To Ride the Gods’ Own Stallion

by Diane Lee Wilson

  Two nights spent in the cold with little sleep and less food had left Soulai feeling bruised and weakened, and he had to push his body away from the floor. His stomach rumbled loudly.

  Although the sky outside the gatehouse was changing from ebony to deep violet, the stars outlining the constellation of the true shepherd still shone overhead. Soulai remembered what Habasle had said about the three stars on the shepherd’s belt twinkling, telling that the wings of Ninurta would brush the shoulders of the next king. He gazed at them for a long while, but to his eyes they remained mute.

  From nowhere an owl winged directly over his head and just as quickly melted into the predawn gloom. That reminded Soulai that he wasn’t the only creature awake in the city, and he hurried on through the vacant marketplace.

  In no more than a few steps, a horse’s worried nicker reached his ears; his heartbeat quickened. Frantically searching right and left, he strained to pull Ti’s silhouette from the darkness. He knew something was wrong.

  Finally, as he came around the city’s temple, he found him, confined by the hobbles, staring fearfully into the distance. A pair of luminous green eyes at once startled Soulai and mesmerized him, and he froze in place until the shadowy form slipped away noiselessly. He shuddered. His hands were shaking as he reached out to calm Ti. To his dismay, the stallion was quivering as well. They were the same now, he had to admit, cowards both. “I know,” he murmured sadly as he stroked the nervous horse. “I know.”

  The eastern sky had lightened to lavender by the time Soulai and Ti returned to the gatehouse. Habasle had his two pouches packed and slung across his shoulders, and he waited, scowling, while Soulai fastened the rug across Ti’s back. Between the two of them, they managed to push the one door wide enough to enable them to squeeze through. Its groaning hadn’t ceased echoing when, as Soulai led Ti out, the door fell from its post with a horrific crash.

  But Habasle seemed deaf to the noise. “Look,” he whispered in awe. He was pointing past the dust-clouded door frame to a faint star hovering low over Dur Sharrukin’s eastern skyline. “It’s the wandering star of the crown prince, and it’s showing itself to me. ” He grinned excitedly and turned to Soulai. “Don’t you understand? It’s my time.”

  Annakum came lurching along the wall just then, more gaunt and disheveled than the day before. His pink tongue fluttered halfway to the ground.

  “Annakum!” Habasle called. “Ready to hunt! ” The mastiff trotted past. “Annakum, here!” The command roared through the still morning but died unanswered as the dog plunged drunkenly into the tall grasses and disappeared. “A plague on you then!” Habasle shouted.

  Grabbing Ti’s mane, he swung his leg and managed to pull himself onto the stallion’s back, though not without an unguarded cry of pain. He snugged the reins and, to Soulai’s surprise, extended his arm. “I have to hurry. You’ll ride.” Their hands clasped and before Soulai had his calf wrapped around the other side, Ti bounded off.

  A fistful of tunic and the questionable strength of his legs were all Soulai had to keep from falling. Ti’s powerful haunches tossed him skyward with each stride, but he didn’t dare throw his arms around Habasle again.

  By the time they reached the dark green jungle flanking the river, Ti had slowed to a walk. The trio began pushing their way into the scrub. One after another, pockets of damp air submerged them. Croaking frogs fell silent as they approached, then took up their chorus after they passed. Coot flushed in twos and threes, flapping their wings and whistling alarm before ducking into the undergrowth. As the ground turned soft, Ti’s steps became tentative. Soulai’s own heart thudded with the fear that they were heading into a sticky trap.

  Near the river, dense stands of knife-sharp sedge and yellow qasab choked their passage. Habasle slipped from Ti to chop down one of the giant reeds, then fashioned a spear by lashing his dagger to it. They proceeded with the makeshift weapon carried upright and ready.

  Greenish black mud sucked at Ti’s hooves now. Each careful step started with a soupy squish and finished with a loud pop. A few more slogging steps and Ti sank to his fetlocks, then his knees. He panicked. Habasle and Soulai struggled to hang on as the stallion lunged and leaped and crashed through the tall reeds. With a splash he made it to the river and halted, breathing hard. The sun had risen. Clouds of red and green and yellow bee-eaters swooped arcs around the intruders, twittering anxiously. Annakum poked his head out a little downriver. He looked frantically thirsty, but ignored the water.

  Leaning over, Habasle yanked on a young bulrush, which came up easily, root and all. He swished it through the water, then took a bite out of the pale bulb. He pulled up another and handed it to Soulai. Crunching contentedly, he scanned the river, then guided Ti far enough into the shallows to skirt the thickest growth. They waded downriver toward Annakum. Soulai stiffened. As hungry as he was, he couldn’t eat. He couldn’t even look down. They were in the water again and he vividly recalled it closing over his face. The shore was in view, though, so trying to close his ears to the sloshing of Ti’s legs, Soulai focused his eyes on the security of land and prayed to return to it.

  As they waded a winding path through tunnels of towering qasab, several deer flushed from the water’s edge. The fine-boned creatures hesitated, heads lifted in unison, before darting into the jungle with Annakum barking and chasing after them.

  Their narrow trail, which was only a slight flattening of grasses, hardly suited a horse, but Habasle urged Ti along it. Upstart palms and a web of creeping vines hindered their progress until an angry squeal sounded ahead. Habasle thumped Ti’s sides and the horse lunged forward, tearing through the undergrowth.

  Within a few strides, Ti stopped and snorted. Soulai peered over Habasle’s shoulder to see a huge, bristled boar standing on its trampled nest of rushes. Its eyes glinted as it warily sidestepped Annakum. Soulai held his breath as Habasle lifted the makeshift spear and hurled it at the animal. The weapon wobbled and fell short. The boar bolted into the jungle with Annakum close on its jerking tail.

  “Get my spear!” Habasle ordered. Soulai had no trouble sliding off Ti’s rump, for the horse was prancing and rearing in a panicked frenzy. He quickly picked it up and handed it to Habasle, then hurried to remount, but found himself stepping into air: Habasle was already galloping away on Ti.

  Frightened, Soulai sprinted after them. An anguished squeal split the air ahead, and he knew that this time Habasle’s spear had found its mark.

  But a great crashing followed. Suddenly the boar, with the spear trailing from its bloody shoulder, charged. Soulai jumped sideways. The boar veered after him, catching the spear’s shaft on a tree and knocking it free. In desperation, Soulai dived for the weapon. He grabbed it just as the huge animal landed on him. Its odious drool splattered his face. He screamed as the curving yellow tusks slashed his arm.

  Grabbing the dagger end of the spear, he shoved it with all his strength into the boar’s belly. A blackness was smothering him, his vision blurred, yet somehow he kept jabbing. The meaty weight collapsed on him and he felt the sticky entrails spilling across his thigh. He didn’t have the breath to vomit.

  Soulai didn’t know how long he lay beneath the dead boar. When the heaviness was rolled off him, he looked up to see Habasle wearing that crazed grin of his. But somehow the crashing sounds returned and there was more grunting and Habasle’s grin vanished as he madly tugged at the spear still embedded in the boar’s body.

  Before he was able to free it, Habasle toppled over Soulai, felled by a second angry boar. Annakum hurtled from the undergrowth to sink his teeth into this boar’s leg, and with a furious squeal, the pig whirled to fight its new attacker. Yelping and grunting, the fighting animals shook the leafy canopy as Soulai scrambled out from beneath the fray.

  From the protection of a tree trunk, he watched Habasle regain his feet and stagger back to the dead boar. He watched him desperately pull at the spear, once again attracting the attention of the boar, which tore away fro
m Annakum to slash at Habasle’s leg. The mastiff redoubled his fury and leaped between the two, catching the tusks in his throat. The strangled yelp shot through Soulai. It was more than he could take. Biting his lip, he ran to Habasle’s side and helped him wrangle the makeshift spear free. Habasle spun, leveled it, and, with all his strength, buried the point behind the boar’s shoulder. The huge animal stumbled backward, step after weaving step, toppled onto its side, and, finally, lay twitching in its death throes.

  Shaken but triumphant, Habasle planted a foot on the dying boar. He shared his smile with Soulai, who, to his own surprise, found himself smiling back. They’d done it. They’d cheated death! Habasle’s expression changed dramatically, though, as he looked past Soulai. Following his gaze, Soulai saw to his own horror that Annakum lay stretched on the ground, the wound to his neck bubbling with blood. The dog’s ribs shuddered spasmodically; with each breath his weak growl trailed to a whimper.

  “No.” The word formed silently on Habasle’s lips as his face went pale. Dropping to his knees, he reached out trembling fingers to stroke Annakum’s bloodied head. But instead of a welcome, he was met with a wild snarl that rumbled up through the dog’s throat. The massive jaws snapped, narrowly missing Habasle’s fingers, and fell back to the ground. The chest deflated and remained motionless.

  “Nooooo!” Habasle’s wail echoed through the dank jungle air. He sat, unmoving, unbelieving it seemed, and stared at Annakum’s body. Tears spilled down his face but he didn’t wipe them away. After a long while, he lifted one hand, then the other, and, as custom required, slowly dragged his fingernails across his cheeks. The lines puffed pink, and bled. “No! No! No!” he cried over and over, pounding the earth. True to ritual, he pulled his hair and rubbed handfuls of mud into it, tore at his tunic in a mindless frenzy. When his voice grew hoarse, he drew his knees to his chest and rocked on his heels. “Annakum…Annakum…Annakum,” he chanted.

  Tears filled Soulai’s eyes as well as he stared at the slumped body of the lifeless dog. He was so tired of blood and injury and death. Miserably he studied the fingers of his left hand, vaguely surprised that he could see right to the bone.

  How long they sat there, Soulai couldn’t tell, but even with the thick foliage shading their heads, the clearing started to grow hot. The sun must be nearing its peak, he thought absently. His mind wandered to other things, like the ashipu, the uridimmu, and Annakum’s strange behavior.

  “Do you think it was the ashipu’s curse?” he murmured after a time.

  “What?”

  “The ashipu’s curse,” Soulai repeated. “I think, maybe, that the uridimmu took the form of a mad dog. He became Annakum. That could mean that it’s over.”

  Habasle sniffled and cleared his throat. “Annakum wasn’t mad.”

  “But you saw him,” Soulai insisted desperately. “He couldn’t walk straight, he was thirsty but he wouldn’t drink…when you called he ran away—”

  “Annakum never ran away!” Habasle cried. “He was the bravest of all my dogs. From the time he was a puppy I suckled him on the teat of a lioness and he drank in her bravery. There was nothing wrong with him.”

  “But he tried to bite you—”

  “Silence!” Habasle ordered in a raspy voice. He knelt over the mastiff and gently folded his legs beneath him. Then he stood. He began piling rushes and palm fronds on top of the dog’s body.

  Strangely, Soulai felt no resentment at the harsh command. As he watched Habasle, in fact, he wondered if he’d ever feel anything again. Somehow, he realized that Annakum meant as much to Habasle as Ti did to him. So, cradling his injured limb, he rose to help. The sudden pain that surged along his arm made him gasp, but he gathered what foliage he could.

  A whistling snort sounded at the edge of the clearing. With a jolt, Soulai remembered that Ti had been part of the contest. He turned to find the sweaty horse uninjured, but trembling all over. His nostrils flared wide, sucking in the odors of mangled flesh and clotting blood. He stamped his foot. The whites of his eyes showed and their terrified expression reminded Soulai of the head charioteer’s angry words: He’s ruined.

  “That’s the one who ran away,” Habasle said scornfully, “not Annakum.”

  15

  A Sharqi

  Yellow flames leaped up to lick the meat strips dangling from the green branch spit. Fat bubbled and dripped, causing the fire to flatten, then hiss and spring twice as high. The carcasses of the two boars lay humped where they had fallen. Their flanks had been hacked open to the bone, attracting masses of black flies.

  Habasle tended to the spit; Soulai sat at his side. It was Soulai who rocked back and forth now, for his entire arm throbbed with the pain of his gashed hand. He had wrapped it tightly in a rag torn from the hem of his tunic and he’d tried to cradle it close to his stomach, which ached as well—from the huge amount of food he had devoured. But in a bizarre way, Soulai felt better than he had in days.

  Ti was hobbled on the edge of the clearing, away from the smoke. He stood slack-hipped, dozing. Soulai wanted to know what had happened, why Ti had been accused of running away, but Habasle just sat staring into the fire as he had since they’d finished eating. He didn’t even turn his head when the smoke drifted into his face. Trying to forget his pain, Soulai focused his hearing on the river birds’ cries of coming twilight, on the occasional splash and ensuing ripple against the shore, on the fire’s vibrant crackle.

  Dusk had started to close in when Habasle lifted his reddened eyes and spoke.

  “I’ve been thinking on it all day…and I still don’t understand,” he said in a cracked voice. “It’s one death. I’ve watched countless dogs go down in the hunt. Why am I crying over this one?”

  Soulai didn’t know how to answer, wasn’t sure if he even needed to. Habasle seemed to be talking to himself as much as anyone.

  “When Annakum was born,” he continued quietly, “the keeper of the hounds told me he was a runt, that he was too weak to live, and he threw him out under the sun. I happened across him later—blind, whimpering—but”—he shrugged—“with this dumb courage he was dragging his body, one step at a time, to—I don’t know—someplace, someplace other than an empty death.” He heaved a sigh. “I knew that day that he had something to prove and that he had the strength to do it, so I set about giving him more. There was a tame lioness in the zoo and I suckled him on her teats. And he grew bigger and fatter and stronger than any of his brothers.” His shoulders shook as he fought to control the sobs. “But he’s just a dog. There’s a hundred more back at the kennel. So why am I crying?” His pleading look begged a response from Soulai.

  “Because he saved you,” Soulai offered tentatively. It didn’t matter if the mastiff had been mad or sick or whatever. Soulai had been there; he’d witnessed the animal’s bravery. “He gave his life for yours,” he added. “So he wouldn’t die an empty death.” Such talk made him uncomfortable and he cast his eyes to the ground.

  He waited for Habasle’s scornful laughter, but when there was only silence, he cautiously lifted his eyes. His glance was met by a somber face. “I think you’re right,” Habasle said. “And I think, maybe, I’ll be joining him soon. Maybe we’ll hunt together in the underworld.”

  The weak smile couldn’t water down the horror of his words. Soulai’s eyes widened. “What are you saying?”

  Habasle shrugged again and sighed. He dropped his hands to his lap, then raised them and began counting on his fingers. “The ashipu is trying to kill me.” He folded his thumb. “There is a hole in my side that worms use for their comings and goings.” He folded his index finger. “An uridimmu may still be tracking me.” He looked at Soulai. “I guess it’s possible that the uridimmu may have taken Annakum’s form, but that doesn’t mean it’s dead. The amulet still lies in my pouch.”

  “Then let’s throw it in the river,” Soulai exclaimed. “Let’s be rid of it.”

  Habasle shook his head. “It will have other uses.” He folded his middle fi
nger. “My horse, the gift of the god Ninurta, has failed me.” Another finger went down. “And you,” he looked directly at Soulai, “I imagine you would not hesitate to lift a knife to my back, would you?” Holding Soulai’s stunned gaze, he bent his little finger.

  “Now,” he stated in a tired yet matter-of-fact manner, “we’ll stay with Annakum for three days until his spirit has found its way to the underworld. Elul is almost over, but Tisri is still a good month to begin a battle, so I’ll return to Dur Sharrukin and plan my fate. Annakum shall not be alone in his honor.”

  Habasle set to work on his dagger then, rubbing the blade in slow circles in the gritty earth and periodically wiping it clean on his tunic. He continued the silent, ritual polishing for three days. The few times he stopped were to direct Soulai to wrap the cooked meat in palm leaves and pack as much of it as possible in his two pouches, though he himself refused to eat. When Habasle was tired, he lay with his head on a folded arm, eyes open, staring into the fire. Whether Habasle slept, Soulai couldn’t say, for each morning when Soulai awakened, Habasle was already sitting up, polishing his knife.

  The three carcasses rotted quickly in the jungle’s heat. The stench was noxious at first, but by the third day, when a worm dropped out of Annakum’s nose, Soulai hardly noticed it. Habasle stared at the wriggling white creature for a moment; he seemed to be settling something in his mind. Then he stood. “Let’s go,” he said quietly.

  Their trek out of the jungle seemed to go faster than their journey into it, and by midafternoon they were plodding up the grassy rise toward Dur Sharrukin. The sky, which usually shone a brilliant blue, burned deadly white. The heads of the grasses bowed before a hot wind that rushed out of the south. Habasle was hunched atop Ti, and Soulai walked in the lee shelter of Ti’s left haunch. Halfway up the hill, a sudden whirlwind stung Soulai with sand and bits of rock, nearly knocking him off his feet. In the next breath the plain fell eerily silent. Soulai glanced up, hoping to see Dur Sharrukin’s walls, but another strong gust blinded him. More dust and sand and bits of leaves pelted him until the air itself became something palpable, a swirling gray curtain that closed around them. Soulai feared that they were traveling in circles. The veiled sun blazed orange briefly, then was snuffed from sight. The sky darkened and the dust-filled air glowed a coppery hue. It shifted and swirled about them until Soulai lost sense of land or sky, day or night.