The Black Stallion's Ghost

by Walter Farley

  There was no movement in the saw grass, nothing to account for the source of the wail. His brain refused to accept the possibility that it came from anything human; it was too wild and terrifying. Yet he could detect separate and distinct notes forming the syllables “Ko … ví,” repeating them over and over again.

  An irrational terror communicated itself to his mind. He saw the grotesque faces and limbs and pieces of bodies that had appeared in the drawing.

  He recoiled before the image of Koví as seen by the captain’s ancestors. Yet he could not run.

  Suddenly the wailing stopped and the night was still. Peace came with the silence and Alec fought to rid his mind of the confusion and disorder, even the threat of madness, that were there. There was no monster except what he created in his own mind! There was no horror except that which he was creating for himself!

  A glowing mist, smokelike in shape, appeared close by, clinging to the tops of the saw grass. It changed color from gray to luminescent gold.

  Alec could not have taken his eyes away from it even if he had wanted to. For a few minutes it remained stationary, then it grew larger and began floating just above the saw grass, coming in his direction. It seemed transparent, for he could see the outline of something through it, perhaps the brush and grass beyond. It continued toward him, weaving an intricate pattern through the darkness.

  Strangely he felt no fear of it and, stranger still, he was not surprised at his acceptance of it. It was as if a door in his mind had flown open and for the first time in a long while he was able to see and think clearly.

  He knew the glowing mist was as real as the swamp around him. He had no clear idea of what it could be. He accepted it for whatever it was, whether it could be explained or not. It did not exist in his subconscious but was before him, here and now.

  He watched it glide toward him, luminescent and seemingly alive. It had no substance other than the tenuous smokelike veil, no human or animal characteristics. It looked so temporary that it might disappear any moment, and Alec believed that was one of the reasons he felt no fear.

  It grew in size but no longer moved toward him. A scant twenty-five yards away, he gazed through its transparency and suddenly felt a renewed stirring of his fear. What he saw could not be. The hair began to rise on the back of his neck.

  There was an outline of a figure within the golden sheen. It was no monster but very small, more the shape of a child. As he watched, it became more and more distinct. He knew he had to close his eyes, that he could not look at it any longer.

  Was he seeing something that wasn’t there? Was his mind creating a figure that didn’t exist at all?

  He opened his eyes and found that the mist had not moved or grown in size; the figure was still present within its glow. There appeared something like a small human head, a faint outline of features. It resembled a child’s face. The body was no more than twelve inches in size but perfect. It moved within the mist and Alec realized it was alive! It was his last rational thought before he lost all control and shouted in panic and terror!

  With his scream, the small figure grew rapidly in size. Within seconds it enveloped the mist in its entirety and then, still growing, it burst forth, bright golden and suddenly monstrous to behold!

  In his terror Alec saw what the captain had seen, that which he too knew from the drawing and his dream—a monstrosity, a misshapen head, a single green eye, jaws open and seeking. It moved toward him.

  THE BRIDGE

  14

  Alec found that he could not move or take his eyes away. His stomach turned over in a great wave of terror, so powerful he vomited. He heard the rush of movement all about him; his head pounded wildly, his vision dimmed. He was blindly aware that there was no chance of escape. Nothing was left but a dull resignation to death. The very quality of death was in the air. He felt its dampness and clamminess like the hand of a specter on the back of his neck. It was as if some slimy thing were about to devour him. He wanted death to come quickly.

  A golden radiance engulfed him. It came like a rushing, cresting wave in a storm-tossed sea. He was swept forward in what seemed to be a great plume of fire that geysered skyward. Yet he felt no heat, no pain, nothing at all. He was devoid of feeling.

  Suddenly the light was gone and he was staring into a black void. His thoughts came clearly despite what he had experienced. It was as if his mind alone had survived and now was apart from his body. He didn’t know where he was but he seemed to know what was happening to him. His mind told him to expect something. He waited, not knowing what it would be, only that it would come. He felt neither fear nor panic any longer.

  Suddenly he was aware of a pinpoint of color in the darkness. It weaved an intricate pattern and he believed it was searching for him. He sought to help it find him. Anything, his mind told him, but eternal darkness. He concentrated on the light and watched it grow. Was it the end or the beginning? He wanted to know if he was alive or dead; only that seemed important.

  The light changed color as it neared him, becoming a dark flowing redness that cut a deep swath in the void. He waited, unafraid. There was no place to go, nothing to use but his mind.

  The redness flowed around him, more like a flooding tide than light. It rose steadily and he abandoned himself to whatever it held. His mind envisioned no monstrous figure of Koví, no small figure of a child; he was aware of nothing but the redness of the light. As it wrapped itself about him, there came a simple awareness of being alive. He could actually feel the softness of the crimson light on his body. He raised a hand, groping his way through the light, and felt something that had the texture of flesh! He held on to it, knowing that whatever it was, it lived beside him.

  His mind could no longer think in terms of what was real and unreal. There was only quick and final acceptance of the fact that, somehow, he had bridged two worlds, one of dense matter in which he lived and a psychic world which nobody else knew. What he held on to was from that other world, yet it was here and now. When he let go, it would go back there. It would remain as long as he accepted it and knew no fear. All this was clear in his mind, and with it came an awareness, too, that his own fate hung precariously between these two worlds that seemed equally real. If he became afraid, he would see the most monstrous of beings and the end would come swiftly, not of his physical self, but of his mind.

  Then he heard a sound. The sad and forlorn whimpering came from everywhere, filling the void with a remorseless wail. He tried to shut his ears to it, and his breath came in great rasps with his effort. His fingers closed about the flesh-textured crimson light, as if holding on to the hand of a friend. He would not let go! He believed that which he could not understand but was as real as his own world. He would not be afraid!

  Feelings he could not describe came to him from all directions, flowing, descending, penetrating his very being until they became a single physical sensation, that of a fierce dark wind blowing on him, through him, reaching into his very soul. There was no longer any crimson light, just darkness. Yet he was not frightened. Nor did he feel pain or concern, only great peace and contentment.

  Time seemed suspended. He was floating in a world that was completely new, but he couldn’t describe it, only that he was there and happy. The distant music he heard came as no surprise to him. It was as if he had expected it all along.

  The notes were soothing; he knew now there never had been anything to fear from them. How childlike had been his terror because his mind had been closed to what could and could not be! Now he knew there was a vaster reality that lay beyond.

  He listened to the familiar music, played as no orchestra could have played it. When finally it ended he heard the murmuring of an unseen audience. He wondered who they were and he searched the darkness for them in vain. There were no restrictions to his movements and he moved about as he pleased. He was not worried or concerned. It was a warm and friendly place.

  An ethereal grayness attracted his attention, and he moved toward it.
He saw the outlines of shapes and figures but no faces. He hurried forward, wanting to know who they were, not what they were doing there.

  Suddenly he stopped. He did not belong with them. There was no fear within him, only an awareness that the grayness within the void was not for him. He backed away quietly. There was no need to see any more. He was free to go. There were no restrictions. He had only to believe in the bridge. There was his world and the other. He had nothing to fear from either of them. If he believed that, the bridge would always remain.

  He backed away until he could go no farther. The dark wind began to blow again but it was not the same as before. It did not bring with it peace and contentment. It did not flow and probe deep into his very being and soul. It was a purely physical sensation, bringing coolness to a warm night.

  He lifted his head and smelled the rotting stench of the swamp. His vision cleared and he saw that he lay in the middle of a slough, his clothes and flesh matted with muck and slime.

  He got to his feet and looked at his torn clothes and the mud caked on his hands. He had no doubt that what he had experienced was as real as this. He didn’t try to understand what had happened but accepted the reality of it.

  There was nothing he wanted now but to find his horse. How long had he been there? Had what seemed an eternity been only moments? Was the Black nearby? Could this be the slough in which he had seen him from his perch in the oak tree? He listened but heard nothing. Then he whistled repeatedly until the night was filled with his calls to the Black.

  An answer came from the far right, a muted whinny followed by a whistle as high-pitched as his own. He left the slough and plunged into the saw grass in the direction of the call. He ran unmindful of any danger that might lurk in the grass. He felt none of the sharp barbs that opened new wounds. Nothing mattered but to reach his horse, and he ran like a wild thing.

  When Alec reached the next slough and found the Black waiting for him, he ran forward and rubbed his face against the warm dark coat. He said not a word but closed his eyes, knowing by the touch and smell of his horse that he was home.

  THE WAY BACK

  15

  Moments later, Alec stepped back to look at his horse. The long lead shank had become entangled in a swamp bush; he tore it loose, believing it had been caught often and had slowed down the Black’s movements. He saw the long running wounds made by the razor-sharp saw grass. The Black’s mouth was red-raw and there were swamp burrs in his mane and tail. None of this mattered. He was alive, and together they would find their way back.

  “Come on,” he said. “We’re getting out of here.” He found himself shaking, trembling, so he did not mount immediately. It was a natural reaction to what he had gone through, he told himself. In a moment it would pass.

  He glanced up at the Black’s head. It was held high, the great eyes alert and peering into the night. Alec touched him and the Black responded with a twitching of his skin; it was as if they were two ghosts talking to each other.

  Alec told him that there was nothing they could not overcome together. They belonged in a secure world, regardless of what dangers might lie in their homeward path.

  The early-morning breeze grew stronger, stirring the Black’s mane and forelock. He remained still, his ears pricked up, listening to no sound that Alec could hear, scenting everything in the air. The Black was ready and alert for whatever might come.

  Alec waited, knowing his own senses could not match those of his horse.

  Finally the soft skin beneath his hand ceased twitching and Alec knew it was time to go. Whatever danger the Black had sensed in the night had gone. He took hold of the stallion’s mane and backed up a step before moving forward to spring up with all the strength he had left. His body rolled and twisted as he reached his horse’s back and gained his seat. Whatever happened from now on, he didn’t intend to leave his horse.

  His legs closed about the Black. “Let’s go,” he said softly.

  Alec decided to ride to the clearing and try to convince the captain that there was nothing to fear from Koví except the terror which his own mind created. If he could get him on his feet, he might be able to get him up on the Black. Then they could ride double.

  Before them were the natural dangers of the swamp but no more than that. He was no longer in a state of utter helplessness. He had the Black; he did not feel remote and lonely any more.

  He rode the Black at a slow and cautious walk down the dry slough until he reached the high ground of the hammock. Beyond was the clearing in which he had left the captain, but he saw no sign of him.

  He dismounted when he reached it but held on to the Black’s lead shank for fear of losing him. He walked around the edges of the clearing, his eyes searching the heavy growth while he shouted at the top of his voice, “Captain! Where are you? Can you hear me?”

  There was no answer and he stood quietly, wondering what he should do. The captain had been too ill to have traveled far. Where had he gone?

  Alec covered every foot of the ground, searching for a sign. He found the small gold figurine and picked it up, turning it over in his hands. The green jade eyes winked back at him, as they had when he’d first looked at it. He studied the large evil-looking head and the twisted body. His anger mounted as he held it in his hands. To think that this ridiculous object could create terror in a man’s soul!

  He drew back his arm to hurl it into the depths of the dark water. Then he checked himself, recalling what he had learned a short while before and was forgetting so soon.

  The figurine was only a symbol to the eyes of the beholder. One could make of it what he wanted, see what he chose to see. It held no unique charms or powers other than what existed in one’s own mind. It was a nothing, like every other talisman. The secret lay in looking into one’s own mind, not at the figurine.

  Alec shoved it in his pocket, determined to find the captain.

  KOVÍ STRIKES

  16

  Alec retraced his steps over ground he had covered before. Nothing stirred in the night but the clicking of the Black’s hoofs at his side. He descended into a palmetto hollow and there found footprints, large and deep and fresh, made by running feet.

  Alec had no doubt they were the captain’s tracks. But what had given him the strength to run? Alec had left him in a state of complete emotional shock, unable to speak let alone get to his feet and flee—from what?

  Alec followed the prints across the hollow and into the brush. He walked cautiously, ever on the alert for any sound. A fine mist drifted from the swamp with the coming of dawn. It was clammy and for a moment Alec felt uneasy. He stopped abruptly and patted the Black, finding reassurance in his company.

  The captain might be running from the horror of his own creation, the monstrous Koví. That would account for his panic and the superhuman effort that had enabled him to rise to his feet and run for his life. Alec could think of no other explanation.

  He walked on, following the footprints through the heavy underbrush and wondering if he would be able to convince the captain that his terror of Koví was only in his mind. A streak of silver was visible above the tops of the trees. Soon it would be light enough for him to find his way home with or without the captain. He was traveling in the right direction and for all he knew the captain might already have left the hammock. He thought he saw a small bright spark glittering above the trees a short distance away, but it disappeared so quickly he couldn’t be sure. He continued watching for it, but it didn’t reappear. It could have been anything, he decided—a firefly, perhaps a shooting star.

  Alec walked on through the mist with the Black close behind him. Gloom and darkness still held the hammock but he no longer needed to follow the captain’s footprints; his trail was clear in the heavy brush where stalks of plants lay bent and broken.

  Alec came upon an area where the brush had been flattened to the ground by the full weight of the captain’s body. Had he rested or fallen? There were clumps of uprooted sod lying in every d
irection. Alec picked up one of them and found it wet and smelling of blood. What had happened to cause the captain to tear this sod from the ground and apparently hurl it about? Had his terror become so great that he believed he was defending himself against Koví?

  This was not too difficult for Alec to imagine. In his own panic he had seen the monstrous form of Koví. Yet he must face the situation as it was, not as he imagined it, he told himself. Neither Koví nor anything else could actually materialize.

  Yet had he not touched something within the crimson light that had the texture of flesh? What was the truth? Alec asked himself. Was the answer a form of death itself? He didn’t know.

  Alec came to a familiar grove of large trees and knew without doubt that the captain was returning the way they had come. He brushed aside the thick veils of Spanish moss. At the base of a large oak tree the captain lay sprawled on the ground, face downward.

  At first Alec believed him to be resting, even sleeping. “Captain,” he said. “Wake up.”

  Alec drew back in horror when he saw the blood draining from beneath the man’s head. He turned him over and his shock was complete.

  The captain’s eyes were open but they were the eyes of a dead man. His mouth had been struck or kicked, for his lips were severely battered and all his teeth were smashed in. Something had happened to his hands, too, for they were torn and covered with blood; the fingers were curled, as if he was still clutching, reaching for an object of terror!

  Alec looked into the ravaged face with the unclosed eyes staring at him. Had the captain been right and he wrong? Was Koví more than a mental image created in the mind of the beholder? Could he materialize and inflict these terrible physical blows?

  The captain’s eyes were filled with unbearable agony, not the agony of pain, but that of fear too great to withstand. They affected Alec as they never had done when the captain was alive, and yet these were dead eyes.