The Young Black Stallion

by Steven Farley

  “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.

  When he spoke, his words were more of a chant than a deliberate reply. “Hear what I have to say, my son. My days upon this earth cannot be long, so I shall tell you what I believe. I shall tell you why I call the black colt the Son of the Midnight Sky. You have the right and duty to make up your own mind about the truth of what I am about to say.” He paused to rest his head upon the staff he held between his crossed legs. “Would it please you to hear me tell of it? If so, you must thoroughly understand the meaning of the mating of Jinah Al-Tayr.”

  The young man nodded eagerly, his expression one of great anticipation. “Yes, Great Father, I will listen and I will judge for myself that which you tell me.”

  “I turned out Jinah Al-Tayr in this very pasture,” the old man said, waving his thin arms in a wide gesture. “It was as Abu Ishak would have it, leaving her there to breed in her own time.” He paused to gather breath before going on. “Our chieftain said to me, ‘This could be remembered as a great day by our tribe, Old Friend. Jinah Al-Tayr will have a colt, and if he is black, he will be one of fire and have the speed of the desert storms.’ ”

  The old man’s voice became exceedingly frail as he continued, “I remember these words well, for our chieftain had ordered Ziyadah turned out in the same pasture with Jinah Al-Tayr and I knew, as I have told you, that Ziyadah’s chestnut color was dominant in every mare he bred. I was certain there would be no black colt. Our chieftain was hoping against hope.”

  He paused again, this time lowering his head until it was almost hidden beneath his flowing cloak.

  “Yes, Great Father,” the young man urged, “please go on. In the name of the Prophet, go on. I beg you.…”

  The old man raised his head, shrugging off the wind, which might well be wearing away his wasted body.

  “You must think of a sky, a night sky, such as you have never known,” he said feebly. “A sky greater and clearer with more stars than you have ever seen in your life. It was on such a night that Jinah Al-Tayr became in foal.…”

  “To Ziyadah?” the young man asked anxiously.

  The old man didn’t answer.

  “If not Ziyadah, what other stallion would there be?” the young man pleaded.

  Still there was no reply, and to the young man’s irritation the ancient one again withdrew his head into the folds of his hooded cloak. From time to time there was only an imperceptible movement of his frail body, and with it mumbled words, a sigh and then silence.

  “Stars … as though dropping from the sky … so bright … so close … a brilliant light … swinging in mighty arcs … what dost it mean?”

  The young man detected a dreary, senile expression on the old man’s face. Now he truly believed that the
re was no tale to tell, that the ancient one was simply living out childish fantasies that were spinning crazily in his mind.

  “The Prophet be with you,” he said kindly, more to himself than the old man. “May Allah inspire you and be with you always.”

  Rising to his feet, he touched the old man’s shoulders, shaking him gently. “Wake up, Great Father. Our watch is not yet over.”

  There was no response to his urging, and he decided to let the old man be. The young man could keep watch by himself. He stood patiently and looked all around, at the yearlings grazing nearby; the valley below, now blue in shadow; the jagged peaks that towered above them on every side, the tops catching the very last rays of the setting sun.

  His eyes still closed, the old one began groaning softly and shivering in the cold. The young herder had been afraid of something like this. The old one’s strength was lessening every day. It was time to get him down to the encampment in the valley. The young man looked below for the herders who would take their place in this high upper pasture, but there was no sign of them. It was too early.

  Turning to the old man, he shook him gently. “Please, Great Father, we will go now. I will help you to your feet.” But the old one did not stir, except for mumbling to himself as if asleep.

  Thrusting his turbaned head close to that of the old man, the young herder tried again. “Wake up, Great Father. You’re dreaming. It is time for us to go. If you remain here in the cold, your only destiny is death.” He shook the thin shoulders harder than before.

  Finally the old man opened his small, piercing eyes and found the strength somewhere to speak. “I cannot go,” he said, his voice but a whisper. “You no longer have need of me.”

  “By the love of the Prophet!” cried the young man. “You are old and sick in the head, Great Father. You cannot stay here. As powerful as you are, I will not allow it. I will go below. I will return with others and we will carry you away!”

  Having made up his mind, the young man turned abruptly and made for the trail to the valley floor.

  For several minutes the old man sat there, motionless. Then slowly he struggled to his feet and stood very straight despite the strong wind that buffeted his body. He frowned as he squinted into the dark shadows of the fast-approaching night. Suddenly he felt terribly alone beneath the vastness of the mountains and the unknowable peaks looming above him. The terrifying stillness was broken by the loud wail of an animal in the distance. He sought to place the cry but could not recognize it.

  Darkness settled on the pasture. He remained where he was, conscious only of a bird of night circling lazily above him.

  Then a full yellow moon began to rise above the craggy ridge that bordered the valley. Turning his head, the old man looked at the horses close by. The magnificence of the black colt, the encampment hidden below in the remote valley, the sheltering mountains over which no intruders could come without betraying their approach—these things were all according to the plan of Abu Já Kub ben Ishak and his forefathers.

  So the black colt, the one he knew to be like no earthly horse he had ever seen, would be forever safe.

  The lone Bedouin scout lay on the cold stone, having watched and listened to the two herders until the old man had been left alone. Now he crawled forward with the adeptness and quietness of the born desert raider. If the old man cried out, he would have to kill him. The thought of killing the ancient one disturbed him. But his chieftain, Ibn al Khaldun, who was not far behind, had told him he must be prepared to do so. He should not wonder at his fear of killing the old man, for the ancient one’s reputation was well-known throughout the land. He was more than a herder of horses, a nomadic driver. He was a legendary chieftain in his own right, a survivor in a land soaked in the blood of slaughtered tribes. There were some who said he was too close to the Prophet to ever die.

  The scout would soon know. He had never killed before, but he had been told it was simple. You flicked your knife, and they were dead. He wasn’t afraid to kill, he told himself, only not to kill. For Ibn al Khaldun, who wanted the black colt, would have his head if he failed to silence the guard.

  But the scout did not think that he would need to kill. All he had to do was suddenly appear by the old man’s side, show his dagger and say, “Be quiet, Father, and you will live to see the dawn.” Perhaps he would have to clamp his hand over the old man’s mouth. The ancient one would be too feeble to resist.

  Drawing his long knife, the scout moved cautiously toward the old man. The herder stood alone in the moonlight as if asleep on his feet. It would be easy, very easy.

  THE LAST CRY

  2

  “This is my colt,” the old man wanted to shout to a multitude of listeners. “This is the result of all we’ve worked for. Look upon him. He carries the blood of Jinah Al-Tayr, the finest mare ever bred and raced by the tribe of Abu Já Kub ben Ishak. Yet she saved her greatness for this colt, in whose blood along with hers is that of the great stallion of the night sky. He will be the ultimate perfection in a horse. In the name of the Prophet, look upon him, all of you.”

  Trying to get closer to Shêtân, the old man took several strides against the wind that whipped his frail body. Then he stopped suddenly and pressed the woolen cloak against his chest. The pains were sharp. He mustn’t get sick now as he had in the past. The pains must stop. He had too much to do.

  The black colt swept by. Was there ever a betterstriding colt? he wondered. Was there ever one faster? The old man pressed the cloak harder against his chest, hoping its warmth would still the severe pains he felt there. The beat of his heart seemed to pound louder than the horse’s hooves. Yet his ears heard only what he wanted to hear, the strong hoofbeats of the black colt.

  The chest pains grew stronger, and the old man fell to his knees on the cold ground. Finding it hard to breathe, he opened his mouth wide, seeking more air. After years of waiting he could not die, for the young colt was on his way to greatness.

  Shêtân swept by again, and tears came to the old man’s eyes as he watched him pass in the moonlight. He found himself on his hands and knees, crawling after the colt. He began breathing faster, taking huge gulps of icy air, hoping this would numb his pain. But it did not.

  Feebly, he moved forward in the direction of the black colt, thinking he was traveling rapidly but barely moving. Finally he came to a stop, his head turning slowly in the direction from which he had come. It was more intuition than any sound that made him aware of the hooded figure behind him.

  He raised one hand as if to ward off a blow. There stood a young Bedouin with a dagger; his other hand was raised in a warning gesture. Suddenly, fingers of pain seemed to be digging, tearing into the old man’s very eyeballs. He pulled away and recognized the Bedouin’s kufiyya as that of the hateful tribe of Ibn al Khaldun!

  With great effort he rocked his body back and forth, knowing that Ibn al Khaldun’s horsemen would not be far behind the scout. His severe chest pains came again, but now he was too numbed by what he knew would happen to the black colt to feel anything. Where were his own tribesmen? Why didn’t they come?

  With all his remaining strength, he screamed a fierce warning, hoping it would reach the encampment in the valley below. Frozen like a statue, he continued screaming, his cries a funnel of white in the cold air. But now they were feeble cries, the sound of his voice emerging croaked and horrible from his throat.

  There were tears and dreadful pain in the old herder’s eyes, and he could not see the face that bent over him. He felt the Bedouin’s rough hand try to cover his mouth. In a last burst of strength, he twisted his body violently and flung himself at the scout. The pointed steel blade pressed against his chest but it was too late to stop. The herder struck a final blow against his enemy and fell heavily on the knife. His arms wrapped around the attacker in a deathly embrace. The knife slid deeper into his flesh. It touched a rib, hesitated, and then kept going. The old man crumpled and said “Ohhhhh” very gently.

  Warm, wet bl
ood spilt onto the scout’s hands. He disentangled himself from his victim and jumped back in horror. The herder collapsed to the ground. He lay there in silence, the muscles of his face twitching, his eyes already lifeless.

  The Bedouin stood in shock over the old man who was half his size and a hundred times his age. He held back the vomit that threatened to come up from his stomach. Everything had gone wrong. He had never wanted to kill this ancient one, so much a legend among his own tribe as well as that of Abu Já Kub ben Ishak. The scout attempted to wipe the sticky blood from his hands.

  It’s not my fault! he wanted to cry out. He fell on my knife and killed himself! It was an accident! Yet the scout knew he had caused the herder’s death as surely as if he had stabbed him deliberately. And he would be blamed, for it was his dagger that had pierced the old one’s heart.

  Behind him the scout heard the hoofbeats of his mounted tribesmen. His fear was so great that his breath came in shallow gasps. This was a blood feud now, and they would say he started it.

  The herder lay still, his sightless gaze turned toward the scout. With trembling fingers the Bedouin leaned down to close the old man’s eyes. “May the Prophet be with you,” he said. Then he felt for the handle of his knife and pulled it out with a jerk. It was all so senseless. The old man could have done nothing to stop them from stealing the black colt.

  He turned and saw the horsemen riding toward him. Taking a long breath of the cold mountain air, he attempted to feel the excitement that always accompanied a successful raid. And yet his eyes returned to the old, old man whose words and prophecies and legends were those, people said, known to no other but the Prophet.

  Convulsively, the old man’s legs suddenly twitched, as if still trying to reach the black colt he believed destined for greatness. Finally, he lay still.

  IBN AL KHALDUN

  3

  The black colt’s eyes and movements had disclosed only curiosity and interest in the robed figure coming up behind the old man. He had no reason not to accept the newcomer as he accepted the others in the tribe of Abu Já Kub ben Ishak. His world had been one of great peace and contentment, and his care and feed the best.