Where a brumby stallion gains his freedom.
High pitched metallic whining heralded the danger. The sound of motor bikes filtered through
the trees. The brumby stallion lifted his head, sniffed the air and called a
warning to the herd. Memory of the strange machines men rode sent adrenaline through his system. His fear exploded as the engine noise grew louder. Birds took flight, the forest creatures sought cover and the brumby trembled with trepidation.
Already the older mares gathered the yearlings, nipping
and threatening them till they milled in an anxious group.
The stallion searched for the scent of man, domestic horse and hated dogs. So
far the wind carried nothing of threat, other than the sound he feared.
With an urgent call to hurry he harried his
herd to follow the ancient grey mare who already led the way. She would know where
the wild horses could run, where they needed to take their time, where the men
and dogs would have trouble keeping track of the herd’s passing.
Adrenaline flowed, the stallion’s heart-rate
lifted. He snaked his head, teeth bared, ears pasted against his skull, forcing
reluctant stragglers to flee.
Through acacia, casuarina, melaleuca and eucalyptus
trees the herd ran. Across the valley, toward the coast where the rough terrain would challenge men on machines.
The young brumbies kept pace with the matriarch, the yearlings
hugged their dams’ flanks, running with dread purpose.
Three mares heavy with
foal, fell behind. The stallion stayed with them, urging them on, trying to
listen for the motors and avoid being pushed. He would rather lead them away,
leave the young to run in the care of the old mare. He wouldn’t risk these
mares to the fear and danger of endless pursuit.
He turned the struggling mares and led them
along a shallow stream, urging them for calm and quiet as they slipped and
stumbled across the river bed. The sound of motors faded in the distance. Silence
fell. Relief allowed a few moments for the mares to recover their breath. The
stallion dared not waste a moment worrying about the old mare. She knew enough to guide the herd,
give directions and then fade into the shadows, away from danger, when her strength
failed.
The stallion feared the noisy machines more than
the dogs. He had been hunted before. The bikes carried men without tiring. The two wheeled machines could cross most terrain
without faltering. Their speed across clear ground frightened him.
He trusted the main herd to keep within the thick trees, the steepest hills, and rockiest tracks. His
pregnant mares needed more care. He drove them on again, leaving the creek to
climb along a ridge and around an escarpment.
Although their flanks heaved and
their breath came in labored bursts, they managed the climb.The stallion paused, sniffing the air. He
could smell salt carried on the breeze, hear the heartbeat of the ocean as
waves pounded the shore. He needed to get his mares to safety, if possible,
before he ran out of room to run.
His ears flicked, straining to catch the slightest sound of pursuit. Not hearing dogs, motors, or horses, he
stepped clear of the trees. The four horses made their way toward the cliffs.
The stallion knew of a track leading down the steep rock-face that no domestic
horse could navigate.
A dull thudding beat battered the air. The
stallion snorted. A motor with huge rotating blades rose from below the cliff and
hovered in front of him.
The brumby screamed at the contraption and spun.
The mares turned, galloping frantically toward the trees. The stallion reared, challenging
the flying machine. He would give the mares time to get clear. Give them a chance to reach the trees. The stallion charged toward the terrifying machine. Anything
to keep attention away from his herd.
The sound of frantic motors came from every
direction. He ran swerving, avoiding the violent wind from the hovering
machine. His hooves churned the dirt, his blood pounded through his veins. Speed
should carry him clear of pursuit, but his nostrils burned with the scent of
acrid fumes.
Desperate, he scrambled down the cliff
path toward the dunes. Behind him three motors raged, each moment brought the
angry screams closer.
The dunes offered little protection. The
soft sand mocked his efforts, grasping, gripping, giving way when he needed
firm ground. He struggled upward, through the pig-face and coarse grass, into
the open and toward the expanse of calm blue ocean.
Behind him the motors revved.
The dunes slowed the bike's progress. The stallion reached the hard beach sand and
again stretched into a desperate gallop.
The far headland offered crevasses,
caves and places he might avoid the humans.
His headlong flight threw up salt laden
sand. The air smelt sweeter, eddying waves matched the dapples on his body.
The firm footing thrilled him. The wild stallion reveled in his strength and freedom. He
led the men away from his mares.
Over his racing heartbeat and breathing, the
stallion again heard the dull thud, thud, thud of the flying machine’s wings.
He drove himself to greater speed, but the machine flew above him, tracking his
escape.
He must outrun the threat. He gathered himself for one last effort.
The machine dropped into his path,
hovering, facing him, glass eyes watching him, daring him to continue. The
blades hurled sand in all directions. The stallion slid to a halt.
He reared. Screamed at the machine, but it
took no notice. Behind the stallion the machines carrying men closed in. They blocked
the path to the dunes and the beach.
The stallion turned and
lunged into the waves. Avoiding capture now his only goal.
Cold water welcomed him. Sand sucked at his hooves,
reluctant to release him as he plunged deeper into the sea. The white crests beckoned.
Spirit horses, wind blowing their manes rode the cresting waves. The stallion
strode on, struggling against the pull of the eddying current. Behind him the
sound of motors faded. The flying machine hovered overhead but didn’t touch
him.
He could no longer feel the sand beneath
his hooves. The waves carried him, tossed him, accepted him. His fear escalated, but as his strength ebbed, calm overcame him. Whispered greetings woke memories
of his birth. He envisioned his dam standing beside him on the beach, calling
to the white capped waves and sharing her belief of how the crests belonged to
the spirits of great horses, galloping free across the vast ocean.
His lungs filled with seawater. He stopped
struggling, released his fear. His heart slowed. Sluggish blood spread surrender and banished the need for air, for flight, for fear. The stallion’s eyes
closed. His body trembled, grew still and slowly sank beneath the turbulence.
The brumby stallion joined windswept white horses
and embraced spiritual freedom.
***
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Rosalie Skinner resides on the east coast of Australia when not totally immersed in the fantasy world of her writing.
Rosalie’s love of the ocean, nature, history and horses has enabled her to give her books an authentic air. Her latest achievement has been to ride through the Australian Snowy mountains and see the wild brumbies run. When not watching the migrating whales pass her doorstep she has more humble pastimes.
Other than being a published author, her greatest thrill is being a grandmother. Born over fourteen weeks early her granddaughter’s perfect development and growth are a miracle and joy.
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