Paruku: The Desert Brumby

By Jesse Blackadder

From the award-winning author of Stay: The Last Dog In Antarctica comes a moving tale inspired by the true story of the Kimberley brumbies and their journey to Dubai.

From deep in the Kimberley Desert comes a legend of wild brumbies with Arabian bloodlines, who can run like the wind. Paruku, the young bay stallion, flees from humans who invade his desert sanctuary, but is haunted by an ancient memory of being ridden. Thirteen-year-old Rachel is fast outgrowing her first pony. When her father, an equine vet, is offered the job of capturing wild brumbies for the endurance stables of Sheik Hamdan bin Rashid Al Maktoum of Dubai, Rachel travels with him into the remote desert landscape of the Kimberley. Captivated by the wild power and majesty of Paruku and his kin, she is torn by the prospect of taking away their freedom. But is there a chance she could keep Paruku for herself?

From the award-winning author of Stay: The Last Dog In Antarctica comes a moving tale inspired by the true story of the Kimberley brumbies and their journey to Dubai.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Jan 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781743098219

Jesse Blackadder

Jesse Blackadder is an award-winning novelist, short story writer, freelance journalist and a budding screenwriter. Her novel THE RAVEN'S HEART won the Benjamin Franklin award for historical fiction (USA), and she was awarded an Antarctic Arts Fellowship for her novel CHASING THE LIGHT. 

Book preview

Chapter 1

Rachel burst in through the screen door. It hissed behind her on its automatic closer, and slammed at the last second, like it always did.

‘Boots!’ her father called.

Rachel skidded to a halt. ‘But Cassie’s wearing hers!’

Cassie looked up from her showjumping magazine and raised an eyebrow. She was indeed wearing her new black leather longboots, and they gleamed. She never seemed to get a speck of manure on them. Her straight blonde hair was always neatly plaited. She had been born neat and tidy, it seemed.

Rachel looked down at her own elastic-sided work boots. They were smeared with a mix of mud and stable sawdust. She shoved her heel into the boot-remover and twisted her ankle to the side, repeated the action for the other foot, then kicked the boots out of the way and stepped up the single wooden stair into the kitchen, shaking her red curls out of her eyes.

She sniffed. The place was full of the smell of baking, welcome on the cold winter afternoon. More surprising, her father, Mike, was bending down to the oven. He was so busy with his veterinary practice that he usually wasn’t home until after dark.

‘Where’s your mother?’ he asked.

‘Finishing up with that colt.’ Rachel slid into a chair. ‘What’s cooking?’

He straightened up, holding a tray of scones, and the enticing smell drifted towards her.

‘Yum!’ Rachel and Cassie said together.

‘Are you in trouble, Dad?’ Cassie asked.

He laughed. ‘Don’t be silly. I’m just making a treat. We should wait for your mother.’

‘Do we have to?’ Rachel groaned. ‘I’m starving.’

There was a bang at the back door and Cassie and Rachel’s mother, Helen, stamped in. ‘Phew, it’s getting cold out there,’ she said, twisting off her boots and adding them to the pile.

‘Surprise!’ Mike tipped the scones into a basket. ‘Hurry up, they’re just out.’

‘Did I forget my own birthday or something?’ Helen asked, seating herself at the table.

‘Can’t a man make his wife some scones without the Inquisition? Eat up, you lot.’

With a clatter of knives and plates all four of them dug into the scones. Rachel slathered hers in butter, blobbed jam over the top and took a huge bite.

‘Actually, there is something,’ Mike said. ‘I’ve had an email from Ali Mohammed Al Mohairi, stable manager for one of the Sheiks of Dubai.’

Helen put her knife down. ‘Your old mate Ali. What scheme’s he brewing now? Sounds like trouble already.’

‘Trouble?’ Mike said. ‘Don’t know what you mean. The Sheik just wants to capture some Australian brumbies and train them as endurance horses. Ali thought I might be the man for the job.’

‘What brumbies?’ Rachel asked. ‘From the Snowy Mountains?’

Her father had everyone’s attention. He took another bite of scone and chewed with infuriating slowness. ‘No, Rach. Not the Snowy Mountains brumbies.’

‘Well come on, don’t leave us hanging,’ Helen said.

‘He’s heard there are brumbies out at Lake Gregory near the Tanami Desert, ones with Arabian and thoroughbred bloodlines,’ Mike said. ‘They’re fast and tough. He’s asked me to go out and catch some and send them to Dubai.’

Rachel sat bolt upright in her chair, the scone forgotten. ‘Dad! Are you going to do it?’

He scratched his head. ‘It depends. I’d need a locum to run the practice. You’d have to do without me for a few weeks. And your mother would be the one to break them in once I got them home.’

Helen took her time to swallow her last mouthful of scone. ‘Back out to the Kimberley, hey? How many years has it been?’

Mike looked over at Cassie. ‘Well, number one wasn’t born, so it must be fifteen years at least.’

Rachel had never thought much about her parents’ lives before she and Cassie were born. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I worked in Kununurra as a vet for a while before Mum and I were married,’ Mike said. ‘But that’s not where the horses are. Paruku — that’s what Lake Gregory is called out there — is really remote, midway between Broome and Alice Springs, right in the east of the Kimberley. No sealed roads. Not many fences. I’d have to camp out, and find some men from Mulan Aboriginal community to help. And I’ll have to go soon, before the rainy season starts.’

‘How soon?’ Helen asked.

‘A fortnight.’

Cassie wailed. ‘But you’ll miss the championships.’

‘I know. But you don’t need me. The youth of the district is shaking in fear of you, my love. It’s your mother you need there, and Rachel.’

Rachel was silent. Cassie had been training for the senior youth showjumping championship all year. She’d be devastated about her father missing it. But Rachel wasn’t thinking about showjumping. Her mind was racing and she glanced at the calendar hanging on the wall. School holidays started in one week. She would love to see the wild horses.

‘I could help you, Dad,’ she said.

Mike reached over and ruffled her curls. Normally she liked when he did that, but today she didn’t want to feel like a kid, so she pulled away. ‘Well?’

‘You’re too little,’ he said, taking another scone.

‘I am not.’ Rachel sat up as straight as she could. ‘I’ll be thirteen soon. I’m tall for my age.’

He buttered the scone and glanced at his wife. ‘Thirteen. Where does the time go?’

‘Dad!’ Rachel kicked the leg of her chair. ‘Please!’

He put down the scone. ‘Settle, hothead. Firstly, you’re not old enough to be working with wild horses. It’s dangerous. Secondly, you can’t miss that much school.’

‘But —’

He held up his hand. ‘Thirdly, and most importantly, who’ll be strapper for Cassie if you’re not there?’

Rachel slumped back down in her chair. He was right. She had pestered and begged to be Cassie’s strapper — feeding and grooming her horse, Aragorn, getting the tack ready and generally helping Cassie compete. For the past two years her sister had told her she wasn’t big enough, but this year she’d relented.

Cassie’s lips were pressed in a straight line, and Rachel knew what her glare meant. Cassie would go mental if Rachel suddenly pulled out. She wouldn’t find someone else to be her strapper at short notice — not someone who knew Aragorn so well. He was a fussy horse, but Rachel could do anything with him. And even if Cassie did find someone else, she wouldn’t be able to boss them around like she could Rachel.

‘It’s not fair,’ Rachel muttered, and took another scone.

Her mother shrugged, and Rachel knew exactly what she was going to say next. Rachel mouthed it along with her, pulling a rude face. Life’s not fair.

‘That’s enough!’ Mike banged down the butter knife. ‘You’re carrying on like a two-year-old. You can do the feeding and watering by yourself tonight, to remind you to grow up a bit.’

Rachel wanted to scrape back her chair and make a racket, but she knew then she’d be sent to her room and that was boring compared to the stables. She stomped to the door, wrestled her dirty boots back on, and went out. The screen hissed and then banged shut the last few centimetres — not quite a slam, but a satisfying sound.

Blue and Brownie, the farm dogs, jumped to their feet and looked at her expectantly, their tails waving. Rachel kicked at a pebble and they both sprang to retrieve it. She buttoned her jacket and set out for the stables, the dogs running ahead and barking with delight.

It was cold. There’d probably be a frost, she thought, looking up at the clear afternoon sky. The days were still so short at this time of the year, and that made it hard to find time for riding out in the bush, her favourite place.

Grrr! If it weren’t for Cassie and her endless training, Rachel would have had plenty of time to ride in the bush. But the life of the whole family revolved around Cassie’s preparation for the show and everything else came second.

Sometimes it felt as though her older sister was perfect. Always neat and tidy, her homework always done, and always winning some prize for her riding. Cassie had started showjumping when she was eight years old, and by the time she was Rachel’s age she’d already won the under-thirteen jumping three times and had placed in the under-fifteen. Cassie had no doubt about what she wanted to do — showjump for Australia — and every waking minute of her life was dedicated to that goal.

A whinny rang out on the cool air and, despite her disappointment, Rachel felt her heart lift a little. Rapscallion, her shaggy pony, could recognise the sound of her footsteps and he was hungry. He called again and she pushed open the stable doors, making a nickering noise back at him. He stamped, blew through his nostrils and waved his head at her. She stopped to give him a quick scratch on the forehead.

Not that long ago she hadn’t been able to reach his forehead without stretching up on her tiptoes, but Rachel was now looking down on Scally. He was a Welsh mountain pony, twelve hands high, with a shaggy grey winter coat. He often lived in the paddock, but he was in the barn ready to be shod with the horses when the farrier came the next morning, and he knew that a night indoors meant a good feed.

Aragorn was in the next stall, his intelligent thoroughbred face looking out over the half-door, his ears pricked forwards. She reached up and stroked his nose. Unlike woolly Rapscallion, Aragorn’s coat was as short and smooth as velvet. He’d been rugged and kept inside for the past few months during the competition season and he was in superb condition. Rachel’s mother and sister had followed a training regime that would see Aragorn in top form for the regional championships, now less than two weeks away.

‘You’d better win,’ Rachel murmured. ‘Cassie will be impossible if you don’t.’

As she started filling the water buckets, Rachel wondered what it would feel like to be so certain about life. Her own ideas changed daily. Sometimes she wanted to be a vet like her father. But then he’d come home upset about putting down an animal he’d been attached to, and she’d decide she couldn’t do that. Sometimes she wanted to be a horse trainer. The way her mother worked with horses so they went from being wild and frightened to trusting humans and enjoying being ridden was like a miracle. But then the horses she trained went to other owners. Rachel would hate to build up such trust with a horse only to say goodbye to it.

What she loved most was to take Rapscallion out by herself, charging through the bush trails down on the bottom of the property and into the state forest, exploring the bushland, weaving among the trees, chasing wallabies across the flats, pretending she was the man from Snowy River.

She looked over at Rapscallion, who let out a whinny and waved his head impatiently. It was mostly that he was hungry, but even if she wasn’t feeding him, he still loved her. He would canter across a paddock to her if she whistled from the gate. He’d shove his forehead against her chest, almost pushing her over, so she would scratch him between his eyes. But as much as she adored Rapscallion, she knew she was getting too big for him. Cassie laughed at Rachel when she rode him out with her stirrups let down as far as they’d go. Soon she would have to find a bigger pony, or even a horse to ride.

Rachel wondered what it would be like to make friends with a wild horse. Her mother helped train wild horses at the brumby sanctuary in their district; the place where wild horses that had been rounded up in nearby national parks came to be trained and then sold.

Rachel asked her once if she could have a brumby for her next horse, thinking it would be the best kind of horse to ride in the bush. Helen had shaken her head. ‘They may be gentled, but they’re wild animals. They never forget that.’

Splash! The water was running over the side of the bucket and slopping onto her jeans, startling Rachel out of her reverie. She hastily turned off the tap and carried the water over to Rapscallion’s stall. He pushed his head into the bucket and slurped.

The door banged at the stable entrance and she looked up, startled. Her father had come to find her.

‘Are you finished yet?’ He sounded resigned, but not angry any more.

Rachel grinned. For once she had him to herself. ‘I’ve only just started.’

Her dad sighed. ‘Want a hand?’

‘Yes, please.’

He came to her side and reached into the stall to scratch Rapscallion on the forehead. The pony raised his head, his muzzle dripping, and Rachel lowered the bucket to the ground as her father spoke again.

‘Tom Maloney gave me a call today. He wants to know if he can buy Scally for his youngest fellow. He’s ready to start riding.’

Rachel felt a cold moment of shock. ‘What do you mean? He’s not for sale.’

‘You’re too big for him, honey. You’re ready for a horse now; you know that. And when that happens, Rapscallion needs to go to some other kid. He’s got plenty of years in him yet.’

‘But can’t he stay here? I don’t even know