The Young Black Stallion (3 page)

“
Stars … as though dropping from the sky … so bright … so close … a brilliant light … swinging in mighty arcs … what dost it mean?
”

The young man detected a dreary, senile expression on the old man’s face. Now he truly believed that there was no tale to tell, that the ancient one was simply living out childish fantasies that were spinning crazily in his mind.

“The Prophet be with you,” he said kindly, more to himself than the old man. “May Allah inspire you and be with you always.”

Rising to his feet, he touched the old man’s shoulders, shaking him gently. “Wake up, Great Father. Our watch is not yet over.”

There was no response to his urging, and he decided to let the old man be. The young man could keep watch by himself. He stood patiently and looked all around, at the yearlings grazing nearby; the valley below, now blue in shadow; the jagged peaks that towered above them on every side, the tops catching the very last rays of the setting sun.

His eyes still closed, the old one began groaning softly and shivering in the cold. The young herder had been afraid of something like this. The old one’s strength was lessening every day. It was time to get him down to the encampment in the valley. The young man looked below for the herders who would take their place in this high upper pasture, but there was no sign of them. It was too early.

Turning to the old man, he shook him gently. “Please, Great Father, we will go now. I will help you to your feet.” But the old one did not stir, except for mumbling to himself as if asleep.

Thrusting his turbaned head close to that of the old man, the young herder tried again. “Wake up, Great Father. You’re dreaming. It is time for us to go. If you remain here in the cold, your only destiny is death.” He shook the thin shoulders harder than before.

Finally the old man opened his small, piercing eyes and found the strength somewhere to speak. “I cannot go,” he said, his voice but a whisper. “You no longer have need of me.”

“By the love of the Prophet!” cried the young man. “You are old and sick in the head, Great Father. You cannot stay here. As powerful as you are, I will not allow it. I will go below. I will return with others and we will carry you away!”

Having made up his mind, the young man turned abruptly and made for the trail to the valley floor.

For several minutes the old man sat there, motionless. Then slowly he struggled to his feet and stood very straight despite the strong wind that buffeted his body. He frowned as he squinted into the dark shadows of the fast-approaching night. Suddenly he felt terribly alone beneath the vastness of the mountains and the unknowable peaks looming above him. The terrifying stillness was broken by the loud wail of an animal in the distance. He sought to place the cry but could not recognize it.

Darkness settled on the pasture. He remained
where he was, conscious only of a bird of night circling lazily above him.

Then a full yellow moon began to rise above the craggy ridge that bordered the valley. Turning his head, the old man looked at the horses close by. The magnificence of the black colt, the encampment hidden below in the remote valley, the sheltering mountains over which no intruders could come without betraying their approach—these things were all according to the plan of Abu Já Kub ben Ishak and his forefathers.

So the black colt, the one he knew to be like no earthly horse he had ever seen, would be forever safe.

The lone Bedouin scout lay on the cold stone, having watched and listened to the two herders until the old man had been left alone. Now he crawled forward with the adeptness and quietness of the born desert raider. If the old man cried out, he would have to kill him. The thought of killing the ancient one disturbed him. But his chieftain, Ibn al Khaldun, who was not far behind, had told him he must be prepared to do so. He should not wonder at his fear of killing the old man, for the ancient one’s reputation was well-known throughout the land. He was more than a herder of horses, a nomadic driver. He was a legendary chieftain in his own right, a survivor in a land soaked in the blood of slaughtered tribes. There were some who said he was too close to the Prophet to ever die.

The scout would soon know. He had never killed before, but he had been told it was simple. You flicked your knife, and they were dead. He wasn’t afraid to kill, he told himself, only
not
to kill. For Ibn al Khaldun,
who wanted the black colt, would have his head if he failed to silence the guard.

But the scout did not think that he would need to kill. All he had to do was suddenly appear by the old man’s side, show his dagger and say, “Be quiet, Father, and you will live to see the dawn.” Perhaps he would have to clamp his hand over the old man’s mouth. The ancient one would be too feeble to resist.

Drawing his long knife, the scout moved cautiously toward the old man. The herder stood alone in the moonlight as if asleep on his feet. It would be easy, very easy.

“This is my colt,” the old man wanted to shout to a multitude of listeners. “This is the result of all we’ve worked for. Look upon him. He carries the blood of Jinah Al-Tayr, the finest mare ever bred and raced by the tribe of Abu Já Kub ben Ishak. Yet she saved her greatness for this colt, in whose blood along with hers is that of the great stallion of the night sky. He will be the ultimate perfection in a horse. In the name of the Prophet, look upon him, all of you.”

Trying to get closer to Shêtân, the old man took several strides against the wind that whipped his frail body. Then he stopped suddenly and pressed the woolen cloak against his chest. The pains were sharp. He mustn’t get sick now as he had in the past. The pains must stop. He had too much to do.

The black colt swept by. Was there ever a betterstriding colt? he wondered. Was there ever one faster? The old man pressed the cloak harder against his chest, hoping its warmth would still the severe pains he felt
there. The beat of his heart seemed to pound louder than the horse’s hooves. Yet his ears heard only what he wanted to hear, the strong hoofbeats of the black colt.

The chest pains grew stronger, and the old man fell to his knees on the cold ground. Finding it hard to breathe, he opened his mouth wide, seeking more air. After years of waiting he could not die, for the young colt was on his way to greatness.

Shêtân swept by again, and tears came to the old man’s eyes as he watched him pass in the moonlight. He found himself on his hands and knees, crawling after the colt. He began breathing faster, taking huge gulps of icy air, hoping this would numb his pain. But it did not.

Feebly, he moved forward in the direction of the black colt, thinking he was traveling rapidly but barely moving. Finally he came to a stop, his head turning slowly in the direction from which he had come. It was more intuition than any sound that made him aware of the hooded figure behind him.

He raised one hand as if to ward off a blow. There stood a young Bedouin with a dagger; his other hand was raised in a warning gesture. Suddenly, fingers of pain seemed to be digging, tearing into the old man’s very eyeballs. He pulled away and recognized the Bedouin’s
kufiyya
as that of the hateful tribe of Ibn al Khaldun!

With great effort he rocked his body back and forth, knowing that Ibn al Khaldun’s horsemen would not be far behind the scout. His severe chest pains came again, but now he was too numbed by what he
knew would happen to the black colt to feel anything.
Where were his own tribesmen? Why didn’t they come?

With all his remaining strength, he screamed a fierce warning, hoping it would reach the encampment in the valley below. Frozen like a statue, he continued screaming, his cries a funnel of white in the cold air. But now they were feeble cries, the sound of his voice emerging croaked and horrible from his throat.

There were tears and dreadful pain in the old herder’s eyes, and he could not see the face that bent over him. He felt the Bedouin’s rough hand try to cover his mouth. In a last burst of strength, he twisted his body violently and flung himself at the scout. The pointed steel blade pressed against his chest but it was too late to stop. The herder struck a final blow against his enemy and fell heavily on the knife. His arms wrapped around the attacker in a deathly embrace. The knife slid deeper into his flesh. It touched a rib, hesitated, and then kept going. The old man crumpled and said “Ohhhhh” very gently.

Warm, wet blood spilt onto the scout’s hands. He disentangled himself from his victim and jumped back in horror. The herder collapsed to the ground. He lay there in silence, the muscles of his face twitching, his eyes already lifeless.

The Bedouin stood in shock over the old man who was half his size and a hundred times his age. He held back the vomit that threatened to come up from his stomach. Everything had gone wrong. He had never wanted to kill this ancient one, so much a legend among his own tribe as well as that of Abu Já Kub ben
Ishak. The scout attempted to wipe the sticky blood from his hands.

It’s not my fault! he wanted to cry out. He fell on my knife and killed himself! It was an accident! Yet the scout knew he had caused the herder’s death as surely as if he had stabbed him deliberately. And he would be blamed, for it was
his
dagger that had pierced the old one’s heart.

Behind him the scout heard the hoofbeats of his mounted tribesmen. His fear was so great that his breath came in shallow gasps. This was a blood feud now, and they would say he started it.

The herder lay still, his sightless gaze turned toward the scout. With trembling fingers the Bedouin leaned down to close the old man’s eyes. “May the Prophet be with you,” he said. Then he felt for the handle of his knife and pulled it out with a jerk. It was all so senseless. The old man could have done nothing to stop them from stealing the black colt.

He turned and saw the horsemen riding toward him. Taking a long breath of the cold mountain air, he attempted to feel the excitement that always accompanied a successful raid. And yet his eyes returned to the old, old man whose words and prophecies and legends were those, people said, known to no other but the Prophet.

Convulsively, the old man’s legs suddenly twitched, as if still trying to reach the black colt he believed destined for greatness. Finally, he lay still.

The black colt’s eyes and movements had disclosed only curiosity and interest in the robed figure coming up behind the old man. He had no reason not to accept the newcomer as he accepted the others in the tribe of Abu Já Kub ben Ishak. His world had been one of great peace and contentment, and his care and feed the best.

But suddenly, the old man had screamed, his cry rising in the air and filling the pitched ears of the black colt.

The black colt whinnied, breaking the ominous stillness. At his warning, every colt in the small band bolted, scattering, neighing, running. And the sound of their hoofbeats was echoed by those of the mounted horsemen who suddenly appeared from a little-used trail that wound its way along the upper slope of the valley.

There were twenty in all, white-robed figures sitting still and straight in their saddles as their horses—bays, chestnuts and grays—moved quickly across the
pasture, their heads held high and tails streaming behind them. The men rode in no particular formation, their long guns resting easily across their thighs, their hands lying only lightly upon them. They had no use for guns just then. The old man, the legendary one, was already dead, and there was no one else to stop them.

Their horses pulled on the bits, eager to break out of the slow canter to which they were held. The riders, too, were impatient but awaited command from their chieftain, Ibn al Khaldun. It had taken three weeks for them to cross the desert and reach the mountain stronghold of Abu Já Kub ben Ishak. They never could have made it this far if their spies had not helped them evade Abu Ishak’s guards. All this to take the young black colt with spindly legs.

He, yes, it was
he
who was responsible for their long, tiresome march. It was
he
who had caused them to ride for so many suns to reach this rooftop of the world! All for the possession of this black colt that their chieftain had told them was worth all the treasures beneath the heavens, for he had been foaled by the stallion of the night sky.

They believed none of it. And seeing the black colt just a short distance away, they were unimpressed. Though larger, to their eyes the black colt was no different from the others in the small band. Certainly he was no better, perhaps not as good, as those they had left behind at home.

But all this they would keep to themselves. One did not question Ibn al Khaldun. It was he who dared challenge the might of the powerful sheikh Abu Já Kub
ben Ishak by raiding his mountain home. It meant war between their tribes, with much blood to be shed in the days and weeks to come. But for now the worst part of their trek was over and possession of the black colt easier than anyone had dared hope, including their chieftain, who rode ahead of them.

Ibn al Khaldun sat erect and still on his horse, a dapple-gray stallion with silver mane and tail. He held the reins in his right hand along with a tightly coiled leather whip. Since his youth he had known the use of only one arm, but he could do as much as anyone with two. Skill with the whip was just one of his many talents. But he saw no reason to use it now. His men carried lead shanks and ropes, which were all that would be necessary to capture the young black colt.

Ibn al Khaldun was a short man with tremendous shoulders and a bull neck. His face was round and deeply furrowed from having spent a lifetime beneath the hot desert sun. He did not like the cold mountain air but his discomfort was worth enduring, for he had found the black colt in the upper pastures rather than in the valley below.

He smiled, his mouth toothless, as he thought how easy Abu Já Kub ben Ishak had made it for him. It was only natural that the master at horse breeding would pasture his prized colts high in the mountains, where the air was cold and the ground steep, all in the hope of creating a more robust, better-legged horse. Khaldun was envious. Someday he wanted to have a mountain base too.