The Young Black Stallion

by Walter Farley

  The colt had never seen creatures like these before. He recognized the threatening signals but could not restrain his curiosity. When he came too close, the ibex sprang up at the big black colt, rattling her horns in his face for presuming to be so familiar.

  Shêtân backed up and pawed the ground. The colt and the ibex were trying to read in each other’s eyes what was about to happen next. The rest of the herd anticipated the warning cry of their guardian and dashed up the path by which they had come. The ibex stood her ground until the entire herd was well on its way up the steep slope of the canyon. Then she nonchalantly turned her back on the colt and walked unhurriedly after them. When she reached the base of the slope, she shot straight up the path like an arrow to join the rest of the herd.

  The colt snorted as they passed over the crest of the ridge and disappeared into the highlands above him. When he found himself alone again, he whinnied loudly. It was not the whistle of a war-horse, nor an angry challenge. It was almost a lonesome sound.

  A shadow passed overhead. The shrill cry of the falcon pierced the sky again. She dipped her wings and circled one last time before leaning heavily into the updraft and sailing higher above the rim of the canyon and out of sight.

  In the days to come the hunter falcon regularly patrolled the mountain sky, silently threading her way between closely spaced peaks and then swooping down through wind-funneling passes. The breezes bent cleanly around her sensitive wings. She knew well the drafts and wind currents of the upper altitudes and used them to her best advantage, much as a sailor uses the ebb and flow of the tides.

  Totally devoted to her master, she was unlike any other falcon. Sometimes she would even track his prey for him during the nights of the full moon. She lived at Abu Ishak’s camp, but her days were spent hunting for game and floating among the clouds, a silent witness to a thousand dramas played out on the mountain slopes. Her shadow flitted over the rugged terrain below. Time and again she circled above the blind canyon where the ibex came to drink and where the wild young stallion had taken refuge.

  In the afternoons, after drinking, the shaggy ibex wound their way along the steep trail leading up the canyon wall. They deftly negotiated the path, and Shêtân watched them, seeming to note each hoof hold, every niche, every curve, as if to memorize when and where to step. Soon it was Shêtân’s turn to try.

  On his first attempt, the colt was halfway up the wall when the trail crumbled beneath his weight and he slid down the embankment. To keep from falling as he dropped, Shêtân sat down on his hindquarters and braced his forelegs until he came to a stop in a cloud of dust.

  Two more times he tried climbing the slope, and twice more he came sliding and tumbling down. But a fire of determination burned in his black eyes, and he began picking his way up the path once again. He pressed himself flat against the contours of the wall, cautiously testing the rock and gravel before him as he crept along.

  His breath came in snorts. His body was tense, his muscles shook and swelled. Inch by inch he edged along the wall, following the sharply angled turns of the path. When the trail widened, he would pause to regain his balance and then press on, teetering back and forth atop jutting rocks and slender ledges.

  At last he scaled the final lip that marked the wall’s summit. Surrounding spires of mountaintops rose up sharply around him. They settled into a long, sloping plateau that climbed slowly into a sawtooth maze of peaks and valleys that framed the distant sky.

  In triumph over having scaled the wall and reached the higher ground, the colt jerked back his head and reared up on his hind legs, pawing the air and screaming above the wind. His coat was alive with static electricity. He shook his lanky black frame to discharge it.

  The herd of ibex grazed nearby on the patches of brown grass that dotted the sloping landscape. The colt loped in that direction but didn’t join them, content to keep a respectful distance from the herd. As the days went by, however, this distance diminished. He moved with them as they wandered over the slopes and ridges to different grazing grounds. When there was little grass to be found, he learned to eat the moss and lichens that grew on the rocks, just as the ibex did.

  In time he was crossing terrain that was far more treacherous and forbidding than the wall that had reared above him in the canyon. He ran with the goats, living as they did, becoming one of them, looking as wild and untamed as they, at ease in the vertical spaces of the high country. For Shêtân, like the ibex, the freedom from disturbance on the mountaintops was more important than the better grazing below.

  Soon the colt knew well the goat paths for many miles around and the best places to graze. He wandered the mountains, eating when hungry and sleeping when tired. As the spring days became longer and warmer the colt grew bigger. His muscles developed and became well defined. There seemed to be nothing lacking in his conformation, no sign of weakness. The tender-hoofed yearling who had lived in the green valley no longer existed.

  Even though he had been accepted by the ibex herd, Shêtân still remained aloof. During the half-light of dawn, when the morning star began to rise above the horizon, he would stand alone on some high cliff, his dark body outlined against the blue sky. The wind filled his nostrils, singing to him of other lands, other worlds.

  On one such early morning, as Shêtân stood atop a precipitous cliff, a streak of light blazed through the clear mountain sky for a moment and then was gone. The young stallion reared up and pawed the air with his forelegs. He looked as if he wanted to climb higher into the sky, to leap up and cross the bridge that would take him beyond the stars. He whistled a sharp blast. Then, echoing across the canyon, a bellowing cry answered him. The black colt pricked up his ears. He heard the cry again. It was a hostile sound, a challenge to any and all who heard it.

  A white ibex ram, twice the size of any other goat in the herd, stood alone on a rocky crag not more than a hundred feet away. The long, crooked spirals of his broad, tapering horns were chipped and marked from heavy fighting. They raked up from his proud head while a matted beard hung down stiffly from his chin.

  Below them the herd of ibex clustered together on the plain. The other goats began bucking and grunting as they watched the stallion and the ram face off and challenge each other. On their high promontories, the two males were perched where one would expect to find birds of prey rather than creatures with four legs and no wings.

  The ram charged down from his lookout and joined the other goats. The submissive younger rams stretched out their necks, lowered themselves to the ground and backed away from the path of the threatening ibex, who let it be known to all that he was king of the herd.

  As Shêtân moved closer, the aggressive ram separated from the others and began to circle the colt. He shook his saber-sharp horns, legs stiff, hair erect. In response the colt lashed his tail and flattened his ears back on his head. He raised his foreleg as a warning to the ibex, who inched closer and closer. The ram charged.

  Shêtân did not try to meet head-on the horns that came hurtling toward him. Instead he broke away to sidestep the low pass. Then he leapt upon the ram’s broad back in an attempt to knock the ibex to the ground. But his enemy would not go down and shook himself free. The stallion stumbled. Before he could regain his balance, the ram’s horned head gashed his right foreleg. Shêtân screamed with pain. He whirled to strike back with his hind legs. His hooves landed a direct hit and the ibex was sent tumbling.

  Forefeet trampled the ground as they sought the rolling body. The enraged horse hammered the ibex across the back of the neck. The ram slid to a stop against a pile of rocks. Shêtân lunged forward again, raking the thick, furry hide with his teeth. But the ibex was far from beaten. With a surge of brute strength he heaved up. The stallion lost his grip and teetered backward. The ibex picked himself up. In a moment he had gained the higher ground.

  Once again the ram went on the attack, his long horns seeking the stallion’s vulnerable stomach. He tried to draw the horse out into the open, but Shêt�
�n would not make an easy target of himself. He dodged the spiral horns that had already marked his body and showed his cunning by waiting for just the right moment to make his move. But they were both becoming battle weary. It was only a matter of time before one of them would make a fatal mistake.

  Finally Shêtân saw his chance to catch the ibex off guard. He pretended to lunge forward. In response the ibex lowered his head to ward off the blow. The horse swerved and attacked from the side. The ram stumbled and fell. The blood-maddened stallion reared up and brought his full weight down upon the ibex. His mighty forelegs mercilessly crushed the beast’s horned skull.

  The triumphant stallion stood over the fallen body of the ram, and the mountains resounded with the echo of his powerful cry of conquest. Blood dripped from his wounded foreleg, his breath came fast and hard, but his eyes were sharp and clear. He turned his gaze to the sky, where the all-seeing falcon soared easily, drifting freely with the inviting morning wind. The bird watched Shêtân back up and limp off, headed still farther into the highlands. Soon the stallion had left the ibex herd far behind. He was alone again.

  THE RUINS

  7

  Rashid watched the flames of his campfire grow lower and lower as he chewed on the last remnants of the hare he’d caught for supper. It was the first time in days he had dared to start a campfire, for fear of giving himself away. Soon it would be dark again and he would have to put the fire out. It would be time to move on. The shadows of the flames were already beginning to flicker and dance across the wall of the gully he sat in.

  His almond-shaped eyes narrowed to slits as he stared into the red coals and remembered his home far away. He could almost hear the laughter coming from his family tent. He remembered the soft steepness of the windswept dunes, the smell of dust, the hot breath of the desert.

  After wandering through the mountains for two full moons and more, the scout had come to wonder if he would ever be able to leave this rooftop of the world and reach his home in the dunes. For the first time in his life he had come to doubt his tracking ability. But that was nonsense. Wasn’t he a renowned tracker in the desert? He could recognize the tracks of every camel he’d ever seen and from their droppings tell where they had been grazed and watered. But here things were different. Here he had to learn the language of the land all over again. Traveling by night had made things even more difficult. The moon was his guide, and he followed its lonesome trail, using it as a torch to light his way.

  Aside from the lizards and an occasional hare caught and eaten for dinner, the only animals he’d seen were a few wild ibex grazing in the highlands above. Sometimes he heard a bat fly by at night, the hoot of an owl or a chorus of hyenas singing in the distance, but that was all. His poetry, Allah and the stars were his only companions.

  He avoided the occasional campfire he saw on the mountainside. Here in the Kharj district he was among hostile tribes. A few nights ago he’d been turned back by the sight of a mounted hunting party. He covered his tracks as best he could and was still searching for a route onward.

  The barren land had become more and more forbidding the farther he went. One after the other, the paths he took led to dead ends and detours to nowhere. Many times he traveled all through the night and ended up at dawn right back where he’d started. He was still sure that he was headed in the right direction, but an easy path over the mountains had eluded him. He had wandered through a maze of sky-scraping peaks and bottomless gorges to this spot. And it had been cold, very cold.

  He thought of the bird that had shadowed him for days after he left the valley of Abu Ishak. By its speckled breast and shrill cry he could tell that it was a hunter falcon. The sight of the bird had chilled the breath in his lungs, gripped his heart with dread. Surely such a bird must belong to the tribe of a desert sheikh. It must be Abu Ishak’s.

  To look over your shoulder and see such a thing was unnerving, so he had traveled for days higher up into the mountains where no rider could ever come. He might not know where he was, but at least he felt safe.

  Rashid wondered what had happened to Ibn Khaldun. He must have returned to the desert by now. Unless, of course, Abu Ishak’s men had caught up with him and killed him. Rashid hoped so. Let him die a thousand deaths for abandoning me here, he thought. The heat rose off the fire, and Rashid imagined that it was a mirage wavering over the desert sands. He could almost hear the chorus of jackals howling in the moonlight, feel the desert wind on his face, feel the hot breeze as it blew in from beyond the great dunes of the Uruq al Shaiba.

  The night fell and cast a leaden blue color on the land. The trail was beginning to lose its shape and melt into the shadows. Only the tips of the high peaks were painted red by the sun. Soon they too were lost.

  Onward the scout went, one step following the other, carefully, quietly, lest someone hear. The night was dark, the shadows eerie. The voices of the night began to sing.

  Listen to the groaning from downwind, he said to himself. It is only the roar of wind through the rocks. Hear the rustle of footsteps above. It is only a startled hare. Listen to someone calling your name. It is only an owl hooting in the distance, its call wavering with the wind. He must stay downwind. He must cover his tracks.

  Upward he climbed, higher and higher. His eyes had adjusted well to the nocturnal wanderings, but tonight his legs were weary and beginning to drag. It was no wonder. He surely had already traversed hundreds of miles of trail, slipped through the shadows of what seemed a thousand nights and more.

  The moon rose above a ridge. Its light shone on a ruined structure built into the side of the cliff in the distance. Or was it just the moonlight and the shadows playing tricks on him? Arched doorways were etched in the cliff, as perfectly curved as the breech of his lost rifle. He froze in his tracks and squeezed his eyes to get a better look. The night was far from over, but he sorely needed a place to rest for a while. Perhaps he could find some refuge in the ruins.

  As he came closer, he discovered that the ruins covered a much larger area than had appeared from below. A complex of adjoining buildings had been set on stilts. Some were standing, but most had long since collapsed. The place must have been a fortress built by those who clung to beliefs from before the time of Mohammed. It was tucked into the mountain itself, which was why so little of it was visible from the trail. Rashid knew that some of the mountain people still believed in the old gods. They worshiped nature, drank wine and made sacrifices to the sun. Could this be one of their abandoned cities?

  He entered the most intact building he could find through a shadowy doorway framed with towering racks of twisted wild goat horns. Their skulls were piled one upon the other to form macabre pillars on either side of the doorway. Horns and empty sockets whispered in the wind.

  Once inside, he saw that the floor was covered with dung. It seemed only the mountain goats resided here now. Broken wooden furniture was strewn about on every side. He took a few steps and found a small, fairly well preserved room beyond the first and lay down to rest. He closed his eyes, trying to dream of the desert, but even with his blanket he was too cold to sleep. He pulled out a cloth he found under a pile of sticks on the floor and wrapped it around himself as a second blanket.

  When he woke, the gray luster of dawn had already filled the room. Images from his dreams lingered there like ghosts. He saw the falcon circling on the ceiling overhead, the one who pursued him like a vulture. The haunted face of the old herdsman accused him. Rashid’s cries rose up in the cold, gusting wind as he began screaming: “But it wasn’t my fault! You fell on my knife! It wasn’t my fault!”

  He sat up and gazed across the room. His focus settled on a human skull. It rested on a shelf and was encased in an elaborately carved black cabinet. For a moment he stared into the vacant sockets of the long-dead eyes. He seemed to be drawn into those dark tunnels, pulled by some overwhelming force.

  A low moaning sound filled the room as a blast of wind swept over him. The scout jumped up and rubbed his
eyes. Could he believe what he was seeing? Was he really awake?

  Only then did he remember last night’s journey that had led him to take refuge in these ruins.

  “Rashid … Rashid,” called the wind. The scout’s heart raced. He stumbled on something and looked down to see the floor strewn with bones … human bones. This was not a ruined fortress. It was a house of the dead! What he had mistaken for dilapidated tables and benches were really coffins left out in the open.

  The chalklike smell of crumbling bones was thick in the air. His body started to twitch, his fingers to shake. He suddenly felt the extra blanket with which he had slept and which was still draped over his shoulder. It seemed to cling to him. He threw it to the ground.

  In horror he gazed upon the crumpled purple cloth. Chills ran down his spine and sweat began to form on his forehead. He had spent the night in a crypt covered by a death shroud! It belonged to some long-dead sheikh. The sticks on the floor were all that was left of his bones.

  He ran outside and down the path, slipping on the shale, tripping over stones, unaware of anything except putting as much distance between himself and the crypt as he possibly could. When he finally stopped to catch his breath, he wiped his hands on the brittle leaves of a thorny bush to try to rid himself of the smell. The scent of the dead lingered. But for that, it all might have been a terrible dream.

  Unseen terrors would haunt him for the rest of the day. He imagined the falcon waiting for him at every turn, unfurling her wings above him. The face of the old herder was encrusted in the rocks. At dusk he stopped to rest at the bottom of a ravine. He felt the weight of the shroud upon him as he lay trying to sleep and smelled the smell of death.

  He didn’t know how long he’d slept when he was awakened by what sounded like the neigh of a horse. Thinking that it might be a warning of Abu Já Kub ben Ishak’s return, he cringed. But the sound slipped by with only a single echo resounding through the deep ravine. No other sound followed, and he could see nothing in the grayness. There was little difference in the light from the time he had closed his eyes. How long had it been—an hour, a day, a week? He didn’t know, but he couldn’t stay where he was. Crawling stiffly out from under his blanket and drawing his cloak about him, he vanished into the grayness.