Brumby's Run

by Jennifer Scoullar

  She gave him a smile of genuine gratitude. ‘Thanks, Spike.’ She doubted he’d be so generous if he knew about Whirlwind. She said goodbye and the group moved off to their cars, Meg bouncing about like an excited labrador puppy. Sam stood and watched until she was certain they’d all gone, then felt in her pocket. Where was her phone? It suddenly rang from the office and she dashed to retrieve it. Drew. He’d found Charlie, and she was fine. Was it safe to come home? Right, they wouldn’t be long. Sam let out a deep breath, made herself a strong coffee and sat down to wait.

  No rational explanation existed for what she was seeing. Charlie and Drew, companionably cantering their horses down the hill. Whirlwind stood like a rock while Charlie slipped off her back, and then the mare followed – followed – her sister into the yard.

  Charlie started to groom her. Sam tiptoed to the rails and watched Whirlwind lean into the body brush, the way Pharoah used to do. She blinked away the sharp sting of tears, wanting to berate her sister for forging this secret coalition behind her back. For making a fool of her. Then she thought of Drew. Charlie had no monopoly on secret coalitions.

  ‘You’ve got some explaining to do,’ said Sam, regretting the words as soon as they were spoken. It was exactly that preachy attitude that had caused problems between them in the first place. No wonder Charlie hadn’t been straight with her. ‘It all went so well,’ she said. ‘The Morgans were thrilled.’

  ‘Did they pay us?’ asked Charlie. Sam nodded. Her sister looked exhausted, completely done in, but completely happy at the same time. She waved Sam into the yard. Cautiously, Sam ducked through the rails and approached the mare. Whirlwind showed no fear, no hostility. She allowed Sam to stroke her shoulder, her neck, her cheek. Miracles really did happen.

  ‘Here, what do you make of this?’ said Charlie, tugging at Whirlwind’s long grey forelock. ‘I’ve been dying to show you.’ The mare obligingly lowered her head. Unbelievable.

  Charlie took hold of Sam’s hand and placed it under the forelock, below the ears. What the hell? Beneath Sam’s fingers were two bony bulges, like baby horns. Sam looked at her sister askance. Charlie grinned. ‘Cool, isn’t it? She actually is a demon horse.’

  Sam had a closer look. There was no doubt about it. A pair of tiny horns grew from Whirlwind’s forehead. Sam guessed the rodeo men wouldn’t have noticed them. You’d have to lift her forelock first.

  ‘This is amazing,’ said Sam, dumbstruck. A thought struck her from left field. ‘She doesn’t have warts under her tail, does she?’

  ‘How did you know?’ said Charlie. ‘You can’t see them unless you’re right up close.’ Sam ignored the reminder that, until now, she hadn’t been able to get anywhere near the mare. Sure enough, there was a cluster of little warts at the base of her tail. It was beginning to make outlandish sense. Whirlwind’s height and strength, her luxuriant mane and tail, her magnificent charisma.

  ‘There is a breed of horned horse,’ said Sam, slowly. ‘Very rare, though. Impossibly rare.’

  ‘Get out!’ said Charlie.

  ‘It’s true. They’re called Carthusian Andalusians. The most ancient equine stud book in the world. All descended from one grey foundation stallion, Esclavo. He had little horns, and warts under his tail. Monks protected his bloodlines for hundreds of years. Esclavo was said to be the perfect horse, perfect in conformation and perfect in temperament. My dressage coach says Carthusians are the finest high-school mounts ever known.’

  ‘Are there any left?’ asked Charlie.

  ‘Some,’ said Sam. ‘They’re bred at a special stud farm, owned by the Spanish government. Not much chance of running into one on Maroong Mountain, though.’

  ‘So these Carthusian horses,’ said Drew. ‘They’re Andalusians, you said?’

  Sam nodded. ‘The oldest, purest strain of all.’

  ‘But Jarrang is Whirlwind’s father,’ said Charlie. ‘The same striped hoofs. That’s no coincidence.’

  ‘No, it’s not,’ said Drew. He’d been listening to their conversation with a thoughtful look on his face. ‘Jarrang’s her sire all right. A more interesting question is, who’s her dam?’

  He ducked through the rails and headed for the hayshed. Sam chased after him, followed by Charlie.

  ‘You know something, don’t you?’ said Sam.

  ‘I might.’ Drew was gathering biscuits of hay. ‘But don’t you think the horses deserve a feed first?’

  They distributed the hay. It took forever. When they’d finished, the trio sat outside the office with the last of the coffee and biscuits.

  ‘So?’ asked Sam.

  ‘There’s a place that breeds those Andalusians over at Jindabyne. El Soldado Stud or something like that … Don Campbell’s joint. A few years back they lost a filly. Real special, she was, apparently. Imported all the way from Spain.’

  ‘When you say “lost”, you mean what? Died?’

  ‘No, I mean just what I said. Lost – or stolen, more like it. Some brumby stallion came down and kicked the sliprails out of her yard during the night.’

  Everybody sat without speaking. Sam guessed they were all thinking the same thing. That lost Andalusian filly was Whirlwind’s mother. ‘Did she have horns and warts under her tail?’ asked Sam.

  ‘Beats me,’ said Drew, and swigged his coffee. ‘But if I were you, I’d be finding out.’

  Sam slapped some cheese on the sandwich and pushed it across the table top. Out the window, late afternoon was ambling through to evening. ‘Think we can do it?’

  ‘Hell, yeah!’ said Charlie. ‘Our own brumby stud. They’ll be the next big fashion. We’ve already got the makings of a great herd. We get Jarrang and Phoenix into the stud book.’ Sam’s heart lurched. She hadn’t told her sister that the colt had been sold. ‘And there’s Whirlwind and the two creamies. In the meantime, we buy in some started brumbies from Bushy, school them a bit more and sell them as heritage horses.’ Charlie was buzzing again with excitement and energy. It was impossible to believe this was the shadow of a girl she’d first met in the hospital, all those months ago. ‘We’ll offer the Coalition an overflow sanctuary for freshly caught horses, in return for being able to train up and sell some youngsters. We’ll run the herd up near the park boundary, and give brumby-spotting tours. Oh, and take in horses for training, charge agistment for them. We’ll make a fucking fortune.’

  ‘And what will we do in our spare time?’ asked Sam, trying to keep a straight face.

  ‘Don’t,’ said Charlie, giving her a playful punch. ‘We can do it. You just watch us.’

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Charlie watched Karl as they drove through the gate into Balleroo National Park, studying his face in profile. She liked the way his lightly tanned skin blended with his head of sandy blond hair. Sun had bleached the tips, giving him highlights, like a male model might have in a magazine. Karl took his eyes off the road and turned to smile at her. Those compelling slate-grey eyes contrasted with his fair complexion. He looked like he could read her mind.

  Charlie had fallen hard for Karl. The man was in a class of his own, a different breed. There was the physical attraction, of course, but it was more than that. She loved the sexy hint of an accent in his voice, the clipped consonants and oddly formal rhythm of his speech. It conjured up images of exotic places and faraway lands. But Karl’s most desirable quality – and she surprised herself with this one – was his mind.

  Charlie had never met a conservationist before. People had always considered her fascination with Balleroo curious at best, eccentric at worst. At school she’d been labelled a greenie and had suffered open hostility from kids whose families had been run off the alpine cattle leases they’d held for generations. She’d learned to hide her opinions.

  She didn’t have to hide anything from Karl. Miracle of miracles, he actually shared her views. For Charlie, discovering that a kindred spirit existed in her world was like discovering she wasn’t the last person alive after the apocalypse. Karl had do
ne a university course in environmental science. He’d even won some sort of Young Conservationist of the Year prize in his last job on the New South Wales north coast. The award, apparently, was for dramatically reversing species decline and increasing local support for grey-headed flying fruit bat colonies. ‘You can’t achieve good ecological outcomes,’ he’d said, ‘without bringing the community along with you.’ Consensus conservation, he called it.

  ‘You’ll never get consensus in Currajong,’ said Charlie.

  Karl didn’t share this view. Apparently he was an optimist. ‘There are plenty of people like us,’ he said, as they slowed to allow a kangaroo and her half-grown joey bound across the road.

  ‘Not around here,’ argued Charlie. ‘Alpine grazing’s been going on for over a hundred years. It’s a cultural thing. People say cattle reduce fuel for bushfires. They say they eat the weeds.’

  ‘Not everybody,’ said Karl, swerving to avoid a deep pothole. ‘Some people say they spread the weeds.’

  ‘The cattlemen don’t,’ said Charlie, ‘and they’re the ones whose opinions count.’

  ‘You’d be surprised,’ said Karl. He tossed her a pamphlet. It was the newsletter of an organisation called the Ecological Farmers Network.

  ‘What’s this mob on about, then?’ asked Charlie.

  ‘It’s a progressive association of farmers, all sorts, cattle producers as well. They’re all for rural environmental programs, especially those that protect biodiversity.’ He turned off the road and headed up a corrugated fire trail. ‘You know Ray Hardy? Runs cattle out at Jacksons Track?’ Charlie nodded. ‘He’s a member. And Julie Wilson from the berry farm … and Frank Jones from Claremont Wines. They’re wanting to do trips into Balleroo – combine them with fine dining and accommodation. They don’t want cow pats all over the park. And there’s Balleroo Bees, promoting alpine wildflower honey. And John Brooks from the trout farm. I could go on,’ he said, nodding his head. ‘They’re all jumping on board.’

  ‘It won’t be enough,’ she said, gloomily.

  ‘Do you know what I think?’ said Karl. Charlie shook her head. He pulled the car over and turned his serious grey eyes upon her. ‘I think you’ve got a chip on your shoulder. I think it’s been there for a very long time and …’ He pointed to a tall candle bark. ‘I think it’s about the size of that tree.’

  ‘As big as that?’ she asked, trying to laugh and failing. Instead her voice was small, barely recognisable. Where was her usual smart remark when she needed it? Karl leaned over, took her face in steady hands and kissed her with infinite care. It wasn’t just a kiss. It was an article of faith, a reassurance, even a dare. A dare to let it all go, to heave the chip away, to walk lightly once more on the earth. And it was a pledge that he would see her through it, if she had courage enough to take the risk. The kiss of a man with a woman, not a boy with a girl, and it literally took her breath away. Karl stroked her cheek. There was something deeply intimate about the caress.

  ‘Are we good to go?’ he asked. She nodded, and he returned his hands to the wheel. She missed his touch already. The jeep continued up the mountain, turned left at a fork in the track and stopped abruptly. Dozens of red and white Herefords dotted the slope, cows with well-grown calves, ready for weaning.

  ‘It’s just like the other sites,’ he said, snatching up a notebook. ‘Not a radio collar in sight.’ They’d spent the last week tracking down the four hundred head Bill had let into the park. Their movements were meant to be monitored with GPS collars fitted to cattle at each site. So far, Karl and Charlie had not found one beast fitted with a tracking device.

  ‘What happens now?’ asked Charlie.

  Karl kissed her again, a brief, triumphant kiss this time. ‘We’ve got enough evidence,’ he said, patting his camera. ‘Let’s shut this trial down.’

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  ‘You ready?’ asked Charlie.

  Sam looked at her and nodded. ‘Ready as I’ll ever be.’ Today was the day she was coming clean with the town. It was a natural progression, really. For months now, a bulldozer of truth had inexorably ploughed its way through her life, tearing down each lie. The charade Sam had acted out for the people of Currajong would be the final falsehood to fall.

  Charlie parked the car outside the general store. Marjorie first. She was known for her big heart. ‘What if she hates me for it?’ said Sam. She cringed at the pathetic tone of her voice.

  ‘Tough titties,’ said Charlie. ‘Just do it.’

  ‘Right.’ Sam took a second to steel herself to the task ahead. She waited until there were no customers in the shop, then braved the door.

  ‘Charlie,’ said Marjorie. She stopped cleaning the glass refrigerator doors and put down her spray bottle. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Do you have a minute?’ asked Sam.

  Marjorie looked around at the empty shop. ‘It sure looks that way.’

  ‘I’ve got something to tell you,’ said Sam. Marjorie’s always kind face softened further. ‘This probably sounds ridiculous, but I’m not Charlie. I’ve been pretending. To you, to everybody.’

  Marjorie put on her most sympathetic smile. ‘I know, love. I know.’

  Sam had her next sentence ready to go, and her mouth was running ahead of her brain, trying to get the humiliation over with. ‘I’m Samantha Carmichael …’ Sam stopped short. She must have misheard. ‘You know?’

  Marjorie leaned over and patted her hand. ‘Yes, dear.’

  ‘Since when?’ It was almost a demand.

  ‘Since the beginning. Would you like tea? Or coffee?’ Marjorie put on the kettle. ‘I’ve only got instant, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Sam. ‘Why didn’t you say something?’

  ‘I didn’t like to pry. I supposed you had your reasons, and you’d tell me in your own time. When you were ready. I’ve lived in this town all my life, dear. Most of us have. We all knew about Mary’s babies, and the terrible choice she had to make.’ Marjorie walked to the front door and flipped the sign to closed. ‘You’re very different from your sister. I guessed right away. I’ve been worried about Charlie. Such a kind girl, that one. Always came by and helped me load up the deliveries of a Friday, because of my back. Is she okay?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Sam. ‘Yes, she is. Would you like to see her? She’s out in the car.’

  ‘Well, bring her in, for goodness sake!’ said Marjorie.

  Sam went out to the car. ‘Have you done it?’ asked Charlie. Sam nodded. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Marjorie wants to see you.’ Charlie looked scared stiff. ‘Come on,’ said Sam. ‘It’s going to be fine.’ They pushed their way through the door together.

  ‘Charlie.’ Marjorie beamed and enfolded her in a motherly embrace. ‘Welcome home.’

  It was the same thing, all over town. Wherever they went, people confessed they’d known from the start. ‘Course I knew,’ said George at the produce store, with a gruff laugh. ‘“Not quite right” Charlie didn’t have a clue. Our Charlie wouldn’t have been silly enough to buy that damn Showstopper horse feed, when you can mix your own at home for half the price. Or buy a rubber mallet to drive in steel fence posts. Or ask if you could buy fencing wire by the metre.’ Sam felt her cheeks burn.

  ‘Why didn’t you say?’ she asked.

  ‘Wasn’t any of my business, was it? I could see you were a good kid,’ he said. ‘You must’ve had your reasons. I was just happy to know that other little baby of Mary’s was okay; happy to know she’d finally come home.’

  Even Harry from the garage had known. ‘You may be a smart-arse bitch, Charlie, but I’ve got to hand it to you – you know your way around an engine better than my best apprentice. This one?’ He gestured to Sam with a toss of his head. ‘Wouldn’t know a carburettor from a head gasket.’ He wiped his greasy black hands on a rag. ‘What’s your name again?’

  ‘Samantha. Or Sam. Call me Sam.’

  Harry looked at her like she’d gone mad. ‘I’d
just as soon go on calling you Charlie,’ he said, putting his head back under the bonnet. ‘Seeing as I’m used to it.’

  It was an extraordinary thing. Like the collective consciousness of the town had quietly chosen to embrace Sam for who she was, regardless of names or labels; they’d accepted her on face value alone, not in place of Charlie, but in addition to Charlie. ‘Come on,’ said Sam. ‘We’ve got one last visit to make.’

  Sam and Charlie stood together in Bushy’s kitchen. He regarded them with no hint of surprise. So he knew too.

  ‘Let’s have a cuppa.’ His face cracked into a smile. They sat down on plastic chairs around a card table, while Bushy switched on the electric kettle. He took a pre-rolled cigarette from a metal tin, fetched three chipped mugs from hooks on the wall, and added sugar and coffee. ‘I’ve got no milk.’ They nodded.

  ‘Bushy,’ asked Sam. ‘That very first day … did you know?’

  ‘Course I did.’ He lit his cigarette and coughed twice. ‘I’m no fool.’ Charlie let out a whoop of laughter. Sam wanted to strangle her. ‘You wasn’t bad with them horses. You made a fair fist of it.’ He blew a smoke ring and grinned, like he’d just heard a very funny joke. ‘But you ain’t no Charlie.’

  ‘But you’d never even met her, had you?’ said Sam.

  ‘Didn’t have to.’ He turned to Charlie. ‘You’ve got a reputation.’

  ‘I know,’ she said, instantly on the defensive. ‘And I don’t give a fuck.’

  ‘The finest young rider and trainer ever turned out of the district. That’s the reputation I’m talking about.’