The Young Black Stallion

by Steven Farley

  But suddenly, the old man had screamed, his cry rising in the air and filling the pitched ears of the black colt.

  The black colt whinnied, breaking the ominous stillness. At his warning, every colt in the small band bolted, scattering, neighing, running. And the sound of their hoofbeats was echoed by those of the mounted horsemen who suddenly appeared from a little-used trail that wound its way along the upper slope of the valley.

  There were twenty in all, white-robed figures sitting still and straight in their saddles as their horses—bays, chestnuts and grays—moved quickly across the pasture, their heads held high and tails streaming behind them. The men rode in no particular formation, their long guns resting easily across their thighs, their hands lying only lightly upon them. They had no use for guns just then. The old man, the legendary one, was already dead, and there was no one else to stop them.

  Their horses pulled on the bits, eager to break out of the slow canter to which they were held. The riders, too, were impatient but awaited command from their chieftain, Ibn al Khaldun. It had taken three weeks for them to cross the desert and reach the mountain stronghold of Abu Já Kub ben Ishak. They never could have made it this far if their spies had not helped them evade Abu Ishak’s guards. All this to take the young black colt with spindly legs.

  He, yes, it was he who was responsible for their long, tiresome march. It was he who had caused them to ride for so many suns to reach this rooftop of the world! All for the possession of this black colt that their chieftain had told them was worth all the treasures beneath the heavens, for he had been foaled by the stallion of the night sky.

  They believed none of it. And seeing the black colt just a short distance away, they were unimpressed. Though larger, to their eyes the black colt was no different from the others in the small band. Certainly he was no better, perhaps not as good, as those they had left behind at home.

  But all this they would keep to themselves. One did not question Ibn al Khaldun. It was he who dared challenge the might of the powerful sheikh Abu Já Kub ben Ishak by raiding his mountain home. It meant war between their tribes, with much blood to be shed in the days and weeks to come. But for now the worst part of their trek was over and possession of the black colt easier than anyone had dared hope, including their chieftain, who rode ahead of them.

  Ibn al Khaldun sat erect and still on his horse, a dapple-gray stallion with silver mane and tail. He held the reins in his right hand along with a tightly coiled leather whip. Since his youth he had known the use of only one arm, but he could do as much as anyone with two. Skill with the whip was just one of his many talents. But he saw no reason to use it now. His men carried lead shanks and ropes, which were all that would be necessary to capture the young black colt.

  Ibn al Khaldun was a short man with tremendous shoulders and a bull neck. His face was round and deeply furrowed from having spent a lifetime beneath the hot desert sun. He did not like the cold mountain air but his discomfort was worth enduring, for he had found the black colt in the upper pastures rather than in the valley below.

  He smiled, his mouth toothless, as he thought how easy Abu Já Kub ben Ishak had made it for him. It was only natural that the master at horse breeding would pasture his prized colts high in the mountains, where the air was cold and the ground steep, all in the hope of creating a more robust, better-legged horse. Khaldun was envious. Someday he wanted to have a mountain base too.

  His small gray eyes squinted in the moonlight as he followed the black colt, who was attempting to get away from them. To take him meant that he would have a blood feud with Abu Já Kub ben Ishak for life. Unfortunate that the old herder, the legendary one, had been killed. Blood called for blood among their tribes, and death for death. Living as their forefathers did, it would be forever the same.

  The old herder’s cry had not alerted Abu Ishak’s men down in the valley. Khaldun was thankful for that, at least. Nonetheless his raiders would need to be silent and quick.

  Signaling his men, he changed the formation. Long limbs wrapped about the girths of their horses, the men now rode alongside each other, ten yards apart. Then in a wide line they moved forward, ignoring all the colts except the black one.

  Shêtân had never seen mounted men in such numbers before. Instinct caused him to run as the others did, scattering to the far side of the pasture. As if intending to lead the mounted men away from his band, the black colt veered off by himself, his slender legs half on the earth, half in the air.

  For so young an age he ran with fierce strides. Faster and faster he raced, his nostrils puffed out like those of an enraged older stallion in all his fury. Suddenly, for a reason only he knew, he swerved back toward the men, holding his long strides without a break. The colt was trying to frighten them!

  Ibn al Khaldun raised an arm, bringing his men to an abrupt stop. The long line of mounted riders had little to fear from the oncoming young stallion, knowing he could do them little harm—and even, perhaps, make his capture that much easier. They readied their ropes and lead shanks.

  Now the black colt was close enough for them to make out the fury in his eyes, and they had their first qualms about how easy his capture might be. The young stallion bore down upon them, his small ears pricked forward, then suddenly swept back flat against his head.

  Ibn al Khaldun couldn’t believe his eyes at the colt’s fierceness. He was more elated than afraid of anything the colt might do to him or his men with such spindly, tiring legs. It was the fire that burned in the colt’s eyes that excited him most. In the name of the Holy Prophet, this colt might be all that was rumored about him! Ibn al Khaldun signaled his men to stay behind while he rode forward several strides to intercept the oncoming colt. He uncoiled his long whip and cracked it in the air.

  The black colt came to a sudden stop, trembling and uncertain, for he had never known the threat of violence before.

  Ibn al Khaldun saw the uncertainty as well as the fire in the colt’s large eyes. And his own eyes gleamed with a light equally bright. He had to have this colt. He held the long whip ready but did not want to use it. No whip marks should mar such a beautiful body.

  The black colt rose as high as he could on his hind legs as if to frighten the man. Ibn al Khaldun roared his laughter and cracked his whip again to send the colt back. But suddenly, before he could gather up his whip, the colt had bolted forward, charging hard against the chieftain’s mount, long legs thrashing out trying to reach him in the saddle! The man hurled himself away from the colt’s forelegs, but one hoof struck his shoulder. In pain and anger, he brought down the butt of his whip hard against the colt’s nose. Maddened with pain, the colt struck back. Ibn al Khaldun felt another hoof strike his side, causing him to lose his balance and topple to the ground!

  The mounted men broke their line before the relentless onslaught of the young stallion. They were close enough to him to use their ropes, and they attempted to wrap them about his neck, hoping to bring him down. Yet they moved cautiously, fearful now of the colt’s slashing teeth and hooves, which had caught them and their chieftain so unprepared.

  The men fought back as the black colt continued to lash out with cutting hooves, using all the strength and energy in his young body. Avoiding their ropes, he went forward, then backward, as cunning and quick as a wild animal on the attack, fighting for his life.

  There were just too many of them for Shêtân to win. He was breathing heavily and blood spewed from the cut on his nose. An intense hatred for all men had replaced the fury in his eyes. Turning suddenly, he sped up a canyon at the edge of the pasture in an attempt to outrun them.

  The colt made for a narrow, steep trail that wild goats used in their ascent to the mountaintops. Jumping over snags and boulders, he reached it and began climbing, not knowing what lay beyond, only that there was no turning back.

  Below him the mounted men came to a halt, realizing the path was too narrow and steep for them as well as for the black colt. It was only a question of time and h
eight before he had to come down or fall down.

  Having regained his seat in the saddle, Ibn al Khaldun watched the colt climb higher and, it seemed, forever higher up the steep mountain slope. He looked like a black spider in the moonlight, spread-eagled across the trail, hard against the mountainside. No horse in the world could stand upright against such a steep grade. In a few minutes the colt would tumble over backward to his grave. Already he was veering backward, teetering precariously, his body weight causing him to lose his balance.

  Ibn al Khaldun decided quickly that he did not want to witness the colt falling to the rocks below. That which he did not see he would not remember. The one-armed chieftain turned away in disgust. The colt had lost as he had lost. To avoid tribal war, they must leave quickly. They dared not remain to raid the other horses, as their numbers were too small. If they were lucky, Abu Já Kub ben Ishak might never know which of his enemies had killed the old man, and perhaps he would see the death of the black colt as an accident.

  It was a pity, Khaldun thought. Perhaps the black colt would have been the perfect horse, the one of destiny. He signaled the others with a low whistle. Turning his gray stallion, Ibn al Khaldun led his men away.

  Shêtân plunged heavily up the trail, his body heaving to compensate for the steepness of the ascent. His hocks trembled beneath him as he threw his weight forward, trying desperately to save himself from going over backward. His forelegs pummeled the rocky trail in an attempt to keep his balance. It was a play of weight and counterbalances between his own forward thrust and the force of gravity, which pulled him backward. It called for strength and skill but most of all instinct—knowing when to use his weight and strength to correct his balance. He must not move a second too late.

  He lurched forward, reaching for the sky, holding himself upright against the mountainside. Then he lost his balance, and his weight shifted back again as though gravity were determined to send him rolling down the cliff.

  His slender hocks shook. He could not stand the strain much longer. Once again he hurled his weight forward, trying to come down on his forelegs in an attempt to regain his balance. His hooves slipped on the loose stones, and suddenly his hind weight carried him so far backward that he could not recover. He began rolling over, head over hindquarters, down the steep trail.

  Fighting for his life, Shêtân sought to hold on to the loose stones with tumbling body and thrashing legs. Finally, his momentum slowed, and he was able to bring his body to a stop.

  Making no attempt to regain his feet, he lay there quietly without moving. His black coat and mane were matted with blood, his nose raw and red. Yet fire still burned in his eyes for an enemy he could not see. He remained there throughout the night, knowing he was safe from those who would harm him.

  With the first light of dawn, his strength had returned. He was determined more than ever to escape. There were no signs of men or other horses; the pasture was empty. Shêtân scrambled down the embankment to the soft, open ground. No one saw him trot boldly out of the pasture and set off along a little-used animal trail that turned up into the highlands.

  ABANDONED

  4

  Rashid, the Bedouin scout, had been left behind—intentionally, he knew, for Ibn al Khaldun had taken his mount and his rifle. At first he felt panic rise within him, then quickly anger took its place. He knew the reason for being left to fend for himself against the tribe of Abu Já Kub ben Ishak. The old man of legend was dead, and Ibn al Khaldun had decided Rashid was to be sacrificed. His death might be enough to placate the rival chieftain and perhaps avoid the blood feud that could last for years between the two tribes. Raids were accepted by the law of the desert, but no blood was to be shed except in cases of extreme necessity. Death called for death. Blood for blood. Dam butlub dam. His blood for that of the old man’s. In the name of Allah, not if he could help it!

  What about the death of the black colt? Would even his own death, if he were caught, satisfy Abu Ishak? He doubted it. Furthermore, he had no intention of being part of this exchange. He was not going to remain in this rooftop of the world. On foot he would find his way back to the desert, but not to the tribe of Ibn al Khaldun. No longer would he be part of such a vengeful, unfaithful tribe. He would go to his family tribe of less than a hundred people, living in twelve tents spread over a mile of desert. His family was small compared to the powerful tribe of Ibn al Khaldun, but faithful and caring. It wasn’t his fault the old man was dead. He had followed the command of Ibn al Khaldun, afraid that if he didn’t, his tongue would be cut from his mouth. And yet he had been left as a sacrifice to die! Now that he was free of Ibn al Khaldun, he would find his way to his family tribe and a new life.

  Rashid followed the trail over which they had come, climbing ever higher toward the pass and away from Abu Ishak’s stronghold in the mountain valley. He was young and strong, and he still had his knife, goatskin water bag and flint stone. His woolen blanket was wrapped around his shoulders, and deep in the folds of his aba were the dried meats and dates that would help him survive his journey home.

  For a time he would live off the land, no different from those who lived in these high mountains. He increased his pace, knowing he must put as much distance as possible between himself and the men of Abu Ishak, who would follow once the bodies of the old man and the black colt were found.

  The night closed around him as he continued to climb toward the high peaks silhouetted against the moonlit night sky. In the name of Allah, how good it would be to leave this rooftop of the world and be warm enough to sleep all night without the threat of freezing to death. If he kept away from exposed positions, he would be safe, and within a few days he would leave these high gray peaks behind forever.

  His youthful face with its high cheekbones made his black eyes look sunken. Bits of wool clung to his rumpled black hair when he pushed back his head shawl to wipe his brow. In spite of all he had told himself, he feared that he would not last the night. He was terrified of Abu Já Kub ben Ishak and what the mighty chieftain would do to him in his anger.

  He increased his pace, leaning over as far as he could against the steep ascent. He was tall for his age and not used to bending when he walked; soon the cramps in his back were more than he could stand. He stopped and for a few moments stood erect, looking back and listening for any sound of being followed. His face disclosed the fear that already was lodged in his chest, tightening it, making his breathing more difficult.

  Once more he pushed back his head shawl, wiping the wetness from his forehead. Despite his perspiration, he felt the iciness of the night seep deeper into his body. He pulled his upper garment, a warm shawl of camel’s hair, more tightly about him. And then he bent over against the ascent and began climbing again.

  It was only a short time later that he heard the sound of horses’ hooves behind him. Quickly he left the trail, cowering behind great boulders, knowing that if he were seen he would not live to welcome the dawn with his reverent prayer to Allah.

  His sharp eyesight had helped him become one of the best scouts in his tribe, and he easily made out the riders as they came into view. The whiteness of their flowing garments showed vividly in the moonlight. He saw Abu Já Kub ben Ishak riding his tall chestnut stallion in front, his gray beard pressed against his chest as he led his men up the steep ravine. They traveled at a fast walk, the skilled hands of the riders guiding their horses easily over the hazardous trail.

  Despite his great fear, Rashid could not help being impressed by the riders’ horsemanship. Like the men of Ibn al Khaldun, Abu Já Kub ben Ishak’s horsemen were not desert traders but desert-hardened warriors who knew well their work as raiders—and in this case they were hunters of men.

  He watched them slow their horses as they picked their way toward him. It was obvious that they had traveled this route many times. Ever closer they came toward where he hid, slowing their horses still more to spare them as the ascent became more abrupt.

  Finally they were almost abr
east of him, and he ceased breathing at all. He saw that they had unslung their guns and were riding with them across their thighs. Truly, they believed they were not far behind those they sought for the death of the old man.

  And it was he whom they sought!

  But the black colt died too, he wanted to shout to them. And it was Ibn al Khaldun who was responsible for the death of the old man and the black colt as well. Abu Já Kub ben Ishak, master of horse breeding, should kill the guilty one. The blood feud between them should last forever, leaving Rashid free to return in peace to his small family tribe!

  He didn’t move, and his breathing came in short, silent gasps. Only his heart pounded harder, louder than he would have liked. He tried to quiet it by reminding himself that of all things he was a renowned tracker, used to living a life of stealth. Quiet, he told himself. Be quiet.

  A few minutes later Abu Ishak and his men had passed, assembling in single file and moving their horses slowly as they began a still steeper ascent toward the pass.

  He waited until they were long out of view and then carefully followed them up the trail. They would not be turning back, and there was little to fear.

  Hours later, with the first light of dawn, he came to a fork in a deep ravine. There, hidden in a cleft in the rocks, he made camp, eating some of the dried meats and dates he carried in his cloak. Before lying down to rest on the cold stone, he turned in the direction of Mecca and recited reverently the first words he had heard as a Moslem child: La ilaha illa-’llah: Muham-madum rasulu-’llah. “No God but Allah: Mohammed is the messenger of Allah.”

  He pulled his woolen blanket around him and lay down on the coldness. He tried to find sleep as he would have done at home, but he could not put his mind to rest. What was he doing here? He knew nothing of the mountains. But Khaldun had insisted Rashid join the raid. “A good tracker must know the mountains,” he had told him. It was all part of his training. And now he had been abandoned in enemy territory without a horse or rifle. Rashid could not understand it.