|
Post by Corowa on May 5, 2009 10:25:10 GMT
Beware, beware, the mopoke cried and Myrrina shrank away, terribly afraid. Then Nevada was hustling them away into the low snowgums, and as Tingara leapt towards them, the mare turned and fled. Werrilah whirled about and followed his mother, clung close to her side. Terror drove them on, and she felt Werrilah’s hot breath on her flank and heard the sobbing of her breath as she plunged headlong into the rough scrub. A branch barely seen, stung her eyes and Myrrina whinnied wildly to her son, for she’d lost him here in the queer grey light of the blizzard.
Nevada followed behind them; Myrrina heard his mocking neigh and Tingara’s scream of rage. Tingara caught him in the snowgums, had a fierce hold on the other’s wither. Furiously, Myrrina swung around and struck the black stallion, calling to Nevada as she melted into the shadows of the trees. The snow swirled around her, dizzied her, and Myrrina was aware only of the terrible silence that had descended over the bush, for it told of death.
The cold south wind touched her side, and Myrrina felt her skin creeping with dread. Galloping madly through the blizzard, there was silence but for the wind, and the mare forced her way through another clump of thick timber. Flanks steaming, pale coat darkened with sweat, the mare propped to a standstill on a snow-covered ridge. Trembling all over, Myrrina threw a throbbing call to the winds. It was a call to the King of the High Country, full of sorrow and shame, and then the mare vanished into the willy-willy of snow, a ghost fading into the darkness of the moaning storm.
Blowing frightfully, Werrilah cantered on through the big drifts of snow. His ears twitched when his mother’s sad neigh reached him, but he was so very tired. When another strong gust of wind buffeted him, he dropped to the snow to rest. He lay there, half-dreaming of his mother, beautiful and wreathed with mist, dancing in the falling snow. Yet beside her there danced a fine black stallion, and with a soft wondering sigh, Werrilah closed his eyes and slept.
|
|
|
Post by Tiggs on May 5, 2009 11:58:08 GMT
Nevada had underestimated Tingara’s speed, and the black stallion came crashing into him. He felt teeth on his skin and he squealed and bucked. He still ran, unable to lose his pursuer. He couldn’t kick out as he wanted to keep his speed up, but Tingara’s teeth on his wither pulled him up, his feet almost lamed on the snow-covered roots underfoot. He barely managed to avoid tripping. “You’ve lost her, King. She chose me.” He lashed out, but it was the unexpected kick of Myrrina that won him the time he needed to get again.
He chased after Myrrina, following her through the snow. At times he though he would never make the impossible strides and dainty footwork that took them through the trees. It was a dance alright, one that could end badly if he made one wrong move. He repressed the urge to mock Tingara agin, knowing any voice now would give away his position. He couldn’t think much beyond where to put his hooves, and he did not notice the lack of the snow-white colt until they would eventually stop later.
Tingara’s teasing had not gone unnoticed. Nevada was outraged that the black thought he could insult him like that. If he didn’t have Myrrina to think of, he would have accepted the blatant challenge. When all they couldn’t hear was silence, Myrrina came to an abrupt halt on an open ridge and Nevada slid to a stop beside her. His coat was streaked with sweat and blood, the King’s marks stark red against his pale coat and the white landscape.
He comforted Myrrina with a touch to her withers, and vanished with her into the snow flurries. He went with her through the storm, taking her up toward the Bogong. The bites and kicks of the King were starting to burn, his muscles tiring as the terrain took them further upward. The lack of the white colt weighed heavily on Nevada. He wasn’t sure where they had lost him in that frantic run, and he could not return now to find him. Nevada only hoped Tingara’s rage would not spread to Myrrina’s innocent son.
|
|
|
Post by tingara on May 5, 2009 12:23:45 GMT
“The only taunts you have are hollow ones Nevada, you know I am right. You are going to live up to who you are by running; a cowardly colt, one who only steals but does not fight. You do not deserve the title of stallion. The Cascades do not want a coward as their king. Garrong may not have killed you but mark my words I will deliver a blow that finishes you, and then you will be forgotten. The High Country does not want you and will not remember you when your body has long been gone. I will be remembered, I am king,” Tingara reared and called to the wind his promise or retribution. Every single one of Nevada’s mares would be his, as would his grazing spots and his courage. When the time came Nevada’s blood will be spilt by his hooves and the grey would beg for death to end the pain but Tingara would not give it to him.
The black stallion snorted at his thoughts, they were disturbing but thoughts of revenge were soothing. Myrrina had left a gaping hole in Tingara’s soul; he had been so sure that the dance they had shared had bound them together in a way that neither could be bound to another. It was lie, how many before him had she woven her deceitful spell on? He began to slowly weave his way between the trees back to the river. He needed a drink to get rid of the taste of Nevada in his mouth. The scars he had given the grey stallion would serve as a reminder that the black wasn’t finished with him yet.
He refused to be miserable about Nevada’s cowardly act; it was his fault not Myrrina’s. He had spun some lie and tricked her, some ridiculous notion he had about being one with snow. He wasn’t a Silver, he was a common grey, nothing special. A common grey whose life was about to become miserable. Tingara shook his head; he didn’t want to think about what he’d do yet, instead what he thought about was Crayola and her loving warmth. As he thought long and hard on her his heart skipped a beat. How could he have been so blind? It was not fickle Myrrina who he would be forever bound to; it was and had always been the appaloosa mare.
At this the black stallion cheered up a little, his anger dissipating slightly. He missed Myrrina terribly already but Crayola was still with him and all he wanted to do was get back to her. Her, Muyan and Valatone were all waiting for him. In his haste to get back to his mares Tingara nearly fell over a small white shape that was not of the snow. “Werrilah,” he sighed, snuffling at his son’s forelock, “get up my son, follow me to safety and warmth.” He nibbled the white mane gently and urged the colt with his nose. He must not sleep here in the snow, he needed warmth and shelter with what was left of his family.
|
|
|
Post by { Opal } on May 5, 2009 18:55:10 GMT
A breath of wind brought up a shower of snowflakes, and they swirled around the edge of the river, whispering as if alive. When the spiral settled, a dark figure suddenly loomed out of the white, staring solemnly upon the king. It was a mare, black as night, but every leg had a white sock that made it appear as if she were blended into the sparkling snow. Burilda had seen the whole procession, and her face was grave, as she knew the hell that would soon break loose. She had chosen neither side to hope for, she knew that both would suffer. The King, from the pain in his heart, and the White, from the pain in his life. Burilda shook her head, scattering her dark mane, and stepped backward into the blinding white. Another mass of flying snow swallowed her up again, and she disappeared, leaving nothing but her fading tracks. Burilda had gone again; the White had not called her.
|
|
|
Post by Corowa on May 5, 2009 22:02:19 GMT
Werrilah stirred, felt the whisperings of the wind around him, and there seemed something urgent in its message. Someone blew warm air into his ears, and through half-closed lids, he saw the black stallion and thought he still dreamt. Gathering his legs beneath him, the colt stood, shivering all over with cold. His limbs ached as the blood returned, throbbing in his veins, tingling with this queer feeling he did not understand. Half-blinded by the stinging white pellets of snow, the colt, almost yearling, sheltered at his sire’s side, stood waiting for a call that did not come.
Ears straining, nostrils quivering, he stared into the darkness of the bush, half-wondering and half-hoping his mother would return to them. Surely she was Tingara’s true mate, for she’d run with him through many winters. Yet the mare had vanished, gone with that strange white stallion, who’d come to her in the blizzard and lured her away. “Has she gone forever? Vanished in the snow, with him?” he asked suddenly, turning trustingly to Tingara. “I wish she would come back to us, for I miss her.”
|
|
|
Post by tingara on May 6, 2009 11:44:01 GMT
Tingara whinnied softly at Werrilah as the colt stood, it was a good sign he had not been asleep for long. The great black shivered along with his white son. He felt so drained, he’d watched Nevada steal one of the most enchanting mares he’d ever run with and her final call still resonated in his ears. He did not want to forgive Myrrina, but still part of him did. The black stallion finally answered her final call with one of his own. It was one of mourning and longing but not of forgiveness. He regretted the words he has spoken to her but would not forgive her until the day she realised Nevada was a shallow fool.
He looked sadly at Werrilah, barely visible in the flurrying snow. The colt did not understand what had happened; to be completely honest neither did Tingara. “Myrrina has abandoned you and I for a fool’s dream. Whether she will ever come back is a mystery even to me my son. We must not dwell on it but keep some faint hope that she will come to her senses,” he sighed, attempting to warm the colt against the bitter south winds. They needed to move, to get to the safety and warmth of the remnants of the main herd.
Tingara urged Werrilah back towards the river where the mares were hidden. More than the warmth of the others the black stallion needed to get away from this place. The ghosts of what had just transpired were already haunting him, making his heart ache.
|
|