The Black Stallion and the Lost City (18 page)

At the other end of the main street was an old
man shrouded in a blanket and sitting on the ground, his back propped up against a wall. The man looked very skinny, little more than a skeleton in ragged clothes. He was the first person who appeared much over thirty years old that Alec had seen since he came here. Alec spoke to the man, but the old guy seemed to be asleep.

Alec passed the last house on the far side of the strange little town and looked toward the summit of Mt. Atnos, home to the Oracle and the temple of Diomedes. He could see little dots of light moving around the faint outline of the temple. What were they? Alec wondered. People carrying flashlights? Perhaps a rescue party of some sort? Was that too much to hope for?

The street became a wide path that led farther up the mountain. There were more rocks than trees here. In the pale moonlight splashed over the ground, he could see telltale traces of horses—fresh manure and muddy hoofprints along the path.

Alec heard something that made him stop, the distant cry of a horse coming from somewhere among the lofty peaks. Could it have been the Black? He waited in vain for some clue telling him where to go, straining his ears in the dark, his heart pounding in his chest. Gazing up to the temple, again he felt as if he had stepped back in time and was now locked on some
predetermined path, one he had no choice but to follow, one leading unstoppably upward to the summit of Mt. Atnos and the temple of the ancient horse master Diomedes.

The passage to the top zigzagged higher, and Alec saw more lights. People were carrying torches, he realized, though it was difficult to make out much more than that. The lights were clustering around a dark shape, what Alec at first thought might be a small windmill built in a cleared area along the slope of the mountain. Or perhaps it was a very large statue of some sort. Despite the bright moonlight, it was impossible for Alec to tell exactly what the object could be.

All at once, the torches were tossed onto the structure. Even from a quarter mile away, Alec could hear a whooshing sound as the windmill burst into flame. A moment later he smelled burning oil in the wind.

The fire spread rapidly, running along the edges. It was only after the object was completely consumed by fire that Alec could finally see what it was—an enormous wooden horse that now burned like a beacon in the night.

Built into the mountaintop above the flaming horse figure were columns that rose to a domed roof, the temple of Diomedes. Alec couldn’t see what was inside, but he could hear a chorus of voices singing somewhere not far off in the dark.

Alec crept closer. The moon was very bright, and now the burning horse also added light to the nocturnal landscape. He kept to the shadows, unsure of what he should do next. He could see movement on the lawn in front of the temple, people dressed in robes, and there were horses, too, all riderless. It must be some sort of ceremony, he thought. Perhaps the burning of the wooden horse was an offering of some sort, or perhaps it was meant to invoke the legendary Trojan horse.

The droning murmur of chanting drifted in the air and was soon joined by the soft beat of drums. Alec could make out figures circling the towering effigy, swaying and waving their long arms across the glow of the fire.

Then, above the noises of the ritual, Alec heard a sharp, piercing sound ring through the air, the war cry of an enraged stallion. It was the Black—he was sure of that now—and he was close by.

Alec followed the sound. The Black was surrounded by a crowd of Acracian guards bearing spears and torches. The men had managed to get ropes around the Black’s neck and one hind leg and were trying to force him into submission. They swarmed around like insects as they tried to overpower the enraged stallion. The Black twisted his body. Rearing up, he fought the ropes that held him and screamed again.

Alec picked up a stick from the ground for a weapon and charged headlong at the men in a desperate attempt to free his horse. He ran into the crowd, swinging the stick like a club and crying out at the top of his lungs.

Alec slammed into one man and clubbed at the hands of another. The Black shook one of the ropes loose and reared again, his coat gleaming like black satin in the firelight. Throwing all his body weight back onto his forelegs, he brought his hooves to the ground with an explosive crash. The men scattered and the stallion broke free. A moment later he was running off into the night. Two of the men chased after the stallion, and the others turned their attention to Alec.

Suddenly a voice
from beyond the group barked an order and the guards backed off. It was Spiro. He shouted a reprimand at the men and dismissed them with a wave of his hand.

“Dear, dear,” the governor’s chamberlain said, his voice softening as he addressed Alec. “I am terribly sorry, Herr Alex. Please forgive those overeager fools. They were only acting under orders.”

Alec had a hard time keeping his anger in check. “Fools?” he said. “Those men are dangerous. This
place
is dangerous. This is the second time my horse has been attacked.”

“Medio is very protective of this area. The temple of Diomedes is the heart of Acracia. None may come here unless they are granted special permission by the governor himself.”

“I didn’t want to come here in the first place, and neither did my horse,” Alec said. “We are just looking
for a way out of here. If those security guards of yours hadn’t interfered, we’d be long gone already. Now the Black has taken off again and—”

“Yes,” Spiro said. “I would imagine that neither the bonds of human love nor Acracian walls could hold the likes of him for long. But Fire-eyes is here. Perhaps your Bucephalus is with her. At any rate, he cannot be far off.”

Spiro gestured to the temple and beamed at Alec with polite courtesy. “It is good to see you here, and I am glad you could join us, oh messenger of the gods.”

Alec shook his head. Here we go again, he thought. “No, I’d rather not …”

Spiro smiled and took Alec by the arm. “Now that you are here at the temple, I really must insist,” he said.

Alec shrugged off the man’s hand, losing his patience. “No,” he said. “Now
I
must insist. Who are you anyway? How do I get out of this place?”

Spiro stepped back and bowed his head apologetically. “You came by way of the white road and must leave by way of the red road, through the gateway at the temple of Mt. Atnos. Thus spoke the Oracle.”

“There is a road to the other side of the mountain?” Alec said.
“That’s terrific. Red road. White road. I don’t care if it’s the pink road with purple polka dots on it, as long as it gets me out of here.”

“That’s the way out for you,” Spiro said, “the best and only true way. But I was hoping you would change your mind and stay with us a time. If you really must go, be assured we will await your return.”

“Fine,” Alec said. “We will all get together next year and have a big reunion. Right now I need to get back to work, and I am not leaving without Xeena and my horse.”

Spiro nodded. “Of course,” he said.

“So where is this road?” Alec said. “How do we reach it? Is it this way?”

“This way,” Spiro said, leading Alec onto the temple grounds.

Spiro gestured up to the moonlit temple as they walked along. “I beg you to take stock of this place while you can, messenger,” he said. “The ancient world has been reborn here. Not retold as in a play or mocked in a show, or even imitated in some meaningless ceremony, but born again in the flesh, as you will be. Wait and see, young Alexander, your destiny will be fulfilled again.”

Alec’s frustrations boiled over. “You people are crazy,” he said. “Please listen to me, Spiro. One last time, I am not a messenger and my name is not Alex. It is Alec. Alec Ramsay. I am a jockey. I was born in New York. My horse’s name is the Black, not Bucephalus.”

Spiro looked at Alec. His face hardened, and it
appeared that Alec’s words were finally sinking in. He shook his head with disappointment. “Do you mean to say you still believe your coming here was just an accident, that it wasn’t preordained somehow?”

“Preordained by whom, the gods? I just can’t buy that.”

“Then the time has come for you to leave,” Spiro said.

“That’s fine with me,” Alec said. “I appreciate your hospitality but—”

“Of course, Alec,” Spiro said, bowing his head, then gesturing to the fire on the mountain summit. “This way, please.”

Alec knew he wasn’t arguing with a lunatic. The man’s intelligence was perfectly clear, and Alec knew he was sincere and believed what he was saying, as mad as it might sound.

Spiro led the way ahead and spoke to Alec as they walked along. “Of course, you may do as you wish here, messenger,” he said, his voice becoming more serious. “But it is my duty to warn you. If you fail to pay homage to the gods and ask their blessings, you will never see your land, your friends or your home again. Once you have honored the gods of heaven, then and only then will they grant the passage you desire.”

“And how am I supposed to pay homage to something I don’t believe in?” Alec asked.

“Once you have seen the truth,” Spiro said, “perhaps you will believe.”

“The truth?” Alec said. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Spiro did not answer.

The ancient temple was clearly lit by the glow of the burning horse effigy. Vines climbed up the stone columns all the way to the domed roof. Even the steps leading up to the temple were covered with a tangled web of vegetation. Small crowds of Acracians grouped together at the temple base and spread out around the clearing. All wore masks, and some were crowned with goat and deer horns. Others wore simple pasteboard masks cut in the likeness of wolves and mountain lions. Many were in costume.

At the top of the steps was a small pavilion and throne where a figure sat presiding over the spectacle. By the man’s size, Alec guessed it was Medio, though it was impossible to tell for certain as the person was wearing a mask, a grotesque thing made of metal with a wide-open mouth. A small, gilded sword hung at his side.

Medio rose from his throne and descended the temple steps. As he reached the bottom step, he was joined on his right by the albino mare Celera, her red eyes gleaming in the firelight. Then a cloaked figure
stepped from the crowd gathered around the flaming horse. She alone was unmasked, wearing only a sheer veil over her face. It was Cyrene, the priestess who had interpreted Celera’s prophecies during the banquet. She moved with small, even steps to stand at Medio’s left.

At a gesture from their leader, the crowd proceeded up the stairs and into the temple. Alec joined them. Once inside, Medio raised his arms and beckoned for Alec and Spiro to approach him. “I believe King Diomedes would like to have a word with you,” Spiro said.

“King Diomedes?” Alec said. “Isn’t that Medio?”

“Here at the temple mount, the governor is the earthly embodiment of Diomedes,” Spiro said.

“Fine,” Alec said, trying to sound as brave as he could. “I’d like to speak with him too.”

Spiro touched Alec on the back to gently urge him forward.

The masked monarch pronounced a greeting, and Spiro translated the message—that Alec was an honored guest and that his message would be heard.

Alec looked at Spiro. “Tell him thanks,” he said. “This is a great place he has here, but I really must be off. Tell him I have business to tend to elsewhere, other messages to deliver, a family back home.”

Spiro translated as a chant went up from the crowd, words Alec did not understand. Then the masked monarch spoke again, his tone stern now.

“He says he understands your concerns but that you must ask for guidance from the Oracle before you go,” Spiro said. “With your permission, I will ask her if it is an auspicious time for you to travel.”

Upon hearing Spiro’s question, Cyrene moved closer to Celera. She lowered her eyes and pressed her cheek against the mare’s ivory neck. She uttered some words, and Spiro turned to Alec. “The Oracle says the time has not yet come for you to leave us.”

Alec took a deep breath, mindful of the power in the ritual that was going on around him. Yes, he believed if there was magic anywhere, it was here, and something inside him ached to go with it, to let go, to join in and be part of it. The sensation thrilled as much as frightened him. Celera held him in her gaze, her head tilted slightly, her ruby eyes glowing orange in the moonlight, a vision of imperious equine beauty. From deep within him, Alec found the courage to speak up.

“What does she want?” Alec asked.

“Do you mean what does she want of you?” Spiro said.

“No,” Alec said. “I mean what does
she
want, the Oracle.”

Spiro looked at Alec with surprise. “The Oracle? The Oracle does not want. She only sees the future.”

“I don’t care to know the future,” Alec said. “I am only asking what she wants, she herself. Could you ask her that for me, please?”

Spiro reluctantly translated Alec’s words, and the priestess read the mare’s soft murmurings, the tapping of hooves and flicking of ears. The priestess dropped her head, her voice quavering and soft as she interpreted the Oracle’s words. When she stopped speaking, a collective gasp went up from the throng gathered there. Medio raised his arms and gave a command for quiet. Finally Spiro turned to Alec. “The Oracle says she wants to be with you,” he said, “to be like you, to be as you are, to live as you live, but most of all to die as you will die.”