Socks, the black brumby with the four white feet, was half-waking even though he was warm and comfortable in the hollow tree above the Ingegoodbee River. He kept thinking he heard a strange whisper in the sound of the river — a message? A warning? Something that the river was saying?
At last he got up and moved quietly to the tree opening. He walked to the stream, the faithful blue-black heeler, Lightning, a pace behind. He listened to the message that was in the river’s song.
Socks could tell by the quizzical expression on Lightning’s face and his half-cocked ears that Lightning was also hearing the song of the stream, and perhaps wondering, sadly, if it were any word from his old dead master.
Yet there was nothing clear in the whispered song, and something puzzling because it seemed to be about faraway streams and mountains, and yet about the thousandth brumby catcher, and about Thowra, the Silver Brumby. Socks listened and listened, and began to feel that he and Lightning should be near Thowra to warn him of danger. Lightning kept starting off in the direction of Thowra’s Secret Valley, and then coming back, as though to say, ‘Come on! Come on!’
It was clear that Lightning felt there was something amiss, too — some great danger — to Thowra.
Without Socks even having to pull Lightning’s ear, they set off northwards in the dark — northwards to where the snow was probably falling, and where the wind that was already blowing down by the Ingegoodbee was surely howling with blizzard force.
Socks could only imagine the Ramshead country, and the snow gathering into a whirlwind — a whirlwind that circled round and round, hiding the snow-packed rocks then suddenly taking the shape of a silver horse.
There was something haunting about Thowra; Socks knew he must go to Son of Storm’s Hidden Valley, just downstream from Thowra’s and to where he could get to Thowra’s Secret Valley, and make sure that they were all safe — Son of Storm, Thowra, and Thowra’s favourite mare Boon Boon.
Lightning seemed to feel the same urgency to go and find Son of Storm, and to check on Thowra and Boon Boon. They simply kept going northwards into the blizzard.
Slowly the peppering pellets of snow became bigger pellets borne on the wind. Horse and dog, they bowed their heads to the biting cold and kept the snowflakes out of their eyes.
Socks felt a deeper dread claiming him, as the wind and snow gusted in his face. A robin redbreast, carried on the wind, fluttered helplessly past them.
The snow was gathering on the ground on the north side of bushes and grass tussocks. There was a feeling of dread — increasing with every blast.
Socks imagined he could hear the sound of the hoof-beats of the Brumby Hunter. What was the Brumby Hunter doing in the high country in winter, anyway? Such a foolhardy action could mean only one thing, the Brumby Hunter was having one last crack at catching his Thousandth Brumby, and what better horse than the legendary Silver Brumby? This time he would not go home without his ultimate prize. So would it only increase the danger to Thowra and Boon Boon if he and Lightning went towards the Hidden Valley? They might lead the Brumby Hunter towards Thowra’s Secret Valley. They kept on going, and the higher they got, the more the snow fell and whirled around.
Suddenly Socks stopped, with one forefoot in mid-air. There in front of him — just for a moment — was a ghostly silver horse all misted around in wind-tossed snow. Lightning gave one bark and then was quiet.
The ghostly horse vanished away and Socks and Lightning lingered on, but Socks heard the sound of cantering hooves more plainly, and he and Lightning slackened their pace. They also heard the howl of the wind more loudly.
Socks rubbed his head on Lightning’s. There was something rather weird about this storm, and it was comforting to rub against Lightning; Lightning was such a loyal and faithful friend — ever since Lightning had left his dead master’s side and come with Socks — the two loners walking together.
They both listened for a few seconds to the sound of the advancing hooves, and then, without Socks’s urging, they both backed into thick scrub together and waited to see what would happen.
The hoof-beats slowed down and then stopped.
Socks peered through the tea tree’s small white blooms and saw something that made him gasp. There was the Brumby Hunter and suddenly, too, there was a twisting whirlwind wrapping around the Brumby Hunter’s horse. Then just as suddenly, the whirlwind was gone, and the Brumby Hunter’s horse was standing, trembling, as though it had seen a ghost — which indeed it may have.
Socks, himself, felt a cold touch creep down his spine, and he looked at Lightning and saw him shiver slightly, too. Yet he knew that they must go on and warn Thowra — if he did not already know — that the great Brumby Hunter was on the search again.
But how to warn Thowra without leading the Brumby Hunter right to him? It was best to do nothing at all for a while and see what happened.
Socks and Lightning stood absolutely still, feeling that even to breathe might give their position away. As they stood, they saw the Brumby Hunter press his horse onto the bit and move off.
They followed — slowly — until, all of a sudden, as though he had heard something, the Brumby Hunter veered a little to the east.
Socks and Lightning veered east, too, but cautiously, for the easterly direction led to the Secret Valley. Socks corrected the course a little, and kept a careful watch ahead and all around.
The Brumby Hunter kept trotting on slowly, as if uncertain whether he was on the right track.
Socks was uncertain, too, but he and Lightning had to keep the Brumby Hunter in sight.
Hours passed and Socks and Lightning were both feeling very uneasy. They had travelled so far so quickly— maybe some of Thowra’s magic was indeed rubbing off on them? In fact, they must be getting nearly level with the Secret Valley, and what was the Brumby Hunter going to do?
The Brumby Hunter turned harder to the east.
Socks and Lightning were worried. Soon the Hunter would come to the edge of the cliff above Thowra’s Secret Valley. There was no way into the valley except through Son of Storm’s Hidden Valley.
They kept close, watching, yet nothing seemed to happen. Then, some low, dark clouds thickened around the wide-spaced candlebarks which fringed the cliff edge, the snow began to fall more thickly, coming down in great, tossed gusts, masking the Brumby Hunter, even masking the black horse with the four white socks, so that Lightning pressed closer to Socks’ legs. This early winter fall of snow caused Lightning’s skin to rise with fear of he knew not what.
Somehow he was sure there were spirits about that night. He was sure he heard his old master whistling, but as he started to bark his reply, Socks gently rubbed his head for silence and for watchfulness.
They watched the snow whirling round the Brumby Hunter as he reined in his horse and sat looking into the chasm which contained Thowra’s Secret Valley. The snow masked both him and his horse, then cleared, came in swirling gusts and then cleared again.
While they watched just for one moment, the snow ceased and in that clear, grey second, there was Thowra cantering towards the two big candlebarks which were surely markers for him, and always had been.
Socks held his breath as he saw Thowra tighten the muscles in his quarters as though he were going to jump.
The snow closed in again and suddenly whirled in a dancing cloud around the stallion, and even Lightning was not entirely certain that he was contained in that whirlwind, or willy-willy, of snow.
Socks knew, in his heart, that Thowra had jumped into the Secret Valley — maybe onto one platform and then another, as legend had it he had done once before when he escaped the men who were chasing him.
The great Brumby Hunter rode his trembling horse between the two candlebarks. Socks and Lightning walked a little closer to the edge, trying to see what had happened, though Socks was certain he knew that Thowra had jumped.
Apparently the Brumby Hunter could see no way down, and turned up the big cleft of the Secret Valley to try t
o find a way in. Socks and Lightning crept closer to the edge.
There, right on the edge, Lightning sniffed out the hoofmarks where Socks thought Thowra had jumped. His excited sniffing around alerted Socks, and Socks knew for certain that this was the place from which Thowra had taken off, and that the legend was true. He heard a sound rising up from below, and a picture formed in his mind of a silver horse jumping through space and landing on a platform, then taking off again through the flake-filled night.
As long as the Brumby Hunter thought Thowra had jumped to his death, there would be no more hunting and Thowra could live in peace — as long as Thowra could content himself with staying quiet and not trying to tease any brumby hunters, far less appear as a silver whirlwind, or a hawk.
The best thing to do, Socks and Lightning both thought, was to go down to Son of Storm’s Hidden Valley and, from there, creep up the cliff to Thowra’s secret place and make sure he was there — and alive.
Two
Socks and Lightning stood there, well hidden in heath bushes by the cliff edge, watching the Brumby Hunter riding up and down the edge, waiting to see what would happen next. And all the time they waited, the snow floated down more and more thickly, covering up tracks that told of Thowra’s strong jump through empty space; but sharp-cut indentations were there, even if masked by snow, that told of Thowra’s leap — that told that the legend was true, and that Thowra knew of a way of jumping down the cliff.
And Socks knew in his heart that Thowra had floated, like the snowflakes, down, down and down, into the safety of the Secret Valley.
Lightning knew, too, though sometimes he wondered if it were just a cloud that he had seen — a cloud of snow?
But clouds did not jump, clouds did not hold the shadow of a fine horse’s head, or of its fine legs. Lightning, too, felt convinced that Thowra was safely in the Secret Valley with Boon Boon.
Then suddenly through the snowflakes, there rose up, as though dancing, a white hawk. It danced through the floating, spiralling flakes, and brushed against the eyes of the Brumby Hunter’s horse, driving it away from the cliff’s edge, and the white hawk called once, its voice saying, ‘Go home, go home.’
Far away, in the distance, both Lightning and Socks heard a dingo howl, followed by a faint whimper.
‘Home! Home!’
Both Socks and Lightning turned their heads towards the Ingegoodbee and the hollow tree that was home. Had not the white hawk called ‘Go home!’? That white hawk could be Thowra; it might not be, but both Socks and Lightning were sure it was.
Lightning leapt in the direction of the whimper, and then, as there was no other sound for a moment, he stopped still, listening. He knew, and Socks did too, that a bark would bring the Brumby Hunter after them, so he made no sound. There it came again, an echoing howl and a soft whimper that said plainly to him, ‘Lightning, Lightning! Come quickly. Come to me!’
Lightning moved silently, one blue-black paw after another — tiptoeing, tiptoeing — as silently as the snowflakes falling into snow. Socks walked silently, too, the pair of them ghosting along through the night.
Then the whimper came from a little closer, an almost silent whimper that surely would not be heard by the Brumby Hunter.
Lightning began to quicken his steps, still tiptoeing, for nothing must tell the Brumby Hunter where they were. Both Socks and Lightning felt fairly sure that the Brumby Hunter might be rather cruel — just as well not to be seen by him, not to lead him to the hollow tree by the Ingegoodbee River.
Yet Socks still wondered about the Silver Brumby, but it was no good wondering. Really, he was certain that Thowra was safe, with Boon Boon. He knew the cloud of snow was Thowra, also the white hawk — hawk or whirlwind of snow — the Spirit of Thowra, or ghost of the Silver Brumby.
Then suddenly the whimper sounded near their feet. Both the friends stopped in their tracks; they saw at once what Miss Dingo was whimpering for.
Socks stiffened and Lightning let out a low growl, for there was Miss Dingo crying over a pup — her own dog pup, and he was dead.
Poor Miss Dingo; she whimpered and whimpered and licked the dead pup, but nothing could bring him to life. He was bitten all round the head and in the throat, and had been dead for several hours. Miss Dingo had scratches and bites all over her face, too, and she had the smell of another dog all over her. She had obviously tried, with all her strength, to fight the other dog off, but had not succeeded. Lightning began to feel fury rising up inside him. A dog had undoubtedly been violently bullying his Miss Dingo and had killed her male pup — his son. Lightning was beginning to feel very angry indeed. Now it was time to seek revenge.
Lightning and Socks followed the track of the dead pup’s blood.
Soon they realised that it was leading them in the direction of the Ingegoodbee, and they hurried more.
Lightning’s hackles were rising as they got nearer to the hollow tree; Miss Dingo was hanging back and occasionally whimpering with fear.
Lightning was beginning to feel very angry. Suddenly a very strong smell of dog came from the hollow tree, and Lightning went mad with rage, ran towards the tree, and straight into the hollow.
Noise and dust erupted, the noise magnified by the hollow tree. Socks put his head inside to see who was winning — and perhaps to get a mouthful of dog!
No dog was going to hurt his Lightning or even Miss Dingo, and he had a picture in his mind of the Brumby Hunter’s cattle dog.
So Socks stayed there looking at the dog until he managed to get between his front legs and escape out of the hollow tree, with Lightning after him and Socks after them both.
Miss Dingo, seeing Lightning chasing the dog, howled and howled, then went inside the hollow tree to make sure the other pups were all right. She looked at the place in the hollow in which her dog pup always curled up and slept, sniffed all around, sat down in it herself, and howled and howled. Finally, she put her head on her front paws and whimpered over and over again.
Lightning and Socks came back and found her still crying, but Lightning had fought and beaten the dog in a fierce tussle, and Socks was very proud, feeling that Lightning had avenged his family. Lightning licked Miss Dingo’s torn ears and curled up beside her, then quietly licked her until she went to sleep.
The savage dog might have been beaten by Lightning, but he was not finished, and he started back through the night, limping towards the hollow tree on the Ingegoodbee River.
Socks woke later, feeling that perhaps the marauding dog might return. Everyone else in the hollow tree was sleeping the sleep of the exhausted, so he walked up towards the Ingegoodbee Pools, and there he saw the dog drinking. Socks blew a warning snort through his nostrils. The dog saw him and jumped nervously. The dog knew that Socks and Lightning were great friends and would protect each other to the last gasp — fight each other’s battles. He turned back, but not before Socks had decided to follow him to see where he went.
Socks kept himself well hidden and silent, especially when he realised the dog was going north — into the driving snow, north towards Thowra’s Secret Valley.
The snow was falling more heavily. Socks was aware, too, that he was getting further and further from Lightning and Miss Dingo, and he felt very uneasy — yet somehow he had to go on. He had to find out if the dog would die after the hiding Lightning had given him or if he would slowly recover? Somehow he thought that heelers were very resilient — tough as tiger snakes. Still, there was an intermittent trail of blood from the wounds Lightning had inflicted and he followed that. The snow fell in larger and larger flakes, thick on the ground now, thick in the air, thick on Socks’ eyelashes, matting his mane. He began to wonder if Lightning had woken and missed him — to wonder if he might follow him? They had left the Ingegoodbee Pools a long time ago, and were going south and east from Dead Horse Ridge.
They were, Socks knew, in the area leading to Son of Storm’s Hidden Valley, and that meant, eventually, to Thowra’s Secret Valley.
; Socks was worried, though he had seen no sign of the Brumby Hunter.
What was the wounded dog doing in this country? And why wasn’t he with his master? Didn’t he have a good master? Perhaps he was undisciplined and a bit of a wanderer.
The only thing to do was to keep following the trail of blood and hope that perhaps Lightning would wake and come after him.
It was lonely without his companion, his blue-black heeler who had been with him ever since the dog’s stockman master had died.
Three
Then everything began to happen at once. The silence of the snowy night was broken by Lightning’s bark and a whip crack, and, suddenly, the snow-muted sound of cantering horses — the sound and the half-vision of Thowra through the falling snow, his marvellous strength — the wonderful Silver Stallion — there then not there, alive and yet vanished.
A furious curse rang out, the Brumby Hunter’s voice. It was time for Socks to send a disturbing neigh, and for Lightning to add a wild, distracting bark.
A neigh came again, this time from behind Socks. Somehow, the ghost of Thowra was now behind him. The Brumby Hunter was in front of him — no shadow horse was between them — Socks should charge the Hunter!
He charged! Through the falling snow, even though his eyelashes were matted with snow, he saw the Brumby Hunter’s horse before his charge carried him chest-on into it.
He felt the bite of the whip that had cracked a moment earlier. Then his teeth closed on warm flesh. He had the Brumby Hunter’s horse by the neck, above the withers, and he hung on.
He hung on all the fiercer as he realised that Lightning was in the fight too!
Then a cold blast of air swirled the snowflakes. Socks let go his mouthful to get a better grip. The Silver Brumby had come to fight his own battle! And in his own way, using all the help the weather would give him — the whirling snowflakes, the soft-feathered birds of the air to brush their wings in his assailant’s eyes.
Most of all he would use the magic of a whirling dervish pillar of snow to confuse the Hunter — a pillar of snow that somehow could be a rearing horse, or sometimes just a cloud blown hither and thither.
Silver Brumby Echoing Page 36