Men had long forgotten the tales of a mysterious silver stallion. Few brumbies roamed the cascades and the machines of men traversed the dusty roads without thought or care for the plants or creatures. Nature and her seasons, as well as men, had changed the high country into a different world than it used to be. The blood of the silver herd had disappeared, and no creamy horses roamed the remaining herds, all but one.
He was many times older than any horse should be, and this was evident in every line of his weary, aged body. A white film covered his dark and clever eyes, his legs were weak and he was so very thin, it looked as if you could see each bone of his body. His coat was course and patchy, so that not even the late spring sun could make it shine. His mane was full of knots, and his ears had lost much of their use. His once silver muzzle was a dank, aged grey and each movement was an effort. Thowra, the mighty silver stallion, looked as if a strong gust of his own namesake, the wind, could end him.
Despite his age, Thowra was no fool, and he knew that when the snows next came to the mountains, they would come to cover his bones, just as they did his mother Bel Bel. He spent his weary days wondering the bush, and the other brumbies left him alone. Some remembered stories they had been told by their mothers of magical silver horses, but for the most part it was because such an ancient horse was no threat.
Thowra often found himself travelling without thought to his most beloved places of his youth. He stood above the Secret Valley and despaired, for his old legs could no longer carry him down the cliffs. It was in this old haven and hiding place that Golden had passed, as had dear old Boon Boon. He would then travel to Yarramans' valley, and in the same place as his mighty father, dear noble Storm had taken his last breath. Thowra mustered his energy and let out a sobbing neigh of grief, but it was thin and weak and no creature seemed to even notice the lonely call.
The old horse had outlived his foals, and his grand foals, even his great-grand foals. However, it seemed fitting, that the first silver horse should also be the last. As the days passed, Thowra took his weary body slowly, so slowly, up to the Ramshead, his birthplace. It was here that the bones of an old creamy mare bleached in the sun, and it was here that Thowra wished to lay down his own bones.
Men no longer came to chase the brumbies, no lowering red and white cattle grazed the high country, and the huts of men stood old and empty. Thowras era in these mountains had long passed. The warm days came and left. The leaves began to change colour and the air grew cooler.
When the snow finally fell that year, it came to cover the ancient stories of a ghost horse, to cover the legends of silver horses who ran with the wind and snow. The snow covered the bones of many creamy horses, and one was a horse who seemed as old as the mountains and ran with the wind, a horse made of silver, and a horse who would not be found until the snows melted, a horse whose bones had been left to mingle with those of his mother, high upon the Ramshead.