dance of the crane, [R]

[Corowa]

Karween pricked her ears and lifted her head from the snowgrass. The black filly stirred restlessly, sure she had smelt something on the wind. Karween was nervous, easily startled by the loud cries of the currawong. This rough country worried her, for many mobs of brumbies ran the lower Cascades, and once Karween had glimpsed a hansdome bay stallion and his shadowy mares through the leaves of the snowgums. The filly’s nostrils quivered at the strong smell of smoke, for further down the flat, a thin grey pillar rose from the trees. Men had returned to the High Country, and the sound of them, the crack of the whip, the jumble of voices and furious barking of their dogs, filled her with terror.

The filly only half-remembered the terror of the brumby drive. However, once more she heard the whistle of the rope as it fell short, and then there was the dog nipping, biting and worrying at her heels until she galloped on blindly through the bush, until even that stockman had stopped, his fine chestnut horse lamed on the rocky slopes. Karween’s hide prickled with the uncomfortable feeling of being watched, and she backed hastily into the trees. Then through the trees, on the other side of the creek, she could see something moving quietly through the bush. Wide-eyed, Karween sprang swiftly away, galloped headlong down a stockman’s track, so swiftly she barely seemed to touch the shaly ground. Even when the track grew rougher, the filly raced on, suddenly filled with a wild joy, the joy of living that all young horses know.

The filly splashed through one shallow creek and then another, plunged up the sloping bank until there was snowgrass once more beneath her. Here, further south of the creek, the bush thinned to wide grassy flats and spreading snowgums, and the black filly stopped to graze for a moment. The grass was good, and Karween could feel the sunlight warm upon her back as it streamed through the leaves of the snowgums. Even though her ears twitched nervously, the filly moved further from the shelter of the trees. The currawong called again, and Karween wondered what it was the bird sung so joyously of. She was no wise Bel Bel, to understand those messages she somtimes heard in the wind, and even as she listened it seemed the call had changed, turned to one of mourning and sorrow.

[Ehetere]

There was only one word needed to sum up Jirrand and his appearance. Dejected. His hooves dragged along the ground where he had once pranced with the joys of life, his tail limp. His head drooped so low that his chin could almost touch the ground and the fire that used to light his young eyes was gone. He carried the stance of a much older horse, one wearied by life and wishing that it would come to an end soon.

His attempt to woo a moonfilly in the dead of night had come to naught, after losing his dear mate in a selfish fight. He couldn’t even find the bay who had knocked him out and stolen her to challenge him again. It was if the thief and his mate had disappeared into thin air.

He stopped in a sheltering forest of snowgums, nodding off into a doze in the warm dappled sunlight. He wasn’t exactly very active during the day anyway, but since Tallerk’s disappearance, his time spent moving around when the sun was in the sky had decreased even further. His red eye was tightly closed, but the lid of his blue one was dropping also. He was barely awake, listening to the gentle sound of the wind in the leaves above his head.

Then, all of a sudden, the hush of the bush was broken by the sounds of stampeding horses - or horse. A dark shape: the horse that was galloping headlong with what looked like no intent on stopping, passed right by him, and Jirrand immediately shrank back, fearing whatever the dark coloured horse was fleeing from. It could be man after all, but surely it was far too early for them to be in the mountains already?

But no pursuers came, and curious as to what had startled the other brumby, Jirrand set off after it’s easy to follow trail at a much more leisurely pace. It was in the opposite direction to the way he had come, and ended at a wide grassy plain that was dotted with the occasional gum. The grazing looked good here, but being cautious, Jirrand only stopped at the very edge of the tree line to keep his pale coat hidden from the world.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when a currawong called out directly beside his ear, and deciding that it was disrespectful, Jirrand nodded to the bird in recognition. He then returned his gaze to the field where the black horse was now grazing; a mere filly, barely old enough to have left her dam. The slight little creature seemed extremely nervous to him, hardly surprising considering the way he had seen her running. Curious but still wary; he stepped out from the tree line as silently as an owl takes flight in the pitch black night. He stopped then, just a few metres away from the trees, and let out a low deep call. He didn’t want to startle her more than she already was, and he wanted to know what had scarred her. If men had indeed come to the high country, he wanted to be as far north as possible.

[Corowa]

Karween quietly grazed her way towards a sheltering stand of mountain ash. All of sudden, the filly stopped, listened to the sigh and sway of those great ribbons of bark, the only sound in the gentle silence of the bush. Karween longed to understand all the wisdom contained within the soft murmur of those leaves, for she was fascinated by the tales of furious grey stallions and splendid silver brumbies. Her ears pricked curiously forwards, as she shyly extended her nose to one rough, pale trunk, and her nostrils quivered as she breathed in deeply of the bitter smell of eucalypt.

From further down the flat, there came the sound of something moving quietly through the bush. The filly threw up her head, badly frightened. Then some of the wildness went out of her eyes and Karween stepped from beneath the trees, as she realised what it was she had heard. A mob of kangaroos, half-hidden in the snowgrass, stood for a moment with heads raised, listening as the filly had listened. Something had awoken them from their rest, and as one, the mob hopped away into the bush. The filly stilled, suddenly worried. She looked back towards the snowgums, to where the hut at Cascade Creek stood amongst the big old trees.

And there, standing splendid in a bar of sunlight, was a fine silver-white stallion. Karween had never been so frightened, and she stood, tense all over as if she would vanish with the wind. Then, filled by a profound curiosity, the filly took one step forwards and then another. Was this one of those silver brumbies to be sung of by the currawongs, to be heard sometimes in the wind when it blew, a bitter cold gale from the south? She walked on, a beautiful filly, with the joy of living visible in every line of her young body. The stallion no longer seemed so menacing, for surely, his call was gentle, as if he were as much afraid as she had been of him. She walked now with that light, swinging carriage, so it was as if she floated over the snowgrass.

Then she stopped, suddenly unsure of the queerness of her feelings, this blending of excitement and longing she felt. Karween stood, close enough she could see the sunlight glistening so brilliantly in his mane, and she realised how very much she had longed for companionship. “Who are you?” she asked as she extended her nose to his, stirred with a wondering sort of sigh to feel him beneath her touch. Then suddenly, shyly, she backed away. She shook all over, feeling the throb of this wild excitement in her blood so she longed to race him over the snowgrass, to feel him there beside her, the warmth of his shoulder against hers, to know she was his and she was loved.

[Ehetere]

Jirrand watched cautiously as the black filly approached, elegant for one so young. She hadn’t run away at first glance of him, which was a plus. No one seemed to up here. Maybe it was his Silver heritage that made him look too different to be a Nightrunner up here. Whatever the reason, he was still mystified as to why horses looked at him in wonder. It was only his hide after all.

She held her nose out in greeting to him, asking who he was. It was a fair question to be sure. On some days he wasn’t sure he knew himself. “I am Jirrand,” he replied turning his head so that she couldn’t see his closed eye. He didn’t want to scare her off, and with any luck she would be too young to know the origin of his name.

“I ask you the same question Dancing Filly, and as to what you were fleeing just now?” he continued, squinting slightly in the bright light. He supposed he was lucky that her coat did not resemble his, or else it would blind him just by looking at it. It was now that he remembered why he disliked the bright sunshine and the daylight hours, much preferring the hours of twilight and the night when everything was far more mysterious and exciting. And easier to see.

Already he was uncomfortably hot and a sweat was breaking out all over his coat. He batted a fly away with his long tail while watching the dark coloured filly in front of him. She had a certain charm about her, that was for sure. By now he should know that he was meant to live a lonely life of solitude. Mares and fillies would act as though they wished to join him only to be forced away from him again. He was unfit to take care of anyone but himself.

[Corowa]

“I’m Karween,” she said shyly. “I was born further north, up near the Murrumbidgee River. My mother had been a tame horse at the Brindabellas.” The stallion was nervous, and Karween wondered if he had run hard from somewhere, for mingled with the sour smell of sweat was a deep sense of sorrow and loss. The filly put her nose to his to comfort him, for the stallion looked very anxious. Karween pricked her ears, but she could hear nothing. Surely, if there were stockmen, she would have felt that uneasiness, the prickling of her hide as if something was watching unseen from the snowgums. She did not want to make the stallion more nervous than he was, did not want to make him think there were stockmen nearby.

“I heard a noise in the bush and worried it was a stockman. But no one chased me, and mostly I run for the joy of running, the joy of being alive and free,” she said quietly. Karween realised suddenly, how every hair stood on end when her nose had touched his. The filly moved about with a restless excitement, and feeling suddenly playful, nipped him lightly, and then sprang away. She cantered gaily over the snowgrass, swung in a wide circle around the snowgum glade, for she did not want to leave, so truly fascinated by the stallion was she. Then Karween returned to him, head held proudly high, her mane and tail lifted by the wind. The sunlight glinted brilliantly in the silver hairs of his mane, and Karween trembled at that intense feeling of longing, a longing for something she was still too young to understand fully.

She propped to a standstill, and stood, with one forefoot raised, for a moment unsure of herself. “Are you a silver brumby?” she asked then, suddenly aware of this wild excitement, which throbbed in her veins and made it difficult to stand still, filled her with a longing to stretch her legs to their fullest, to race madly over snowgrass, until she could go no further. But the filly remained absolutely still, for she was not sure if she did leave, whether this stallion would follow her. The filly was no more than a yearling, and she had longed for the companionship of other young horses. For it worried her to be alone. This was not the bush she knew, and even the sound of the wind as it moved in the leaves of the snowgums, could make her shy away.

OOC: Ah, Karween, how she misreads everything!

[Ehetere]

The little black filly nosed him comfortingly, as if she sensed his sadness and then went about straining her senses to try and detect something. Karween; a lovely name for a filly. Not that he should be thinking that. She deserved better than him; every filly did.

“I heard a noise in the bush and worried it was a stockman. But no one chased me, and mostly I run for the joy of running, the joy of being alive and free,” said Karween, and Jirrand relaxed knowing that there were no men nearby. It was a very true statement on her behalf. For what was the point in running if not for the sheer joy of it?

She nipped him playfully before springing away and careering around the clearing before skidding to a halt in front of him again. He had thought for a second she was going to run away, but thankfully that was not the case. She was quirky, and had an almost… bubbly personality. It was refreshing. She moved well for a yearling too: she was really quite quick.

“Are you a silver brumby?” she asked so innocently, Jirrand was somewhat taken aback. A filly so sweet and untainted should not be seen with someone who was cursed like him. “My father was a silver brumby,” he replied, not adding in his Nightrunner heritage. For all she knew he could just be injured in one eye. She didn’t need to know the ugly truth of his sunset eye that lay beneath his lid.

[Corowa]

“I’ve heard tales of the silver brumbies,” the filly said breathlessly, for she could feel herself trembling now. Karween stood with one forefoot raised and ears pricked, for the young filly realised she knew nothing of the queer feeling that stirred within her. She tingled with some great excitement, as she tingled when the snow fell ceaselessly in the winter, and the excitement once more shook her. Jirrand truly was glorious, and she longed to know what it was to feel the touch of his soft nose, to be his mate and have him with her.

“And was your mother a silver brumby too?” the filly asked suddenly, for surely, such a splendid stallion must have had one of the most beautiful mares in the High Country as his mother. Karween suddenly remembered her own mother, the warmth of her shoulder and flank, the taste of milk, which had been both comforting and good. She watched him intently, and for one moment, wondered if perhaps Jirrand had been born from the south wind itself. In the broadness of chest, was the promise of swiftness, and the silver brumbies were some of the swiftest in the High Country.

Jirrand was so unusual, and the filly realised she had never been more interested in another horse. There was some powerful attraction to him, something that stirred a wild joy within her. This time when she pranced forwards with neck proudly arched and head held high, Karween gave a low inviting nicker. The filly’s movement was provocative, and she tossed her head impatiently and gave a throbbing neigh. She invited him to come with her, for while only a yearling, Karween was anxious for the companionship of a mate. She suddenly felt desperate. She was worried the stallion would vanish on the winds. Jirrand must remain, must run with her for always. They belonged together.

[Ehetere]

Jirrand watched Karween’s eyes widen with awe as he announced his heritage. Of course, in more frequent situations it was his mother’s inheritance that was discovered first, so Jirrand was rather taken aback by her reaction.

He did not normally think of himself as one of the Silver Herd; his coat colour was too pale and both his eyes to strange for him to even contemplate it. Yet, even he could not deny his own reflection in Karween’s eyes now: the sunlight made his pale creamy coat a richer golden and with his eye shut to hide the ugliness beneath, he could be a silver brumby to anyone who did not know better. If only that was a true reflection of himself.

The illusion was further broken for Jirrand when he was prompted about his own mother. He was never sure what to feel about her; resentment or love, or a strange mix in between. She had made it clear that she loved him, and yet there was always a sadness about her whenever he had been around. Karween’s nicker sounded, and Jirrand looked up. Once again, the hurt from his past needed healing, and once again there was a caring mare - filly - waiting to pick up the pieces for him. So with a snort he took a step toward her into the bright sunshine.

[Corowa]

Karween stopped quite still and stared, for the stallion glistened so brilliantly in a shaft of sunlight. The filly was driven by a profound longing, and she walked timidly over towards him. She was nervous, and her eyes showed the whites as she came nearer. Her ears flickered back and forth, and she tossed her head and squealed with pleasure. She gently touched his nose, his ears, and then blew softly through her nostrils. The wind had picked up suddenly, and her nostrils crinkled at the strong smell of smoke. Karween decided they should move off, and she took one step backwards and then another, calling quietly to the stallion as she went.

Surely, he would follow, for he had come to her when she had called him once before. Karween picked her way carefully down a long slope of snowgrass, and moved quietly towards the line of snowgums. Her hide prickled, and she felt very uneasy. The smell of smoke was much stronger here, and the filly propped to a standstill and threw up her head. Presently, the wild urge to wander filled the filly so she turned and led the stallion in a more northerly direction. Only when she was within the cover of the snowgums, did Karween feel less anxious.

She nibbled on the spring-rich snowgrass, and then turned to where Jirrand stood in the shelter of the snowgums, the leaves so thick she could barely see him. As she stepped forwards, the filly noticed with a sudden sense of dread, how stiffly the stallion held his head. Karween could see one eye was shut against the brightness of the day, and she shivered, for she realised something was terribly wrong. She slowly advanced, and then stood before him, motionless, as she extended her nose to his and asked that question to which perhaps, there was no answer.