The Black Stallion Mystery

by Walter Farley

  Abd-al-Rahman came to a stop. “You must bathe and eat, then we shall talk more,” he said, leaving them.

  Later, in their rooms, they were served a sumptuous dinner of excellent roast beef and chicken, together with many vegetables and salad. For dessert they had cheese. They spoke little for they were half-famished.

  When Henry had finished he sat back and said, “What do you make of what he told us, Alec?”

  Alec glanced out the open window overlooking the gardens and fields. “Why would he be lying?”

  Henry’s gaze shifted to the nearby servants and he said, “For the same reason he registered El Dorado as sire of the Sales yearlings. What reason would he have for doing that when he says it was Ziyadah?”

  Alec shrugged his shoulders. “Ask him. Maybe he’ll tell you.”

  “Maybe he will,” Henry agreed. “He’s talking more now that the boss is gone.”

  “Boss?”

  “Tabari.”

  “Oh,” said Alec.

  Henry glanced behind Alec, suddenly aware of the slight figure that had silently approached the table. “Yes?” Henry asked.

  The man touched his forehead and breast before saying, “If you are finished, please follow me.” His accent was as Arabic as were his features yet he, too, wore the black-and-gold livery of the English house servants.

  Henry turned to Alec. “Shall we go?”

  “Do you have any other suggestions?” Alec asked. He wasn’t joking. He didn’t like the looks of the man who was waiting for them to follow him. His eyes, as yellow as a cat’s, smoldered even though he smiled and bowed humbly. His body was small and slight, almost gnomish, and he had long scraggly hair that hung down almost to his shoulders. He looked evil, withdrawn, and ancient. He smiled again, patiently awaiting them.

  Henry shrugged his shoulders and stood up. “Are you taking us to the Sheikh?” he asked.

  There was a nodding of the head, nothing more.

  “All right then,” Henry said. “Go ahead, Alec.”

  The man’s straw-thin legs moved silently, swiftly, leading the way. He led them along the echoing length of a gallery and then down a flight of deeply carpeted stairs. They passed the front door with its ponderous bars and bolts and went through another hall into a long, green-paneled library. Finally they came to a stop before a closed door.

  The servant knocked lightly and then stepped to one side, motioning them to enter. Henry took hold of the large brass knob and turned it slowly. There was a dim light burning in what seemed to be more a stone cavern than a room. Abd-al-Rahman sat in a straight-backed chair before a huge fireplace. There was no fire burning, however, and the dim light came from a small desk lamp.

  The Sheikh rose from his chair and closed the door. “Welcome to my house,” he said, smiling. “It is here I would live if it were not for my pretty wife.” Even though he spoke lightly he seemed to mean what he said. He had removed his fine British clothes and was wearing those of a desert Bedouin, the tight camel’s hair breeches and short jacket bearing the rips and sweat stains of many long and rough rides. For the first time since Alec and Henry had met him he did not have a hat on and they noticed that his hair, like his beard, was cropped short.

  “I do hope Homsi was gracious,” Abd-al-Rahman said. “Often he is inclined not to be. It is his defense because of his small size. Tabari objects to him but there is nothing I can do. Or want to do,” he added, smiling again. “His body is little but his heart is great. We grew up together and he has served and guarded me well. It is customary in my country, as you probably know, to have such a close, personal servant and I am afraid Tabari must put up with him.”

  Alec and Henry were so occupied in looking about the room that they scarcely took in what their host was saying. There were two long, narrow stained-glass windows flanking the great fireplace. Except for three hard chairs and a desk there was no furniture. There were a few books and the lamp on the desk. Nothing could be more simple than this room—or was it a cell? Gone was the splendor to be seen on the other side of the door. Gone were the hanging gardens and playing fountains. This was the room of a solitary man.

  The heavy layer of dust over everything made Alec aware that despite Abd-al-Rahman’s greeting the Sheikh spent little time here. Whose room had it been?

  “This was where Abu Ishak worked out his horse-breeding program,” the Sheikh said, a slight uneasiness in his tone. “He did not want it used by anyone else but since I am carrying on his work …”

  He did not finish but turned to the desk, his fingers nervously tracing the dust.

  “Perhaps we can talk somewhere else then,” Henry suggested. He could feel his temples throbbing. He blamed it on the heat and dust of the small, closed room. Or was it some undefinable fear? Had Abu Ishak wanted this room kept closed for a special reason? Was that why Abd-al-Rahman too acted so jittery?

  “No, it is best that we stay here,” the Sheikh told Henry. “You will better understand what I have to say.”

  Alec asked, “You mean the paper work Abu Ishak did here led to Ziyadah?”

  “And the Black,” Abd-al-Rahman admitted, nodding his dark head. “It was to this room he came when Tabari was a little girl. From Arabia he had brought his finest horses and for the same reason as his great ancestor who had built this stronghold—because he was fearful of desert raids. Abu Ishak was confident that he would produce a superior horse if left alone. He carefully fused one strain with another, experimenting as no other sheikh had ever done, even Barjas ben Ishak. Finally he produced Ziyadah and realized his work was almost done.”

  “Almost done,” Henry repeated. “I thought you told us Ziyadah had the speed of the desert winds.”

  “But Abu Ishak insisted that the horse must also prove himself as a sire, one who would pass down his speed and stamina to his colts. He arranged the first and what proved to be the last mating. He sent to Arabia for Jinah Al-Tyr.…”

  Alec repeated the name aloud and Abd-al-Rahman’s sharp eyes turned to him. “Of course you would know her name, Alec,” he said quietly. “She was the dam of the Black, and this was the mating that produced him.”

  The Sheikh went to the huge fireplace and stood before the old wire screen which guarded a rusty grate. “Her name in Arabic means wings of the bird,” he continued, “but Jinah Al-Tayr had lost her wings. She was so old that Abu Ishak had her brought to the court of Ziyadah by cart, for he knew her ancient legs could not have withstood the rigors of the long journey. It was only a few days after the mating that Ziyadah escaped.”

  Abd-al-Rahman’s gaze swept the bare room. “Abu Ishak remained here until mountaineers found the skeleton of a horse which he pronounced that of Ziyadah. Then he left this room and house never to return.”

  Henry moved toward the door. “Later in Arabia, Jinah Al-Tayr foaled the Black, is that it?” he asked.

  The Sheikh nodded. “Yes, and Abu Ishak watched him grow with great pride, knowing Ziyadah lived again.” He paused, smiling. “Please do not leave, Henry,” he asked most graciously.

  Henry did not like the Sheikh’s smile any more than he did the room. “I thought you were done,” he said.

  Abd-al-Rahman’s smile disappeared. “No, as a matter of fact, it is only here that I enter the story. What I have told you I have learned from Tabari.”

  The Sheikh returned to the desk, his right hand coming down on it with such force that the lamp rocked on its base, throwing its unsteady gleam into the deep shadows of the room.

  Alec shifted his feet uneasily upon the stone floor. He felt the heat and closeness of the room more than ever as the Sheikh suddenly turned his dark eyes on him.

  “Little did Abu Ishak dream that the final result of all his work and that of his ancestors would be responsible for his own death. If he had not already willed the Black to you, Alec, Tabari would have had him destroyed on the very spot where he threw her father. It is ironical, is it not, that while both Ziyadah and his first son are here Abu Ishak is dea
d?”

  Henry had moved back from the door. “Not only ironical but most interesting,” he said. “How do you figure in all this?”

  “Only through Tabari and my own interest in fine horses,” the Sheikh answered soberly. “When reports reached me in the desert of Ziyadah’s ghost being seen by the native mountaineers I knew he was not dead after all. I do not believe in ghosts or wizards or magic of any kind.”

  “You went after him?”

  Abd-al-Rahman nodded. “Tabari was in England for a short stay, seeing friends and recovering from the loss of her father. I sent for her and moved some of our people and best mares here. I knew that if I was fortunate enough to recapture Ziyadah I could carry on Abu Ishak’s work as I longed to do.”

  “And just how did you figure on catching this ghost horse?” Henry asked suspiciously.

  Abd-al-Rahman smiled but his face was very serious, almost grave, when he answered, “By attracting Ziyadah’s attention to our mares.”

  “It worked but you didn’t catch him after all,” Henry said. “Did you see him when he came after the mares?”

  “Not in the fields but later on the mountainsides. He ran as they said he did, leaving a trail of sparks behind him and moving like the desert wind.”

  “He never came down again?” Alec asked.

  “No. We have been waiting for over two years with a doubled guard.”

  “Yet you’ve seen him during that time?”

  “Often,” Abd-al-Rahman answered Alec. “He runs where no horse has a right to be. But he is no ghost. He is Ziyadah.”

  “If you’re so certain of that,” Henry asked quietly, “why did you register his yearlings under a false sire?”

  There was no hesitation in Abd-al-Rahman’s reply and only surprise on his face when he said, “But I have told you already that I did not see him in the fields! It is the ancient law of our land that no pure-blooded mare is allowed to be bred except in the presence of witnesses. I could not as leader of my tribe attest that his colts were asil, of pure blood, even though I knew they were.”

  “You mean it would have been dishonest?” Henry asked with sarcasm.

  The Sheikh did not smile. “I mean that I do not break our ancient laws!” he said coldly.

  “Besides,” Abd-al-Rahman went on, in a more conciliatory tone, “the Sales yearlings were only the means to an end. It is Ziyadah I want, and now that you are here I can use your help.”

  Alec met his gaze. “You mean that since your mares have failed, you want to try something else. You want to send a stud to catch a stud.”

  “Exactly,” the Sheikh answered.

  “When?”

  “The next time he appears. Perhaps even tonight … yes, it might well be tonight. He loves to run when there is a full moon.”

  BLACK ART

  14

  That evening Alec looked out his bedroom window into the night. Under the brilliance of a full moon the pasture grass held a tinge of green-gray. It was a peaceful mountain scene but it offered him little comfort. He hadn’t forgotten the new and dangerous note in Abd-al-Rahman’s voice when the Sheikh had suggested sending the Black after Ziyadah, perhaps that very night.

  Alec had no doubt that his horse could run down Ziyadah if he had an even chance. The Black, too, had run wild much of his life and he had run to kill other horses. But how would he go with Alec on his back? And was it worth the chance they’d be taking in running over such terrain?

  Alec looked up at the great mountain silhouetted against the sky, its peaks mounting like turrets into the stars, and then down at the gardens where hidden floodlights played upon the fishponds and fountains. As he took deep breaths of the cool air he watched the bats and birds that flew bewilderedly in the glare of the fountain lights. With his eyes he followed the curving jets of water that rose from the mouths of marble lions and tigers, of crocodiles and eagles. He listened to the sound of it falling into green pools, and he thought of Tabari, who had created this enchantment. For whom? Certainly not her husband. For herself then? To keep busy while Abd-al-Rahman sought Ziyadah?

  Turning away from the window, Alec stepped from an alcove into the large bedroom. Tabari had furnished it with a brass bed and choice pieces of mahogany furniture that had evidently been imported from England. Scattered over the stone floor were thick, hand-woven rugs of soft colors. A fire burned in the fireplace to take the evening chill from the room, its flames sending a hollow roar up the wide chimney.

  A large bathroom, with doors of padded leather, separated Alec’s room from Henry’s. Now, as the boy walked into the adjoining room, his friend said, “Put another log on that fire, will you please, Alec?”

  Henry, in the pajamas and robe Abd-al-Rahman had loaned him, was already in bed, trying to read. His gray eyes seemed paler and he was shivering.

  “Are you all right?” Alec asked anxiously. The room was warm and the top logs in the fireplace were blazing. But he obediently put another log on as Henry had asked.

  “Sure, just a little chill. I was thinkin’ about being out in that cold last night. I guess that brought it on.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Look at me now, stretched out in the lap of luxury.” He waved a hand toward his bedside table, which held a steaming tray. “The Sheikh sent Homsi up with chocolate. Have some? There’s plenty and he brought an extra cup for you.”

  “No, thanks,” Alec answered. Besides the hot chocolate there were dates, bread and honey. Henry looked very small in the big bed. A table in the center of the room was littered with English racing magazines and it was one of these Henry was reading; its cover showed the Black winning the Brooklyn Handicap.

  A chill swept over Alec despite the warmth of the room. To shake it off he took a few turns around the room. The diamond-paned windows, recessed into an alcove like his own, were closed but he could see the lights of the stable towers.

  “I wish I were tired,” he said.

  “You will be if you get to bed,” Henry soothed. “There’s no sense worrying any more about it tonight. Tomorrow will be soon enough. We’ll think better after a good night’s sleep.”

  Alec remained by the windows, staring out into the night. The face of the stable clock was yellow and dimly lit, its gold hands pointing to ten o’clock. Bats flew within the range of its light and Alec could almost hear the flutter of their wings. He opened the window, not really knowing why he did so, for Henry had said he was cold. But Alec was sure Henry’s chill did not come from the night air any more than his own did.

  “Do you believe his story?” Alec spoke softly and without changing his position at the windows.

  “I guess so—now.”

  “It’s too weird.”

  “So’s life sometimes. What other reason would he have for bein’ here if it wasn’t to catch Ziyadah?”

  “Maybe there’s no such horse,” Alec suggested. “Not alive, anyway.”

  “We saw him ourselves … last night.”

  “We saw lights last night,” Alec corrected, “lights and a dim silhouette of what we took to be a horse. But we could have been mistaken.”

  “We heard hoofbeats.”

  “I can pound out those, too.”

  “You’re being too skeptical.”

  “I’m scared of this, Henry. I’m not going to have the Black killed chasing a ghost horse.”

  “Or yourself either. It’s not the Black I’m worried about. He’s big and can handle himself. It’s you.”

  “I can handle myself.”

  “Not if you don’t get some sleep.”

  With the window open Alec could hear the clatter of the stream below. From not too far away came the slap of a rope on rawhide and then a whistle. Three Arab guards came down the stable lane, boots clinking. They walked along the stream and Alec watched them until they had reached the big tent. A fire was blazing before the opening and other Arabs sat around it eating while greyhounds hovered patiently, awaiting scraps of meat and bones. It was a desert scene, wild and beautiful an
d peaceful.

  Why then, if it was so peaceful, did he start at his own shadow? Alec wondered. Why was he filled with all sorts of horrible doubts? As Henry had said, what other reason would Abd-al-Rahman have for being here if it wasn’t to catch a real, live Ziyadah? What was more, wasn’t that the reason he and Henry were here too?

  His troubled eyes followed the gravel road to the house. Even in the shadows he was able to make out the double flight of stone stairs that led to the front door, with its ponderous bars and bolts. The vast house was a fortress, today as in the past.

  No wonder he was not sleepy. The house was getting on his nerves. Despite Tabari’s gardens and the modern plumbing and lighting and furniture the place belonged to the past and to the dead. It was as if Barjas ben Ishak were still alive, walking down the echoing length of his great halls.

  Alec shuddered. He glanced at the circular stallion barn that stood on the high knoll across the stream. With the moonlight shining brightly upon its ancient stone, it seemed far more vulnerable to attack than this house. Perhaps, contrary to what he had been told, Barjas ben Ishak had been more afraid of losing his own life than his horses.

  Alec closed the window, and Henry said quietly, “Now why don’t you go to bed? I’m turning out the light.”

  The bedside lamp went off but the moon brightened the room. Alec made his way to the foot of Henry’s bed. “I—I can’t explain the way I feel,” he said.

  Henry’s voice was muffled by the deep pillow. “Y’don’t have to. I know.”

  “I don’t think you do. I have a feeling that—”

  “We got nothin’ to worry about,” Henry said sleepily. “Even ghost horses don’t bother me none. My big brother used to put me asleep tellin’ me the story of the Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow. Imagine ridin’ pell-mell up an’ down the Hudson River on that ol’ bag of bones. He wouldn’t have lasted a quarter of a mile on a dry track, that one. What a phony!”

  With the window shut the only sound in the room was the roar of the flames sweeping up the chimney. Alec said, “I keep thinking about old Nazar, sitting in front of the barn and waiting through the years for Ziyadah’s return.”