The Young Black Stallion (10 page)

True to his Bedouin nature, before drinking he poured some of the thick goat milk into a wooden bowl he’d made and brought this gift to Shêtân. The stallion ventured close enough to drink it. “See, Shêtân? I too have learned a few things since coming to the high mountains,” he said.

That night Rashid thought of these things as he lay on his blanket and looked up at the stars. He watched Shêtân grazing nearby and remembered what he had heard about the origins of the young black stallion, said to have been sired by the great stallion of the midnight sky. Once he would have laughed at anyone who even paused to consider such mystical thoughts. But the longer he stayed in these mountains, the more he began to wonder what else Shêtân might have inherited from his mysterious ancestors.

A full moon rose over the jagged mountain peaks. He pulled his blanket closer around him. Could this wild thing who could live like an ibex really be the same horse that the desert tribes were going to war for? He wanted to laugh but held back. When it came to
horses, old Abu Ishak was no fool. Improving the breed was a religious duty to men like him. As a child Rashid remembered being taught to read by studying the Koran. In that holy book it was written that every grain of barley given to a horse was entered into Allah’s book of good deeds. On the other hand, he himself had never professed to know one horse from another. Horses had made so little difference in his life. Khaldun’s tribe considered black horses to be good luck, though he knew in other parts of Arabia they were thought to be bad luck. Rashid didn’t know and didn’t care. The young stallion’s value was all he needed to know.

Listen to the groaning from downwind, he thought as he drifted off to sleep. It is only the roar of wind through the rocks. Hear the rustle of footsteps above. It is only a startled hare.
He must stay downwind. He must cover his tracks.…

He was awakened from his dreams by something that sounded like a chorus of voices calling his name over and over. “Rashid … Rashid …” Shivers ran under his skin. His heart froze and then began to pound madly. In one quick movement he gathered up his blanket and pressed himself further back into the shadows that surrounded the rocks like pools of inky black tar. “Rashid … Rashid …” sang the chorus of voices, wavering in his ears.

Then he gathered his wits about him. How could there be people who knew his name up here in these mountains? It was impossible. He listened to the sound again. Could it just be the wind? Yes, that must be it. He’d already heard the wind make many strange
sounds as it wound among the rocks of the highlands. His heart began to race a bit less.

The yellow moon had risen over the crest of an adjoining ridge. All was clear and quiet now. The wind had become still and the voices had ceased. He
must
have been imagining things. But it had all sounded so real. Shaking his head, he returned to his bedsite and lay down again. He forced himself to think happier thoughts. He sang the watering song to quiet his fear.

The words floated from his lips. From somewhere in the darkness Rashid heard Shêtân whistle in reply. He remembered his camel and his family, and tried to go back to sleep.

But before he could, the cry of a bird, shrill and loud, filled the air. It wasn’t an owl’s voice, yet it was familiar. For some reason that sound filled him with dread most of all.

In the morning, Rashid laughed at himself for being so foolish. But try as he might, something told him he couldn’t dismiss the voices as just a trick the wind had played on him. Yet what else could it have been? Wind. Yes, that must have been it. As for the bird … he didn’t want to think about the bird. He gathered up his few belongings and hurried after Shêtân, who had already turned his head into the wind and taken off on his own.

Shêtân found a rutted trail that led over the top of a high mountain and then began a gradual descent. This time the path led not to a valley or another mountain slope but down to the edge of the timberline, through clumps of trees and finally into thick woods. Trees bent low overhead, their upper branches grown together into a canopy that blocked out the afternoon sun and cast perpetual twilight over the path. The horse wound his way lower and lower, emerging at last into the hazy afternoon light.

Rashid caught up to Shêtân just as he broke free of the trees. He sensed something different here, like a momentary change in the weather. The gentle breeze of the woods suddenly gave way to an assault by roaring wind. Then the wind held its breath. From far off, the scout could hear the next wave bearing down upon them as the wind funneled through a distant canyon. Closer and closer it came, and when the wall of wind slammed into them, it brought blinding sand and flying grit with it.

Rashid took off his shirt and used it as a mask to protect his face. He cursed the trail that once again began to vanish beneath his feet and then reappear at random. Shêtân kept his head down. His mane and forelock were whipped into a mass of tangles.

They came to a spot where the wind seemed to subside a bit and a ravine fell away into a deep chasm. The path skirted along the upper edge of the chasm until it came to a bridge and then continued again on the other side. The bridge was made of two tree trunks put side by side, with flat rocks laid between the two trees. The bridge wasn’t more than a stone’s throw across. It appeared old and not very trustworthy. Some of the stepping stones were missing, leaving wide gaps in between them. The bridge’s very presence, however, proved to Rashid that the trail they were following must have been a well-traveled route once, though it obviously had not been used for some time. Perhaps this was the path out of the mountains they had been looking for. After so many dead ends, here was a hopeful sign at last!

Beneath the bridge the chasm dropped away into darkness. Rashid let a pebble fall down into it and listened as the stone bounced off the chasm walls. In seconds the faint sound faded away completely, never seeming to reach the bottom.

Warily Rashid stared down into the depths of the chasm. He caught his breath and tried to decide what to do. Perhaps there was another way around the chasm. Surely no horse would place one hoof on such a rickety old bridge, not even the fearless Shêtân.

A breeze blew across from the other side of the chasm, and the faint smell of the desert seemed to be carried with the wind. The scout breathed it and tasted it, and then it was gone. But the memory had been awakened, and for the first time in months he was sure he was heading the right way. The stallion must have smelled it too, because he started out across the bridge all by himself. Rashid had no choice but to follow him. The young stallion hadn’t hesitated. He seemed self-assured, his ears pricked up and alert, his eyes fixed on the next step he had to take, his body loose and centered low. In a few moments he had traversed the entire length of the bridge and stood waiting on the other side.

Rashid was not quite so confident. His life in the desert had not accustomed him to such dizzying heights. Even his many weeks in the mountains had not prepared him for this. As he inched onto the bridge, a draft surged up from the bottom of the chasm. Rashid tried to keep from looking down into the abyss and turned his eyes skyward. There he saw the speckled breast and all too familiar outline of the hunter falcon circling above. Fear swelled in his chest and he fought it. She was only a bird, after all, and could not harm him. But why did she shadow him? Whenever he looked over his shoulder, it seemed the bird was there, waiting, watching, patrolling the sky.

Her dark, pointed wings slashed through the clouds as she scrawled her signature on the wind. She fluttered them in staccato bursts that pushed her to greater speed. Up she went, climbing, gliding, then dropping like a stone, bottoming out of her dive,
whooshing past the scout. He dropped the leopard pelt and it disappeared into the gorge below. “Cursed bird!” he cried.

The updraft wanted to lift him off his feet. Cliffs loomed above, allowing only fleeting glimpses of sky. Swatches of white clouds raced by. Rashid was suspended in midair, feeling alone and vulnerable, surrounded by nothing but the hissing wind, frozen in his tracks. He tried to will his feet to unglue themselves from the spot where he stood and fixed his eyes on the opposite bank of the chasm.

When he finally emerged on the other side, Rashid fell to the ground and kissed the earth, offering a thousand thanks to Allah for guiding him across the bridge. Shêtân seemed too impatient to wait any longer. Rashid called after him. Shêtân turned his lofty head at the sound of his voice but paused only for a moment, rolling his large eyes, showing the crescent-shaped whites. Then the young stallion plunged ahead, kicking up clouds of dust with his hooves.

The terrain began to change again. Here and there rocks and boulders were scattered about, some small and round, others huge and oblong. Some of these boulders were as high as palm trees and seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, as if they had fallen from the sky or been washed there by some ancient flood.

Beyond the next ridge Rashid found himself in a different world. Gone were the towering spires and cliffs that had crowded his vision for so long. A vast yellow plain stretched out before him as far as he could
see. There were few trees but an abundance of dusty thorn bushes and low brush. In the distance small lakes of brilliant blue water dotted the broad landscape, and beyond that spread the desert. And there, at the edge of one of the lakes, he saw the palm-fringed outline of a small village. They had made it! The mountains were finally behind them.

Shêtân stood nearby. Only his black eyes moved as he surveyed the ever-widening miles of flatland ahead of him. The young black stallion remained still, proud and waiting.

Their journey was at an end, their days of wandering over. Rashid rejoiced. He shared with Shêtân the last of the water mixed with milk that he had taken from the accommodating she-goat some days before.

He sat on a rock and watched the horse drain the remaining contents of the wooden bowl. The scout was relieved to be free of the highlands. Now perhaps the nightmares that had plagued him would disappear. No longer would visions take shape in the night or the wind call his name. Such things happened only in the mountains. He smiled as he chewed on a piece of dried lizard meat.

At first, when Rashid saw the figure of a bearded old man squatting on the ground before him, he thought it must be a mirage. He half expected the shrouded figure to dissolve into ripping waves of heat. But if it was a mirage, Shêtân saw it too. The young stallion snorted and tossed his head. Rashid blinked and looked again. The stranger silently played with a stick, drawing figures in the dirt.

He came closer to the stranger, but the old man either didn’t see him or chose to ignore him. Rashid cleared his throat and spoke, hesitantly at first. “Salaam, peace be with you, and greetings … Ahem! Greetings, brother. What is the news?”

Rashid listened to his voice fade into the air. It sounded hoarse and unfamiliar. Who was this stranger? Was he real? Could Rashid be talking to a ghost? He tried again. “Silent One, your dress is of the desert, as is mine. What brings you to this empty land?”

The cloaked figure continued to scrape the ground with his stick. His face was hidden by his headcloth; only his eyes were uncovered. Rashid shifted his feet, becoming impatient with this deaf-mute who seemed to mock him with his confounded scraping in the dirt. “Can you not hear me, brother?” he asked. “Uncover your face, so that I can recognize you.”

The stranger stopped toying with the stick and put it down. Slowly he stood up, tall and straight. Perhaps this wasn’t a bent old fellow after all, Rashid thought. He would have to be careful. Something stirred in the wind. The hooded figure turned his face to the sky.

There was a sound of a flurry of wings. A shrill cry pierced the silence, and the familiar call made Rashid cringe. He took a step back and looked up to see the hunter falcon circling low overhead. The sunlight danced across her speckled breast. Lower and lower she spiraled, finally coming to rest on the outstretched wrist of the cloaked figure standing before him.

It all seemed like a dream. Rashid shuddered and watched the man smooth the falcon’s ruffled feathers. Trying to conceal the fear that caused his voice to tremble,
he stammered, “What kind of man are you that you can command the birds of prey?”

The silent stranger threw back his hood and revealed himself. Standing before him was Abu Já Kub ben Ishak! The desert chieftain’s steely gaze settled upon the young black stallion. “Come, Shêtân Come!” he said in the voice of a man who was used to giving orders and having those orders obeyed.

The young black stallion held his head high. Every line of his gigantic frame trembled. He uttered a soft, muffled neigh and rose to his full height, an awesome, gigantic figure, striking the air with his forelegs to maintain his balance, his long mane waving from his efforts. He was the picture of superb power, his eyes darting fire. He brought his hooves crashing to the ground, threw his head down between his forelegs, then lifted it up again, arching his neck, flattening his ears, pawing the ground.

All Rashid could think of was escape. Gone were his dreams, his fears, the memories of all he had endured. He moved to Shêtân’s side, as if the wild stallion were his protector—the only thing that stood between him and those who would harm him.

From behind the immense boulders emerged one, then two, then a score of men and more. They approached astride finely sculpted, desert-bred horses, war mares and stallions. The riders were dressed in white flowing robes and reflections of sunlight sparkled upon the curved daggers they wore lashed to their waists. Long-barreled rifles were slung sideways over their shoulders, desert fashion.

Rashid was trapped. He could not fight or outrun
Abu Ishak’s men. There was but one way out. Springing off a small boulder, he leapt up and onto the back of the black stallion. Startled, Shêtân rocked back and then plunged forward. Rashid locked his hands around the stallion’s neck, holding on for his life. Away they fled across the plain like a devil wind.