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.
HOMEWARD
11
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.”
&nb
sp; 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.
DRINKER
OF THE WIND
12
Desperation and the will to survive lent new strength to Rashid’s muscles. He squeezed his legs as tightly as he could around the stallion’s girth but was barely able to hang on. The giant horse bolted across the plain as if shot from a cannon. Rashid bounced up and down, grabbing handfuls of mane to pull himself back into his seat. Bending forward, he locked his arms in a death grip around the stallion’s neck.
He did not see the band of riders join in pursuit nor hear the thunder of their mounts’ pounding hooves. He knew only the roar of the wind in his face and the contoured flesh of Shêtân’s powerful fore-quarters beneath him, stretching farther and farther with each tremendous stride.
The world passed by in a blur. Ground blended with sky. There was nothing he could do to slow the stallion’s charge. Across the open plain they bounded, careening between boulders and jumping over rocks. In Rashid’s ears the booming of his heart mixed with the drumming of Shêtân’s hooves. Tears came to his eyes as the wind cut into them like a knife. Shêtân’s black mane enveloped him and stung his face. Only the surge of the stallion’s muscles beneath him reminded him that he was still tied to the earth. But for that Rashid felt he could break free of the world and lift off into the sky.
The band of riders followed in pursuit like a pride of hungry lions trying to run down its prey. Shrill war cries spurred the horses on and quickened the pace of the chase. This was Abu Ishak’s game, the one he played best. His men whipped their mounts, pressing them to greater and greater speeds as they swept across the plain, but the young black stallion continued to widen the gap between himself and the other horses. Shêtân skimmed over the ground on long, slender legs, half on the earth, half in the air. He inhaled great lungfuls of air, fueling the fire that powered his driving hooves.
Soon Abu Ishak saw that he would have to change his strategy if he wished to outrace Shêtân He signaled for his men to break up into different groups. They flanked off to the sides and managed to steer the young black stallion away from the open plain and toward a high ridge that seemed to rise up out of nowhere. Shêtân ran toward the base of the sheer wall and made for a spot where a gully had been washed in the cliff face by some bygone rain. The unstoppable stallion raced on. Rashid clung to his neck, never wanting to let go, trusting the stallion to determine their fate. His eyes were shut tight, so he was caught unprepared as Shêtân sprang forward and began scrambling up the cliff face. Rashid slipped off the stallion’s back and tumbled to the ground.
The stallion continued climbing upward, pressing himself hard against the mountainside. He leaned forward to maintain the fragile balance that kept him upright. If he faltered in his ascent for a moment he would pause and then, finding firmer ground, push ahead once again. When Abu Ishak and his men reached the base of the cliff, they watched as Shêtân climbed higher and higher up the impossibly steep incline. The men uttered cries of disbelief as the stallion scaled the ridge wall. His hooves slipped again, but this time he could not regain his footing. Body heaving, hocks trembling, the force of gravity finally overwhelmed him. The stallion shrilled loudly and slid down the cliff face in a shower of loose stones and earth that rained upon those who waited below.
Before the stunned Shêtân could recover from his fall, the horsemen backed him up against the cliff wall, breaking into a cacophony of whooping, whistling and clapping. He could not avoid their ropes. One length of rope, then another, looped around his proud head and pulled tight around his long, arching neck. Three handlers dismounted and tried to gain control over the wild black stallion. The rest of the horsemen formed a wide circle around them. Not a face could be seen, only the glint of dark eyes peering out from their kufiyyas as they straddled their mounts.
Inside the circle Shêtân erupted into a violent rage, rebelling against the ropes that held him, his eyes white and staring, his nostrils dilated and red. The horse reared up, his forelegs pawing the air. He was the epitome of a wild, uncontrollable stallion. The handlers struggled with the ropes, but as soon as they managed to get Shêtân’s hooves back on the ground, the stallion reared up again. His flailing hooves kept them at a distance. Try as they might, the handlers couldn’t move in any closer. Then, with a massive jerk of his head and neck, the stallion broke one of the ropes cleanly in the middle. He ripped another out of a bewildered handler’s hands. The lone tribesman that managed to hold on to his lead was yanked into the air and toppled to the ground.
As if to show he had no fear of them, Shêtân now stood still, pawing the ground, daring his enemies to make another move toward him. A ripple of nervous tension seemed to run like a wave through the closed ring of horses and riders. They backed up farther, enlarging the circle, giving the stallion all the room he needed.
The men sat straight in their saddles, at attention, and waited for a word from their leader. A few had unslung their rifles and held them ready at their sides. The horses that encircled Shêtân consisted of mares and stallions, colored bay, chestnut and roan. They were working horses, Arabians, all of the purest strain. They held their graceful heads high, their hot coats shining in the sun, their uplifted tails flowing behind them like cascading waterfalls. They were as fine and proud a band of horses as ever stood in one place together, yet it was Shêtân whom their leader sought. It was he whom Abu Ishak valued above all others.
At these close quarters the difference between Shêtân and the
rest was plain to see. Even Abu Ishak’s golden stallion seemed wary of the renegade in their midst. It was not just Shêtân’s great height or ferocity. The young black stallion was a wild creature, ready to fight to the death. He was a black volcano about to explode.
The men began to speak in hushed whispers among themselves. “Man killer … devil horse … bewitched …”
“Enough of that talk,” their lord spat back to silence them.
One of the tribe’s senior advisers ventured to defy his leader’s command. “But what good is such a horse? He has the look of a man killer. Certainly he is untamable.”
The desert sheikh listened to his old friend speak. Then he turned to Shêtân, regarding him with the eye of a superb horseman, and said, “By the Prophet, did you not see him run? When Allah condensed the south wind to create the first horse, this is the horse he meant to make! Wild and powerful he may be, but he is no demon. He is a stallion, a drinker of the wind, as much a part of nature as we are.”
As sight returned to his eyes Rashid found himself lying where he had fallen. Shêtân stood next to him, and the two of them were surrounded by horses and riders. The scout tried to sit up. His body was numb. He could very well have broken bones, but in his present state of shock he felt nothing. He was covered with dust, his clothes were soaked with sweat, his hands were still clenched into fists. Hunks of black hair that had been torn from Shêtân’s mane stuck out from between his fingers. Oblivious to his surroundings, he stood up, staggering as he tried to take a few steps, and then fell down. Blood trickled from a cut on his forehead and spattered onto the ground.
There was a ringing in his ears. The sound grew louder but no clearer. He looked up into the sky and the sun blinded him. He raised his hand to try shading his eyes from the glare. All he could make out were shadows moving around him, right to left, left to right. But there came no rush of footsteps. None dared approach and incur Shêtân’s wrath. It was as if the young black stallion was guarding him from those he thought would do him harm.
The Young Black Stallion Page 8