The Black Stallion Mystery

by Walter Farley

  Alec watched the Black and the whirling sky. It seemed the whole world was speeding by and he felt tiny beneath the immensity of it all.… Where were they and where would this end? Would they find anyone at all? He listened to the wind mingled with the swift rush of a nearby stream.

  Then Alec went to his horse and staked him closer to the fire. The Black bumped his head against him and Alec put a hand around the horse’s neck, finding comfort and warmth in his nearness. Henry still stood by the fire, his eyes closed. An owl hooted in the distance, its call wavering with the wind. Henry opened his eyes, looked around, and then without a word sat down, resting his head on upraised knees. Alec rebuilt the fire and sat down beside his friend. He, too, closed his eyes but his ears were alert to every sound.

  Beyond the dim canyons and ravines came the howling of wolves. Occasionally Alec opened his eyes to check the fire and look at the snow-capped mountaintops that rimmed the plateau. Tomorrow they would reach the great tableland which rested at the foot of the highest peak of all. He shivered with cold despite the fire. He had no doubt that before long the ground would be white and shimmering with frost. He pulled his light sweater about him, rubbing his arms and moving as close as possible to the fire. If they kept the fire going, they’d be all right. He hated to think what it would be like without it. He closed his eyes again, and even though the heat scorched his eyebrows it felt very good.

  The empty saddlebag lay beside Alec. The Black moved into the circle of firelight, pulling mouthfuls of dry brittle grass from the ground with each step. The wind swept across the silence of the night, ruffling the horse’s mane and tail; it bent the flames and sent sparks flying into the cold night.

  Alec had no intention of going to sleep but his weariness was deep and overwhelming. It left no room for concern or thoughtfulness, only dreams.

  He dreamed of home and his mares and colts and barns. He smelled the scents he loved, the well-oiled leather and saddle soap, the hay and grain. He heard the broodmares rustling their straw bedding and the soft nickering of foals. For him there was no place in the world like Hopeful Farm.

  When Alec awakened the fire was almost out and the ground was white with frost. It was very calm and cold with no rolling clouds to blanket the moon and star-studded sky. He turned quickly to his horse, standing very still and black on the white ground. Then he rose and went to him, even though he knew that his first duty was to rebuild the fire.

  Alec did not touch the Black but stood beside him and listened. The rush of the stream was strangely loud in the silence. From far off a boom of thunder rolled, or it might have been a rock slide. There was a rasp of wings high in the air. From beyond the dim ravines came the howl of wolves. It was none of these sounds that had awakened him, that had sent him so quickly to his horse. He stared into the night, shaking as he stared. Nothing stirred, not even the smoke of the dying fire.

  From the night came the long agonized wailing of an animal, one terribly hurt or afraid. It continued for a long while but neither Alec nor the Black moved. Their eyes searched the night together.

  Alec felt the gaze of someone, something, upon them. He sought to keep his head, telling himself that it was only the night and the cold and the strange mountains that made him feel as he did. But he had only to look at the Black to know how wrong he was. His horse, too, was frightened. Despite the cold, beads of perspiration appeared on Alec’s brow. A nameless terror grew within him as he became more and more certain that hidden eyes were prying upon him and his horse.

  “Hello!” he shouted into the night. “Hello! Will you help us? Hello!”

  A gust of wind raced across the land and it was strangely warm. It kindled the fire, sending a single glowing flame into the darkness, and then whipped away, leaving the night deathly still again. Henry slept undisturbed by Alec’s calls. The boy thought he saw a streak of red light stab the depths of the canyons. He couldn’t be sure but it was enough to cause a chill to creep over him; with it came a terrible loneliness. He touched his horse.

  The stallion did not turn to Alec; he shivered with cold or fright. A lone, heavy cloud passed across the moon and the night became pitch-dark.

  Suddenly the Black’s nostrils flared and he turned his head. Alec turned with him, instantly alert, for he knew that his horse had picked up a scent. This was something he could understand, and he shook off the strange, uncanny chill with which he had been seized. The Black, too, was no longer trembling. Eagerly he searched the darkness and then without further warning he screamed his ringing blast of hate and defiance. He pricked up his ears and whistled again. From the Black this meant only one thing: He had scented another stallion.

  The moon moved from behind the cloud and its light bathed the frosty plateau. Alec saw a distant light that made him afraid to shout or move. It was similar to the red light he’d seen in the depths of the canyons and now it was above him! At first it appeared only as a small spot glowing in the night. But at the Black’s repeated whistles it appeared to drop into the sheer abyss that separated the plateau from the adjoining mountain. It moved slowly in a sidelong way almost as if it were flying. It descended for several hundred feet and then vanished altogether.

  Alec closed his eyes and shook his head before reopening them. The moon was playing tricks with him … the moon and the night shadows and this lonely land. The Black whistled again, reared and bolted. If Alec had not been holding tightly onto the lead shank he would have gotten away.

  The stallion’s whistle and actions proved there had to be a horse up there, regardless of how impossible it seemed.

  Henry suddenly appeared at Alec’s side. “What is it?” he asked. “What’s he screaming about?”

  His question didn’t require any answer for there, in the moonlight, silhouetted against the bare rock of the nearby mountains, was a running horse!

  The Black plunged forward but with Henry’s help Alec was able to hold him. Their hearts turned cold when they saw the trail of phosphorescent sparks the horse was streaming in his wake! It was a shimmering streak of blue and red and orange lights. It swept from the mountainside into the depths and then was gone. But coming closer was the beat of a horse’s hoofs! Louder and louder and louder they became until Alec and Henry clamped their hands over their ears to shut out the sound. The Black reared and plunged and snorted but there was nothing for him to fight except the beat of hoofs resounding from the mountain walls. Finally they quieted and all that could be heard was the return of the searing, icy wind.

  What riderless horse had Alec and Henry seen in the ghostly aura of the mountains? Where had he gone? And was it his dismal neighing that had awakened Alec?

  BLACK MAGIC

  10

  Alec and Henry watched for the horse to reappear, their eyes watering from the constant strain of peering into the distance. But they saw nothing, no weird trail of blue and orange lights, no natural sparks of horseshoes striking flint. The Black moved and the sound of his hoofs crackled in their ears.

  “Easy,” Alec whispered to him. “It’s all right.”

  Yet the boy continued searching the night while he held his horse. What sort of place had they come to? What horse could run where there was no trail, streaming flaming sparks behind him? Who used this road and where did it lead? Shivering in every limb, Alec went over to the fire. It had almost died down and Henry was seated beside it with his head in his hands, staring at the dull embers.

  Alec added wood to the fire. “Did we really see him?” he asked.

  “The horse?”

  “Was it a horse?”

  “Of course it was,” Henry snapped. “I know a horse when I see one. Better than a man sometimes.”

  “Even a ghost horse?”

  “A horse is a horse.” Henry’s face was flushed, his eyes bright.

  “On such a night in such a place it’s easy to be fooled. We couldn’t have seen those sparks.”

  Henry didn’t answer.

  Dawn was coming and the jagged t
errain took on a ghostlike appearance. Early mists danced in the light of the setting moon. Alec walked around the fire to relieve the stiffness of his legs and back.

  Henry said, “Once there was a horse named Firetail. He got his name because he raced as though his tail was on fire. He did a mile in one minute and four seconds.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Alec said. “No horse could run that fast. The world record is one minute thirty-three and a fraction.”

  “I know,” Henry said quietly. “But no horse ever ran with his tail on fire either.”

  “When did this Firetail race?” Alec asked.

  “Around 1770.”

  “Then his time is as legendary as he is.”

  “Maybe the time’s legendary but not him,” Henry said. “He was a real honest-to-goodness horse.”

  Alec forced himself to laugh. “Are you suggesting we saw his ghost tonight?”

  “No, but we saw a tail on fire sure enough. It wasn’t the night or the place that fooled us.”

  The first gray light brightened the high peaks. It descended slowly until it finally found the blackness of the bottom land and turned it to a leaden color. Then the road took shape and Henry and Alec decided it was safe to go on.

  Alec, leading the Black, followed Henry across the frosted grass. He was glad to be on the move for his legs were stiff and his fingers numb. He rubbed them hard, not so much for warmth as to make certain he was really awake and walking into another day. The night before might well have been a horrible nightmare. The improved circulation in his hands, providing him with warmth if not comfort, convinced him he wasn’t being deceived.

  The road rose above them, and with daybreak came distant animal howls and wailing. Alec didn’t recognize the cry.

  Henry said, “Here are more wheel tracks so it shouldn’t be too bad for us on foot.”

  “I’d rather walk this road than drive it,” Alec answered, looking over the side embankment into vast, black depths.

  They were within the shadows of the great tableland. Above it towered a sheer wall of rock, rising for what seemed thousands of feet before its smoothness was shattered by cliffs and crags mounting to a snow-capped peak. As they gazed skyward they knew their eyes had played tricks on them the night before. No horse in the world could have traveled up there.

  The road to the tableland was not so precipitous as it appeared from below, and they found themselves looking into deep rifts and canyons. They saw patches of sea-green forests and gorges white with water. Most of the time, however, they kept their eyes on the road.

  They neared the overhanging lip of the tableland, their spirits rising with the end of the climb. Even the Black snorted as if with joy. A faint breeze stirred, coming from the land above. It was clean and pungent with pine and cedar. They traveled faster and faster, eager to see what lay ahead.

  “After all,” Henry said, “it wouldn’t have taken us so long if it hadn’t been for that wind and we’d kept goin’.”

  When they reached the tableland they stopped in awe, realizing they had not prepared themselves for its beauty and magnificence. Nor had they, by any figment of the imagination, expected to find a large fountain playing water upon a marble statue of a boy and a rearing horse!

  They said nothing while their astounded gazes left the fountain for the land beyond. It was deeply rolling and not as large an area as they had expected. It went back into the mountain in the shape of a horseshoe and was bordered on two sides by a thick forest of pine and cedars. It was protected against the biting winds of the upper air yet so situated as to receive the full benefits of the sun. Meandering mountain streams watered the lush green grass and the air was warm without being hot.

  “Well, what d’ya know!” Henry gasped. “It’s like a fairy tale on top of a nightmare!”

  They turned again to the spraying fountain. The boy could have been Alec, the horse the Black. They looked at it for many minutes and then their astonished gazes searched for the people who must live here.

  They followed the road as it ran close to the forest. Farther ahead a high stone wall with a great gate in the center crossed the tableland. They knew their destination was on the other side of the wall and hurried faster than ever, crossing a wooden bridge that had been built over a hand-dug ravine some thirty feet wide and twenty deep. There was a small stream running through it and they had no doubt that at one time it had been used as a moat to keep invaders from the wall beyond.

  They were hardly prepared for the sudden opening of the big gate, much less the appearance of a horse-drawn carriage! They fell back, taking hold of each other’s arm, their eyes unbelieving.

  The Black nickered, for the horses were mares and he looked upon their approach with no less interest than Alec and Henry. There were two pairs—four chalk-white Arabians—and they came through the gate in a long striding walk, their tails and manes crimped and flowing. Their hindquarters moved in a slightly swinging motion and their small heads were bent gracefully, nodding up and down almost as if to attract the Black’s attention.

  Alec and Henry knew they were looking at Arabians of the purest strain. They were small horses even though their perfect conformation made them appear larger. Their ears were small and delicately pointed, set wide apart as were the eyes. Their necks were slender and long, flowing nobly into short, wide backs from which floated luxurious tails. Even at a walk they seemed to soar, their hoofs barely touching the ground before coming up again.

  Henry muttered, “We’ve found them, Alec.”

  The boy didn’t answer, for the horses had broken into a trot and he was absorbed in watching the clean, fluid line of their strides as they approached. Only when he was convinced that Henry was right did his eyes leave the horses for the carriage.

  The driver sat on a high seat, holding reins and whip expertly, and wearing black-and-gold livery. The carriage, all black except for the golden paneled doors, was an open one and the back seats were occupied by two men and a woman. When it came to a stop a soft voice said, “Welcome home, Shêtân. We’ve been waiting for you.”

  BLACK WELCOME

  11

  Shêtân was the Black’s Arabic name and few people knew it.

  It was the woman who had spoken and she watched the tall stallion snatch playfully at the neck of the nearest mare. Alec recognized her but she looked a far different person from the one he remembered. Was that so strange, though? He had last seen her as a growing girl. Now she was a woman.

  Tabari, the daughter of Abu Ishak, who had bred the Black!

  She had been a young rider whose reckless desert spirit had roused the pride of every Bedouin. Now she sat with a prim and formal attitude in the deep leather cushions of her luxurious carriage. Yet she seemed friendly and sincere as she added, “And you, too, Alec and Henry, welcome!”

  Alec said bewilderedly, “Tabari, I can’t believe it!”

  She smiled without a word, and at close range Alec realized again how much of the girlishness he’d known had vanished. He found her every look guarded if not unfriendly. So he waited for her to speak, sensing that it would be better to let her lead the conversation.

  The man beside her said graciously, “I, too, bid you welcome.” His voice was loud yet casual, his eyes bright and direct.

  Tabari’s husband, Sheikh Abd-al-Rahman, had changed far less than she, but that was only natural, for he had already reached maturity when they had last seen him in Arabia. Now his short black beard was thrust into his chest as he extended a hand to them in greeting.

  Alec shook the hand that was offered to him, then turned back to Tabari, who was smiling quietly as if to herself. “Is he not everything we’d heard?” she asked her husband quietly.

  Abd-al-Rahman’s eyes lighted. “Of course,” he replied, reaching out from the carriage to place a lean brown hand upon the stallion’s back. The man whistled softly. “He’s all you said, Tabari.”

  “Naturally,” she replied sweetly.

  Henry spoke for
the first time. “You sound like you expected us,” he said as politely as he could.

  “We did,” the Sheikh answered, “but not so soon. Unfortunately we did not hear the plane nor Angel’s signal. But then it was such a bad night.”

  Tabari laughed gaily at their immediate surprise and her raven-black hair rippled about her neck as she tossed her head back. “You look so frightened, both of you,” she said, her eyes flashing.

  “But—” Alec began and then stopped, for Abd-al-Rahman had joined his wife in laughter. Their voices rang clearly and sharply in the fragrant air.

  Alec stared at Tabari, attracted not by her laughter or what she’d said but by the sudden recklessness of her eyes. It was as if she’d momentarily thrown off her cloak of maturity and was about to ask if she could ride the Black!

  Then Tabari stood up in the carriage, her figure slim and supple in gray gabardine and a yellow scarf knotted around her neck. “Nazar,” she said, turning to the third occupant of the carriage, “do not your ancient eyes burn with envy at sight of such a horse? Is he not everything my father dreamed he’d be as a mature stallion?” Her eyes remained on the old man who sat quietly opposite her and her husband.

  Obediently Nazar turned and looked at the horse but his stare was vacant and disinterested. Of the three he was the only one wearing complete Arab dress. A red shawl that matched the flowing garment he wore over his slight body covered his head. When he finally turned his wrinkled face toward Tabari his expression had changed, his eyes becoming very alert and keen. But he said nothing.

  “He is very old and tired,” Tabari told the others softly. “He can neither speak nor hear but he reads my lips easily. He was my father’s dearest and most devoted servant. Now he wills that I return him to our native land to meet Allah.”

  She spoke reverently of Allah yet her accent was very British as were her clothes, her Victorian carriage, and her liveried coachman. While her husband’s accent was British as well, his appearance was more striking, a mixture of the East and the West. His dark face was framed by a flowing white head shawl secured by a cord as jet-black as his beard. His six-foot lean figure, however, was clothed in whipcord breeches, gleaming English riding boots, and a dark blue sweater.