Book Of Book Ideas

Call Me Ferox - Chapter 1: Born In The Wild Wind

Call Me Ferox Chapter 1: Born In The Wild Wind

Once there was a dark, stormy night in spring, when, deep down in their holes, the wombats knew not to come out, when the possums stated quite in their hollow limbs, when the great black flying phallangers that live in the mountain forests never stirred. On this night, Bel Bel, the cream brumby mare, gave birth to twin colt foals, pale like herself, or paler in that wild, black storm.

Bel Bel had chosen the birthplace of the foals wisely. They were on springy snowgrass under a great overhand of granite that sheltered them from the driving rain. There they both lay, only pale bundles in the black dark. Bel Bel was surprised having given birth to two foals, she had heard it was rare, and even rarer for both to survive. Bel Bel looked over the two foals, one was the right size for a foal while the other was small, a tiny thing. Bel Bel nuzzled the small one to see if he would respond. The foal let out a shuddering sigh before sucking its breath nosily. Bel Bel looked at the foal, you could see its ribs sticking out, it wouldn’t survive that long. Bel Bel ignored the small foal and turned to her healthy foal, the wild was a harsh place and sometimes not everyone survive.

Bel Bel licked the healthy foal clean and nuzzled him. The wind roared and howled through granite tors above in the Ramshead Range, where the snow still lay, but there was no single sound of animal or bird except the mournful howl of a dingo – once, twice, it rang out and its echo answered, weird and wild.

Bel Bel lifted her head at the sound, and her nostrils dilated. From the shadowy mass between her forefeet came a faint nickering cry and she nuzzled him again. She was very alone with her newborn foal, and far from her own herd, but that was how she had felt it must be. Perhaps because of her colour, so much more difficult to hide than bay, or brown, black, or grey, or chestnut, she had always led a hunted life, and when a foal was going to be born she was very nervous and hid herself far away. Of the three foals she had had, this was the only creamy, like herself.

Bel Bel turned her head to look at the small foal which was towards the back of the cave, the small foal was younger than the one at her feet. Bel Bel felt a surge of pride: but the pride was followed by fear. Her son would be hunted as she was and as her own cream mother had been before her – hunted by man, since they were so strange-looking in wild herds. And this colt would have another enemy too, every stallion would be doubly against him because of his colour.

The wind roared and the rain was cold, so cold, as if it would turn to snow. Even with the shelter of the rock, the storm was beating down on them, the moving darkness was becoming a thing of terror. The howl of the dingo came again. Bel Bel nosed her tiny cold to get up. Giving one last glance at the small foal Bel Bel decided that if the foal survived the night he would get a name.

The healthy foal heaved up his head, stuck his long forelegs out in front of him and gave a little snort of fear. Bel Bel pushed him up till he stood, his feet far apart, long legs trembling; then she nosed him, wobbling, bending, step by step to the sandy mouth of a cave, and there, just out of the rain, she let him tumble down again.

Soon it would be time to make him drink, but for the moment, out of the wild storm, he could rest. Dawn most come soon and in this storm there would be no men abroad to see a cream brumby mare lead her newborn foal through the snow gums to where there would be grass for her to eat and longed-for water to drink. Bel Bel really knew that there would be very few men in the mountains till all the snow had gone and they came driving their herds of red-and-white cattle, but the fear of Man was never far from her thoughts.

Dawn came very slowly, showing first the dark outline of the cave mouth against a faintly lighter sky, then, on the hillside below them, reaching long fingers of forest right up to the rocks, the wind-tormented heads of snow gums, the driven and lashing as though they must tear themselves up by the roots. The rain had stopped.