During dinner, Alec heard Mr. Volence say to their host, “As we came through the valley today, we saw your horses. Never have I seen any to equal them. Thoroughbred-breeding is my business,” he explained.
Abu Ja‘ Kub ben Ishak smiled. “It is the life of the Bedouin,” he said quietly. “The horses you saw today are the result of generations of breeding. There are none finer in the world.”
Mr. Volence was silent for a few minutes. Then he said, “The black stallion … your Shêtân. Would you sell him? I’m willing to pay almost anything you ask.”
Without looking at Mr. Volence, Abu Ja‘ Kub ben Ishak replied, “He is not for sale.” His black eyes lifted and met those of Mr. Volence. “He is above the price of money.”
“And the others,” Mr. Volence asked, “would you sell any of them?”
After a few seconds of silence, Abu Ja‘ Kub ben Ishak answered, “We are very proud and jealous of our horses, Mr. Volence. In the desert there may be a shortage of food, of water, and our children may cry from thirst and hunger; but we give our horse the last drop of water, the last morsel of food.” He paused, then continued, “We do not sell our horses. Their blood is pure and free from admixture, except in instances where we think that our line will be improved by careful interbreeding with other strains. Such as I have done,” he added, “and my father, and his father before him.”
“Yet,” Mr. Volence interrupted, “the blood of Arabians flows in many of our horses, including some of mine. I have seen several Arabians back home and in England. If, as you say, you and your people do not sell your horses, where did they come from?”
Abu Ja‘ Kub ben Ishak straightened in his chair and shrugged his shoulders. “I think, in fact I am certain, Mr. Volence, that you have seen only one Arabian of purest blood, and that was Jôhar, the white one my daughter, Tabari, was riding today. There are few others like her in Arabia, and certainly none in any foreign country.”
They finished dinner in silence.
Alec walked beside Tabari as they left the large chamber. Behind him he heard Mr. Volence say quietly to Abu Ja‘ Kub ben Ishak, “I apologize for anything I have said which may have offended you. It was only because I am so very much interested in improving the bloodline of the American thoroughbred that I wanted to buy your horses. I understand now why you won’t sell.…”
Tabari led Alec out the door onto the porch. Moonlight illuminated the valley, and Alec could see the horses as they moved slowly in their grazing. The sound of voices and music drifted toward them from the homes of the Bedouins.
Tabari’s slim body was covered with a single garment of pale-pink silk. Leaning against one of the white stone pillars, she turned her head and said, “Do not let my father’s words discourage you. He is a kind and generous man.”
“You mean … you think he’ll sell some of his horses to Mr. Volence?” Alec inquired anxiously.
“No. You see, he meant it when he said our people do not sell their horses.” Noticing the depressed look which clouded Alec’s face, she smiled and added, “He may give them to you, though. My father is like that.” She paused and then said in a lower key, which was barely audible, “So much depends upon Shêtân …”
“Shêtân … the Black? Why?” Alec asked.
She did not answer him immediately. Then, “It is a strange story, but one that you have a right to know, as you have played a part in it.”
“I?” interrupted Alec. “I … I played a part in it?”
Tabari nodded, then continued. “But I will start at the beginning. More than one hundred years ago my great-great-grandfather bred a horse which he thought the finest in Arabia, and he made his claim known far and wide. Many chieftains accepted his challenge and a race was run.”
“Did he win?” Alec broke in impatiently.
“Yes, he won. And fifteen of the finest horses from each of the tribes entering the race were given to him, for they had agreed upon such stakes before the race. Since that day similar races have taken place every five years; the years in between are spent by the chieftains in breeding the finest possible horses.
“The years passed and the races continued. My great-grandfather bred horses for the express purpose of winning these races after his father died. My father’s father carried on, and now my father. When he dies, my brother, who is now studying in England, and I will continue.”
“Has your family won all of these races throughout the years?” Alec asked.
“No, but we won most of them until twenty years ago, when my father’s great bay, Tigris, was beaten by the horse of Abd-al-Rahman. And his horses have also won the two races which have been run since that time.”
Tabari raised her eyes to Alec, looked at him questioningly for a minute, then continued. “Perhaps it is best that I tell you more concerning Abd-al-Rahman … and his son, the young Bedouin chieftain who guided you through the mountains, and who bears his name.”
“Then the chestnut stallion he was riding,” Alec interrupted, “will be in the race?”
The girl nodded.
Alec’s head whirled. What a race that would be! Just wait until he told Henry. Never would there be one to equal it. Tabari’s voice penetrated his thoughts and he turned to her again.
“Perhaps you noticed how my father did not encourage you to talk about him. The feeling is bitter between them … at times so bitter that much blood has been shed. It is not because my father has lost to Abd-al-Rahman’s horses,” she hastened to assure him, “but because of Abd-al-Rahman’s intense hatred of my father.”
“But why should he hate a kind man like your father?” Alec asked.
Tabari’s voice was low and unsteady when she answered. “Twenty years ago his father and mine were the best of friends. They and their tribesmen rode together both in the mountains and in the desert, providing good grazing land and helping those in need who could not provide for themselves. Then one day soon after Abd-al-Rahman’s second son was born, he set out on a pilgrimage across the desert to Mecca. With him he took his wife and newborn babe. My father advised him against it, for tribal wars were many at that time, and even a well-known and powerful sheikh such as Abd-al-Rahman was in danger. He would not listen for he was proud of his sword, his men, his horses. Abd-al-Rahman departed, taking with him his best and most loyal men, and leaving behind his two-year-old son.”
Tabari stopped and was silent for such a length of time that Alec thought she had finished her story. He was about to speak, when without looking at him, she said, “They were never seen alive again. The bodies of Abd-al-Rahman and his wife and men were found in the desert, rotted by the sun. Only the body of the newborn babe was not there.”
The girl’s voice faltered as she continued. “In the heart of Abd-al-Rahman they found my father’s knife … and they brought it back to the young son of Abd-al-Rahman, who bore his name. And it was that upon which he was weaned until hatred for my father coursed through every vein in his body. As he grew older and became strong in mind and body, the red blood of hate surged until very often it took with it the blood of my people.
“When young Abd-al-Rahman was old enough to understand, my father attempted to explain to him that he would not kill his best friend. Failing, he withdrew and when members of our tribe were killed by those of young Abd-al-Rahman, he knew only one law … that which reads: Blood calls for Blood!”
Tabari raised her oblique eyes until they met those of Alec. “The blood feud between our families will continue until one of us is no more.”
Alec was silent when she had finished. His gaze swept over the moonlit valley to the mountains beyond. That, then, explained why the men of Abd-al-Rahman had proceeded with such caution when they neared the valley of Abu Ja‘ Kub ben Ishak … why they had unslung their guns, riding with them across their thighs. He turned back to the girl. “The race,” he said quietly, “isn’t very important when you’re at war, is it?”
“But it is,” she replied huskily, “for to the Arab the horse
is responsible for the success of his raids. To lose these races is to lose horses, which in turn weakens a tribe. Through the years my family has become strong and powerful by winning races and acquiring the horses of other tribes. Now Abd-al-Rahman grows powerful, for in winning the last three races he has taken many of my father’s best horses. If he wins this year, his tribe will be more powerful than ever before, and it is the feeling of my father that with his new strength he will seek the revenge that has long enveloped his heart.”
Tabari moved from the pillar against which she had been leaning, and turned her back to Alec. “You can understand now why so much depends upon Shêtân’s winning this race. When he was stolen my father suspected Abd-al-Rahman and descended upon him with his strongest and bravest men. Much blood would have been shed had not word reached my father before he arrived at the domain of Abd-al-Rahman that Bedouins leading a horse of Shêtân’s description had been seen crossing the desert to the west. My father followed, and when he and his men arrived at a port on the Red Sea, they learned that Shêtân—they knew it was he by that time—had been taken on the freighter Drake, which later sank off the coast of Spain. He returned knowing full well that his one chance of beating Abd-al-Rahman’s chestnut stallion, Sagr, was gone with the death of Shêtân.” She paused. “Months later, through my brother in England, my father learned of you and your horse.” She turned and looked at Alec. “You know the rest.”
“When will the race take place?” Alec asked.
“In three weeks,” Tabari replied, “the first day of the new moon.”
They stood in silence for a while. Then finally she smiled and said, “I have talked long and it is late.” Slowly they made their way back into the house.
Before he went to bed that night, Alec found the others and related to them what Tabari had told him.
BLOOD BROTHER
11
That next morning Alec was awakened by a soft knock on the door. One of Abu Ishak’s servants walked in and moved silently across the room. As he passed the foot of Alec’s bed he turned and smiled, then proceeded to the large windows, where he pulled the long drapes wide open, allowing the early morning sun to flood the room.
He left and a moment later returned with a large tray bearing fruit, which he placed in front of Alec. He retired near the door and stood there in silence.
Luxuriously, Alec stretched in bed and ate.
He thought of Tabari and the story she had told him. He thought of the beauty of Abd-al-Rahman’s chestnut stallion, and wondered if Sagr could match the heart and speed of the Black. It would be a race to see! Alec sobered … if only the stakes weren’t so high. For if Tabari was right, the defeat of the Black would mean much bloodshed. His thoughts turned to Abd-al-Rahman and once more he saw the tall, big-boned Bedouin with the great black beard. Why couldn’t he see that Abu Ja‘ Kub ben Ishak couldn’t have murdered his best friend and his wife and newborn child? Still, there was the knife, and Abd-al-Rahman was young and impetuous. He sought revenge.
Alec’s thoughts turned to the gold medallion and the bird that they thought to be the Phoenix. Where did that come in? And was it, by any chance, upon Abd-al-Rahman’s orders that the Black had been stolen in order to keep him out of the race, to make certain that Sagr would win? And failing, and knowing that Abu Ja‘ Kub ben Ishak was on his way to the United States to bring back Shêtân, did Abd-al-Rahman or one of his men reach the States first and attempt to kill the Black?
They were not pleasant thoughts. He could not think of Abd-al-Rahman as resorting to such treachery. Yet, this was a strange land, and he had much to learn.
As he dressed, his thoughts turned to Tabari and what Henry had told him last night before they had gone to bed. Abu Ja‘ Kub ben Ishak had met his wife in the Far East, he had informed Henry and Mr. Volence, and had brought her back with him to the Kharj. She had died three years later after the birth of her second child, Tabari. Abu Ishak had sent both of his children to England to receive their education, but Tabari, unhappy away from her father and her home, had returned after five years. That accounted, anyway, for her well-spoken English.
The others, including Abu Ishak, were waiting for Alec when he arrived downstairs.
“Come,” their host said, “we have horses waiting.”
Alec fell in beside Henry. “What’s it all about?” he asked. “Where are we going?”
“Abu told us this morning about the comin’ race, but didn’t go into all the details,” Henry whispered. “Now we’re gonna watch a workout. He thought we’d be interested.”
Outside, Bedouins held the horses. Tabari mounted Jôhar, while the filly danced nervously. Then the others mounted and they rode away from the house. Alec pressed his legs around the girth of the dark bay he was riding. It felt good to be back in a saddle. He patted the neck of his horse and let him play with the bit.
Henry rode beside him on a large gray, who shied away from the bay. “Great life, isn’t it!” Henry grinned.
They were nearing the grazing band when Alec asked, “Who’s riding the Black, Henry?”
“One of Abu’s men. Don’t know his name.” Henry chuckled. “Abu had quite a time, he tells us. After he returned with the Black, he found that none of his riders could manage him. He was in a spot, all right, until one day about a month ago a lone Bedouin arrived in the valley, seeking to become a member of Abu Ishak’s clan. Y’know, Alec, Abu tells us that all members of a clan consider themselves of one blood. Kinship is taken care of by suckin’ a few drops of another’s blood. Mighty interestin’, isn’t it?” Then without waiting for Alec’s reply, he continued, “Anyway, Abu put this new guy on somethin’ like a probation period before they let him join up. He turned out to be okay, according to Abu, and also one of the best riders he’d ever seen. Abu put him on the Black one day and sure enough, after a tough fight, which I for one would like to have seen, he gets the Black under control. Abu was plenty relieved ’cause he sure was worried about not having anybody to ride the Black.” Henry paused. “I’m lookin’ forward to seein’ this guy, Alec … didn’t think it was possible for anybody to ride the Black but you.”
As they neared the grazing band they saw a small group of mounted Bedouins. Suddenly in the center of the group the Black reared, his forelegs pawing the air. The men pulled him down and moved in close.
When Alec and the others arrived, they had the stallion saddled. A white-robed figure with his back to Alec moved quickly from the back of his own horse into the saddle. The Black reared again and the men broke and turned their horses away.
Skillfully, the Black’s rider brought him down. The stallion reared again and for a moment Alec thought he would go straight over backwards, crushing the man in the saddle. Moving his body forward, the Bedouin buried his heels in the Black’s sides. The stallion bolted forward and with ever increasing strides swept over the ground, his powerful quarters rising and falling.
They watched as the giant horse with pounding hoofs raced around the edge of the valley, the ground slipping away in waves beneath him. The Bedouin, like a small burr, was lost in the flowing black mane. As they neared the group of bystanders once more, Alec saw a whip raised in the Bedouin’s hand, and he bit his lip until the blood flowed freely. There was no reason to hit the Black! No need for a whip! The hard leather fell on the giant body. The stallion sprang forward as though unleashed from a spring. As they raced past, Alec saw the whip fall again. Angrily, he turned to Henry. “He’s using a crop,” he said and his words were clipped. “The fool!”
Henry looked at Abu Ishak, who was standing beside him. “He’ll break your Shêtân if he continues to use a whip,” he said.
Abu Ishak’s voice, when he answered, was cold and unwavering. “I’ve never seen him use a crop before … and he won’t do it again, I assure you.” His eyes never left the racing horse.
Horse and rider circled the valley once more, and then the Bedouin gradually slowed down the Black. Fighting for his head, the stal
lion moved effortlessly toward them, his hot black body glistening in the sun.
Abu Ishak signaled his men as the Black neared them, and they moved out to meet the stallion. The rider dismounted and a blanket was thrown over the horse, who shook his savage head furiously.
Henry mumbled to Alec, “That guy can stick on a horse, but he’ll never get the best outa the Black … ’cause he’ll fight him every inch of the way until his spirit is broken.”
Alec did not answer.
Noticing the smoldering look in Alec’s eyes, Henry said, “Take it easy, kid. Leave it to Abu, he’ll do something about it. He’s talking to him now.”
They watched as Abu Ja‘ Kub ben Ishak called his rider to one side and spoke to him in Arabic. His voice was raised in anger. The sullen dark face of the Bedouin rider was turned up to Abu Ishak, as the tall sheikh towered above him. When Shêtân’s owner had finished speaking, the rider nodded and turned away.
They were on their way back across the valley when Tabari rode up beside Alec. “If you would like,” she said, “we can go for a short ride.”
Alec nodded. It would do him good to ride for a while.
They broke away from the others, Tabari leading the way. Cantering, they rode to the south end of the valley, and then Tabari turned up a small trail that led through the mountains.
They rode in silence while their horses followed the path which wound its way up to the summit. Suddenly Alec realized that the surroundings were familiar and that they were not far from the narrow chasm through which he and his friends had entered the valley.
Noticing Alec’s close scrutiny of the terrain, Tabari smiled and said, “It is safe so long as we do not leave the valley.”
They stopped to rest when they reached a clearing. Stretched out below they could see the small figures of the grazing horses and the white buildings to the north.
They had been there only a few minutes when suddenly the horses moved uneasily, their heads raised and ears cocked. Tabari’s Jôhar neighed softly. Then they heard the ring of hoofs against stone. Turning, they saw Abd-al-Rahman on the path above, riding his chestnut stallion, Sagr.
The Black Stallion Returns Page 10
