Читать книгу The Silver Brumby - Elyne Mitchell - Страница 10

THOWRA AND STORM were naturally very frightened of men and dogs since they had been hunted, but they were also very curious.

After they had been some weeks in the Cascades, they gathered up their courage and climbed on to the little knoll where the slab and shingle stockman’s hut stood above the creek. Though it had been empty for a long time now, there were still strange smells lurking round it, and some salt spilt on the ground, which they licked up. Salt was good. There were natural salt-licks in the bush, but not many of them, and sometimes one could find a little left round the places where the men salted their cattle.

Thowra sniffed all round the hut looking – looking for something, he didn’t know what. The cold wind blew a tin billy that had been left hanging under the eaves of the hut. He jumped backwards and Storm snorted with amusement.

“Come away,” he said. “There is nothing here. The sky looks very queer, and the others are a long way off.”

The wind rustled the golden everlastings that grew in the grass about their feet, and in the trees close by its low moaning sounded.

“The clouds seem heavy,” said Storm, “as though they are pressing down. I never remember a day like this before.”

“O stupid one,” said Thowra with a toss of his head. “You’ve never lived through a winter before. Mother said we must not go too far today because of the weather, but let us just go and listen to the sound the wind is making in the big trees.”

There were some tall trees, candlebarks and the first of the great mountain ash, near the Cascades hut, and the two foals had already discovered the fun of playing “Tug-you- last” around the great tree-trunks and up and down the clear glades. Now, as soon as they were in the timber, they could hear the wail of the wind in the tree-tops, far above, and the soughing and sighing of streamers of bark that hung down the trunks.

They felt very small and alone – and very excited.

“What was that?” asked Thowra nervously, as something white and feathery floated down from the dark sky and landed, freezing cold, on his nose.

Storm jumped to one side and shook his head as another cold white feather fell on his ear. They cantered away under a big tree, but, even there, floating so slowly and lightly on the air, the white feathers came, in ones and twos at first but thicker and thicker till the air was filled with floating whiteness.

It was a long time before they thought of looking at the ground.

“Look!” cried Storm. “It is even making the ground white. We should go home. Perhaps it will be difficult to find our way.”

It was all right while they were in amongst the tall trees and had the trunks to guide them, but out in the open valley all was a blinding whirl of blown whiteness. The shape of tracks could still be seen, and Thowra jogged along one, his nose to the ground. Storm ran right beside him, almost bumping into him.

“You will tread on me,” Thowra complained. “What is the matter?”

“I can hardly see you in this queer white stuff,” said Storm, and he sounded afraid. His own dark coat showed up clearly, but Thowra was almost invisible.

Thowra looked around him then and felt half-afraid too. Nothing could be seen except the swirling, whirling flakes; no contours of hill or ridge, not even the loops of the streams, but the hollow of track still showed just at his feet.

“Quick, we must follow it before it gets buried,” he said. “By then we should be at the creek.”

When they reached the stream they stopped to watch the strange white flakes which almost hissed as they touched the water – and then vanished.

They waded through the ice-cold water and followed the stream on the other bank, knowing they should soon come to the little creek that flowed down from the herd’s camping valley.

They kept shaking their heads to try and free their eyelashes and nostrils of the queer white stuff. Their forelocks, solid and wet, hit their eyes with each shake.

When they had gone a little way Thowra suddenly stopped, raised his head and neighed loudly. He could see nothing at all but the white storm, but ahead came answering neighs and he broke into a canter. Bel Bel and Mirri had come down to the junction of the valley to wait for them.

They could see Mirri from several yards off, but were almost on top of Bel Bel before they saw her.

“What’s happening to the world, Mother?” asked Thowra, feeling very glad to be safely with her.

“Why, this is a snowstorm, Son. It’s heavy for early in the winter,” she said, her voice worried, “and it’s heavy for down here. We may go hungry before the spring.”

The two mares led their foals back to the herd who were huddled together in the shelter of some trees. There they spent the cold, stormy night, with the wind howling and the snow lying thick on their warm coats.

By morning the snow had stopped falling but it lay nearly a foot deep on the ground. Trees were bowed down with it, each leaf coated in white crystals. There was no grass to eat unless one scratched away the snow with a hoof.

Disconsolately, the herd wandered down into the main valley.

“The sun will come out soon,” said Bel Bel, “and then the snow will thaw and we will have grass to eat again.”

When the sun did come out and warm them, all the foals soon found that they could have great fun chasing each other up and down the glittering white hills.

Thowra was no longer invisible, now that the air was clear of the wind-swivelled flakes, but somehow the snow seemed to be his kingdom, and the other foals soon saw that he was swifter and more sure-footed in it than Arrow. Of course if one knew where every hole or little watercourse was, one did not make any stupid mistakes. Arrow forgot that there was a little tiny stream at the foot of one ridge. He went galloping down, chasing Thowra and never noticed Thowra’s flying leap at the bottom. His forefeet broke through the snow into the creek and, in a wild flurry of snow, he turned a complete somersault, finishing up almost buried.

Thowra saw exactly what happened, and by the time Arrow had got to his feet, shaken all the snow out of his eyes and ears, and gingerly tested his legs, Thowra was rearing and neighing on top of a high rock on the next ridge.

If Arrow had had any sense, he would have taken no notice, but he got in a fury of anger at the sight of the beautiful creamy, who was almost white now, in his thick winter coat, his silver mane and tail gleaming and glittering in the sun, as he pranced and reared.

Arrow made after him, with all the watching foals, neighing and snorting, kicking and pawing up the snow.

Thowra waited until the chestnut was three strides away from the back of the rock, then he reared up and pirouetted on his hind legs, gave a squeal of joy, and leapt off the steep side of the rocks on to the soft snow, then away down the ridge, bucking and snorting.

Bel Bel and Mirri were at the bottom.

“That’s enough, my son. You are making a bad enemy for yourself,” said Bel Bel, but she had enjoyed Thowra’s pranks, and there was a gleam of pleasure in her eyes. Her cream colt had looked so joyously beautiful rearing up on the snow-covered rock. “Come now,” she went on, “we will go down the mountainside a little way and see if we can find some food.”

Mirri called Storm and off the four of them went, down the valley and into the tall timber where Storm and Thowra had watched the start of the snowfall the day before. Here Thowra suddenly stopped dead, snorting at the ground. Right at his nose was a set of fresh tracks in the snow, little tracks just like a child’s bare feet, but the foals did not know that. Where the snow was very soft and deep, there was a gutter in between the feetmarks.

Bel Bel and Mirri said nothing when the foals began following the trail, noses down. Suddenly Thowra, who was leading, stopped and nearly sat back on his haunches with fright. Only a yard or two ahead of him was the round, furry back of a wombat who was grubbing for food. The wombat took no notice whatever but just went on grubbing through snow and mud with his sharp little nose. Bel Bel and Mirri watched, their muzzles twitching a little.

Thowra stood up and stretched out his neck to sniff the thick fur. The wombat turned round surprisingly fast, his beady eyes angry. Thowra nearly sat down again, as the wombat waddled on, his round, fat middle making the gutter in the snow.

The horses kept jogging on downwards, nibbling at wattles and odd shrubs. At last, when the snow got thinner, they turned off the spur on to the northern slope where, as the mare well knew they would, they found tussocks of snowgrass.

That night as they camped by a clear singing stream, Bel Bel sniffed the air and looked at the sky.

“There’ll be a frost tonight,” she said, “and another fine day, but I can’t help feeling there’s going to be a lot of snow, and we’ll have to find somewhere else to winter, lower than the Cascades.”

“Well, the nearest lower country with good grass belongs to The Brolga,” said Mirri.

Storm and Thowra both pricked up their ears.