By bush telegraph — perhaps the wild neighing of horses, perhaps howls of dingoes, something, somehow — the brumby hunters began to feel convinced that some of the Silver Herd were abroad in the mountains. Tales were being told around campfires. At the hut, south of the Cobberas, the Quiet Man sat by the fire saying nothing at all.
Maybe the insubstantial creamy mare had never been there, near the creek, with the old blue roan, and all the ’roos and wallabies … perhaps even the fireball had been in his imagination … but no. All the brumby hunters had seen either the fireball or the unearthly light. But they had not seen the tiny foal’s ears ablaze.
The Quiet Man was not saying anything. Not for him to spoil the secrets of the bush … but … perhaps it would be exciting at least to see a silver stallion. Silver brumbies, of course, should run free.
The cave, cool and damp and provided with ice-cold fresh water, was a wonderful place while the ground all around was hot, but when finally Dandaloo went outside, seeking food, she found that almost no grass or pod-bearing bushes were left unburnt. She looked over the black landscape, noted the little wisping willy-willies of ash and occasional smoke, and was anxious. Already she was very hungry, and even with that spring water to drink her milk had become less. Choopa must have milk, must grow. Every time they escaped danger, she felt Choopa’s vulnerability even more sharply.
If they left that sweet water, what if they never found grass?
The time came when they had to move.
So much of the mountain country had been burnt, and the blackened landscape was frightening. Whenever they went steeply uphill, the gumnuts that had showered down off the trees were like ball-bearings under their hooves. Choopa fell rather often. Once they found a dying kangaroo, its tail burnt, and it could not hop to water. There was nothing they could do. It lay near a wavy white line of ash, and it looked at them with pleading eyes.
They did find small pockets of grass along the Indi River, where unburnt shrubs had seed pods hanging over the water. One of these little pockets would provide food for a day, perhaps two, but only for Dandaloo and her foal and the tribe, not for quite a number of horses.
In spite of being anxious about the amount of grazing, Dandaloo was pleased to see the shape of a horse coming through the trees, and guessed that it was Son of Storm as it blended into the trunks of swamp gum and black sallees. She knew, as he came trotting to greet her, that he was pleased to find her quite safe after the fire.
Choopa stood half-hidden in a prostanthera bush, shyly looking at the big horse, but then, remembering how the three stallions had looked almost amused at his somersault and dancing, he did a few dancing steps towards him, and the noble, gentle stallion bowed his head down to touch that blotched, blue-and-white head.
Dandaloo gave a little sigh. Son of Storm would be a good friend to Choopa. A few of the Quambat herd had followed Son of Storm and they now stood with him.
Ever since the fireball and the bushfire, she had been edgy, worried for the safety of her foal, and the safety of the tribe, part of her family now, but the tribe had the natural ability to escape. Choopa was too slow to be able to save himself. Somehow he should have grown, in these last frightening days and nights. But he had not grown.
A dry, singed, heat-curled leaf fell on to her rump, and she jumped with fright.
Son of Storm looked at her swiftly. Mares were often more sensitive to the approach of danger, and he wondered … The foal was certainly far too small to protect itself, or to escape danger from fire, or flood, or blizzard — or from men and their dogs.
Both Son of Storm and Dandaloo knew that rain must come after fire, and they were thinking more about rain and grass than danger. In fact it was as if the world stood still in an uneasy, charred, black time — no green growth, no birds singing, and cold, cold nights. Into this silent, black, unmoving world, there came a sound.
A dog barked.
Son of Storm quickly began to gather the mares and foals together and drive them off into the timber. Close-growing trees could defeat men, or at least let a herd split into as many parts as there were brumbies.
Choopa had no hope of keeping up. Son of Storm did not try to force him, but let Dandaloo and her foal stay behind, and out on one side.
All the galloping hooves of the brumbies created a cloud of dust and ash; ash got up their nostrils. But nothing, neither dust, nor ash, could muffle the sound of horses and dogs coming swiftly through the blackened forest.
Dandaloo tried dropping out further and further to one side, but then it was altogether too late. There was a dog at her heels and a stockman on either side, forcing her into the mob of mares and foals that they were rounding up. The strong smell of sweat, the smell of fear, rose around her. Her flanks were touching other flanks, chestnut and brown. Choopa. Choopa could have been knocked over and trampled; she could not see him at all. She dug in her hooves and stopped dead, then swung, crashing into a big chestnut mare, but there was a stockman just behind. Dandaloo reared, flailing with her forelegs, attacking him with her bared teeth. A furious man’s voice swore, and then said:
‘I’ll get you, you devil!’
Another voice called: ‘She’s old … leave her,’ but the first man shouted: ‘No. She’s crazy. I’ll teach her.’
But Dandaloo was desperately fighting to get back to find Choopa.
Then a voice called: ‘Well come on. Keep her in the mob now, or we’ll lose ’em,’ and Dandaloo was driven into a mob of mares and yearlings that a third man was bringing in from one side. There were whips cracking, dogs barking, and men shouting and cursing.
Choopa could not see what was happening. He lay down, his heart thumping at his ribs, fear and grief turning the sweat on his hide to ice.
Then, in a cloud of ash and dust, the mob of mares were going, going far ahead, leaving … and trailing behind were a few part-grown foals. Choopa struggled to his feet, planted them firmly and neighed with all his strength, calling Dandaloo, who had never left him before.
Then he started off with the other foals, following the cloud of ash. His tribe followed behind, staying half-hidden in the charred bush.
Choopa tried to hurry, following the sound of whips and dogs, but the noise and the cloud only got further away, and he was becoming very tired. He stumbled on and on, now and then dropping on to the black ground, exhausted.
At last he could not get up and start again. There was a little muddy stream close to where he had fallen down, and he stretched his nose out to drink. Then, still sobbing for breath, he fell into a half-sleep. His tribe crept around closely. Presently the other young foals missed him, and came back, because surely the little dancer, the spellmaker, would lead them back to the herd.
Choopa lay asleep.
One of the young kangaroos went foraging and found a bush with a few seed pods still hanging on to it, and brought a branch for him, nudging him awake.
Although Choopa was grateful for the offering of food, the biggest thing in his mind was his missing mother. The seed pods stuck in his dry throat, but he munched them and rubbed his head against the little ’roo. The tribe drew in closer around him, and some of the foals crept in, too, till they were touching in a magic circle. There they all were when the dark of the night began to rise from the burnt mountain earth. There they were, waiting for a frightening, lonely night — legs, shoulders, heads, fur and hair, even the echidna’s spikes, all touching, — and warmth and comfort flowed through them.
A little light was coming from the rising moon when, half-asleep, they heard the sound of distant cantering hooves.
Choopa sprang up, alert, ears pricked, heart thumping, a neigh half-stifled with wild longing, and then he began to dance. He danced on his hind legs out of the ring of young animals, and they left the space open for Choopa to come back with his mother into the circle. For there in the faint moonlight was the old blue roan mare rearing up to meet the dancer. Choopa danced around and around her, leading her inside the circle.
There was a sort of rustling, a joyous sound as all the other animals, even the foals, began to dance around them. Dandaloo was the only one of the captured brumbies to return.
At the brumby hunters’ camp, the Quiet Man had ridden in last of all, and saw the old mare pushing against the rails of the yard.
‘Let her go,’ he had said. ‘She’s old, and she has a crippled foal,’ and he himself lowered the sliprail and let Dandaloo out.