Babbiloora Brumbies

Prologue

The harsh Australian sunlight glared down at the inhabitable outback, heating the red cracked ground that was already starved of moisture. Kangaroos leaped past, trying to escape the menacing heat under the few scattered trees that the outback provided. Cockatoos squawked restlessly as they flew by, black silhouettes against the bright, blinding sky. Lizards dashed across the ground before the incredible heat scorched their tender feet.

No humans ventured here; they did not know of this lost land, trapped in time, where only the sun and the stars guided you on your journey, where only the cockatoo's shriek woke you at dawn and the dingo's howl announced the nightfall. But, some did know this ancient land. And by the blood in their veins and the wind in their manes, they belonged here. They were the wild horses of Australia, the brumbies.

It started as a hum in the background, a steady rhythm that hushed the shrieks of the birds and the howls of the dingos. It grew to a noise like thunder, getting louder and louder. A blur of colours and clouds of dust appeared like a storm on the horizon. The creatures came into view, galloping wild and free across the desolate land. The lead mare, a clever and wise creature, led the way. Her faded bay coat was dusted with red sand, and caked in mud from a wet season that felt like a lifetime ago if you looked around at the dry wasteland that now surrounded the herd. Her small and cracked hooves thudded a steady rhythm on the hard ground. Her black mane and tail were a windswept tangle, flowing behind her like a flag.

The loyal herd followed; a mixture of blacks and bays and greys, a palomino here and there. Younger, fitter horses that hadn't suffered many a dry season were the first to follow. They had many years of struggle for water ahead of them. Then came the mares and foals. The foals were born in the wet season, and were a few months old by now. They were strong and full of life, but the prolonged dry season had taken a toll on them. Nevertheless, they kept to their mothers' sides and followed the rush of the herd. Last were the stragglers; old, tired horses that had suffered the wrath of the drought many times before.

At the very back was an old mare and a tiny, young foal. He was at least two months younger than the others, and was born in the dry season, in the middle of the drought. He didn't have the luxury of water like the others, and had struggled to survive from day one. He was a thin black foal, stumbling along by his mother, thirsty and exhausted, trying to keep up with the herd.

And like a flash of lightning, they were gone, disappearing into the distance, the thunder of hooves quietening, until silence returned to the outback. They were searching desperately for water; this drought was one of the worst for years, and the lead mare knew it. The herd was half the size it used to be; horses were dying every day. Every single river was dried up, every billabong and creek they knew of. Still, they had to keep searching. They had to find water somewhere. They wouldn't go down without a fight. The lead mare headed east, away from their unknown and inhabited haven, and into new territories.