Winter’s great gales were coming — blizzards to blow the man-made tales away into gullies and rock caverns. Winter’s white cover would soon come to the mountains, and queer tales would all be buried under the snow.
Dandaloo had ceased to feel certain that Choopa would grow. Even their visit to the high lakes had not helped him grow as much as Bri Bri had, but the dreams that Dandaloo dreamt about the gift the lakes might give her foal were like a truth, hovering.
Before the snow-laden winds came, before the frosts made the mountains so hard that the earth rang at the touch of horses’ hooves, several men went out into the mountains, some to the area at the head of the Limestone Creek — the real source of the Murray River. They did not go together, and did not know anyone else had gone, for it was already getting close to dangerous weather. One man was curious to know if the foal whose ears had been momentarily touched by St Elmo’s Fire was still alive. Another man — the man who had lived through that blinding blizzard — had a dream in his head, a vision of a blue foal poised in a rear, in the waters of Lake Albina. Others were drawn to go out, as though pulled by curiosity.
One of the men had been hunting brumbies during the autumn, but Dandaloo and Son of Storm and their small band had missed these hunts because they had stayed up in the high country, grazing among the rocky tors, even going down into the head of the Leatherbarrel Valley. Choopa and Bri Bri learnt the whereabouts of all the good grazing grounds — perhaps they also learnt hiding places and ways of escape.
Choopa had barely grown at all, although he was undoubtedly well muscled for a five-month-old foal. Dandaloo could see that he had learnt a lot in that lovely time in the high country — but still he was a miniature. He had tasted the silver leaves of the snow daisies, he had breathed in the scent of heath, touched with his nose and smelt the sweet fragrance of the alpine marsh marigolds that flower beneath the Cootapatamba Drift.
Dandaloo had learnt a lot, too. The main thing that she had learnt was that, though there were no cattle out in the mountains, no stockmen riding the snowleases, there were men on foot. They did not carry lassos, but she felt that they posed some danger to Choopa.
The time came to think of going into the lower country, and Son of Storm and Dandaloo began slowly heading in the direction of Dead Horse Gap. After a few sunny days and freezing cold nights, they turned down off the tops and into that lovely snowgrass basin, below the South Ramshead, and were trotting down towards the trees, the first stunted snow gums.
Dandaloo noticed that Choopa kept looking towards the trees. Presently she felt sure she noticed some slight movement which was not just branches being stirred by the breeze. Choopa stopped, poised, listening. Suddenly he neighed and began to gallop, tossed his blotched blue and white head and his furry mane, and neighed again.
Dandaloo, catching up with him, saw a flicker of movement in those topmost snow gums. She stopped and stared. Something was hidden in the trees. She heard the pardalote’s double call. That red-tipped pardalote — or its children or grandchildren who had lived there in the snow gums for years — was calling.
Choopa started to gallop as fast as he could — falling, somersaulting and leaping. Finally he stopped and reared up, then started walking on his hind legs just as shapes began to emerge from the small, gnarled trees — and some kangaroos hopped out, followed by little wallabies, one fat wombat and an echidna. A circle of young animals formed round Choopa, there on the basin below the rock peak of the South Ramshead.
Dandaloo stood on a little rocky hump and looked on uneasily. It seemed that the feeling that they were being watched was with her always, yet she had not seen anyone for some days.
What harm could men on foot do? But the old mare, looking at Choopa with deep yearning, was afraid. Somehow she was certain that he would not grow into a big, strong stallion, and certain, too, that men were interested in him for his rhythmic dancing and the spells he could weave. Then, because she longed to touch him, she walked down, off the little tree and rock-capped mound, and into the circle of young animals. She touched her nose to his, and he, in turn, reached up to his mother’s gentle lips.
If anyone had been watching, they would have seen this, and seen the young animals moving round them with slow steps and graceful hops, as if each movement had special meaning.
Dandaloo rubbed her head on Choopa’s neck, then she started to lead them all down through the snow gums towards Dead Horse Gap. Choopa followed his mother, his head beside her flank, and all his little troupe of young animals strung out after him through the trees and the rocks.
Dead Horse Gap is a place where rainbows arch. It is the lowest pass across the high mountains — a migratory route for birds, and where they make a short journey between the Murray Valley and the high lands of the Monaro carrying with them all the mysteries which are part of their lives. Winds blow through Dead Horse Gap, singing the music of the spheres.
Above Dead Horse Gap, the wisest of all brumby mares, Bel Bel, gave birth to Thowra, the Silver Brumby, and years later Bel Bel came there when her time came to die, so her bones are up there, bleached by sun and wind and the marvellous snow.
The little group of brumbies, kangaroos and wallabies reached the Gap at evening — at dream time, when no cars were on the bitumen road.
There, in the centre of the clear snowgrass pass, beyond the road, Choopa and his little troupe played.
A mist crept up with the dusk from the Crackenback Valley, and all the young animals were wound around with mist, Choopa’s blue and white body and the silver grey of kangaroos merging with the fog.
Mist seeped into the snow gums that grew thickly up Dead Horse Ridge. Occasional soft bars of reflected light filtered through that eerie fog and sent a soft, searching beam from the west.
Once Dandaloo wondered if she saw a man’s face among the snow gum leaves, and a horse’s head. It was then that Son of Storm heard the clank of a stirrup iron, and he succeeded in drawing Choopa away, out of his dream of rhythm and music.
The mist began to thicken. Choopa pressed close to his mother. This dark fog was without wind or pellets of snow, but it was as dense as that fearful cloud that had made the mountain world totally dark, up there by Lake Cootapatamba.
Choopa had been desperately afraid that night. Now, he wanted to escape this dark fog — get right away — but in no way would he leave his mother. He was making little tremulous noises and Dandaloo, realising that he was very frightened, turned her head to comfort him. She rubbed her face up and down his small, ugly head, but, just then, there was a sound quite close — a shod hoof hitting a stone, a sound that was muffled by fog, but yet unmistakable. The mist thinned around them for one drifting moment, and Dandaloo felt sure that she and Choopa must be visible, though the mist was like a grey wall in front of them, and she could not see any horse who had made that sound.
Choopa could feel her shaking and trembling, and her fear made Choopa’s terror much worse. All of a sudden he felt that he must leap in the air, twist around like the willy-willies, call up all the magic that he could bring from the bush, to protect them from evil.
This time the rhythm did not protect them. No silken string came to join them to the stars.
Terror shook Choopa, from hooves to ears.
Dandaloo was shaking too. Eyes seemed to stare out of the mist all round them.
Eyes watching. Eyes … and there was no sound. Were there really eyes? Perhaps a man had been hidden in the snow gums on Dead Horse Ridge, and had come closer in the fog, but Dandaloo was certain that there was more than one pair of eyes, more than one man. She was trembling all over. How could she protect this beloved foal of hers, this foal who had never grown. How would she protect him if a man crept up out of the fog?
Then anger began to rise up inside her. Of course she could protect him with all her strength, and as she thought of it, her trembling with fear turned to a furious shaking with anger.
She began to lead Choopa off across the hillside, through the darkness and the fog. She did not know in which direction Son of Storm had vanished. Just as she was trying to feel his whereabouts, his neigh rang out from further across the side of the ridge and a man loomed up in the fog, right beside Choopa.
Dandaloo’s nose and teeth and shoulder crashed into a body; she pivoted around and kicked furiously with her hind legs, before the man had time to steady himself. Knowing she had knocked him down, she called Choopa, and as he heard her call, Choopa saw, through the mist, a hand grabbing at him, then he propelled himself forward in one huge leap and he and his mother galloped towards Son of Storm’s call, Choopa stumbling but not falling over.
They both saw Son of Storm as they burst out of the mist into faintly starlit night.
Dandaloo seemed to fling herself towards the big brown stallion. Then she stopped and waited for Choopa, and Choopa hurried on, feeling as if the man were at his heels, feeling that Dandaloo was the most important thing in all of life and that he must reach her before the man’s hand grabbed him out of the mist. Then he did fall. He fell in a gasping bundle beside Dandaloo.
It took a moment for him to gulp in his breath and pick himself up and, at the same time, he looked back to see if the man’s hand was stretching out towards him, but all he could see was the mist and the dark of the night. There was no sound either, except the dirge of a plover, down the river.
The plover’s cry evoked some deep sadness in the little foal, as though he were longing for everything which he did not have … a noble head that was not too big for his body, perfect legs made for galloping, a smooth, blue roan hide with no strange, white blotches, a deep girth for lung power.
He was there, leaning against his mother, beside Son of Storm. Presently they would lead him off towards the Cascades, but Dandaloo was gently nuzzling his ears as if he were the most valuable thing in the whole world.
Wingilla and Bri Bri had gone ahead, but Son of Storm had waited to help Dandaloo protect her miniature foal. Son of Storm knew that, even though Choopa had barely grown at all, in his self the little colt had developed a force — the power of the wind and the falling snow. Son of Storm had understood Dandaloo’s wish to take Choopa right into the brilliant waters of those lakes.
They joined Wingilla and Bri Bri in a thick clump of trees, and went on slowly together, hoping to find the Cascade herd by morning.
As daylight came slanting through the misty bush, haloed in shining gold, as though part of a miracle there came the little tribe of bush animals — even a pair of slightly breathless wombats. Choopa was filled with joy to see them all. Life was safe. Surely his circle of animals would create a spell to frighten away any hands that came through the mist — frighten away the mist itself.