The moon rose and shone in Wurring’s eyes. The moon had shone in that exhausted foal’s eyes when she had opened them to look at him. Now Wurring was a grown horse, out alone in the snow and the moonlight, alone where the wind moaned through the rocks.
Did he hear that neigh again? No. Surely there was no sound except the wind. A fleeting picture of Yarran went through his mind, and he wondered where she was. Then he stretched himself, and knew he felt strong, wonderful.
Dawn came, and he set off again, hoping to get to Numeramang that night, or at least to Ravine. It was possible that Ilinga had wintered at Ravine.
The night had turned very cold, so that the snow was more solid, that morning, and he walked over a gap between two higher hills, on the hard snow. The plain beyond was snow- covered, but woven over with the lines of open creeks. He would get across it somehow. He cantered down to it, bucking with joy.
The snow on the plain was still fairly firm. There, out on the white plain that was criss-crossed with cold blue creeks, the young chestnut horse galloped and played. Wurring had forgotten that there was any danger from the iron-grey, and danger left in the world, and he danced a dance that was only watched by a dingo and his mate, by the currawongs who flew high in the blue and silver sky, and a wedgetail eagle, planing higher still.
A faint, early breeze blew off the high mountains away in the south - its touch thrilling - and Wurring felt himself charged with tingling, burning fire. He swung around on his toes, reared and pranced. The dingo and his mate, the currawongs, and the eagle above saw beauty and grace, sunlight, and life’s continuance in a chestnut horse, dancing, there, on the sunlit snow.
18: The Sun, the Moon and the Snow
Ilinga had not waited any longer, at that hole below the cliff, than it took to collect her feet beneath her and spring down. She was so terrified by the sun’s disappearance, and so sure that it meant disaster for Wurring, that she hurtled herself over the boulders and down the tunnel. Even deeper darkness closed around her.
If she had not gone so fast, she would surely have picked up his scent. As it was, just once, when she paused to slide down the enormous boulder, she registered the scent of Wurring, but thought it was because she was so afraid for him that she could almost see him fighting the iron-grey, and so his scent had come to her nose, too.
Another reason to make her go faster and faster, was the young brown stallion. She had never expected him to jump into the tunnel after her. He was a fine horse, gentle and kind, but even the noise of one other horse could make any rescue of Wurring difficult. How, she wondered, how could she rescue Wurring, how, how, how?
As she neared the end of the tunnel, she forced herself to go slowly. Even with the stallion behind her, there was no sense in bursting out into the open. The sight of her might just make the iron-grey kill Wurring.
Ilinga suddenly felt desperate. Wurring and she had been together always, except for this last winter. They belonged together. He must be better now. He must be able to escape from the iron-grey, and go with her.
She walked very quiedy towards the sandy cave. Why had there been no bats? Perhaps they had gone out because the sun
had vanished? She could not hear the brown stallion behind her. She crept along the tunnel into the cave and - stopped, just as her feet touched the sand.
Her hair stood up on end.
It was still only half light, outside, as the shadow passed off the face of the sun, and in the half light Ilinga could see the dark bulk of a horse lying right at the mouth of the cavern on
the sand. She could smell blood, and she could see a darker stain on the dark sand around that horse’s head.
It was not Wurring’s head, nor did that horse’s body have the grace of Wurring’s body. It was a heavy horse.
Ilinga had forgotten the brown stallion behind her. She crept closer to the horse that lay on the sand. She thought it was the iron-grey, and she had to be sure, and had to know whether he were alive or dead.
Closer, closer, she crept over the sand, and more and more light came into the sky.
The horse showed no sign of hearing her. His eyes were shut, but she could see a very slow, very faint rise and fall of his flanks with his breathing.
There was quite a lot of blood beneath his head, but, as the side that was damaged was underneath, she could not see what had happened. She stood close, looking down at him. The horse looked quite solid and very much alive. Death looked different from this. From a dead horse something had gone... breath ... life ... She stepped away, fast and silently, keeping watch on the horse and watch on the bush by the creek to which she was heading. She was almost certain that other eyes were watching from the black sallee trees.
If Wurring had been there, he would have come out to greet her. For a moment she stopped, one fore foot raised in the air: if it were not Wurring that had hurt the iron-grey, there would be another stallion in the trees somewhere. Rain was falling, but she did not notice it.
She could feel the eyes on her. Another stallion would have come out to see her too. She stood - nervous, fine-boned, beautiful filly, built for speed - and nothing stirred in the bush, but the eyes watched.
What was fear? She had to find Wurring, the sun. She moved quietly on towards those trees and over the creek. She heard a rumble of thunder. The rain drops bounced off her hot back, and she realized that it had been raining for some time. It was also slowly getting lighter.
Ilinga went through the creek very quietly, and up the high
bank on the further side. The eyes were retreating, silently retreating. Then suddenly there was the swish of branches. She could hear hooves stepping with care. Ilinga followed round the thick clump of black sallees. More trees were swishing. Whoever it was that had been there had gone into the next clump. They must have backed in, because Ilinga felt the eyes watching her again.
There could not be many horses, or there would be more noise, and she guessed they must be young ones - young fillies. There was no point in trying to catch them. All she wanted was Wurring, and she could see no sign of Wurring at all. She went down and crossed the creek again, to look for Wurring. The iron-grey was still lying in exactly the same position. She must hurry because it would be the end of everything if the iron-grey woke and caught her.
She was soon through the creek and back on the other side. The grassy flat stretched for some distance downstream. The grass was brown and pressed down by the weight of recent snow. She saw that a lot of it was churned up by horses’ hooves.
She walked quickly, nose to ground, searching for clear tracks, trying to learn the story that all the marks would tell her, trying to pick up any scent that the rain had not already washed away. The earth was so churned that at first she could only learn that there had been horses fighting. She thought she heard more thunder, and began to search even more quickly. Milling marks were everywhere, then... there was a set of Wurring’s hind hoofmarks, ground in as though he had reared to strike, and swivelled suddenly. There was also a fairly clear spoor of the iron-grey’s.
Ilinga had learnt what she wanted to know, and unless any other horse had appeared, Wurring had knocked out the iron- grey and then vanished. He must have gone up the tunnel... his scent... she had not imagined it as she rushed down. Suddenly she wondered where that young brown stallion had got to - he had been close behind her and he had not appeared. Of course he had not known the way over some of the boulders, and that could have slowed him up, or he might have turned back.
She looked up and saw the owners of the watching eyes quite clearly for a moment. They were standing as if turned to stone with terror, looking towards the cave. Ilinga froze. Had the iron-grey woken? But no, he was still lying there. Then she heard the sound of thunder again, and really took notice of it. Was it thunder, rumbling and roaring all around that cliff? It was not absolutely the same sort of sound as thunder ... and it was becoming a rumbling roar... muffled.
Something dreadful was going to happen. S
uddenly every instinct told her to go for her life on to high ground. She sprang through the creek and up the opposite bank. There was no time to be quiet or to keep hidden. Quick, quick! The sun had vanished, but it had returned: now something terrible was happening beneath that cliff.
She heard a horse’s scream of terror. She stopped and looked at the cave. The iron-grey still lay there. Then out of the dark tunnel mouth, screaming with fear, galloped the young brown stallion. He was mad with fright. There was something behind him. It looked like a brown wall.
Ilinga saw him leap across the sand, past the unconscious iron-grey, and the wall seemed to burst behind him.
That wall was water - brown water that carried branches and logs - and it came so fast that the galloping stallion was caught by it, knocked over, hurtled into the creek.
Ilinga watched, but she scrambled upwards at the same time. She saw the brown stallion completely submerged, saw him bobbing up again, saw his head, realized his feet had found something solid on which to stand. She saw him balanced for one moment in the rushing brown water, then he leapt for the bank.
It was then that the iron-grey horse was lifted bodily by the great surge of water and tossed and swirled into the creek. There was no movement in him, other than the crazy movement caused by the water.
Part of the creek bank had been washed into the stream and
a leaning tree fell across the creek just as the wave of water carrying the iron-grey came down. The grey stallion hit the tree trunk: the flood water banked up behind for a few moments, but behind it still was the whole force of the dam that had been held away up the creek above the cliff, and this water broke over the iron-grey, and his body disappeared.
Ilinga did not see him again.
She saw the young brown stallion standing, trembling all over, his breath gasping, water dripping off him. She saw the two fillies, owners of those watching eyes, but now Ilinga had no other idea than to get to Wurring - and she was certain that Wurring had left the iron-grey and gone up that tunnel which was now full of water.
She stood watching. They all watched till at last the water started dropping. Ilinga knew that as soon as the stream had gone back to its ordinary size she must go up it and seek Wurring somewhere on the other side.
After a few moments the young stallion walked timidly over towards her, his eyes showing their whites each time he looked at the flood. She gave a little whinny to welcome him. Then the two fillies joined them. Further down the valley, a few rather troubled neighs rang out - a herd without a stallion, and nervous.
The four young animals stood together on the high ground while the water went down. A shaft of late sunshine fell through a gap in the hills on the western side, and through the black clouds. It illuminated the group just as Ilinga rubbed her head along the neck of the stallion, and then began to slip and slide her way down the muddy bank towards the cave and the tunnel.
For her there was no question of fear: there was only the idea of Wurring - the absolute compulsion to follow and to find him.
For the young brown stallion there was no question of ever going back through that tunnel again. He had saved his life by flinging himself off the high boulder and racing in front of the bow wave of damned-up water. In the tunnel there had been,
for him, the sort of terror that no horse could face again,
Ilinga was going back up the tunnel. She looked at him once. He had followed and followed her, but she was sure he had known all along she was not for him. Here was a good valley, herd without a stallion and two beautiful fillies.
Ilinga entered the tunnel. For her there was no fear, only the necessity to find Wurring.
* * *
Ilinga’s mind held no map of that tunnel now. Boulders had been rolled by the water as though they were thistle heads. There were logs wedged across the tunnel. There was a film of mud underfoot in some places, and scoured, slippery rock in others. Water dripped from the roof, and the sides were cold and wet - cold, so cold to touch the hot flanks or shoulders of the hurrying filly. Fear could not have turned her back, for she was seeking Wurring as though she were driven - but her nerves were so taut that a sudden onslaught of cold drips could force a horrified snort from her.
Darkness, darkness, danger. She wanted light - sunlight or moonlight - and Wurring.
She scrambled over the last boulders towards the patch of light. The hole into which the creek poured was far bigger now, and it was filled with logs and branches, Ilinga forced herself through all the debris and up out of the hole, and a wild neigh burst from her. Fear had been with her, after all, and now she called, though Wurring must surely be miles away.
A neigh answered her, dropping down into the valley from the high ridge above. Ilinga called again and again, and then started up, slithering crazily on the mud that coated the lower slopes.
It was Yarran who neighed up above - Yarran who had followed Wurring’s track to the top of the ridge, and then seen the dammed-up waters in the valley burst and fill the hole into which Ilinga and the brown stallion had vanished.
Now there were the two mares going on over the mountains, aiming for Numeramang, if they could get there through the snow. Now it was not flood that was the danger, but that they should get caught in deep, heat-rotted snow, that they might plough on and on too far, and get too exhausted to get out.
Often they found a track of Wurring’s to give them hope : then for miles there would be nothing. Wurring’s gay, dancing tracks on the firm-frozen snow would have melted and vanished in the heat of the day.
Ilinga went on and on, and Yarran followed. It was Ilinga who was so powerfully drawn so that she could not rest. Somewhere there would be Wurring with sunlight setting his mane and forelock aflame,
* * *
It was night time, and Wurring had searched three days for Ilinga. She was not in Ravine where the grass was already spring-fresh. She was not in Numeramang, where some snow still lay in the shady places - where the everlastings that had once been golden and those that had been white let their brown seeds fly in the wind, whispering of a golden horse and a moonlight mare.
The currawongs, high in the bright, spring sky, told him5 ‘She seeks you. She seeks you.’ The double warble of the red- tipped pardalottes who were hidden in the leaves of the snowgums said: ‘From the east: from the east.’ The thrush’s voice came as though through a melting snow crystal, with all the unbelievable beauty of the snow and the mountains - liquid, lovely, the joy of creation, and it told him that the moon would soon be full.
So Wurring went east, past Ravine again, and, as night fell, he slept in a valley between high ridges, and the snow still lay all around.
Yarran and Ilinga travelled that night, after the full moon had risen, and, when it was nearly morning, as the two mares stepped with swinging strides over the frozen snow, there sounded a call over the long, white ridges. Yarran threw up her head and listened. This call was for her, not Ilinga, and she answered, but she went on with Ilinga, knowing that the horse who had called her would not be far away.
Then there was another call, and this time Ilinga’s head went up in the air, and the moonlight ran through her mane and forelock, silver hair rippling.
Yarran stopped.
The moon was shining in their eyes now, soon it would set in the west. Then over the high, white ridge behind them came the first light from the sun. It only touched the high snow ridges that lay far ahead, beneath the full moon.
Yarran heard the stallion calling for her again. She turned and went.
A currawong soared high in the air calling: ‘It is now: it is now,’ and Ilinga went forward to meet Wurring, moonlight glinting on the silver hair in her mane and her tail and all the silver hairs that had come shining along her back in her spring coat, this year when she had grown to her full beauty.
Her moon shadow stretched out behind her, and Wurring’s
was ahead of him on the moon-glittering snow. Closer and closer, the young horses
cantered over the snow, frost crystals flying up from their hooves catching the silver light of the
moon; Wurring’s shadow racing ahead, pointing towards Ilinga, and all the time the sky grew lighter.
They were two or three strides apart when the sun came up over the snowy ridge. Ilinga’s shadow leapt to meet Wurring, and his shadow was suddenly behind him - the two shadows flaring into a luminous, purple-blue in tine blend of sunlight and moonlight. All the frost crystals which flew up from their hooves became luminous and blue also, and for the few minutes before the sun rose higher and while the moon still shone, the two young horses danced on the snow surrounded by snow- spray and shadows of a deep, transparent blue. For sunlight and moonlight had met over the glittering snow, in a strange light and a strange night, and the chestnut stallion danced, with the sunlight in his mane, and the mare was shining with the light of the moon.
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