graze. He had to stay close to the stream, or he would not have got a drink. He grew thin and weak, and his coat looked miserable. The nights were getting colder already, suggesting that winter was coming early. He was going to be in a very poor state to stand a hard winter.

  Wurring did not think about this, himself, but he did know that he got weaker every day, and that, unless he was very strong, he would never escape nor ever possibly defeat the iron- grey.

  The young ones of the herd came to him when the stallion was some distance off.

  It was one of the fillies who led him - hopping on three legs - to where sweet grass grew very close to the water so that he could graze and drink too. Later two fillies grazed with him most of the time, but neither were like Ilinga.

  The days went by. The iron-grey expecting Ilinga to come to find Wurring, and Wurring unable to do anything, hoping that the birds would tell her of the danger - and yet certain that danger would not stop her.

  She might never find the way.

  7: To the East

  Ilinga went quietly, swiftly out of Ravine, wondering what had happened to cause such fear in the Ravine herd, and anxious to get far away before anything befell her, Her head was set for Numeramang, but it was unlikely that she would get there before daylight. In her mind she could see Wurring there, and it was not till she had crossed the Tumut River that she got

  any feeling that he might have been hurt, or that he might have gone looking for her. The cold touch of this water which she an
d Wurring had crossed together once, and in which the iron-grey had made her stand, suddenly sent cold fear into her mind. She hurried on even faster towards Numeramang, up through the timber, down into thick gullies, up again and down.

  Once, just at dawn, a lyrebird hopped across her path, in a deep-cleft valley, its tail was not spread and it hung as though disjointed. Presently she heard its voice from somewhere in the deep bush, not mocking, but speaking of winter and dark­ness. She heard the sound fading into the distance as she trot­ted along, but the more distant the voice became, the more insistent was the message, and the more it seemed to be for

  her.... Winter... and darkness ... the departing light of the sun.... She shivered.

  Even before she reached Numeramang, she knew she would not find any horses. The creeping skin on her own back, when she thought of the dead horse lying there, told her that none of Winganna’s herd would stay.

  She had to look into the empty plain from behind a candle- bark, just look, to be sure that no one was there. The light was strong, and the big plain was clearly to be seen.

  No living horse was there.

  She almost swung round to hurry away, but where should she go? She stood wondering if there were any of Winganna’s herd nearby at all, and then some instinct told her to look and see if there might be some of Wurring’s tracks which she could follow.

  She began to move out, looking for the tracks, but she stop­ped again. If she went out on to the plain, she, herself, would be visible to any eyes, just one lone filly in the empty plain where the dead Winganna lay.

  Fear was beginning to eat into her, but she had no idea where Wurring had gone, and the only way to find out was by tracking him. Wurring had not been far from her when the iron-grey started to chase her. In fact she remembered hearing the sound of his galloping hooves, just as she turned to run for her life.