IT'S INSPIRED BY SOMETHING I WITNESSED AS A BOY, 35 YEARS BEFORE NICHOLAS EVANS WROTE THE HORSE WHISPERER.
A light cloud of yellow-grey dust rose from behind the
willow trees marking the line of a creek.
It was a couple of hundred metres away, and Sully and Pat could hear no
sound other than the ticking of the old Toyota’s engine as it cooled.
The house before them was very small; just an old
weatherboard farm worker’s cottage, probably only two or three rooms, and it
appeared cool and comfortable in the shade of a huge Moreton Bay Fig. Between the house and the creek was a
low shed, with walls of unpainted grey concrete and a shiny new corrugated
steel roof. No dogs were visible,
no scraggly garden, no farm bikes, no rusting machinery or abandoned rolls of
old fence wire, no chooks and no sagging gates. It was not a typical small Australian farm.
Sully and Pat exchanged a look of admiration for the
favourable first impression, and got out of the ute. Sully pointed toward the willow trees and the drifting dust
cloud, and raised an enquiring eyebrow.
Pat nodded.
As they reached the willows they discovered the source of
the dust. On a flat area just
across the creek was a circular enclosure, about twenty metres in diameter,
fenced with stout log posts connected by rough-cut wooden rails. The surface inside the enclosure was of
smooth yellow-grey dirt. At the
exact centre of the enclosure stood a broad post, about a metre high, and
seated on it, his arms casually folded, was a man. He was facing directly towards Sully and Pat, but showed no
sign of being aware of their presence.
The actual cause of the dust cloud was a young chestnut horse, wildly
snorting and stamping in a tight circle of nervous frenzy, just a few paces
behind the man. Its flanks and
chest were streaked dark with perspiration, and its eyes wide with alarm.
The horse abruptly approached the man’s back, its head
jerking and twitching in agitation, and its hooves skittering and slipping in
the loose dirt. It came so close
to him that Sully and Pat could see the flecks of foam from its lips and
nostrils spray onto the man’s shoulders as it snorted. Then it suddenly flinched, lurched
wildly sideways and quickly retreated again, before resuming its frenetic,
dusty dance. The man sat perfectly
still, ignoring both the horse and his visitors, who had now paused under a
willow tree.
Pat moved to step across the small creek, but Sully placed a
hand on his shoulder and they stood quietly in place together, waiting to see
what would happen.
Nothing happened, or at least nothing different. The man remained motionless on the
post, and the horse continued to paw and snort, tossing its head in confusion,
and circling uncertainly in the dust.
Sully examined the man. He wore dark trousers, a white shirt buttoned up at the
collar, and a black waistcoat with a shiny satin back. Where Sully had expected to see riding
boots, he noted instead conventional black leather lace-up shoes, well polished
beneath their fine surface coating of dust. His hat was an Akubra, but not of the usual broad-brimmed stockman’s
style; it was of the type more popular in the 1930’s or 40’s. Sully was reminded of Humphrey Bogart.
At about that time, they realised that the horse was
gradually quieting. Its frenzied
stamping and pacing had slowed and finally stopped, and now it simply stood a
few paces behind the man, breathing hard, warily shifting its weight and
swaying its lowered head from side to side. Its expression, in as much as a horse can have an
expression, now suggested confusion tempered with curiosity.
The horse approached a step closer. The man was unmoved. Another step: now it was less than a
metre behind him. Again there was
no response from the man, so the horse cautiously closed the remaining distance
between them and softly touched its foam-speckled muzzle against the man’s
right shoulder. The bunched ropes
of muscles in its chest twitched involuntarily.
‘Well fuck me!’ Pat whispered, his eyes never leaving the
remarkable scene. Sully silently
agreed.
The horse, its head now resting on the man’s shoulder,
rolled its nearside eye towards him, seeking a reaction. When there was none, it gently bumped
its nose against the side of the man’s head. Then again. And
a third time.
At last the man moved.
He unhurriedly reached up with his left hand and laid his fingers
lightly on the horse’s muzzle. The
tips of his fingers were resting directly across its nostrils, and the horse
trembled at the touch and smell of him.
But it did not retreat, and quickly the trembling passed. The man then eased his right hand
across under the horse’s jaw and up the other side of its cheek, until he was
apparently embracing its head. He
spoke a few very quiet words, and the horse lowered its head slightly, allowing
the man’s arm to slide even further around it and his fingers to slip beneath
the hanging strands of sweat-soaked mane.
The man spoke again, gently, and turned his own head slightly towards
the horse. Their heads touched. For a long moment both man and horse
were perfectly still together.
Then the man released the horse and stood. He walked across to the rails, toward
Sully and Pat. The horse followed
freely and easily, walking close behind him. They both stopped at the rail fence, and the man at last made
eye contact with Sully. ‘G’day,’
he said.
‘G’day, mate,’ Sully replied. Pat, still dazzled by what they had witnessed, was unable to
manage even that; he nodded awkwardly and remained silent.
Sully gestured.
‘This is Pat,’ he said, ‘and I’m Sully.’
The man’s face broke into a broad smile, exposing perfect
white teeth. ‘I’m Charlie
Mundine,’ he said. His voice was
deep and velvet-smooth, and as dark as his skin. An ebony voice.
‘I reckon you blokes have come to see a man about a bunyip?’
The long concrete shed turned out to be the stables. Charlie had slipped a rope halter onto
the young horse’s head and led it across the creek to the shed, although Sully
suspected that the horse would now have followed him without the halter. The shed had only three solid walls:
the back and the two sides. The
open front was enclosed by a neat post and rail fence with five wooden gates,
all standing open. Behind each of
the gates was a large, clean stall with water and feed troughs made from wooden
wine barrels cut in half. The
floors of the stalls were of dry, coarse river sand.
‘This used to be the fertiliser shed, back when this place
was part of the big station,’ Charlie explained. ‘These stalls were the bays where they stored the different
fertilisers in bulk. Of course,
they built it facing away from the prevailing wind and rain direction to
protect the fertiliser, so all I had to do was add a roof and build the fence
across the front and I had the perfect stables.’
Charlie released the young horse, after a few murmured words
in its ear. The horse tossed its
head and walked quietly into its stall.
Charlie closed the gate.
‘OK,’ he said, turning away from the horse, which watched him
intently. ‘How about a cuppa tea
while we talk bunyips?’ He didn’t
wait for an answer, but instead strode off towards the house.
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