“Come on,” Steve called.
The stallion shook his head but finally he came forward.
Steve gathered Flame’s forelock. “I keep braiding this so you won’t go blind trying to see through it, and you keep loosening it somehow,” he said, laughing. “Stand still now, and we’ll do it over again.”
Flame tossed his head when Steve had finished, and the braided forelock moved up and down like a thumping whip. Steve slid onto the stallion’s back.
Flame didn’t bolt as he had done the previous afternoon. He stood restless but unmoving, awaiting commands from Steve’s legs. Finally the light touch came and he went off at a slow gallop.
Steve kept Flame at that gait for a long while. They went down the valley, circled the band and came back. It was a day meant for riding and Steve intended to make the most of it. Just to be astride his horse, to be alone with him, was more than he could ever want.
But that wasn’t exactly what he had thought yesterday, he reminded himself. Hadn’t he wanted Flame’s greatness to be appreciated by others? Hadn’t he once again daydreamed of racing Flame? Yes, he admitted all this and he knew the reason for it.
Steve recalled the colorful poster he had seen in the Cuban air terminal during his long flight from the United States to Port of Spain, Trinidad, on his way to Azul Island well over a month ago. He had read it with great interest, as he did anything that had to do with horses. The poster had announced the running of an International Race to be held in Havana, Cuba, August 3rd. That was now less than a week away, he figured. The race was “OPEN TO THE WORLD”—and beneath this screaming declaration was a huge drawing of the globe.
Steve remembered boarding his plane again, wondering if “Open to the World” included Azul Island. So even then he’d been daydreaming of racing Flame! Such a fantastic prospect must be on his mind to a greater extent than he had realized.
Suddenly he heard the whir of feathered wings, and as a bird flew close overhead he saw the flash of the white under-body, the large blue wings and the crested head. It was the bird that had dived so recklessly down the end wall. The smaller, brown-backed bird was flying near the cane, squeaking loudly as though in warning or reprimand to the other.
Suddenly the blue bird flew in front of Flame and then downward, almost in the stallion’s path. Flame thrust out a foreleg without breaking stride. He did it not in play but in anger. The bird annoyed him.
Steve, aware of Flame’s mounting fury, turned him away from the cane, but the bird followed. Steve let Flame gallop faster and the tall stallion welcomed the opportunity to leave his winged tormentor behind. His strides became longer as he swept across the valley floor.
Steve’s clucking matched the rhythm of his horse’s hoofs. As the beat became faster and they left the bird behind, he thought once more of the poster he had seen. He pretended that he had Flame on the Havana race track. Steve Duncan racing Flame! He bent closer to his horse’s neck and told him to go on. Now they were passing all the other horses in the International Race. Now they were really moving!
They swept down the valley floor and as he neared the pool Flame began his wide, sweeping turn. Steve leaned with him, urging him to still greater speed. Now they were entering the homestretch. “Come on, Flame! The finish wire is just ahead!”
As the stallion lengthened out a low blue streak cut in front of him. Flame slowed his strides and struck out viciously. He even swerved aside, striking again at the bird who had dared to come so close to his legs. This time his hoof grazed the bird’s long tail and the feathers flew. The bird dove into the tall cane, then rose again to be joined by his brown-backed friend whose high, squeaky calls of reprimand could be heard above the pounding of Flame’s hoofs. After circling, the birds flew away.
Steve buried his head in Flame’s flowing mane again, glad that the blue bird had left them alone. The stallion picked up stride and once more the valley echoed only to the beat of winged hoofs.
Minutes later Steve slowed his horse and circled the band. Finally he stopped and slipped off Flame’s back. He walked toward the mares but did not go close enough to frighten the foals. He sat down on the grass and waited for the mares to come to him.
He did not have long to wait, for the adult members of the band had accepted him long ago. The mares came closer but the suckling foals stayed behind their mothers, a little timid, a little afraid. It was they whom he wanted to make his friends. Every day he spent a short while with them, trying to win their confidence and acceptance.
He called to these long-legged, furry-coated sons and daughters of Flame, waiting for them to lose their shyness and come to him. But today they showed no curiosity over his presence and did not move from behind their mothers’ protective bodies. Steve waited a long while before finally giving up. He got to his feet, regretting that he had made no progress.
On the way down the valley he passed a group of yearling colts at play. He called to one of them but the colt took no notice of him. This was the one whose broken leg he had cared for the summer before and whom he had intended to take home. But his parents had given him the choice of using the money he earned each year to maintain a horse of his own or continuing his summer visits with Pitch, and he had chosen the latter. He couldn’t give up Flame and Blue Valley.
Steve walked on, aware that he didn’t feel as well as he had only a short while before. Perhaps it was due to the blunt rebuff he’d received from the foals and the yearling colt … especially the colt, for they had been such fast friends the previous summer. The colt had grown up and away from him during the months he’d been away.
He brushed the sweat from his face, realizing suddenly that the weather too had changed. The sun’s rays had finally penetrated the cool air of the valley. No longer was the day crystal clear but heavy with tropic heat. Steve decided, as he approached the end wall, that the afternoon was no warmer than any other in the past. It was just oppressive by comparison with those wonderful earlier hours.
Returning to camp, he made himself a sandwich, and stayed within the cave to eat it. Finally he rose from his chair and went out on the ledge to stand in the sun again. He felt the beads of perspiration come to his forehead, but he didn’t leave the open ledge. His eyes and feet shifted uneasily as he looked down the valley.
Somehow, just as the weather had changed so had he. He was restless, even becoming concerned again about that floating white patch on the water. It was all so silly, so foolish. There was no reason to be concerned. He had decided once and for all it was something that had been caused by the chemical reaction of gases and water. It would be gone by now, swallowed by the sea just as the meteor had been.
He walked from one side of the ledge to the other, still ignoring the relief from the sun which the cave offered him. If it was the floating patch that was bothering him, why not make certain that it had long since disappeared? If his mind would not listen to reason, the only way to rid himself of his apprehension was to go and look again. He’d find nothing, and that would make everything all right.
Taking his knapsack and lantern, he went up the trail. The valley was very quiet; it seemed that the birds too had sought refuge from the heat. He hoped they hadn’t forsaken Blue Valley altogether. It was nice having them around, even if the larger one had annoyed Flame. He turned to look at his stallion and the band. They were grazing in the shade of the western wall. Flame moved restlessly from one patch of grass to another, raising his head every so often, ears pricked and listening.
Steve went into the great opening, wondering if Flame felt the same anxiety that he did. And if so, for what reason, when everything had been so serene before? He hurried along the underground stream, anxious to reach the lookout post over the western sea.
When he arrived there he pressed his eyes close to the narrow slit. The afternoon sun was higher than during his last visit, so its rays did not obstruct his view of the sea’s surface. He saw immediately that the grayish-white patch was still there, and the blood be
gan pounding in his temples. He pressed his head closer to the stone, welcoming its coolness. He tried to make sense of what he was seeing. It must be floating algae, phosphorescent at night, grayish-white during the day. But why then hadn’t it moved? Why was it anchored in the same identical spot as last night?
He forsook the coolness of the stone against his head for the binoculars and the better view they would provide. As he put the glasses to his eyes, he found that his hands were moist. He chastised himself, ridiculed himself for his mounting concern. But nothing helped.
He looked through the binoculars. The patch was no different than when seen with the naked eye … it was grayish-white, round and motionless. Steve stayed there a long while, not wanting to leave without having decided once and for all what it really was. He didn’t want to spend another uneasy night.
He could not have told how long he had been there when he saw some sort of a stirring directly above the patch. He told himself it was being caused by the sun’s rays. But the sun was still high in the heavens. A light was beginning to dance directly above the grayish-white patch. Rapidly it became brighter, and then Steve knew what it was. The golden mass of the day before. The second sun that had swept over Blue Valley. The meteor that was no meteor!
In a few seconds the mass was big and round and glowing. Steve closed his eyes against its brightness. Yet he didn’t keep them closed, for he wanted to watch. He saw the long flash of an object high above the golden mass before it plummeted down to the water. He made out its needle-like shape just before it disappeared within the great light. Then the mass faded rapidly until nothing was left on the water but that small patch of grayish-white.
Steve lowered the binoculars, turned away and staggered through the tunnel. What was out there on the water? What had he seen?
Whatever it was, he and the horses were safe in Blue Valley. Nothing, no one could reach them within the barrier walls of Azul Island. Soon it would go away, and all would be quiet and peaceful again. But what was it? He wanted to know.
His breath came faster just as his steps did, without his being aware of it. The needle-like object that had flashed through the sky had been guided to that mass of golden light, he decided. Guided by whom? What was the light? Where had it gone?
He stumbled and fell, but managed to keep his lantern from being broken. For a moment he lay on the ground, finding comfort in his familiarity with this underground world. A soothing quietness came to his body and mind. Perhaps he had seen nothing at all. Perhaps his eyes, affected by long weeks of bright, tropical sun, had created these optical illusions of mass and objects. Mirages had appeared to others at sea and in the desert. Why not to him?
Finally he got to his feet and began walking again. But he had gone only a short distance when suddenly he fell to his knees with a force that sent the lantern crashing hard against the jagged wall. The strong current of tunnel air quickly extinguished the flame and then he was in total darkness.
He made no attempt to get the flashlight from his knapsack but remained absolutely still, listening. Yet the voices could not be real, nothing he actually heard! His ears, like his eyes, he decided, must be playing tricks on him in this black world a thousand and more feet beneath the dome of Azul Island.
On hands and knees he went forward, feeling his way along the ground. The voices rang constantly in his ears, soft and almost musical, clear and so distinct. Was his mind too playing tricks on him? No one else could be in this maze of tunnels known only to Pitch and himself!
He inched forward, rounding a turn, and there he saw the light of a burning lantern coming from a side chamber. He dropped flat on the ground so quickly that his head struck the stone, the impact making the blood gush from his nose. But he felt nothing, saw nothing … only his ears seemed alive.
“Really, Jay,” a voice said impatiently, “it’s getting late and we should go back. We’ve wasted most of the day already.”
“Wasted?” another voice asked. “Did you expect to find anything like this? You know as well as I do that we’re most fortunate.”
“Well, of course. I admit all that. But at the same time we mustn’t overdo it. After all, there’s work to be done.”
“It can wait.”
Steve raised his head, listening to the voices and experiencing a strange solace in his final acceptance that they were real. No longer did he have to fear discovery with no chance to fight back. The danger was here, only a few feet away from him. He rose and went slowly forward, making no noise. He tried to still the pounding of his heart, afraid that it might betray his presence. Closer and closer he moved to the doorway, stealthily transferring his weight from one leg to the other. Not once did he take an awkward, uncertain step or dislodge a loose stone. Every movement was fluid, coordinated and planned. Fear stole silently along with him, but this fear he understood and accepted. It was as real as the voices of the men within the chamber. When he was almost at the doorway, he stopped and listened. The waiting had come to an end. Now he would know what he must face to protect himself and the horses.
“Come in, Steve,” one voice said suddenly. “We’ve been waiting for you.”
THE STRANGERS
4
The words came as unexpectedly as an unseen blow, almost striking him down as he stood there rigidly, his back against the side of the tunnel. He had felt so certain he could not have been seen or heard.
“Please, Steve, come in,” the voice repeated. “We really don’t have much time.” It was not a command, only an impatient but gracious request.
But Steve had no intention of entering the chamber. And, finding that his legs had lost their temporary immobility, he moved quickly. He knew where this tunnel would take him and he planned to lose his pursuers forever in this world of darkness.
His hands were raised to ward them off if they sought to stop him when he passed the doorway. But they weren’t there. A swift glance disclosed that they were well to the rear of the room, one sitting on the edge of the chamber’s lone table, while the other stood beside it holding a lantern.
Steve came to a sudden stop, telling himself they could never reach him from where they were or travel the tunnels as fast as he. But what made him stop was more than that. It was the men themselves.
They were no taller than Pitch, who was a short man, and they were just as thin and light-boned. But it was their clothes that startled him most of all. They were dressed more for a northern business office than a tropical expedition, much less one to the rocky depths of Azul Island. Their suits were heavy and newly pressed with knife-edged creases. They wore fine shirts and bow ties.
As Steve looked at them they stared back, their gazes unwavering and interested. Their faces were round and, like their voices, soft and gracious. There was nothing evil or sinister about them. They smiled at him and then were silent, as though waiting for him to speak.
Steve gripped the jagged stone of the doorway, ready to pull himself away at a run. He must not be influenced by their appearance. He must not step inside the chamber, where they might catch him.
Finally the one holding the lantern said, “I do wish you wouldn’t take so much time, Steve. We must be getting on.”
The other slid easily from his seat on the table. “You’re always taking so much for granted, Flick,” he reprimanded. “Can’t you see that Steve is startled at finding us here? First, we should introduce ourselves.” He came across the room, his hand outstretched. “My name is Jay, and …” He stopped abruptly when he saw the boy draw back from the doorway. “Don’t go, Steve. Please don’t go. Are you really so frightened by us?”
It was impossible for Steve to say anything. He could only look at them, wondering who they were and how they had ever gotten there. The eyes of the man standing only a short distance away from him were crystal clear and yet had color. More than anything else they promised him no harm. Yet Steve said not a word, nor did he relax his muscles.
“Flick,” the man said without taking his eyes
off Steve, “please bring the lantern over here. I want to talk to Steve, and one can’t talk to a person in the dark.”
As the other came forward with the lantern, Steve was about to run but he checked the impulse. The two men were now within a few feet of him, but they were still far enough away for him to be able to elude them, he decided.
The man who had brought the lantern spoke. “Really, Jay, this is all taking much too long,” he said impatiently. “Let’s try again some other time. We’re neglecting our duties.”
“Nonsense. Just relax, Flick. I’ll attend to everything, and it won’t take very long.”
“No,” the other answered. “You’re too impetuous. I’m in charge, remember that.”
Steve turned from one to the other. Far from being sinister, these two men were arguing like a couple of children. He looked at them again in the bright light of their lantern. The one called Flick wore a brown tweed suit, a white shirt and a black-and-gold tie. His hair was gray and cropped short; it had a bright reddish tint, and yet the small mustache beneath his large beaked nose was more black than gray or red. Steve found it impossible to be alarmed by him.
The other man wore a sky-blue suit, a white shirt and a black string bow tie. His hair was very long and wavy, more blue than black. There was nothing frightening about him, either.
“Careful,” Steve warned himself. “That may be what they want you to think. Don’t let them come closer.”
Jay’s gaze was still on him. Steve glanced at the man called Flick and found the same shimmering clearness of eye, devoid of all color yet containing all the colors in the world. He felt a sudden throbbing in his head.
“Aren’t you surprised to see us, Steve?” Jay asked again. “You’re more startled than frightened, isn’t that so?”
Steve nodded as he felt a numbness claim his body. He fought it, telling himself that he should run, but he couldn’t leave. He could only stare into those eyes, thinking how much they resembled glass marbles. And yet they looked back at him as marbles never could, with more expression than he had ever seen in anyone’s eyes.
The Island Stallion Races Page 3
