The Black Stallion's Ghost (19 page)

In 1989, Mr. Farley was honored by his hometown library in Venice, Florida, which established the Walter Farley Literary Landmark in its children's wing. Mr. Farley died in October 1989, shortly before publication of
The Young Black Stallion
, the twenty-first book in the Black Stallion series. Mr. Farley co-authored
The Young Black Stallion
with his son, Steven.

Turn the page
for an exciting preview of the story of
THE BLACK STALLION'S LIFE
BEFORE HE MET ALEC

available in paperback from Random House

In a high, grassy pasture, well concealed in the remote mountains of eastern Arabia, two herders tended their horses.

“It is a dying breed,” the old herder said in a deep, guttural voice. “Our chieftain knows this as well as I do. His only hope rests with the black one.” He waved his gnarled hands in the direction of the small band of young horses grazing in the light of the setting sun.

The young herder, tall and thin, lowered his body to sit on the ground beside the old man. His
kufiyya
, a white headdress made of fine cloth, was drawn back, revealing a look of childish eagerness and anticipation on his face. He had heard this talk many times before. Still, he asked his questions and listened eagerly for the old one's replies.

“O Great Father,” he said, “thou who knowest everything, is it not true that our leader is the richest of all sheikhs in the Rub' al Khali? Is it not his wealth that enables him to breed and maintain horses of such
power and dazzling beauty as we see before us? Look at them, Great Father. Their coats have the gleam of raw silk and although they are still young, little more than a year old, their shoulders are muscular and their chests deep. Truly they are horses of inexhaustible strength, endurance and spirit, all worthy of the great tribe of Abu Já Kub ben Ishak.”

“It is true our leader is one of great wealth, but that does not make him the wisest breeder of all,” the old man proclaimed, his small, sharp eyes never leaving the horses. Reaching for his walking stick, he tried to get his old legs beneath him. After a brief struggle, he gave a weary sigh and sank down again.

The young man drew back before the harshness of the ancient one's words. He wanted no confrontation. His only recourse was to humor the old man. Slowly, a soft smile came to his hard, flat face.

“O Great Father, I do not mean any disrespect,” he said, waving his long, powerful arms in the cold mountain air. “I know there is no other horseman as wise as you, who have spent your long life in the same saddle as your forefathers. It is only my bewilderment at your words. We are living with the birds of the mountaintops when our feet as well as those of our horses prefer the soft, hot sands of the desert. Why are we here if not to breed and raise the fastest horses in all the Rub' al Khali?”

The wind blew in great gusts. Despite a glaring sun, the day had been icy cold. Winter seemed unwilling to leave the highlands, where the barren peaks of gray limestone were now painted blue and yellow by the softening light. Setting his turbaned head against
the wind, the young man waited for the old man's answer. Receiving no reply and growing impatient, he persisted. “Tell me, Great Father, pray tell me, what other reason would we have for coming to this mountain stronghold of our leader?”

Finally, the old man turned his head toward the youth, his bones showing prominently beneath taut, aged skin. To the young man he appeared to be a hundred years old or more, his body frail and withered beneath the folds of his great
aba
, a shapeless black cloak. How could such an old man stand this cold, coming as he did from the gleaming sands of Arabia, where the burning desert scorched the soles of one's feet?

No one in their tribe knew how many years it had been since the old man had first traveled the paths from the desert to the Kharj district of the high eastern mountains in order to serve the forebears of Abu Já Kub ben Ishak. There was no other horseman like him in all Arabia. He was the oldest and wisest—yet he kept traveling back and forth, tending each crop of young horses, searching for what? What dream led him on and on over such tortuous trails? The young man wanted to know. It had to do with horses, of that he was certain. Horses were the ancient one's life. Their blood was his blood, his blood theirs. It was the only thing that had kept him alive.

Others might scoff at the old herder's crazy stories and his wild talk about a stallion of the night sky, but the young man felt privileged to share his watch with the legendary one. He had learned a great deal over the winter and hoped someday to breed horses himself. For now he would help the old man back and forth from
their tents in the valley up to the different pastures, a job that was becoming more and more difficult as the old herder weakened with age.

The blasts grew colder still, and the young man drew his wool-lined garment closer about him. His black, gleaming eyes remained on the old man while he waited for him to speak. The silence continued except for the sound of the wind blowing from the mountaintops. Out in the pasture the yearlings continued to feast on the first green shoots of spring grass. Soon it would be time to find fresh grazing, and they would move elsewhere.

At last the young herder decided to break the silence again. His tone was good-natured and soft as he said, “The Prophet is with you always, Great Father, but I do not understand when you say that our mounts are a
dying breed
. Abu Ishak would have your head, old and wise as it is, for proclaiming such a thing, if only to me. Rest your mind, Great Father, I will never repeat what you have said. But, pray, tell me about the horses we see beyond. You have seen their like many times before?”

The old man's piercing eyes were clear and untroubled. His thin shoulders heaved beneath his cloak, as if he were gathering breath. From somewhere he found the strength to speak, if only in a loud whisper.

“Not all of them have wings,” he said, waving his feeble hands toward the band. “This is true not only for the horses of Abu Ishak but for all the wealthy lords of our land. Our mounts are no longer as swift as falcons. No longer can they gallop a whole day through. They are no longer fit for the great conquests of our land.”

“But our tribe is the fiercest of all!” the young man cried. “We have the finest horses in the Rub' al Khali. No one can defeat us. It is as true now as in the days of your youth, Great Father. Our lives depend on the speed and stamina of our mounts, and none can match our horses.”

“It is only the black one who can save us,” the old man said. “Look closely and you will see.”

The young man had no trouble finding the colt. He was the only black yearling in the small band. He was taller and more athletically built than the others, and his long raven tail reached almost to the ground while his forelock fell to the tip of his nose. Yes, there was a difference in body and size and something else as well, something difficult to understand. It was as if the other yearlings—bay, roan and chestnut—already had welcomed him as their leader.

Finally, more to get the old man's attention than anything else, the young herder said, “Perhaps you see more in him than I, Great Father. He is much too big-boned and large-framed for me. He is too tall and gangling, too much on the ungainly side. To my eyes he is not a perfect horse.”

“The perfect horse cannot be found anywhere, my son, and some of the almost perfect ones can't run far. That you will learn in time. But look again and tell me what else you see.”

The young man laughed. “I see a black coat that despite the icy winds is rough and sun-bleached, Great Father.”

“More than that, my son, if you are to take my place when I am gone.”

“His head is small, though not too small for the rest of him,” the young man said. “I will admit, Great Father, that his eyes are very large and clear, with a strong look of boldness. He is an intelligent colt, Great Father, that I can see.”

“And his neck?” the old man persisted. “Is it not the right length, the right proportion? Does it not suit the angle of his shoulder blade, sloping from point of shoulder to middle of withers? Does that not account for his long, swinging gait when he walks? See how he is overstriding, hind feet extending beyond the front feet?”

“Yes, Great Father, I see all that. But my eyes are not accustomed to such largeness. The desert sands will swallow the tremendous bulk of his body.”

“You are not looking at him with a horseman's eyes,” the old man said resignedly. “You do not see that which I see.”

“You have the eyes of the Prophet, Great Father, that I know,” the young man replied. “But they are growing weary if you see such greatness in the black colt. He is different, I know, but that does not mean greatness. He walks alone. See how he has moved off by himself. He is not one of them.”

Smooth muscles moved easily beneath sleek skin as the black colt walked away from the others. When he stopped, it was to raise his head defiantly. His eyes, set low in his wide, prominent forehead, missed nothing.

“He is too nervous to live in our tents as a family friend,” the young man continued. “There is nothing to fear here, and yet he will not quietly graze like the others. It is not a good omen for our tribe.”

“True—he is not like the others,” the old man said solemnly. “Neither is he bred like the others.”

“Ah,” the young man said, smiling. “It is his
breeding
that you have kept secret. You who must watch the mating of every mare to every stallion. I see him now with your eyes. He is not purely bred. The length of his back along with the largeness of his body are so evident. But, truly, there is a preponderance of Arabian blood in him or he would not have such a fine head. Tell me again, Great Father, what is he called?”

“Shêtân, he is called, the name given him by our chieftain the night he was foaled. It was then Abu Ishak said to me, ‘Mark this hour well, Great Friend, for the colt of colts has been foaled. He is born of fire, and no other will dare play with him for fear of incurring his wrath!' ”

“But why curse such a noble animal with the name of the Devil himself?” interrupted the young herder.

The old man shook his head impatiently. “The name is a sign of respect, not a curse. It is a warning for men to beware the powerful stallion this colt will become. Have you not seen the fire in his eyes? From the moment he was foaled, it was plain to behold that he would be different from the others.”

The young herder smiled doubtfully. “As you say, Great Father. For me, the color is the most striking difference. Abu Ishak is not alone in wanting a black Arabian as his most cherished possession. They are rare indeed, and one is fortunate to either breed or steal one. Tell me, Great Father, who was the dam?”

“It was the mare Jinah Al-Tayr, Wings of the Bird. But Jinah Al-Tayr had lost her wings,” he added sadly.
“She was so old that I had to bring her here by cart, for her ancient legs could not have carried her so far.”

“Why did our chieftain go to so much trouble, Great Father?”

“Abu Ishak is a very wise breeder,” the old man said. “He knows the genealogy of his horses from the days of Mohammed and sometimes even before. He wanted an outcross to the blood of Jinah Al-Tayr, for he believed that the pure Arabian horse of his ancestors had been so intensely inbred over the centuries that he no longer was a prolific breeding animal.”

“So he bred the old mare to Ziyadah?” the young man asked. “It is known that he is the most superb in speed among all our stallions.”

Pulling his cloak about him, the old man said, “Perhaps. It is what we were told to believe.”

“But you, Great Father, are chief herder. You record each mating. You must know.”

“I know many things, my son. Such as, Ziyadah sires colts the color of himself, chestnut with eyes a light brown, as golden as his coat. There is no resemblance to Ziyadah in this black colt, neither in color nor substance.”

The young man's almond-shaped eyes were alive with curiosity. “What do you mean, Great Father?” he asked kindly, not wanting to prod too strongly. He had great respect for the weary old man, but he wanted to hear this tale once again. He had no doubt that the ancient herder changed the details of his stories from time to time. “Is the black colt then like Jinah Al-Tayr, whom I never have seen?”

“No, he is not like her either,” the old man replied.
“Although Jinah Al-Tayr, buried now beneath the ground, was tall and long-bodied, more in keeping with his size. But she never before had foaled a black colt, and never one like this.”

“Then what do you mean, Great Father?” the young man cried, forgetting all caution. “Why have I heard you call the black colt the Son of the Midnight Sky? You must not leave me without my knowing!”

The old man remained silent for a long time as if relishing the power of one who possesses a great secret and is undecided whether or not to reveal it. Finally, he straightened in his seat, his
kufiyya
and
aba
fluttering wildly in the cruel wind.