The TuART
After crossing the bridge, Georgia rode east along the road until she reached uncleared bushland and turned off onto an overgrown path that folded back toward McKinley’s Rest.
The track narrowed quickly, wheel ruts dissolved into sandy trails, while the jarrah and marri trees closed in until the sunshine filtered onto the path in broken, jagged shafts. She dropped from a canter to a trot. The usual exhilaration of the hunt had evaporated, replaced by a crawling sense of unease.
‘Shut up, shut up! —I’m not listening,’ she muttered at the voices within. Moondyne's ears flicked back to listen, and she pressed her hand to his neck for reassurance as she turned from the track into a dry creek bed.
The stallion tossed his head and shortened his stride, his ears dancing back and forth.
Once a familiar place to hunt for pigeons and rabbits, somehow now it felt different and unnaturally quiet. Deeper into the bush, the air grew still and no birds sang.
The creek bed dipped, choked with boulders and branches left over from late winter floods. The horse's hooves struck hollow notes on the rocks and the light dimmed as if a heavy cloud had smothered the sun.
Moondyne baulked at nothing apparent then planted his feet and trembled.
After sliding out of the saddle, Georgia led him forward until they rounded a corner where the creek bed broadened out into a sandy flattened space. She dropped the reins and walked on alone.
Propped against the far end of the bend stood an urn, waist-high and darkened; its surface etched with unfamiliar patterns, catching what little light filtered into the gully. She looked around, seeking an explanation for the presence of this thing—this object that had no business being there.
A sudden gust of air erupted from behind her and the urn rocked then toppled, striking a stone with a metallic bell-like ring. The lid blew free and an explosion of light was released in an incandescent spray, bursting outward in a hissing wave. Green gas and liquid rained through the air, burning as it fell, eating into bark, stone and into the sand.
A shock of the blast caused Georgia to lose her balance, and she struck the ground hard, leaving her winded. There she lay stunned, paralysed by the fumes and her vision swam as a thick, greenish haze rolled across the creek bed.
Through the shimmering veil, something shifted and she saw a panther step into view, its yellow eyes fixed with murderous intent as it lunged towards her.
She shrieked as claws raked her forehead and cheek, blood blinding her eyes.
The beast drew back, coiled for another strike but it's killing blow was cut short when Moondyne’s teeth closed around the back of the panther's neck. With a savage jerk, the stallion hurled the predator against the rocky wall on the side of the creek and followed with a shriek of rage as he launched towards the cat, brass-shod hooves striking like hammers. The panther snarled as they crashed together, it's claws and fangs slashing as blood sprayed the pale stones.
Biting deep into the horse’s neck, the black cat's fangs and talons raked his shoulders, but Moondyne was relentless, rearing high, he twisted in midair to unleash a thunderous double barrel kick into the panther's body, sending it flying backwards and slamming into the creek bed with a crunching thud.
Beaten, it dragged itself up along the side wall of the gully, and fled, limping and broken, to crawl away under the thick scrub.
Pulling herself to her knees, Georgia’s world narrowed to the sound of Moondyne’s ragged, whistling breath. He staggered toward her, blood streaming down his shoulders and flanks.
***
When the McKinley twins reached the top of the drive, they found Fin waiting for them, crushing his hat in his hands.
‘Georgia,’ his words stumbled. ‘She went off alone to hunt, and I feel something dreadful has happened. Before she left, she mentioned the Marrinup track. Do you know where it is?’
Wolff and Johan, wheeled their horses and were gone in a shower of dust, galloping east before turning into the scrub where they followed path lines they’d known since boyhood.
They found her in less than twenty minutes; Georgia on her feet, though she swayed as if the ground were shifting beneath her. Blood glistened on her face and head as she clutched at the reins of her horse, urging him on—poor beast, one foreleg dragging, his head hung low, each step a painful effort.
At the sight of the twins, she reached out and staggered forward. ‘Please, help him,’ her voice broke. ‘It’s all my fault—I didn't listen.'
As her legs folded beneath her, Wolff leapt from his horse to catch her before she hit the ground; her body too light, too limp.
‘She’s barely breathing.'
Remaining in the saddle, Johan looped his reins through rings at the sides of the pommel. Wolff lifted her up to his brother and Johan cradled her firmly with one arm braced around her back as her head fell against his shoulder. He turned his horse toward home, sending it forward into a free rein gallop.
Wolff closed his hand around Moondyne’s reins and stood still where Johan had left him. Dust settled on his boots; grit and iron on his tongue. The horse trembled as warm blood oozed, slicking the saddle then down his withers and legs.
He closed his eyes; his face twisted with desolation and the darkest of thoughts.
Of course it was Johan who took her. It had always been Johan—the golden child riding cleanly through life; the chosen one.
Wolff stood rooted in place and watched them diminish into the glare; watching the last of her carried away.
The light of his life was dying, and his heart was broken and he wondered: how was a man meant to go on breathing, when the air he relied upon had been taken from him?