by Karen Wood
She thought of Grace riding him and suddenly had an uneasy feeling in her gut. What if Dodger went down a wombat hole, what if he stumbled onto rocks, or galloped off a cliff? He didn’t know this country. She silently prayed that he was okay.
Jess looked up at the purple, swirling clouds above and hoped it wouldn’t snow again. How long should she stay down here, in this secret place? She saw there were cracks in the stone above her and it looked as though the cliff might be fairly easy to climb. She took a deep breath and grabbed at a handhold.
The rock was hard and cold, it had no softness to it at all, and she realised it was going to hurt if she fell. A lot. But what choice did she have? No one would find her here; she had to find a way out for herself.
She squeezed inside the narrow gap in front of her and winced when she bumped her hip against a jagged piece of rock. Yep. This was gonna hurt. She kept going, finding a hold, pulling and reaching up with the opposite foot at the same time, ignoring the pain in her arm and keeping the momentum going as much as she could. She knew that once she stopped and had to haul her weight with her arms it would sap her strength, so she kept reaching out, looking for holds, pushing up with her legs and not looking down.
Jess kept climbing until she could barely breathe and a stitch threatened to split her ribs apart. The muscles in her arms and legs burned, but she forced them to keep going until the light lifted and she realised that she was rising above the trees and out of their shadow.
Still she did not look down. Up, up, she went, until she could see the tussocky grasses at the top coming closer. Her legs trembled with fatigue. She was scared they might seize up totally. Small plants grew from the rock, so much softer on her hands and so easy to hold, but she resisted the temptation. If they uprooted she would surely plummet to her death.
Finally, Jess dragged herself onto the top of the cliff and rolled onto her side, chest heaving, heart slamming so hard that she couldn’t move.
She closed her eyes and sucked in the biggest gulps of air she could, to soothe her body, feed it with oxygen, calm it and steady her pulse. For a good ten minutes she lay there, eyes closed, with barely the strength to roll over.
It was her mobile phone that finally roused her. A buzz and rumble. A text message. Without getting up, she shifted and pulled it from her pocket. It was from her mum.
Jess crawled to the edge and looked down. Not far below, the horses were gone. The secret place, it seemed, had closed its leafy doors behind her and it was as though it had never existed. She sat, feeling slightly dazed, and thumbed a reply:
I might be a bit late.
Jess walked away from the cliff face, past stringybarks and grey gums and through broken and parted undergrowth. She found hoof prints stamped on the churned-up forest floor. She followed them, down through a gully and onto a ridge. From there, she looked out over a wide, grassy hollow, dotted with twisting white eucalypts.
There was an explosive crack, and the surrounding hillside suddenly came alive with movement, flashes of white and the steady beat of hooves.
A coloured mare cantered across the open country. She was old and scarred, thin, with a greying brown face. Her brown-and-white sides were wet with sweat and she carried her head low. Beside her ran a knobbly-legged foal, and two blue dogs growled and snapped at her heels. Three horsemen followed, in mustering hats and oilskin jackets, whips cracking alongside their mounts. Their horses were tall and fit and eager, driving the exhausted mare until she could no longer continue.
She came to a stop and stood there heaving, eyes closed, head drooping, while her foal cried and butted and circled her.
The riders tossed ropes around her head and neck and pulled them tight. She was the weakest of the mob, the easiest to catch, but the runners were taking her anyway.
The men and their dogs kept pushing the wretched horse along the flat, in and out of the strappy-leaved lomandra grasses and granite boulders that littered the misty hollow.
Jess followed silently along the ridge-top, watching. What she witnessed next made her boil with anger.
19
A SMALL TRUCK, patched with rust and carrying a stock crate, rolled over the open grassland towards the three riders. A man got out and sprang onto the back of the truck. As it drove alongside the mare, he reached over and slung another heavy coiled rope around her neck, pulling it tight until her face was pressed against the side of the tray.
The truck stopped while he reached for her tail. He grabbed it and pulled it in, so hard that the mare was nearly torn from her feet. She struggled and kicked, but the half-hitched knots around her throat and tail only tightened, bending her body into an arc.
Jess watched in horror as the foal was roped with a slipknot around its neck and then hooked to a small motorised device at the back of the crate. There was a grating noise as the winch slowly dragged the struggling foal to the opening of the crate.
There was no ramp or step. The foal was dragged by the throat off the ground, its stalky legs paddling wildly, knocking against the metal corners of the crate and banging against the doorway. Its body was dragged across the tray. A man jumped in after it and knelt on its neck while he loosened the rope. Jess could see its body heaving to get air back into its lungs.
The man lashed the rope around the side of the cage before allowing the foal to struggle to its feet. Then he pulled it to the side of the cage and tied it there. The man hopped out, slammed the cage doors and sat on the back of the truck with his feet dangling. The vehicle rolled slowly across the grassy hollow with the mare scrambling awkwardly alongside, the riders trotting their horses along behind it.
Jess sank to the ground, too dispirited to see another vehicle rumble out of the forest, flanked by several more riders and a huge black wolf dog.
The frenzied barking and yelling that ensued snapped her out of her hopelessness.
‘Mrs Arnold!’ Jess watched her step out of the fourbie. Another, newer four-wheel drive appeared from the forest behind it. Two men stepped out in full police uniform. ‘Barker!’ Jess ran to them. Among the riders she could see Kitty and Steve, and some other locals from the pub.
Luke was off his horse, struggling to hold onto Fang. The big dog’s hackles stood on end and he fought so hard to get free, Jess was sure that he’d kill someone if Luke let go. The runners’ dogs, propped on all fours, howled back.
‘Hey!’ Jess broke into a run. ‘Guys!’
There was a sharp whistle and the blue dogs suddenly sprinted away. The runners wheeled their horses around and spurred them on, fleeing to the cover of the forest. The runners’ truck lurched suddenly to one side, taking the mare’s feet out from under her as it revved loudly into a U-turn. The mare scrambled desperately to regain a foothold.
‘Cut her loose!’ Jess heard the driver yell. The man on the back crawled across the tray and began furiously sawing at her ropes. He freed her tail first, then cut the neck rope. The truck bumped over the ground faster and faster. The mare toppled over, landing heavily on her side, her legs flailing.
On the truck the foal screamed for its mother. The cage doors were flung open and it tumbled to the ground, flipping end over end in a tangle of limbs.
‘You low-life pigs,’ Jess yelled as she ran.
With a flying leap, Luke sprang into the saddle. He kicked Legsy into a gallop, not stopping for stirrups. Fang raced alongside him. Kitty and Steve followed and they disappeared into the forest amid a drumming of hoofbeats and echoing yells. Barker’s car bumped wildly over the grassy flat, going after the runners’ truck.
Mrs Arnold beat Jess to the mare and held a hand up, telling Jess to stop. She crouched down beside the mare’s body. It didn’t move. Not an ear twitched. The rise and fall of the horse’s sides was the only clue that there was still life inside her. Mrs Arnold waved Jess over.
‘Look through my car and see if you can find any sort of wound spray,’ she said. ‘And get that purple bedspread too.’
‘Did you steal th
e bedspread again?’
‘They’re handy things, haven’t you worked that out yet?’ Mrs Arnold hissed back. ‘Go. Go. Before she tries to get up!’
Jess raced to the car, where Grace held Dodger.
‘Is she going to die?’ asked Grace.
‘I don’t know. She’s completely shut down. Your mum asked for wound spray.’ Jess paused to run her eyes over Dodger, leg by leg, shoulder, hips, neck, face . . .
‘He pulled a shoe,’ said Grace quickly. ‘But otherwise he’s fine. Try in the glovebox.’
Jess flung open the glovebox and began unceremoniously tossing out papers and plastic crap. ‘Antiseptic cream! Perfect!’
‘The foal is over there, behind the trees,’ said Grace. ‘It was limping.’
‘Okay, good. Don’t lose sight of it.’
Mrs Arnold had two hands on the mare’s neck. ‘You hold her neck firmly down, you hear me? Do not let her lift her head or she’ll kick mine off my shoulders.’ She eyeballed Jess. ‘Got it?’
Jess placed her hands on the mare’s neck and lightly rested one knee on her as well, just in case. Mrs Arnold took the cream and began smearing it all over the cuts on the mare’s tail and over the wounds on her neck. When she had finished, she took the purple chenille and began rolling it up into a long floppy sausage. She slid it under the mare’s neck.
‘Help me pull her up,’ said Mrs Arnold, handing Jess one end.
Together they pulled and pulled until the mare lifted her head.
‘Come on, old girl. Get up or the dingos will get you.’ Mrs Arnold heaved again. ‘Come on, darlin’.’
The mare put one leg out in front of her.
‘Good girl. Let her rest a minute.’
Jess stood quietly next to Mrs Arnold, waiting.
The mare rolled back onto the ground and groaned.
‘No, no you don’t!’ Mrs Arnold began pulling again, harder this time. ‘You have to get up,’ she said angrily. She kicked at the mare with her boot and yelled at her. ‘Gwan, get up!’ She yanked mercilessly at the bedspread.
From the trees the foal gave a frightened whinny. With a final surge of effort, the mare struggled to her feet and Jess and Mrs Arnold jumped back. She stood on shaky legs, looking dazed. She had skin off all over.
Mrs Arnold cursed under her breath. ‘Sweet Jesus, what have they done to you?’
‘We need Rambo,’ said Jess. ‘He’ll take care of her.’ She took off for the rock platform, bounding through the swampy grasses, her boots squelching and sucking at the mud.
At the platform she leaned over into the gully below and called as loud as she could.
‘Rambo!’
‘Rambo!’
‘RAMBO!’
She didn’t know how many times she screamed his name.
While they waited, they ushered the mare to the shelter of some trees and let her be. They shut themselves in the car and watched for the foal to come to her. She gave one small nicker and her baby emerged and began suckling from her, butting and nuzzling anxiously.
‘There you go, you little squirt,’ said Grace, watching through the back window of the car.
It seemed hours before the big old horse came clumping out of the grey gums. He did little, but stood close by, keeping an ear turned towards the mare and her foal.
‘She’s just so exhausted,’ said Mrs Arnold. ‘Rambo will take care of her until she’s rested up.’
‘Wish I could give her a bucket of water,’ said Jess.
‘She wouldn’t take it.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
Rambo lifted his head and the foal started anxiously rubbing up against his mother again.
Luke rode out of the trees with Kitty and Steve alongside. Something about the way they sat in their saddles told Jess they’d been triumphant.
‘Barker’s got the truck driver and his sidekick in handcuffs,’ Luke said as he pulled Legsy to a stop. ‘The riders got away, though. They rode like maniacs.’
‘You did the right thing pulling up. Not worth wrecking your good horse,’ said Mrs Arnold. ‘They’ll keep.’
They gathered by Mrs Arnold’s car as Barker’s white fourbie rolled up the hillside and onto the grassy flat. As it went past, Jess could see the two men in the back, with their hands cuffed. They weren’t the runners they had met the day before.
‘What, is there some sort of national brumby-running convention on up here or something?’ Mrs Arnold stared in through the car window. ‘How many of you grubs are there?’
The men snarled and said nothing.
Barker winked and kept driving. Mrs Arnold began slowly clapping as they drove off. Grace joined her and together they cheered and waved to the brumby-runners as they were escorted off the mountain.
‘I hope that’s the last we see of them,’ said Luke.
‘Scum,’ muttered Jess, as they disappeared from sight.
20
LUKE RODE OVER TO Jess and leaned down. ‘Ride home with me?’
‘Sure,’ said Jess, picking up Dodger’s reins. She grinned. This was an exceptionally beautiful place for a ride.
‘I want to come too,’ said Grace. ‘Give us a leg up, will you?’
‘Dodger might be a bit tired,’ said Jess, giving her a meaningful look.
‘Oh.’ Grace rolled her eyes and reached for the car door. ‘See you back at the pub then, I s’pose.’
‘We’ll come down through Matty’s Creek,’ said Luke. ‘Be back before dark.’
‘Be careful,’ said Mrs Arnold. ‘Those other riders are still out here somewhere.’
‘They’ll be long gone,’ said Luke. ‘They headed in the other direction, back through the state forest.’
Mrs Arnold pulled a rolled-up oilskin from the car. ‘Take my Driza-Bone. You might need it.’
Jess followed Luke back over the crest of the mountain, where the wind howled remorselessly. She pressed the studs of the Driza-Bone together, fastening it around her, and enjoyed the way the wind made the skin on her face burn. She looked out over the endless waves of gorges and ridge-tops, and felt her chest fill with something wonderful.
Dark clouds rolled over the mountains and the cold began to seep through the oilskin. ‘It’s going to snow again,’ she said, excitedly.
‘Or bucket with rain,’ said Luke. He pushed Legsy into a trot.
As they rode into the open woodlands, the wind shook the raindrops from the leathery leaves and ribbon bark flapped around enormous white tree trunks. Branches creaked and splintered above them. Moss hung from the trees like old grey beards.
They went deeper into gorges where creeks cut invisible channels beneath carpets of ferns and tangled sticks. It was slow going, and all the while the wind followed them, like whispering voices carrying ancient secrets.
In front of them a wombat trundled along a narrow trail, then disappeared into its burrow. Further ahead, kangaroos grazed in pockets of wetlands and bush birds twittered in the flowering heath.
They pushed through tangled vine thickets and made their way deeper into the gully. She-oaks swished above the beaches of gravel beside the creek bed and Jess heard the soft clik-clik of cockatoos breaking the cones, husking the seeds and letting the caffs fall to the ground beneath them.
‘Look, there’s an old track,’ said Luke. There was a narrow parting in the trees, and grass grew knee-high between them.
‘It goes the wrong way,’ said Jess.
‘Let’s follow it anyway.’
Fat drops of rain splatted onto Jess’s oilskin. ‘I think we should just get to Matty’s Creek.’
‘Come on, let’s just have a quick look.’ Luke pushed Legsy into a slow canter and Jess reluctantly let Dodger follow.
The track became wider but the grass was still thick as they cantered along it. A little further on, the track stopped at a wide, grassy flat. At the edge of the flat was a small hut. It was made from stone and slabs of wood and old scraps of corrugated iron. It was little more than a box with a chimney
.
‘Oh, wow!’ said Luke, dismounting and tying Legsy to a tree. Jess tethered Dodger and followed Luke into the hut.
It was tiny inside, barely big enough for a rolled-out swag, and there wasn’t even a window, but it was dry, and the rain was starting to pelt down. Jess pulled off the Driza-Bone and tossed it in a wet pile on the floor. The stone fireplace had a steel rod through it and an old pot hung in the hearth. Next to it was a bundle of dry wood.
‘Let’s make billy tea!’ said Luke, like an excited kid. He began fiddling with the pot, opening the lid and peering inside. ‘I’ll ride back to the river and get some water!’
‘We don’t have any teabags.’
Luke snorted. ‘We can use gum leaves!’
Jess grimaced. ‘I’m not drinking that.’ Then she noticed a collection of small rusty tins sitting on one of the horizontal beams. Most were empty, but one had some fossilised brown stuff caked in the bottom of it. ‘Reckon it’s coffee?’ she asked, handing it to Luke.
He sniffed it. ‘Might be.’
Jess picked up another tin. It was enamelled blue, and through the flakes of rust she could just make out a picture of a bird on it. She twisted the top off. Inside was a crackly paper package. ‘Tealeaves!’ She carefully pulled the package out, prised it open and pressed the crunchy small leaves between her fingers. ‘Or something illegal . . .’
Luke peered inside it. ‘It’s tea, you ninny.’
‘No cups.’
‘We’ll use the empty tins.’ Luke took the pot and headed back out into the rain. He straddled Legsy and cantered out of sight.
Jess sat in the doorway of the hut with her feet on the step. The eave was just wide enough to keep the rain off her. She hugged herself, thinking how good a hot drink would be, and looked across the grassy flat.
A small dark head popped up above the grass. And another. Wallabies with beautiful chocolate-brown faces nibbled at the grasses, the rain rolling off their thick fur. The sight of them made Jess relax. Wallabies were always the first to flee if there was danger. The brumby-runners must be long gone.