Snow had fallen, bitter cold, on blue roan hides, brown, and buckskin. Neither Dandaloo nor Son of Storm were surprised by the frozen touch of the wind-driven flakes, nor, when first light came, the white dusting over snowgrass and rocks. Wingilla, too, had seen snow before, in Thowra’s Secret Valley, but Choopa was amazed at the sight. Amazement made him jump away from the cold touch of snow on his ear tips. Then there came the blinding brightness, when the sun’s oblique rays came from under a bank of cloud and turned the snow-dusted grass into glittering silver.
The two foals chased each other around, bucking, rearing, sliding, tossing up clouds of snow, while the warmth of life flowed through them again, and when they rolled, their coats shone with snow crystals.
There was no man to see them — no one to see the buckskin shining like gold, and the blue roan seeming like part of the sky, his mane spangled, his blue and white hide starred all over.
Dandaloo saw her star-dusted foal, and she began to leap and buck herself. That ugly foal seemed so beautiful. She knew, now, that even if he did not grow, already the high mountains were conferring some strength on him. Already the snow, which might have killed, had given the kind of blessing which she could understand. She was old now and had lived for so long with the wild mountain seasons, lived at the sources of rivers, and, over and over again, been part of creation when she gave birth to foals. She was an old mare, and wise. She felt the spirit of Bel Bel which had come to her at the time of the ball of fire, when the bush was set alight.
What was ahead now? Bel Bel’s bones had bleached on the South Ramshead … during the night’s blizzard, the cloud-buffeted mountains had seemed to be peopled by many horses of long ago, and even the men who had been lost here … particularly one man who seemed to be with them.
Usually if a day dawns clear and fine after a big storm, clouds gather again quickly. This day stayed fine. The snow soon melted. Only little pockets of it remained in hollows in which foals could roll.
Dandaloo gave Son of Storm a gentle nudge, and led off, up on to Rawson’s Pass and then higher up still, on to a track that led round one of the main heads of the great Snowy River. This was a wide, gravelly track that had been cut into the mountainside by men. Dandaloo led at a trot. She did not go too fast for Choopa, but she was quite definitely going very purposefully, as though making some sort of pilgrimage, or celebration. Indeed, each one of the five brumbies was celebrating their survival, thrilled with the enjoyment of being alive.
Sometimes Dandaloo would give a cheerful prance or two, and her foal would do a few dancing steps on his hind legs.
Dandaloo knew that Choopa could trot on and on for a long way, so she was unworried about the distance they would have to go. Her longing for the Blue Lake — and Albina — had become an obsession since the terrible storm at Cootapatamba. Presently they were trotting along the crescent curve of the Northcote Pass. They were strung out in single file because the pass and the track were narrow, and they were — all five — silhouetted against the skyline for anyone to see … but there was no one. Perhaps the birds alone saw the blue roans, the browns, and the buckskin daughter of Thowra.
Below them, on the west side, was that double lake, Albina, beautiful and enticing, but Dandaloo had made up her mind to go to the large, round, deep Blue Lake first, and come back by Lake Albina. They must stand in both lakes … drink at them deeply, receive whatever it was that they had to give.
The gravelly track turned upwards after going round a rock bluff, and went steeply up on to the spine of the Range. Dandaloo and Son of Storm had both been up there, on the very top of the range. They both knew the excitement of having steep drops on either side.
There was another lake, held within arms of almost vertical cliffs, and when they had passed that, there was still quite a long way to go on that man-made track that winds along the spine of the mountains.
The shining Snowy River was at the foot of the gentler slopes to the east, and on the other side was the deep gorge of the Geehi River. The five horses were too far above to hear the sound of the Geehi, but Dandaloo knew it sung of great mysteries.
For each of the brumbies, every touch of a hoof on the track increased the thrilling excitement of their journey. They climbed on to the top of Carruther’s Peak, and the miles and miles of mountains completely overawed the two foals. A man walking alone, down on the road towards Kosciusko, filled Dandaloo with a certain unease, but she soon forgot him, because he was a long way away.
If there was one man, of course, there might be more, but there were no cattle ‘on the tops’ now, no men on horses riding around the cattle, no blue heeler dogs or slim black kelpies. She remembered that man who had stood on the rock above Dead Horse Gap — he had thrown such a long, long shadow across the snowgrass … a shadow that seemed to stretch on and on. Even that long shadow, and the man far away on the road, could not really worry Dandaloo in her present mood. Her foal had survived the blizzard, and here they were on the high track. She felt as though she were feather-light, skipping along the track, then they were there. She saw the dark cliffs first, and then the sparkling blue water of the great, round lake.
They were standing on a loose shale and snowgrass slope. It was studded with eyebrights, paper daisies, golden everlastings and white purslane, and the scent of the lemon-gold cushions of Stackhousia rose around them.
Then they hurried down to where the lake overflowed and made the beginning of the Blue Lake Creek, which would eventually become a big stream flowing into the Snowy. Dandaloo and Son of Storm buried their noses in the water to drink. Then they stood gazing. They had been here before. This was a place of dreaming.
Dandaloo turned her head to look at Choopa. He was standing among the golden everlastings, right at the edge of the water. This was quite a different lake from the Cootapatamba. He would not yet plunge in. The slope down which they had galloped — trotted, bucked — was the only comparatively gentle one around this steeply-enclosed circle of water. Somehow Choopa knew that the lake was very deep. It was the memory of this magic water, this magic place, that had so obsessed Dandaloo, and made her so anxious to bring her dwarf foal here. She led him in, and watched him leaping and splashing.
It was when he stood still for a moment, exhausted, that he heard voices, and he, with his sharp hearing, was the only one of the five who heard them.
Men on foot did not yet send any shock waves of fear through him, and voices — unless they were shouting and mingled with the sound of whips cracking — meant nothing. He could not understand the words, the exclaimed, ‘Blue horses in the Blue Lake!’
The warning cries of two black cockatoos who flew over were much more alarming. Dandaloo heard them, as did Son of Storm.
Only Choopa had seen the men standing on the top of the cliffs. Only the black cockatoos knew there was a web of men’s tales concerning a dwarf blue foal — concerning this little foal that somersaulted and danced. One man had half started, in the pub, to tell a story about seeing a foal touched by St Elmo’s Fire, and then he had stopped talking. Another man told of a circle of young animals watching every move as the dwarf blue foal spun his spell around them.
The black cockatoos were over Lake Albina within seconds, and they dropped to drink, as though they, too, knew in every bone and feather — right to their yellow ear coverts — that they must drink of one or other of these lakes’ magic water. For men meant trouble.
Different men told different tales, but slowly these tales were coming together. The Quiet Man was one who had been in the Jindabyne pub and heard of the blue horses at Cootapatamba. Franz, who had been caught in the blizzard, now realised that the old blue roan mare and her foal came from Quambat way.
The water of the Blue Lake was ice-cold, but its touch was thrilling. Choopa was standing knee-deep near the edge, looking up at the high cliffs, when the voices came again, and the two men walked right to the edge of the cliffs.
This time both Dandaloo and Son of Storm had been alerted by the black cockatoos, but when they looked, and listened, the two men vanished.
Just as Dandaloo had been obsessed with the longing to get Choopa to the Blue Lake, she was now determined nothing should stop them going to Albina, that beautiful double lake, before they left the high mountains for their well-known home. What could those men want? They had no dogs, no whips, no lassos.
Son of Storm, without such a strong longing for the high lakes, was uneasy, and quite suddenly he decided that they should go.
Dandaloo stood in the cliff-encircled water, watching him lead Wingilla and Bri Bri up the snowgrass slope, saw his hooves brushing the white paper daisies, knew she had to go too, taking Choopa. Choopa splashed the water over her in clouds of golden and silver spray. The men walked closer to the cliff edge, watching, till Dandaloo and Choopa began to follow the other three. Then the men started to climb up and around the cliff.
Choopa lagged behind, looking back at the beautiful lake. An unfelt wind ruffled the surface, and Choopa stood, one foreleg raised, undecided for a moment, and then suddenly trotted back to the water and plunged in, breaking the ever-widening circles. The Blue Lake was offering him something — was giving something to him.
Son of Storm had started to trot. Dandaloo, following him, looked back. There was Choopa racing out of the water, and the men were hurrying along the top of the cliffs.
There was quite a distance to go to Albina, and the climb up on to Carruther’s Peak before the long, steep jog down to the double lake was tiring. Dandaloo knew the men must be a long way behind, and none of the horses really knew if they were following at all. In fact, they were on their way back to Jindabyne with more tales.
Ahead was that sparkling lake in the floor of the Canyon.
Dandaloo stopped, as though frozen. She was staring at the foot of the Northcote Pass. A man was sitting on a boulder, looking towards them.
All Choopa saw was a ruffling of the waters by the same unfelt breeze as before, and all he knew was that he must go down to this lake and plunge in, too — right into where the water was ruffled.
The shale shelf around the rim of the lake ended abruptly. Suddenly there were no stones beneath his small, hard hooves. Then he was floating — there in the rippling lake for the man to see.
That man was the man who had been lost in the storm and the fog, as he had dreamt of the 100-year-old blizzard that had nearly brought disaster to the artist, the scientist, and the horse named Tommy. Now that man, having learnt that the blue mare and foal had survived the terrible night, saw that weird foal plunge into Lake Albina, into the very centre of the ruffling where the wind had moved over the waters.
Franz, the man of the blizzard, sat quite still and watched, almost as though he expected to see an angel above the water.
Later on, Dandaloo and Son of Storm saw the man climb up on to the Northcote Pass and disappear over the other side. He did not reappear.
The day was getting late and a peacefulness had descended on the Canyon. Each one of the group of horses was tired, each one was enjoying the calm weather, the serene place, so they simply stayed, and, as night fell, they found soft hollows in which to sleep, there above the double lake.
Choopa curled up close to Dandaloo.
The man of the blizzard had not let himself be seen again, but had crept round behind rocks on Mueller’s Peak, and later went silently down nearer to the lake, by starlight. He had not found his tent below Mt Etheridge, but his sleeping bag had still been there, where he had put it before the blizzard, wedged by rocks, so he spread it out by the lake and slid into it. He was fairly warm and fell into a half-sleep, waking often to make sure the brumbies were still there.
A little wind blew gently up the Canyon, just before dawn, and ruffled the waters of the lake, breaking up the reflections of the stars.
Then the blizzard man saw one of the brumbies stir and get up from its hollow. It seemed to him quite certain that it was that weird blue foal with the legs that flew out circling sideways, and who reared and danced on his hind legs. An idea and a wish that could not be denied leapt into his consciousness.
He watched the foal walk down to the lake and walk in where the wind, blowing where it listeth had stirred the water, and there, before the stony shelf ended, he rose in a rear and stood poised — silver blue, silver black, in starlight, small foal clothed in mystery.