The Black Stallion Legend (9 page)

Alec pushed back the long forelock. It was then he saw the wound in the center of the Black’s forehead, a white circular spot where the coat hair had been swept clean, as a razorlike blow from a battering hoof might do. Luckily the blow had not landed square or the Black might well be dead. As it was, he would carry only a circular white scar, and in time the coat hair might even grow over it.

Alec continued to stand beside the stallion, his hand still holding the long forelock as if afraid to let go
lest he lose the Black again. Suddenly the air became cold. A wind stirred, then mounted in intensity until it was whipping the stallion’s mane and forelock. Alec looked skyward into the blackness of the storm overhead. It was time to seek cover at the campsite.

The rain came down in torrents, drenching and cold. Alec moved quickly to the stallion’s side and, leaping high, he pulled himself face downward across the stallion’s back. The Black whirled while he was still hanging on precariously, but Alec’s hands found the thick mane and quickly he pulled himself upright as the Black came to a stop.

Alec spoke softly, a sound rather than a word, and the Black broke swiftly into a full run. Alec guided him up the incline and into the green valley. The triple, throbbing beat of the Black’s hoofs over the hard ground came faster and louder, echoing the thunder that rolled overhead. Alec moved closer to the stallion’s neck and adjusted himself to the rhythm of his horse. Through rain-blurred eyes, he saw that they had almost reached the campsite. Quickly he slowed the Black and brought him to a stop before the Indian boy who awaited them, his eyes wild with shock.

Sliding off the Black, Alec took the stallion into the rocky shelter, which provided them with some protection from the storm.

“This is my horse,” he told Alph. “He came back. I thought he was gone forever.”

“You call him what you want,” Alph said in reply. “I know him for what he foretells,
the coming of the end.
” Lightning flashed overhead and thunder shattered the heavens.

Astonished by the boy’s words, Alec asked, “What do you mean?”

“I have told you what my old father said. A horse of fire will come out of the desert, a horse as black as the deepest blackness except for a small white spot in the center of his forehead …” Alph’s hand shook as he pointed to the stallion. “You see?”

Alec understood what the boy meant, for the Black’s forelock was swept back and the white circular scar stood out glaringly against his black face.

“You’re being silly, Alph,” he said lightly, hoping to alleviate the boy’s fears. “That’s nothing but a scar he picked up fighting other stallions today. Look at the rest of him. He’s covered with cuts.”

The Indian boy shook his head vigorously. “It is as my old father has said it would be. He is the black horse of fire, and”—his eyes turned to Alec—“riding him will be the one who will lead us to safety.”

Alec shook his head, more amused than alarmed. “Now you
are
being ridiculous,” he said. “That’s as crazy as you say your loco brothers are. I can’t lead your people anywhere. It is you who must lead me. Take me to your people tomorrow. They’re older. They’ll understand.”

“Is that all you have to tell me?” Alph asked. “No more of what is to come?”

“There is no more to tell,” Alec said, watching the boy’s eyes fill with tears. “I’m sorry. Your elders will understand that my horse and I are not part of your prophecy.”

The Indian boy backed away to the deepest reaches of the ledge without further word.

“Tomorrow we will go to them,” Alec called reassuringly. “They will know that my horse is only a horse, and I am no different from you.”

Later the drenching rain stopped as abruptly as it had come. The skies cleared and the night fell over the desert and mountains. The black stallion grazed a short distance away as Alec lay down on the hard ground of the campsite, trying to put his mind to rest and sleep. He couldn’t see the Indian boy in the deep darkness of the ledge, but he knew he was there, somewhere. Alec hoped that by morning the boy would come to his senses.

The temperature dropped and the night became very cold. Alec turned on his back, moving his legs and arms to keep warm. The stars overhead were sharp and hard. Turning his gaze to the stream below, he could see the small herd of sheep congregating not far from the Black. Their eyes made tiny trails of light in the darkness.

Finally Alec fell into a deep, exhausted sleep. He never knew that the Black visited him often during the night, his gigantic form silhouetted against the walls by the light of the small campfire. Neither did he know that in the wan grayness of early dawn, the Indian boy gathered his sheep together and drove them from the valley—vague, shadowy figures that climbed the hills toward the high mountains beyond.

The first rays of the morning sun fell on Alec’s body, but it was not their warmth that awakened him. Instead it was the stallion’s nose, pushing the back of his head. Without opening his eyes, Alec reached out to touch the Black’s nostrils, warm and soft beneath his
hands. The stallion made a gentle puff and pushed his damp nose harder against Alec’s neck.

Rolling over, Alec said, “Okay, I’m up.” He looked past the stallion to the valley below and realized the sheep were missing. He turned quickly to the far reaches of the campsite and saw that the boy was gone too!

Jumping to his feet, Alec swept the valley with his eyes. There was no sign of them. Alec guessed that Alph had left to alert his people to the coming of the black horse of fire and the fulfillment of their ancient prophecy.

Alec was on his own again. But this time he had the Black with him, and he could follow Alph’s tracks to the Indian village. He felt rested and confident.

“Let’s go, fellow,” he said.

Alec studied the valley for the first time in detail. There was another spring at the far end and enough good grazing land for a flock of sheep twice the size of the Indian boy’s. No doubt the valley had been used over the years by many herders. At the far end Alec saw what looked like a trail leading from the floor of the valley up to the top of the cliffs. Mounting the Black, he rode toward it.

When he reached the trail, he knew it was the way the Indian boy had gone, for there were fresh sheep droppings. He was certain, too, that the trail had been man-made, for a stone embankment to prevent washouts ran up the near side.

Alec dismounted and led the Black up the trail. He climbed hurriedly, aware that the stones had been worn smooth by many feet before his own. At the top he found a high plain reaching to a series of wide ridges, one after another. Beyond them were the snow-capped
mountains, and Alec knew that somewhere within them was the Indian village.

The plain was bleak and bare, the soil scarcely covering the rock beneath it. He found no tracks of the sheep, no droppings. But he knew it was in the direction of the distant hills that he should go. He mounted the Black and rode on.

When Alec entered the hills, the ground was soft beneath the Black’s hoofs. Alec looked for the tracks and droppings he hoped to find, but there were none. There were many routes the Indian boy could have taken to reach his village and Alec felt the first signs of hopelessness.

He touched the Black’s neck, sending him on. “We’ll make it,” he said. “Let’s go.”

Arroyos, flooded with rain from the night before, cut the land like dark ribbons before him. He rode around them, finding one rift in the hills after another, and coming ever closer to the mountains.

Alec climbed for a long time, finally reaching by midday the summit of the hills with the high mountains looming close by. Coming to a stop, he rested the Black and together they listened to the wind’s muffled roar in the trees. Here the land was fertile and Alec would have looked for something to eat had it not been for the strange cry of the wind. It made him uncomfortable. The Black, too, was listening intently to it, his nostrils wide and flaring.

Finally Alec rode the Black forward, hoping to find a well-used trail or tracks, anything that might lead him to the Indian village. Despite the solitude of the high
country, he could not escape the feeling that they were not alone. He stopped and shaded his eyes from the sun, trying to shake off the haunting feeling that there was danger ahead. He heard a distant wailing but he told himself it was the wind in the mountain canyons above. He stroked the Black’s neck and rode on.

His mind was playing tricks on him, Alec decided. He had listened too intently to the Indian boy’s talk of sacred ground and ancient prophecies. But if this truly was sacred ground to the Indians, there was something unholy, diabolic, about it as well. Otherwise he wouldn’t feel as uneasy as he did.

Alec had gone only a short distance when he came to a great rift in the cliffs. At one time it had probably been the deep gorge of a river, long gone dry. There was the possibility that it led to higher ground, and he decided to risk traveling through it.

Alec rode up the gorge, the great crags of stone towering above him. Within a short distance the gorge widened dramatically, and Alec found himself in what he could think of only as a walled arena. The land ahead stretched for a half-mile or more between snow-capped mountains, and at the far end he could see a structure of some kind!

Alec stopped the Black dead in his tracks. At first he thought he might have reached the Indian village; then he realized the structure was in ruins, an enormous pile of stone rubble. There was no sign of life anywhere, and yet Alec had a horrible, eerie feeling of being watched. A sense of chilliness, even dread, filled the air, warning him to be careful.

Alec looked at the cliffs above him. Up there the deep shadows gave a blurred appearance to everything his wild imagination could conjure.

Alec turned away. It was the utter desolation of the area that accounted for his fear, he decided. And the enormous pile of stone rubble in the distance, surrounded by this great waste of loneliness, only added to it.

Alec stroked the stallion’s neck, more to calm himself than his horse. He told himself that he had nothing to fear while astride the Black. He had only to ride out of the area. He should not let his mind play tricks on him again. But despite his words of caution, Alec’s gaze turned once more to the shadows in the rocky crags above, seeking answers.

Suddenly he knew that what he saw was
real
and no trick of his mind!

A ghostly body moved from behind nearby rocks, its grotesque arms stretched in his direction. The features were indistinct in the ghastly whiteness of its face, but its brutishness created a feeling in Alec of indescribable horror!

For a moment Alec sat absolutely still, paralyzed by what he saw. Then his eyes were drawn to other figures moving down the mountainside toward him. Suddenly Alec realized that ghostly bodies were emerging from the shadows everywhere, a living, ghoulish mass of powdered blank faces. They seemed to grow by the hundreds as they made their way toward him!

It was only then that Alec recalled the Indian boy’s warning:
“The loco brothers … your people and mine, strung out on crazy weeds … covering their bodies with white powder and living in a dream world of their own making.”

Alec tried to quiet his fears. The loco brothers were not monsters but people like himself. There might be some among them who would help him. He must look at them that way. He must not panic and try to get away.

Even though he recognized them for the human beings they were, many his own age, their bodies painted and powdered, he was filled with a terrible sense of overwhelming repugnance. He scrutinized the faces of those who stood just a short distance away from him, staring at him, wondering, perhaps, who he was astride such a horse. He might be as bewildering to them as they were to him.

The loco brothers stood just above him, balancing themselves suicidally on the edge of deep crags where one slip meant certain death. It was as though they had no fear of death … or didn’t care, Alec decided. There was something about them, other than their ghoulish appearance, that suggested a state of life in death, something he could think of only as a deathless trance.

Suddenly Alec heard the swishing sound of a hurled weapon. The air close to his head was sliced, and a long spear landed a few feet away, its stone arrowhead imbedded in the ground!

Alec whirled the Black as rocks and arrows of every description were hurled at them. Riding low, he screamed into the stallion’s ear and made for the entrance to the walled arena. But the loco brothers were there, too, lined up across the mouth of the gorge, mobs of them, their spears raised and waiting for him!

The black stallion bounded over the ground on long, slender legs, half on the earth, half in the air. Alec lay low on his horse’s back, his eyes on the bulky grayish mass of human figures that blocked their exit from the walled arena.

“They mean to kill us, if they can,” he warned himself as well as his horse.

A stone thrown from above struck the Black’s head. He squealed in pain. A spear grazed Alec’s shoulder and he heard shrieking voices as he lost his balance and almost fell.

The Black ran with fierce strides. Alec hoped that the very sight of the stallion would scatter those who awaited them at the gorge. Faster and faster the horse ran, his great nostrils puffed out in his fury. He held his long strides without a break, jumping over snags and boulders as if they weren’t there.

At the gorge the pack of surging, ghastly heads
and bodies came forward to meet the onrushing stallion. There seemed to be hundreds of them, and they showed no fear of the Black. Where had they all come from? Alec wondered. They were close enough now for him to make out the ornaments of bones, feathers and teeth they wore on their naked, painted bodies. Their heads were shaved, their eyes heavy-lidded and colorless. They moved toward him in a huge mass, twitching their bodies from side to side and gibbering in a maniacal, feverish chant.