The Black Stallion Returns

by Walter Farley

  Alec kept busy watching the passing scene. He noticed several men in European dress, but the majority were clothed in the white flowing raiment of the desert. “Are there many Europeans here?” he asked.

  “No, not many,” Mr. Coggins replied. “The natives call them Ifranji, or Frank.”

  Alec saw a few women, all veiled, walking along the streets; others peeped through the latticed windows of their homes as the car went by.

  Suddenly they came upon a large group of people standing in front of an impressive-looking building of white stone. Mr. Coggins brought the car to a stop. “The evening call to prayer,” he said. “That’s the mosque, the Moslem place of worship. Look up on the tower, the minaret it’s called, and you can see the muezzin, or crier, summoning the Moslems to prayer.”

  Alec’s gaze followed Mr. Coggins’ pointed finger. The slender, lofty tower was attached to the mosque and surrounded by a projecting balcony upon which a man in a white robe was standing. Then his voice descended upon the multitude: “La ilaha illa-’llah: Muhammadum rasulu-’llah,” he cried reverently.

  “It means ‘No God but Allah: Mohammed is the messenger of Allah,’ ” Mr. Coggins explained. “No sentence is more often repeated in Arabia. These are the first words to strike the ear of the newborn Moslem child, and the last to be uttered at the grave. Five times a day … at dawn, midday, mid-afternoon, sunset, and nightfall … the words are chanted by the muezzin in prayer from the tops of the minarets throughout Arabia.”

  The muezzin’s voice prayed on, echoed by the voices of the faithful below. It was an impressive spectacle and the occupants of the car remained silent.

  Later, when the prayers had ended, they moved on, and soon arrived at the home of Mr. Coggins. The door to the house opened into a courtyard, and Alec, who had been unimpressed by what he had seen of the house from the street, found himself pleasantly surprised. In the center, among a group of small orange trees, was a large fountain which jetted a veil-like spray of water high in the air. The rooms surrounded the courtyard and above the iron balcony on the second floor was an overhanging cloister which kept the sun’s rays from the rooms.

  Mr. Coggins showed them to their rooms and told them dinner would be served as soon as they were ready.

  Alec, who had a room all to himself, washed in a large basin. The oil lamp cast eerie flickering shadows on the walls, and his thoughts turned to home. Here he was, almost halfway around the world from his mother and father. He wondered what they were doing, and how long it would be before he would see them again. True, he was supposed to be back in a few months, but he sensed now more than ever before the hazardous nature of the task that lay ahead. This had all been a dream a few short weeks ago, but now it was very much a reality. Would they be able to get a guide? If so, would they find the home of Abu Ja‘ Kub ben Ishak and the Black?

  Alec finished washing and left the room. The sound of voices led him to a large room, in the center of which was a long table laden with an assortment of fruits. Mr. Volence and Henry were talking to their host.

  Mr. Coggins smiled at Alec. “Now that we’re all here let’s sit down to dinner. I’m sure you must be very hungry.” He rang a small bell on the table and almost immediately a tall, brown-skinned youth of about Alec’s age entered the room bearing a steaming dish of food. He set the dish down in front of Mr. Coggins and then stepped behind him, his brown, almost liquid eyes burning with curiosity. His gaze swept around the table and finally came to rest on Alec.

  “This is Raj, my houseboy,” Mr. Coggins explained, looking up over his shoulder and smiling. “Raj, these are my good friends, Mr. Volence, Mr. Dailey, and Alec Ramsay.”

  The Arabian youth bent his erect, big-boned figure from the waist. “How do you do,” he said softly, and each word was pronounced and clipped. “It is indeed very fine to have you with us.” Then he left the room, walking with long and graceful strides.

  After Raj had left the room, Mr. Volence said, “He speaks English very well. Has he been with you long, Bruce?”

  “Yes, a very long time,” Mr. Coggins replied quietly. “Not long after I arrived here, I was asked by a good friend of mine, a trader, who spent most of his time in the desert, if I would take care of Raj for him while he was away. Raj was about three at the time.… Raj was not his son, although he loved him as one. It seems that on one of his trips across the desert my friend found this baby … alone … on a small oasis. Obviously, he had been left there to die by someone, but fortunately my friend arrived before it was too late. He brought him back to Haribwan.”

  “The trader, your friend, does he come back often?” Henry asked.

  “No.” Mr. Coggins paused. “He never returned from his last trip … that was at least nine years ago. Part of his caravan returned. They had been attacked by desert raiders, and the few who got back were very fortunate.”

  “A very interesting story,” Mr. Volence said. “You have no clues as to the identity of the child?”

  “No, nothing. The baby’s clothes were very well woven and of fine quality, indicating that his parents, whoever they might have been, were wealthy.” Mr. Coggins paused while he passed some dried meat to Henry, then continued. “Raj is happy, I’m sure. I’ve tutored him, and he’s been very quick to learn. I’ve told him his story, and knowing there’s no possible way of learning the identity of his parents, he’s content, although I assume it’s always more or less in the back of his mind.”

  Henry, after emptying his glass of fruit juice, asked, “Those desert raiders you spoke about … are they still pretty active?”

  “Yes, Henry, and I’m afraid they always will be,” he replied. “Let me tell you a little about them … it’s something you should know.”

  Mr. Coggins pushed his plate forward and removed his spectacles. “The original Arabs,” he continued, “were the Bedouins, who refer to themselves as ‘people of the camel.’ Now in the fertile lands to the north, west and south, empires have come and gone, but to the east, in the barren wastes of the Rub‘ al Khali, which you call the Great Central Desert, the Bedouin has remained forever the same. He is no gypsy, roaming aimlessly for the sake of roaming. Wherever he goes, he goes seeking pasture for his sheep- and camel-raising, horse-breeding, hunting … and raiding. Strange as this may sound to you, raiding is one of the few manly occupations accepted by the Bedouins. An early Arabian poet once wrote: ‘Our business is to make raids on the enemy, on our neighbor and on our own brother, in case we find none to raid but a brother!’ ”

  Mr. Coggins emptied his glass and then went on. “The Bedouin, his horse, and camel rule supreme in the desert. His tenacity and endurance have enabled him to survive where almost everything else perishes. Yes, and he still lives as his forefathers did, in tents of goats’ or camels’ hair, and grazes his sheep and goats in the same ancient pastures. The nomad of the desert is a bundle of nerves, bones and sinews. Dates and milk are the chief items on his menu.”

  “No solid foods at all?” Mr. Volence interrupted.

  “Dates and camel flesh are probably his only solid foods,” Mr. Coggins replied. “Incidentally, the Bedouin considers the camel a ‘special gift of Allah.’ He feasts on its flesh, covers himself with its skin, makes his tent of its hair, and uses its dung as fuel. It is his constant companion, his means of transportation, his wealth and his blood.”

  Having listened very intently, Alec broke in, “But his horse. I’ve always thought that that was his most valued possession.”

  “It is, Alec,” agreed Mr. Coggins with a smile. “But it is an animal of luxury, whose feeding and care constitute a problem to the man of the desert. Its possession is an indication of wealth. And now just a little more about the Bedouin’s horse, as indeed I know how greatly you are interested. Contrary to the belief of most people, the Arabian horse was a late importation into ancient Arabia. But once there, it had a perfect opportunity to keep its blood pure and free from admixture. As we are all aware, the pure-blooded Arabian horse is
known throughout the world for its physical beauty, endurance, intelligence and faithfulness to its master. Yes, the Arabian horse is the origin from which all western ideas about good breeding of horseflesh have been derived.”

  Alec, vividly recalling the Black’s great size and amazing speed, said: “A moment ago you implied that the Bedouin desires to keep the blood of his horses pure and free from admixture. Yet the horse which we’re looking for may not be a pure-blooded Arabian. To the best of your knowledge do you think it possible that there might be a Bedouin who is intermingling the blood of Arabian horses with that of other breeds in an effort to create a breed that will have the stamina and heart of the Arabian together with the speed and power of another bloodline?”

  “Quite possible, Alec,” Mr. Coggins replied. “The Bedouin is a past master of horse-breeding, as we all know. Therefore, it’s only natural that some of them might attempt to create the perfect horse, especially since the horse’s chief value to the Bedouin lies in providing the speed necessary for the success of his raids.”

  Alec suddenly noticed that Raj had entered the room and was standing silently behind Mr. Volence. He had been listening to the conversation and his soft mouth was tight and grim.

  “Are the Bedouins ruthless?” Alec heard Mr. Volence ask.

  “No, not unless it’s absolutely necessary. In the case of raids no blood is shed except in cases of extreme necessity. The principal causes of conflict are the keen competition for water and good pastures.”

  Henry moved uneasily in his chair. “Bejabbers,” he said, “we’re sure gonna be lucky if we return in one piece!”

  Mr. Coggins said quietly, “On the contrary, Henry, your chances are good. I hope I haven’t given you the impression that the Bedouins are inhospitable, because they’re not. However dreadful the Bedouin may be to his enemy, he is loyal and generous within the laws of friendship. Hospitality is one of his supreme virtues, and he considers it his sacred duty. He will never refuse a guest, or harm him after accepting him as a guest. It would be an offense against his honor and a sin against God. On the other hand, to make him your enemy is to die. For the law of the desert is that blood calls for blood, and death for death. A blood feud between desert tribes might easily last for fifty years or more.”

  Mr. Coggins stopped, glanced at his watch. His gaze shifted to Raj, who nodded. Then he turned to his guests. “A Bedouin is waiting in the other room and I want you to meet him. He may be the guide for you. However, before we go in I want to tell you his story briefly, as it’s important that you should be aware of it before you hire him.” Mr. Coggins paused a moment before continuing. “This man arrived in Haribwan only a few weeks ago, an outcast from his tribe. He had committed some crime within his clan, escaped with his life, and become an outlaw. The fate of which,” he explained, “is worse than death. For to live without protection of a tribe in the desert is in most cases to die many horrible deaths. By some means, however, this Bedouin managed to reach Haribwan alive. His knowledge of the Rub‘ al Khali is greater than that of any man I’ve ever met … perhaps that accounts for it.

  “Knowing that I was looking for a man to guide you across the desert, this man came to my home one night and offered to go. I had seen him in town, and was acquainted with the story I’ve told you. When I asked him if he didn’t fear for his life if he undertook the trip, he didn’t answer. He only replied that his fee would be high. He said further that he was one of the few Bedouins of the desert who knew the mountains to the east including the Kharj district. Realizing that I would not be successful in finding another who would take you into the mountains, I told him to return tonight. Now you know the story and it will be up to you to decide. Much thought must be given before you make your decision, for as I have told you, he is an outcast, a man who has lost his tribal affiliation and whose capture means death. Why he chooses to leave Haribwan and take this great risk, I don’t know. His fee will be very high, and with the money he may hope to buy his way back into his clan. Anyway, there’s no getting around the fact that he is the only man who will take you to the Kharj district. Other guides will go across the desert, but no farther.”

  Heavy silence fell on the room as Mr. Coggins finished. The faces of Alec, Henry, and Mr. Volence were without expression for they were weighing the risks they would have to take. Raj stood rigidly behind the table.

  Finally, Mr. Coggins said, “Your decision does not have to be made at once. Come, and I will show you this Bedouin.”

  CARAVAN

  7

  They entered a long room dimly lighted by one oil lamp which hung like a chandelier from the center of the ceiling. A figure in white rose from the sofa. Slowly he made his way toward them. He stopped only a few yards away and now Alec could distinguish his features which were faintly outlined beneath the white head shawl around which ran a bright red band. With the exception of a deeply furrowed scar that ran from his left ear down to his chin, he was much like the Arabs Alec had seen on the train. He had the same flat cheekbones, broad jaw and straight nose, and like them was of medium height.

  For some unexplainable reason, Alec’s thoughts suddenly turned to Abu Ja‘ Kub ben Ishak, and then to Raj. It was strange that both of them were so unlike the other Arabians he had seen, including Ibn al Khaldun. Raj and Abu Ja‘ Kub ben Ishak were tall of stature and high-cheekboned. Alec heard Mr. Coggins’ voice as he spoke in Arabic to the newcomer, who bowed slightly, acknowledging the introductions.

  “He cannot speak English,” Mr. Coggins explained, “so I’ll act as interpreter. What are some of the things you’d like to know?”

  “See if he can tell us anything about Abu Ja‘ Kub ben Ishak … where he lives, and if he could guide us to him,” Mr. Volence answered.

  “Also,” said Alec, “if he’s ever heard of an Arabian named Ibn al Khaldun.”

  “Let’s not forget,” Henry spoke up, “to ask how much this will cost us, and what kind of security he’s goin’ to give us to make sure he doesn’t leave us in the middle of the desert.”

  Mr. Coggins smiled at Henry’s remark. “Yes, that’s pretty important,” he said. Then, turning to the Arab, he conversed with him.

  Soon Mr. Coggins turned back to them. “He’s heard of Abu Ja‘ Kub ben Ishak,” he explained, “but knows nothing about Ibn al Khaldun. Abu Ishak lives in the most mountainous section of the Kharj district.… Few have seen him or his home although many in the mountains and the Rub‘ al Khali know his name.”

  “Will he attempt to find him for us?” Alec asked.

  “Yes, but his fee will be higher. He says the risks involved are great and the compensation must also be great. He asks one thousand dollars.”

  “A stiff price,” Mr. Volence muttered. “Much more than I expected to pay. Will that amount include the cost of the caravan and supplies?”

  Mr. Coggins turned to the Arab, spoke with him, then to Mr. Volence. “Yes, it will include everything. The price, I know, is exorbitant, but we must remember there is no one else who can do the job you want done.” He nodded his head in the direction of the Arab. “He knows it, too,” he concluded.

  Mr. Volence was silent a moment, then asked, “What security will he give?”

  “Only his word,” Mr. Coggins replied, “but I have yet to regret trusting the word of a Bedouin.”

  “Even an outcast like him?” Henry questioned.

  “Yes, Henry,” Mr. Coggins replied. “He may kill and plunder, but his word is good.” He turned to Mr. Volence again. “The Bedouin says that only half the fee is necessary now, and from that he will buy supplies and camels and hire the men necessary for the trip. When you return to Haribwan, you will pay him the rest of the money. He cannot assure you that he will find Abu Ja‘ Kub ben Ishak, but will continue the search in the mountains until you tell him to return.”

  Alec watched Mr. Volence closely, awaiting his decision. Would he think it worth the large sum of money asked? They could, he supposed, hire another guide to take t
hem across the desert, but what then? They certainly couldn’t seek Abu Ja‘ Kub ben Ishak alone. They might attempt to find another guide, but as Mr. Coggins had said, the chances of finding one were very slim and much time would be wasted. Alec felt certain that having gone this far Mr. Volence would not turn back now. He had gambled on many long shots in his life, and would gamble again on finding Abu Ja‘ Kub ben Ishak regardless of the high price being asked by the guide.

  To the right of Mr. Volence, back in the shadows of the room, Alec saw something move. Looking closer, he distinguished the tall frame of Raj. How long he had been there, Alec did not know. He wanted to know Raj better … to find out how he felt about everything—horses, books, school, his life in Arabia. And in turn Alec wanted to tell him about the United States, about his home, about his horse.

  Mr. Volence broke the silence. “Tell him, Bruce, that I’ll pay his price,” he said quietly.

  Henry turned to Alec, a broad grin on his face. “I knew he’d come through,” he whispered.

  Mr. Volence had the gold medallion in his hand. After Mr. Coggins had finished talking with the Arab, Mr. Volence said, “Bruce, ask if this means anything to him.”

  Mr. Coggins took the medallion and scrutinized it carefully before handing it to the Bedouin. All eyes were turned toward the small man in the white flowing robe. His eyes narrowed as he gazed at it in his hand. Minutes passed and still he did not answer. Alec might have been mistaken in the dim light, but he thought he saw the long muscular fingers tighten over the medallion, then relax.

  The Bedouin nodded his head negatively and then handed the medallion back to Mr. Volence. A few minutes later he made his departure after telling them that they should be ready to leave in two days.

  After the door had closed behind the Bedouin, Mr. Coggins asked, “This medallion … where did you get it?”

  Mr. Volence told him the complete story, then asked, “Do you think, Bruce, that it could be the Phoenix?”