The Young Black Stallion

by Steven Farley

  Should he move forward? Rashid wondered. Was the vicious young stallion only waiting for the right moment to attack? The colt tossed his head. Despite his ravaged condition, it was a proud and defiant gesture. He lashed his tail at the flies that were buzzing around his cuts.

  Slowly and quietly Rashid moved in closer to the colt, holding up the palms of his hands to show he had nothing in them and meant no harm. The colt neither pulled away nor made any effort to come closer. Shêtân was alert now, anticipating the scout’s next move and preparing himself for it. There did not seem to be hostility or viciousness in his manner as much as aloofness. He was untamed royalty and seemed to know it. Rashid ventured as close as he dared and then stopped. Even wounded as he was, the colt did not retreat. His ears were laid back and the look in his eyes was not friendly.

  Rashid backed up and returned to wade in the cool water of the stream. He fashioned a bandage for himself out of strips of cloth torn from his turban and wrapped his shoulder. Looking up from his work, the scout saw Shêtân only a few feet away. As the two of them stood there, the blood from their wounds dripped down into the water, intermingled and washed downstream. It seemed to be a sign that their fates were to be bound together while they were caught in these high, forbidding mountains.

  Rashid pulled out from within the folds of his torn shirt the last of the dates he had been saving for emergencies. He ate half and left the other half as an offering of friendship to the colt. When he returned later, they were gone.

  At nightfall the crescent moon appeared above a distant mountain ridge. Rashid said another prayer of thanks to Allah for guiding him in his fight with the leopard. He had come close to dying for this black colt. May Allah will it that it should never happen again. At least, wounded as he was, the colt was not going anywhere.

  After eating a few mouthfuls of dried rabbit meat Rashid lay down, trying to keep the weight off his wounded shoulder. Pain was no stranger to the Bedouin; his life had never been easy. In the desert one accepted hardships without question, as there was no other way. Hunger and thirst were never-ending. He had faced the threat of death often, be it the swift and silent blade of a desert raider or the bite of a deadly snake. He would survive this ordeal as he had many others already in his young life. Better to fight a leopard any day than to fall into enemy hands or lose his camel while crossing the vast Rub‘ al Khali.

  Here he had meat to eat and, if nothing else, he had put plenty of distance between himself and Abu Ishak. When he was free of this place, he would sell the colt and with the money he would return to his desert home a rich man, able to buy many camels, maybe even a racing camel. He smiled as he pictured himself galloping across the dunes and winning the annual camel race his family ran against the neighboring tribes.

  Then, trying to ignore the throbbing in his shoulder, Rashid fell into an uneasy sleep. The young black stallion stood nearby, balanced on three legs, his taut muscles finally relaxed after his own ordeal. He lifted his head and let loose a shrill cry into the night. The sound faded into the distance. A moment later an owl hooted, as if in response. A cool wind blew down from the mountaintops. A hyena coughed, and then all was quiet.

  Rashid’s fitful sleep was due not so much to the cold or his wounds. Nor was it the thought of leopards or Abu Ishak that troubled him. At least they were mortal dangers. It was the city of the dead that haunted him. It was to the ruined crypt that he returned time after time in his dreams. He saw the old herder waiting for him inside, a knife stuck through his ribs, an ever-deepening pool of blood collecting around his feet like a spreading shadow. In the dreams he ran outside into the moonlit night, but wherever he turned the trail inevitably led back to the crypt. There was no escape.

  He welcomed the daylight and changed his bandages, wiping off some of the blood that had caked around his wounds. Later, on his way to the stream, Rashid stumbled upon the spot where the stallion had spent the night. A dark stain colored the weeds where the colt had been lying. Shêtân hadn’t appeared to be in any pain, but it was plain to see he was still bleeding, though no longer heavily. The scout wondered how many other horses could have survived such an attack.

  When Rashid felt strong enough, he returned to where the dead leopard lay. Pulling his knife out of the animal’s throat, he cut off the skin and stretched it out to dry. The old male’s tough hide was battle-scarred and worn. It wouldn’t fetch much at market, but the scout felt sure he could get something for it. Next he prepared the ointment made of leopard’s fat and smeared it on his arms, chest and legs. The strong-smelling liniment seeped down into his pores. He could feel the leopard’s spirit merge with his own and give him new strength.

  In a few days Rashid was well enough to hunt again. He had been watching a hare that came to drink from the stream. Now he tracked it to its home. Crouching outside the mouth of its shallow burrow, he reached in and pulled out the hare. Quickly he slit its throat with his knife.

  Back at the campsite Rashid prepared the hare for cooking by skewering it on a stick. Next he gathered some wood for a fire. With his flint he struck a spark from his steel knife blade. The spark alighted on a handful of dry grass. Cupping the grass in his hands, Rashid whirled it above his head. Then he laid the smoldering tinder under the kindling and blew on it gently. The glowing tendrils of grass grew quickly into a crackling fire.

  He wondered how long it would be before he could befriend Shêtân. The black horse would come to him soon, of this he was certain. He had saved the colt’s life, after all. Shêtân must know that and be grateful.

  Basking in the sun and bathing in the cool waters of the stream, both Rashid and the black colt soon recovered from the leopard’s attack. Though the colt still limped, there was no sign that his wounds bothered him. He was content to spend the days grazing by the rushing stream and made no move to stray far from the ravine.

  Every morning Rashid collected an armful of ferns and green grass, which he brought to Shêtân for breakfast. While wary at first, the colt gradually came to anticipate this daily gift. The scout took it as a sign that his strategy of patiently building the colt’s trust was working.

  Two moons came and went as Shêtân and Rashid remained in their retreat. Rashid was bothered only by his nightmares of the crypt and the old herder, which lessened but never went entirely away. The falcon that had plagued him earlier came and went with the winds. She followed him like an elusive shadow, sometimes disappearing for weeks at a time but always returning to haunt him again.

  Shêtân stopped favoring his right foreleg and ceased limping altogether. Even the scars seemed to have magically disappeared. Not only was he healed, but Rashid watched in amazement as the colt scaled a steep section of the narrow trail around the ravine. Even an able-bodied man would have difficulty climbing that path. It seemed the colt could find footing in the steepest faces of the nearly vertical slopes. Somehow he had adapted to living in a place where horses were never meant to be. How else could he have managed to survive so long here? What was more, Rashid realized, while running free in the mountains the colt had developed into a young stallion, all muscle, all fire. And this son of the midnight sky was his, a gift from Allah! It was time to claim him.

  Rashid began gathering up ibex wool that he found in clumps among the brush. Out of it he spent the days weaving together a sturdy rope. Since the rope was made of wool, the ibex smell would be familiar to Shêtân. From the way the colt dashed up and down the slopes, it seemed he sometimes thought he was an ibex.

  Shêtân no longer ran from the scout when he approached. Rashid thought that now perhaps he could get the rope around the young stallion’s neck. He had roped untamed camels before, so he should be able to do the same with Shêtân. Sooner or later he would have to gain some control over the wild colt. Otherwise he would never be able to sell him.

  Rashid waited until the colt came to drink from the stream and then moved in, speaking soft and low. Making a loop in his rope, he tossed it around the stallion�
��s neck. The black colt pulled back and reared up, then threw his plunging head down between his forelegs. His back began to kink and come alive. He bolted forward and tore the rope from the startled scout’s hands, tossing his head to throw off the offensive thing.

  Shêtân ran splashing through the stream, twisting among the rocks and jumping up on the bank. He streaked one way and then the other, stopping only to rear up on his hind legs again. There was no sound but the rhythm of thundering hooves over the earth, becoming louder and louder as the wild black demon turned and bore down on the young man. All Rashid could do was fall to the ground and cover his head with his hands. He had seen that look of fury in Shêtân’s eyes before. But the young stallion stopped short of trampling him. He snorted, holding his head high, eyes aflame. The terrified scout peeked out from between his hands. In the name of Allah, what kind of beast was this?

  Shêtân turned and galloped off along the bank of the stream, inhaling huge lungfuls of air to fuel his overdeveloped leg muscles. His flying hooves hammered the ground. Rashid watched this exploding display of speed, his mouth agape. He wondered if anyone would ever be able to ride such a horse. One thing was certain—it would not be he.

  That evening Shêtân returned to camp. Whatever bond had been struck between them after the fight with the leopard was strong enough to withstand the events of the day. The young stallion remained aloof, but his suspicion of the scout lessened, as if he believed the boy and his puny rope were not a serious threat to his freedom. Rashid could only hope to find some other way to take control of Shêtân. He had to have faith in himself. Though he was no horse tamer, he was still Bedouin. There was no animal he could not master.

  One morning, from atop a rock that rose above the ravine, Rashid saw shepherds coming up from the valley below with their flocks. They were moving to the high mountains to find pasturage during the hot summer months. Would they follow the path that led to the stream? Rashid could not take the chance that they might.

  He climbed down from his lookout and found Shêtân grazing along the top of the ravine. The young black stallion had scented the shepherds and their animals. He, too, seemed to realize that his time in the sanctuary had come to an end. The horse struck out on the trail that led away from the ravine and farther up into the mountains. Rashid barely had time to break camp and gather up the leopard skin and the rest of his belongings before the stallion was out of sight. He ran up the trail, trying to catch up with the black horse.

  Every line of Shêtân’s gigantic body trembled with renewed strength as he worked his way farther and farther up into the forbidding highlands of the mountains. Rashid panted as he struggled to keep up. He called Shêtân by name and took to singing to pass the time and keep them both company. It would accustom the young stallion to the sound of his voice. His favorite song was one his tribe sang when drawing on the well ropes in the desert:

  Jâ maljâna

  Sallamha-llâh

  min ğîlânah!

  “Oh, the full bucket,

  May Allah save it

  From the sides of the well!”

  In the days that followed, Rashid found that Shêtân would often answer the call of the watering song by whistling a reply. Sometimes this reply even seemed to echo the song’s melody. The desert must be in his blood, the Bedouin thought, just as it was in his own.

  The shrill music they made drifted on waves of wind that rolled through the open mountain halls. They were both refugees in the highlands; yet they both had learned to survive here. Now they must find their way to the freedom of the Sands.

  VOICES

  10

  The two desert-bound wanderers roamed for days in the windswept slopes above the timberline. They took one step at a time, for there were no paths to follow now. Shêtân led the way, and Rashid could only hope the stallion might find a trail where he could not. After all, he thought, camels always headed in the direction of the desert when free, so perhaps Shêtân, whose ancestors were from the desert, would too. It might be wise to trust in the stallion’s instincts for a while, he decided. Some things men would never be able to do as well as animals; this was one of them.

  No sounds of insects, wilderness birds or animals came to the scout’s ears, only the empty rush of wind. Seasoned as he was by his long march through the mountains, Rashid still wheezed as he gulped the thin air. Here in this barren place the soil was too poor and the air too cold for anything but the hardiest of plants to grow. The sun shone over greenish, moss-covered rocks and bathed everything in harsh, white light. Yet this high place was infinitely more hospitable than Rashid’s home on the Sands. There it was al-kez, the hottest season of the year, the time of sandstorms. At midday during al-kez the whole sky brightened to an unbearable brilliance, as if one great sheet of fire burned in the sky above, blinding whoever dared to raise his eyes to it.

  As other horses might wander from pasture to pasture, the young black stallion ranged at will over the uninviting and dangerous highlands. Falling pieces of rock cascaded on him from above. There were few animal tracks. Shêtân was covering ground that had known no hooves but his. Time and again the footing seemed ready to give way beneath his hooves, but he continued on. His path spiraled higher and higher.

  Rashid and Shêtân lived together as only those who have shared hardships are able to do. Shêtân usually kept his distance during the day, but at night, as Rashid lay sleeping, he would sometimes come closer and sniff at the prone figure of his traveling companion.

  The stallion made do with whatever grazing he could find. He ate the moss and lichens that grew on the rocks, as the ibex did. Often his muzzle was bloodied and red after he had found only thistles to eat.

  Rashid’s own hunter’s diet of rabbit meat was more than enough to sustain him. In fact, it was a luxury for one who was used to the deprivations of the desert. But even here, drinking water was sometimes scarce. Upon finding his water skin empty after one particularly long, hot day, Rashid followed Shêtân to a spot where the stallion had discovered traces of water. He had used his hooves to dig back to the source of several trickles and channeled them into troughs from which they could drink. Ibex did this, but Rashid had never heard of horses doing such a thing. Perhaps the stallion had learned this trick from the mountain goats.

  Another time Rashid came upon a herd of she-goats watering themselves in a gully. One of the younger she-goats was in milk, her two kids bouncing along behind her. She had a leg wound, and this enabled the Bedouin to run her down. He wrestled her to the ground, and before she escaped he managed to fill his water bag with her milk.

  True to his Bedouin nature, before drinking he poured some of the thick goat milk into a wooden bowl he’d made and brought this gift to Shêtân. The stallion ventured close enough to drink it. “See, Shêtân? I too have learned a few things since coming to the high mountains,” he said.

  That night Rashid thought of these things as he lay on his blanket and looked up at the stars. He watched Shêtân grazing nearby and remembered what he had heard about the origins of the young black stallion, said to have been sired by the great stallion of the midnight sky. Once he would have laughed at anyone who even paused to consider such mystical thoughts. But the longer he stayed in these mountains, the more he began to wonder what else Shêtân might have inherited from his mysterious ancestors.

  A full moon rose over the jagged mountain peaks. He pulled his blanket closer around him. Could this wild thing who could live like an ibex really be the same horse that the desert tribes were going to war for? He wanted to laugh but held back. When it came to horses, old Abu Ishak was no fool. Improving the breed was a religious duty to men like him. As a child Rashid remembered being taught to read by studying the Koran. In that holy book it was written that every grain of barley given to a horse was entered into Allah’s book of good deeds. On the other hand, he himself had never professed to know one horse from another. Horses had made so little difference in his life. Khaldun’s tribe conside
red black horses to be good luck, though he knew in other parts of Arabia they were thought to be bad luck. Rashid didn’t know and didn’t care. The young stallion’s value was all he needed to know.

  Listen to the groaning from downwind, he thought as he drifted off to sleep. It is only the roar of wind through the rocks. Hear the rustle of footsteps above. It is only a startled hare. He must stay downwind. He must cover his tracks.…

  He was awakened from his dreams by something that sounded like a chorus of voices calling his name over and over. “Rashid … Rashid …” Shivers ran under his skin. His heart froze and then began to pound madly. In one quick movement he gathered up his blanket and pressed himself further back into the shadows that surrounded the rocks like pools of inky black tar. “Rashid … Rashid …” sang the chorus of voices, wavering in his ears.

  Then he gathered his wits about him. How could there be people who knew his name up here in these mountains? It was impossible. He listened to the sound again. Could it just be the wind? Yes, that must be it. He’d already heard the wind make many strange sounds as it wound among the rocks of the highlands. His heart began to race a bit less.

  The yellow moon had risen over the crest of an adjoining ridge. All was clear and quiet now. The wind had become still and the voices had ceased. He must have been imagining things. But it had all sounded so real. Shaking his head, he returned to his bedsite and lay down again. He forced himself to think happier thoughts. He sang the watering song to quiet his fear.

  Jâ maljâna

  Sallamha-llâh

  min ğîlânah!

  The words floated from his lips. From somewhere in the darkness Rashid heard Shêtân whistle in reply. He remembered his camel and his family, and tried to go back to sleep.

  But before he could, the cry of a bird, shrill and loud, filled the air. It wasn’t an owl’s voice, yet it was familiar. For some reason that sound filled him with dread most of all.