The Black Stallion's Ghost (17 page)

As far as his eyes could see, there was nothing but smoldering ashes. The immense swamp to the south and west had been gutted by the raging fire. At his insistence, they had gone to the humpbacked hammock, more to appease him than to give any credence to his story. They'd found nothing, for no remains of the captain's body could have withstood the cremating blast of the holocaust. Still, he was glad that he had returned, if only to prove to himself that he had been there.

He had welcomed the hard routine of work that followed. It was only occasionally now, always at night, that the odor of the swamp came to his nostrils and he dreamed a dream of a lost world, of images forgotten and yet not forgotten, all dwelling in dark places. He
had no doubt that the dream would long haunt him, yet for reasons he could not explain he held no fear of it.

The Black suddenly bolted beneath him and his thoughts returned quickly to the job at hand. He peered through the half-light to see the milling horses behind the gate. The crewmen were trying to lead them into the starting stalls but the blinding rain only added to their burden.

Alec's strong, calloused hands were gentle on the big horse as he took him toward the gate. He knew the Black was ready, possibly stronger than ever. He'd be able to handle the footing with ease. Six furlongs was a short race for him but he needed the speed drill in preparation for the longer races to come.

Henry's instructions had been simply, “Just keep him out of trouble.”

It wasn't always easy to follow orders, especially with the way the race was shaping up, with no letup in the rain and the track already deep in mud. He saw one horse skitter nervously across the track and bang into another. A race could be lost behind the gate as well as during the running of it, and the high weight on the Black made it doubly important that he remain quiet.

The minutes ticked away as the others entered the gate, then it was the Black's turn and Alec sent him forward. He walked very deliberately into the stall as if he knew the time had come for him to race.

The door slammed shut behind them and Alec awaited the starting bell. The Black was on edge, his high-strung nerves near the breaking point from his fierce spirit of competition. Alec made instant adjustments to suit the Black's quick movements in the
narrow stall. Like his mount he was ready to go, legs raised at a sharp angle of knee to thigh, his back slanted, shoulders hunched, his muscles tense—everything required to send off the Black at the precise opening of the grilled doors. The long backstretch was before them with only one turn to round.

The starting bell clanged in Alec's ears and the race was on! The Black gained full stride almost instantly and Alec leaned forward above the plunging forequarters.

“Yah! Yah!” he shouted, his voice but one of five riders urging their horses to move still faster and break free of the most dangerous of all traffic jams, one of pounding, steel-shod hoofs!

Alec's arms were nearly wrenched from their sockets as the Black raced through the beating rain and semi-darkness. Alec attempted to keep him on the outside and clear of the others who were packed much too closely together in a milling tangle of horses and riders. Some were having trouble getting hold of the track and were slipping dangerously. He saw one go down in the slop, his jockey somersaulting over his head. Then the Black was slammed hard by a big chestnut horse.

The Black bobbled and Alec helped him regain his balance; he steadied him and went on, clear of the tangle of horses. Two were still in front but Alec was not worried about catching up to them. The Black's feet were holding in the slop, and if he made no mistakes guiding him, they would win.

Alec watched the rider on the second horse try to grab the lead by squeezing through a narrow opening on the rail. The opening closed just as the jockey
started through it and he was forced to drop back or be slammed against the rail. He checked his mount, knowing his gamble had not paid off.

Alec drove the Black alongside him, keeping him hard on the rail. The Black was eager to go on but did not fight Alec's hands. The pace was fast but he ran so smoothly that he seemed to be loafing.

Alec listened to the thunderous hoofs all around him and tasted the rain and mud flying in his face. He wanted no other kind of life but this, riding a fully extended horse against other jockeys who were trying as hard as himself to win! He let out the Black another notch as they approached the far turn and drew alongside the leader.

Alec changed the Black's lead to the left leg going into the turn, and then let his horse run as he'd wanted to all along. For a few fleeting seconds, the other jockey did his best to stay alongside. He rocked, pushed and whipped, did everything he knew how to do to keep his mount going. The Black swept by, his long legs a blur in the rapidity with which they moved. He went around the turn with ever-increasing speed and entered the homestretch alone.

The crowd knew there was nothing more to the race but the electrifying stretch run of the champion. More than seventy thousand fans rose to their feet and gave the Black a tumultuous ovation as his hoofs beat thunderously in the slop, sending the mud flying behind him all the way to the wire. He had returned to New York victoriously and was once more on his way to racing glory!

An hour later, with the Black cooled out and in his
stall, Henry Dailey joined Alec in the tack room. Henry handed him a folded newspaper and said, “I didn't want you to see this until after the race.”

Henry had the same rider's build as Alec, most of his weight being in his arms and chest. He was portly but not fat, and as he moved about the room his gait had the smoothness and certainty of a much younger man.

“It looks like you were right about The Ghost,” he added quietly, “that much of your story, anyway.”

Alec read the large advertisement for the opening of the Ringling Bros. Barnum and Bailey Circus that day at Madison Square Garden. There was a long list of acts but only one had been circled in pencil by Henry.

“Or maybe it isn't the same mare,” Henry suggested.

“It's The Ghost, all right,” Alec said. “Odin sold her, just like I figured.”

Their gazes held until Henry turned away to get his floppy hat from a peg on the wall and clamp it down over his head. “Well, let's find out,” he said briskly. “I thought you'd want to make sure. There's a matinée. I've already called the Garden and the act goes on about four o'clock. We can just make it.”

Henry waited while Alec put on his raincoat. He'd never understand what had happened to Alec in the swamp, not completely, anyway. In some vague way Alec had changed in appearance. He looked quite different but Henry didn't know exactly how. It was nothing he could put his finger on, just
different
. Maybe it was his eyes; they seemed to brood at times. Getting lost in the swamp at night must have been a horrible experience, but Alec should be over it by now. He wasn't exactly sick but he wasn't himself either, not by any means. Alec had made no mistakes in the race today because his instincts, not his mind, governed his riding. But matters couldn't remain as they were. Perhaps seeing The Ghost—if it was the same mare—might help. Henry didn't know how, but he was hopeful. He left the tack room, followed closely by Alec.

They left the towering glass-fronted stands of Aqueduct Race Course behind and walked up the steep ramp leading to the train station. A harsh wind had driven off the rain and it was blowing in such gusts that they bent double as they moved along. The huge ramp shook from the force of the blasts and signs swung crazily, threatening to rip loose.

“Crazy weather,” Henry said, pulling his head deeper into the turned-up collar of his raincoat. “It's enough to drive a guy back to Florida.”

Alec said, “I never want to go back there, Henry.”

Henry felt suddenly alone again. They had shared so many adventures together and now he felt like a stranger to Alec.

Reaching the elevated platform of the station, he held on to his hat as a gust of wind sought to take it from his head. He glanced at Alec, who stood straight and quiet beside him, his head bare and not seeming to
mind the wind at all. His eyes were on the panorama of the New York skyline twelve miles away. Somewhere amidst all those buildings was Madison Square Garden and The Ghost.

The train slid into the station, the doors opening to admit the few like themselves who were leaving the track early. Henry was grateful that there was no need to push and scramble for seats. It had been a long time since he'd had such luxury in a New York subway train. The doors slammed shut and the train left the station.

They rode for a long while in a strained silence that made Henry even more uncomfortable. He was used to having things out in the open with Alec, but who could believe such an incredible story as the one Alec had told him? Imagine anyone believing in a legend and searching for a supernatural being named
Koví
! It was enough to make one's hair stand on end just to have to listen to such a tale, let alone be asked to believe it! The best he could do for Alec, Henry decided, was to be patient and as agreeable as possible. Time would heal everything.

The train plummeted downgrade in the tunnel beneath the East River, its wheels screeching and grating in Henry's ears. He didn't have anything to say and was thoughtfully quiet. Perhaps nothing would come of this trip after all, just another horse act, but it was worth a try. Obviously the mare meant a lot to Alec. The train rushed into the 34th Street station and Henry got to his feet.

Shortly afterward, they left the crowded city street for the relative quiet of the Madison Square Garden
lobby. The circus was half over and there were only a few latecomers like themselves buying tickets and moving to their seats.

Alec pushed on ahead of Henry; he'd glanced at his watch and found it to be a few minutes after four o'clock. An usher asked him for his seat stub but he went past without showing it; he wanted only to reach an aisle where he could see the center ring. Suddenly a sound reached his ears and he came to an abrupt stop. Henry, hurrying to keep up, crashed into him and muttered an oath.

Alec heard nothing but the music. It came from the darkened arena and the notes were those he knew so well. He'd been prepared to see the silver-gray mare, but the shock of hearing the music again made his blood run cold. He shivered in the darkness and his eyes became filled with the ice of his tears.
He was back in the swamp and his journey through it was as if he never had left
.

“Alec, what is it?” Henry asked, moving forward in the dimly lit aisle. There was no reply from Alec, nothing but a deathless stare into the arena where a gray horse moved about the center ring within the glare of a single spotlight.

Henry found that the air suddenly had become very close. His skin, that had been subjected all day long to wind and rain, tingled as if with newly found warmth.

He listened to the music while watching the gray mare perform. His eyes became more and more excited as he followed her movements, recognizing them as those described by Alec. He found that it did not
bother him greatly that this was just one more link in the chain that might bind him irrevocably to believing
all
of Alec's incredible story. He saw only the beauty of the gray mare, heard only the music swelling in his ears. It captivated him, as he was sure it must everyone else in the darkened arena.

There was no doubt he was watching a supreme exhibition of horse training. The gray mare was completely naked of saddle, bridle, halter or trappings of any kind. She was flawless in her movements as if some unseen hand was guiding her. Where did she get her cues, changing as she did from one dancing gait to another? Had Alec said that she'd been trained to the music?

He heard the peculiar piping notes that came and went, sometimes with a dreamlike slowness and barely audible, other times brisk and almost to the point of a horrible, shattering whistling. Simply by listening to the music, Henry found that he was willing to accept what he had denied before. The music created a feeling that
anything
was possible.

Breathlessly, since he was a trainer of horses himself, he watched the silver-gray mare as she floated about the ring. She paused with each syncopated step, dancing in measured cadence, supreme grace and beauty in every movement.

Henry knew little of the fine art of dressage, but one did not have to know anything about it to appreciate such dancing! It was uncanny to think a man could have trained a horse to perform such movements alone!

There came a loud clash of cymbals, then the
music faded, becoming more and more faint until it was almost impossible to hear. A strange feeling swept over Henry. He felt that somehow he was descending into a deep void, and he didn't like it.

The music swelled, flowing around him. He was glad to hear the clash of cymbals again, for he did not like those muted piping notes. They made him uneasy, almost a little fearful, as if they meant something he couldn't understand.

To the roll of drums, the silver-gray mare sat back on her hind legs, balancing herself low to the ground while her forelegs were bent double. She held that difficult pose for several seconds before jumping across the ring on her hind legs and not coming down until she had reached the opposite side of the ring.

The music faded, leaving only the muted piping notes of the flute to be heard. They became louder and more shrill, creating the feeling that something terrifying was about to happen. They filled the darkened arena, and Henry could believe that they reached outside and beyond to the outer world of trees and stars and distant solitude. He shook his head to rid himself of such strange thoughts.