Charlie had slept on and off for almost twenty-four hours. Each time she’d woken, the sweet, familiar sounds of the bush had lulled her back to sleep. The laughing call of a kookaburra, the distant bellow of a bull, the high roar of wind through the forest, and best of all, the dusk-to-dawn chorus of frogs in the dam. On the second day she’d risen early, rested and restored, just in time to see Sam off to work. Charlie stood out on the drive. She munched a piece of toast and waved goodbye, looking longingly after her sister’s car. There’ll be time enough, Sam had said, for you to take back the job with Bushy. You’re not strong enough yet for a full day’s work. Sam was right, although Charlie hated to admit it. Even showering left her spent. She turned back to face the house. The homestead had been transformed, inside and out: gardens weeded, rubbish gone – the front door even sported a fresh coat of paint. It looked fantastic, but the place no longer felt like her own. What the hell was she supposed to do all day? Everything was already done. A sudden movement up at the yards caught her eye: Whirlwind.
The mare was not friendly at first. She’d rushed at Charlie with ears pinned back, and threatened her with wicked hoofs. Charlie had studiously ignored her. She’d armed herself with a bag of sliced fruit and a book, put a plastic picnic chair in the middle of the yard, and calmly sat down to read. It hadn’t taken long for Whirl-wind’s curiosity to overcome her caution. Soon she was snuffling the chair, snuffling Charlie, tasting the fruit. Charlie had slipped her a piece of apple, and popped another piece absentmindedly into her own mouth. ‘Listen to this,’ she’d say.
Charlie had read to Whirlwind every day for a week. On the eighth day, she tried something different. The mare was standing beside her with twitching ears, while Charlie read to her from Edward Abbey’s Desert Solitaire.
‘Am I boring you?’ she asked after a while. The answer, apparently, was yes. Whirlwind’s head had drooped. A hind hoof was at rest. Her bottom lip quivered, and her eyes were half-closed.
‘Let’s do something else,’ said Charlie. The mare had woken with a start, and followed her over to the gate. Charlie opened it. ‘Come on, then,’ she said, and began walking up the hill to the dam. ‘Field observation time. You can be my assistant.’ Whirlwind stood stock-still for a few moments, as though she couldn’t quite believe her luck. Then she’d ducked her head and pounded out of the yard catching up with Charlie and bucking around her in wild, joyful circles. Charlie took her cue from the dappled horse, racing as fast as she possibly could – chasing Whirlwind, and being chased in turn. Her weakened legs seemed to draw strength from the mare’s exuberance. Vigour returned to her wasted muscles, and she pulled off her top to let the sun kiss her skin. When her energy was finally spent, Charlie flopped down in a patch of everlastings. Whirlwind snorted twice and began to graze nearby, occasionally checking in with Charlie, nibbling at her clothes or hair.
Little by little, day by day, the friendship between the girl and the rogue mare grew. Charlie knew about horses. She knew more about horses than she knew about people. And she knew it was only through such a friendship that the damaged mare might heal. A sort of natural wisdom guided her. Wisdom gained during endless days spent riding in the ranges. Like all children, Charlie had had her heroes – role models, people she admired. But unlike most children, they weren’t sports stars or pop singers. They were scientists like Jane Goodall and Dian Fossey – pioneering naturalists who immersed themselves in the society of the animals they studied. For them, it was the chimpanzees and gorillas of the central African jungle. But for Charlie, it was the wild horses of Maroong Mountain.
Charlie had learned the hard way that happiness wasn’t to be found in the loneliness and exclusion of the schoolyard. Happiness was to be found instead in the acceptance of the herd. Ever so slowly, with infinite care, she’d insinuated herself into the secret life of the wild horses on the mountain. Charlie may not have been at school, but she was getting an education. She learned the brumbies’ water-hole rituals. She won the forbearance of their wise old stallion. She won the friendship of their lead mare, Jarrang’s mother. Charlie grew fluent in the language of their bodies, and one by one the brumbies allowed her to slip onto their backs.
It was through this unique brand of liberty training that Charlie hoped to win over the traumatised mare. No saddles, no bridles, no ropes or round yards. But Charlie wouldn’t tell Sam, not yet. This was just between her and Whirlwind.