King of the Wind

by Marguerite Henry

  Agba could not believe his eyes. It was the stable, not the house, that crowned the hill, and there was a stream encircling the hill where mares and their foals were drinking. He jumped to his bare feet. The turf was soft and springy. The green grass tickled up between his toes. He touched Sham’s white spot with his toe. The white spot! The white spot! Here, at last, Sham could fulfill the promise it held.

  Grimalkin, who had settled into the saddle in great dignity, now cuffed Agba with his paw, as much as to say, “Mind your manners, the Earl is headed this way.”

  Agba stood at attention, but he could not keep his shining eyes from gathering in the whole scene: the long range of box stalls opened to the south sun, the shady paddock, the park for a training ground. Why, there were no walls anywhere! Only green hedges afar off, where the meadows came to an end. And rows of elm trees brushing the clouds. And willows trailing their fingers in the stream.

  An exercise boy came into the yard with a string of running horses. Their haunches gleamed in the sun.

  Agba drew a quick breath. Soon Sham’s coat would be sleek and shining, too. Soon Sham would be the wind beneath the sun. Soon he would be showing his gratitude to the Earl—winning races, bringing honor to Gog Magog.

  Agba’s thoughts were cut short. A spidery man with a waggish air about him was presenting himself to the Earl of Godolphin.

  “A very g-g-good morning, your lordship,” he stuttered. And as he bowed he took an appraising look at the underfed horse, the strangely dressed boy, and the tiger cat sitting the horse with a superior grin.

  The Earl of Godolphin followed his glance.

  “Twickerham,” he said, “I have brought you a new horseboy, and this is his little bay stallion. Ill luck has dogged their footsteps. They have traveled a hard road and a long one. From henceforward they will be in your charge.”

  For only an instant a cloud darkened the groom’s face. “Very g-good, your lordship,” he said.

  The Earl dismissed the coach and turned to Agba. “I once read a novel laid in Morocco,” he said. “The characters had curious names, curious to me, of course. There was El Hayanie and Hamed O Bryhim and one was Agba. Since I have to call you by some name I shall choose the shortest one: Agba. I desire you to give me your opinion of this name by the strength of your handclasp.”

  With his head groom standing by in open-mouthed amazement, the Earl of Godolphin, son of the Lord Treasurer of England, held out his hand to Agba. The small brown hand and the long-fingered white one met, and there was such a wringing clasp between them that the Earl’s face broke into a great smile. Agba smiled, too. If only the Earl knew! He had chosen the name that was already the boy’s own.

  “Agba,” he said, “you will be in the care of my head groom, Mister Titus Twickerham. He is breeder and trainer for the Gog Magog stables. I hope and pray that you will be happy.”

  Agba bowed first to the Earl and then to the groom, blinking hard to keep away the tears of happiness.

  The Earl of Godolphin now cleared his throat and fingered his neck cloth a trifle uneasily. “Twickerham,” he hesitated, “what think you of the merits of the stallion?”

  The groom searched the Earl’s face, trying to read his feelings there. Seeing only an open countenance, he rocked back and forth on his heels in importance. Then he approached Sham’s head. Instantly Sham nosed the sky. Mister Twickerham reached for the bridle. He tried to force Sham’s head down, but it was only with Agba’s help that he could look into the horse’s mouth. He tried to lift a hoof, but Sham’s legs were pillars driven into the earth. Yet with only a feather touch, Agba lifted a foot as easily as if it were Grimalkin’s paw.

  Red of face, Titus Twickerham stepped back. He measured the horse with his eyes. From withers to hoof. From withers to tail. Again and again he measured. He noted the scars on the horse’s knees. Then he pursed his lips.

  “Your l-lordship,” he began, “this-here beast would be the laughing stock at the race-c-c-course. He’s not lusty enough to endure the distances. With the b-best care in the kingdom he’d still be a broken-kneed cob. And!” here Mister Twickerham pointed a thin forefinger, while his face gave out the faintest suggestion of a sneer, “if your lordship will k-kindly note the height of the crest, he will see ’tis almost a deformity.

  “To my mind,” he concluded, enjoying the importance of the moment, “this ain’t a running horse, and d-d-don’t let nobody tell your lordship that he’d make a good sire, either. Colts with him for a father would be violent tempered and weedy as c-c-cattails.”

  The Earl of Godolphin did not change expression. For long seconds he stood perfectly still. “If this be true,” he said at last, “feed him until he loses his gaunt look. Then we’ll see what’s to be done with him. Perhaps he can work the machine that pumps water into the fish pond.”

  Agba looked at the Earl aghast. Was Sham, the pride of the Sultan’s royal stables, never to have a chance to prove himself? Was he always to be a work horse?

  19. Hobgoblin

  AGBA’S DISAPPOINTMENT was a cloud over his head. Sometimes when he rode Sham, the cloud seemed to lift and take wing for a few hours. But as he dismounted it settled on his shoulders again, enveloping him like his own black and ragged mantle.

  He tried to push the cloud away with the thought that Sham was being restored to health. Here were oats and corn and hay in plenty. But whenever Titus Twickerham urged Agba to feed Sham more liberally, Agba knew the groom had but one thought in mind. He was eager to see Sham in the humble role of work horse.

  And so the cloud persisted. It was there even when the Duchess of Marlborough visited the stables, bringing with her loaves of sugar for Sham, a beef kidney for Grimalkin, and a gift for Agba, too. On one occasion the Duchess invited Agba into her two-wheeled chaise to present a race calendar to him. In a voice that was more like song than talk she read to him, pointing out a few easy words such as horse, bay, colt, post.

  She promised to order for him a new mantle woven from goat’s hair. “It will be as fine as the mantle worn by the Sultan himself,” she smiled.

  Agba tried to repay her kindness by washing and polishing her chaise and by doing well whatever jobs Titus Twickerham asked of him.

  There was only one duty that Agba disliked, and he disliked it with such an intensity that the blood pounded hotly through him all the while he did it. It was the cleaning of Hobgoblin’s stall.

  Hobgoblin was a big, and—to Agba’s way of thinking—a coarsely made stallion. He was as unlike Sham as a bull is unlike a stag. Yet Hobgoblin was king of Gog Magog, and his stall a palace. The walls were padded thickly with the fuzz of cattails covered over with leather, so that Hobgoblin would not mar the sleekness of his hide nor the perfection of his tail. The floor was laid with chalk and abundantly strewn with straw which Agba had to change three times a day. A manger of wood was not good enough for Hobgoblin. His was of marble. As for his blankets, they were emblazoned with the Earl of Godolphin’s own crest. Even his fly-sheets bore the crest.

  “Hobgoblin’s th-th-the Earl’s star o’ hope, Hobgoblin is,” Titus Twickerham told Agba one rainy day when they were both in his stall. “Flowing in this-here stallion’s veins is the p-p-purplest blood in the k-k-kingdom.”

  The groom stopped to wipe out the corner of Hobgoblin’s eye with a clean pocket handkerchief, then went on. “The Earl—he’s g-got his heart set on Hobgoblin. Through this-here stallion he’s got hopes to b-breed the best line o’ horses not only in the kingdom, but in the world.”

  Agba preferred to listen to the drumming of the rain, but the groom’s voice rose above it.

  “Right this m-minute, whilst we’re standin’ here, the Earl is lookin’ for a mare worthy of Hobgoblin. Now,” he said, rapping his knuckles on Agba’s head, “ now ye understand why Hobgoblin’s stall is finer th-th-than yer runt’s. Hobgoblin’s King of Gog Magog, he is!”

  After that, whenever Agba pitched the old straw out of Hobgoblin’s stall and laid in the new,
his lips were set in a firm line. He hated Hobgoblin. Hated the bigness of him. Hated his powerful legs and hind quarters. Hated the fat sleekness of him. But most of all he hated Hobgoblin’s eye. It had no brilliance at all. Only a sleepy look, except when the animal was aroused. Then it showed a white ring.

  “Here is where Sham should be,” Agba thought with every thrust of his fork. “Purple blood, indeed! Sham’s ancestors came from the stables of the Prophet himself!”

  One day, soon after the groom had explained Hobgoblin’s importance, Gog Magog seethed with excitement. The Earl of Godolphin made frequent visits to Hobgoblin’s stall. Usually his gait was dignified and his bearing stately, but this day his steps were quick and his words clipped short.

  As for Titus Twickerham, he was so nervous that he could not control his stammering.

  “Y-y-y-you, Ag-g-g-ba. Y-you lay a fresh l-l-litter of st-st-straw in the new m-m-mare’s stall. And w-w-wash out the mang-g-g-ger. Then p-p-put in a measure of wheat b-b-bran. The mare, Lady Roxana, arrives t-t-t-today.”

  The excited pitch of Mr. Twickerham’s voice when he said “ Lady Roxana” made Agba bite his lips. It was the very tone he used in speaking of Hobgoblin. Lady Roxana! Hobgoblin! Hobgoblin! Lady Roxana! The names rankled in the boy’s mind. He hated them both. Without even seeing Roxana, he knew she would be fat and sway-backed and ugly.

  As Agba prepared the mare’s stall, he saw the Earl and a dozen noblemen come down to the paddock. They walked about, talking in hushed, expectant voices, twirling their riding rods, taking pinches of snuff, sneezing lightly.

  Suddenly a cry went up from the grooms. “ ’Ere she comes! ’Ere she comes!”

  Agba flew out of the stall. He made field glasses of his fists. He strained his eyes down the lane. But the late afternoon sun blinded him. At first he saw nothing at all. Only the hawthorn trees and the yews, standing dark and still.

  Then all at once he could make out a blur of motion. It cleared. It became a shiny red van drawn by two dapple-grays.

  The grays were clattering over the bridge now and up the hill between the yews and hawthorns. They were nearing the stables. The driver, an enormous man in red livery, was drawing rein. As the horses jammed to a stop, a lackey hopped down from his perch beside the driver and went around to the back of the van. He let down the tail gate. Then, bowing from the waist, he handed a leading string to the Earl’s head groom.

  “Lady Roxana, daughter of The Bald Galloway!” His voice boomed out as if he were announcing a princess at a ball.

  The noblemen and all the horseboys waited tensely. Titus Twickerham looked to the Earl of Godolphin with questioning eyebrows. The Earl nodded. And so, bristling with importance, the spidery figure of the groom led Lady Roxana down the ramp and into the paddock. Slowly, gently, as if he were unveiling a statue, he lifted her hood and threw off her scarlet blanket.

  An awed silence fell over the little company. Then, as though the wall of a dike had given way, there was a torrent of noise. Jeweled hands broke into spontaneous applause. Every voice shouted in admiration.

  The Earl of Godolphin laughed aloud. Here, at last, was the answer to his dream!

  Except for her tail, which was a smoky plume, Roxana was the shininess of white marble in the sun. And she wore no housings at all, only a halter made of silken rope, and across the browband were tiny rosettes of blue satin.

  Roxana pawed the springy turf. She seemed glad that the jolting, jarring ride was over. A high whinny escaped her.

  Suddenly there was an answering whinny, so shrill and joyous it sent shivers racing up and down Agba’s spine.

  “Aha!” spoke up one of the noblemen. “Hobgoblin is already welcoming his mate.”

  A smile played about Agba’s lips. The whinny of welcome had come from Sham, not from Hobgoblin.

  For a full moment Roxana alerted. Her head went up; her tail went up; her ears pricked. The noblemen gasped. If Roxana had been beautiful before, she was a living statue now.

  Agba’s heart melted. He had intended to hate Roxana, but all the hate was washed away.

  “What symmetry!” exclaimed the Duke of Bridgewater.

  “She is built like a fawn!” cried Lord Villiers.

  “Aye. Exquisitely made,” said the Earl of Marmaduke. Agba scarcely heard their remarks. Way down at the end of the stables he saw Sham’s head thrust out. He watched Roxana toss her mane at him, like a girl tossing her curls. He heard her whinny, this time softer, fuller, than the last.

  Now there were two answers. The deep, grunting neigh of Hobgoblin and the ecstatic bugling of Sham.

  “Twickerham,” the Earl spoke tensely, “ Hobgoblin shall meet his mate. Have him brought out.”

  Again the paddock was bathed in stillness. It was so quiet that Agba could hear a leaf drifting lazily to earth. A goldfinch flew overhead in yellow arcs, spinning a thin thread of song.

  Titus Twickerham’s words rang in Agba’s ears. A mare worthy of Hobgoblin. That overfed monster! Agba could stand the unfairness no longer. He ran to Sham’s stall. He threw wide the door. Out streaked a tongue of golden fire. It was Sham, trumpeting to the skies, Sham tasting his freedom with a wild leap. He overtook Hobgoblin being led out of his stall. He whirled around and challenged the king of Gog Magog. Hobgoblin jerked his head into the air, breaking the catch of his lead rope. For one deathly still moment the two stallions faced each other. Then they charged, the noisy thudding of their bodies lost in savage screams.

  The grooms were benumbed, stupefied. For seconds they were unable to move. Then they all began running at once, getting in each other’s way, throwing bucketfuls of water at the furious stallions. It was useless—like trying to smother a forest fire with hearth brooms. The air crackled and ripped with the sound of flailing hooves and snorts and shrieks.

  Sham was little and quick. His legs were steel rods. He danced on them, making fierce thrusts. Hobgoblin was like a great war horse beside Sham. Now he swung his lumbering body around and gave a tremendous kick with all the power of his hindquarters.

  Agba saw Sham drop down on the ground to miss the blow. In a second he was up again, spinning around to face Hobgoblin, beating at him with his flinty hooves. He saw Sham open wide his mouth and use his strong young teeth, not to bite, but to hammer with. The blows seemed no heavier than hailstones to Hobgoblin. Yet they maddened him into a wild rage. He lunged, baring his teeth, ready to sink them into Sham’s neck.

  With a mighty cry, Sham tossed his head upward, catching Hobgoblin under the jaw, actually lifting him up on his hind feet. The little horse rained blow upon blow on Hobgoblin, forcing him farther and farther up on his hind legs until finally he fell over backward, thrashing and kicking.

  Agba beat his fists together. The great Hobgoblin was down! The massive, heaving, hulking body was grunting in pain and defeat.

  A ringing cry of victory burst from Sham. With a rush he sought Lady Roxana. He leaped about her, prancing lightly as if his legs were set on springs. He arched his magnificent neck. He plumed his tail. His eyes were bold, his body wet and shining. Sham, the fleet of foot, the pride of the Sultan’s stables, was on parade before the beautiful Roxana.

  Suddenly they were together, touching each other with their noses, talking in excited little nickers. Then, manes and tails in flowing motion, they streaked to the far end of the paddock. It seemed plain to Agba that both Sham and Roxana wanted to be far away from the distasteful, groaning Hobgoblin.

  Agba wanted to sing for joy. He longed to talk, to laugh, to cry. His hands flew to his throat helplessly. But it was Roxana whose voice substituted for his own. It was her whinny, high and joyful, that said all he wanted to say.

  20. Wicken Fen

  AFTER A MOMENT of stunned silence, the Earl of Godolphin led his guests away. Twickerham ran to Hobgoblin, rolled him onto his belly and helped him rise. When the horse was once more in his stall, the groom followed the Earl. He must have orders before he saw Agba.

  Agba, meanwhile, ha
d gone back to work to avoid showing his joy. Not until darkness closed in did he realize what he had done. Then the gravity of it struck him. He had acted without orders. He had allowed Sham to fight Hobgoblin. Sham might have killed the Earl’s favorite stallion, his star of hope!

  The boy swallowed hard. He had hurt the kindliest friend he had ever had. He was ready to take whatever punishment might come.

  So it was with no surprise that, as he stood in Sham’s stall, he saw coming toward him the quick, spidery legs of Titus Twickerham. They cast long, frightening shadows because of the lanthorns which the groom held in each hand.

  “Agba!” he called out as soon as he was within hearing. “What I has to say can be said over the door.”

  There was not the slightest hesitation or stammering in Mister Twickerham’s speech. It was as if he had wound up his words in a ball and now had only to unwind them.

  “The Earl wants to be quit of ye,” he pronounced. “He don’t want nobody ever again to mention ye or yer horse in his presence. He can’t trust himself to look at ye. Not ever. Not ever, do ye hear?”

  Agba bent his head. He could understand. He thought of the wheat ear and unconsciously began tracing the swirling hairs on Sham’s chest.

  “Look me in the eye, ye blockhead! Take yer fingers off o’ that weed. Listen sharp! All yer nag is fit for is cat’s meat. Yet his lordship says ye’re to saddle him immejate and follow the North Star ’til it brings ye to Upware Inn. Get a-goin’ with that saddle!”

  Agba went for the saddle. His hands were shaking as he laid it on Sham’s withers and slid it into place. Sham stretched his neck in Mister Twickerham’s direction, opened wide his mouth, bared his teeth, and let forth a high and mighty neigh.

  “Kill-devil!” the groom spat. “Laugh all ye want to now. Ye an’ yer hooded turtle of a boy, and yer cat, too, is going to Wicken Fen. And there, in the dismal swampland, ye’re going to end out yer days.”