More confident than ever, the Black Stallion prepared to meet his opponent. He knew no master, no companion save one who was not here. With marvelous flowing action he streaked across the valley floor, meeting his foe head-on!
The Black reared and lashed and whirled, his hoofs rocking the white stallion with thunderous blows. When he came down he sped around the other with the speed of summer lightning. Again he rose, coming down with battering forefeet on the other’s haunches.
The white stallion sought to escape the blows, squealing in rage and pain. Flecks of foam spattered the air from his mouth. Already he knew he was defeated. His opponent’s mastery of combat was far greater than his own. He could not equal the other’s quickness, cunning and courage. He wheeled to get away and then, straightening out, ran across the valley, seeking the tall cane in which he might lose his pursuer. He was frightened. For here was an enemy who, he had realized from the first whirlwind charge, would cut him to pieces with slashing hoofs and teeth.
Upon reaching the cane his rush slackened, then picked up again when he discovered that the Black Stallion was close behind. For a moment it looked as though he might turn back to stand at bay and snort in defiance. But instead he kept running, now forward, now sideways, seeking to escape the black fury behind him. But there seemed to be no way of shaking him off. The white stallion was trapped.
Having humbled his enemy, the Black Stallion did not intend to kill him. He had no impulse to fling himself upon the young stallion, who was no match for him. It was one thing to kill through necessity, another to kill a beaten foe. He dropped back, letting the other seek refuge in the cane.
A few minutes later he returned to his band, favoring his bruised foot more than ever. And he screamed his high-pitched call, once more claiming this land as his very own. Yet he did not go forward to meet the red stallion, for he was too much of a veteran not to know that his quiet adversary was a most worthy one, one he dare not meet at this time. He would wait until the pain left his foot, then return. Snorting to his mares, he drove them once again through the marsh and back to the smaller valley.
TOY LAND
8
The squall swept quickly from the open sea into the harbor of Chestertown, port city of the island of Antago, British West Indies. It hammered an anchored freighter a mile out in the bay and prevented stevedores from unloading further cargo into the tenders alongside. It swept on to the wharf and Custom House, then crossed the remaining seafront into the heart of the city. It washed the cobblestone streets clean before climbing the island hills and disappearing in a mist.
The sun came out again and a brilliant rainbow appeared, arching over the city and harbor. Perspiring men, naked to the waist, resumed unloading the freighter while tenders streamed back and forth to the pier. The transfer of cargo was supervised vigilantly by harbor police who wore white middies, bell-bottom trousers and flat, wide-brimmed hats while standing majestically in deep rowboats. After the heavy shower, the air was very damp and laden with the sweet, heavy odor of hundreds of bags of cane sugar stacked on the pier and waiting to be loaded onto the ship.
Within the city itself, the people of Antago emerged in throngs from banks, hotels and shops, creating a crazy tangle of noisy traffic. They overflowed the too-narrow sidewalks, spilling into the streets and scurrying along hurriedly before honking bicycles and cars. Police blew their whistles in prolonged bursts of frenzy at every intersection, seeking attention. And above all the noise a lone woman’s shrill wails could be heard as she hawked the wares carried in a huge basket balanced on her head.
Behind a pink stucco wall and an iron grille gate at the end of the busy street was a quiet and stately old colonial residence. A sign on the wall read ANTAGO POLICE AND IMMIGRATION DEPTS.
The screened doors of the building opened and a policeman accompanied by Alec Ramsay and Henry Dailey stepped onto the porch.
The police officer wore a blue uniform trimmed with gold braid. He glanced at the anchored freighter in the harbor and for a few seconds seemed to be listening to the far-off rattling of the winches and the thuds of heavy cargo being dropped into the tenders. Finally he said, with a decidedly British accent, “I’m afraid you should be leaving with your friends. We have no regular service to the States and it might be several weeks before—”
Henry interrupted. “Now that our folks know we’re alive, we’ve got time.” He nodded to Alec and added, “Plenty of it.”
“I don’t care how long it takes,” the boy said. “I’m staying as long as there’s a chance of finding my horse.”
Shrugging his shoulders, the police officer said, “Even somebody as young as you shouldn’t waste too much time.”
A chill passed over Alec. “I might not be wasting it. We made it to land, so could he.”
“We have to think he’s safe,” Henry told the officer. “And your commissioner has given us some hope, telling us of the lone horse seen running on your western beaches.”
“It happens often that a horse breaks loose from one of the plantation corrals,” the officer said patiently. “I would not set my hopes too high if I were you.”
“But this one is black,” Henry answered. “He could be ours.”
“We’ll soon find out.”
“If I could just see him,” Alec said. “You don’t have to think of catching him. Just let me get one look. I’ll know … so will he.”
The officer smiled sympathetically. “It shouldn’t be too difficult. Our island is small and under a high degree of cultivation. There aren’t too many places for a horse to hide.”
Wearing khaki trousers, cotton shirts, canvas sneakers and sun hats supplied by the city government, Alec and Henry followed the policeman into a small black sedan.
“We’ll be back within a few hours but I’m afraid your ship will be gone by then,” the officer said, starting the car.
Henry grunted. “I wish you’d stop feelin’ sorry for us. We’re pretty lucky just to be here at all.”
“Yes, I’m sure you are.”
Alec looked out the window at the avenue of green and gold coconut palms and gigantic bamboos, then at the high cane-clad hills above them. He had felt sick to his stomach for three days, ever since they’d landed on the beach south of Chestertown. His illness wasn’t the result of what they’d all gone through during the crash and afterward. It was the thought of never seeing his horse again that so curled up his insides he couldn’t eat or drink. He had to get over it, he told himself, otherwise he’d be no good to himself or anybody else. He had to search for the Black without panic and with confidence that it was only a question of time before finding him.
I’ve got to say he’s alive over and over again and mean it every time. He’s out there somewhere … if not on this island, then on another. If he was dead, I’d know it. I’d feel it every time my heart beats. I’m sure he’s alive and I’m going to find him. It’s just a matter of looking. If I believe that, I’m all right.…
To forget his horse for a moment he concentrated on the narrow, winding asphalt road before them; it scraped the doorsteps of white and cream-colored clay houses and occasionally a patchwork of frame huts. These were the homes of the workers who tilled the cane fields.
Perspiration dripped from the police officer’s face onto his blue jacket. He glanced at the boy beside him, noting the serious expression on his face. “It’ll be cooler up in the hills where the breeze can reach us,” he said, smiling and showing very large white teeth.
Without taking his eyes off the road Alec asked, “Are there many islands in this area?” How many would he have to search before he found the Black?
“Well, there’s a whole archipelago full if you count everything that sticks out of the water,” the policeman said good-naturedly, still trying to get the boy to smile. “Our fishermen say you can’t sail to the west without sighting one landfall after another.”
The officer shifted to a lower gear as they climbed higher into the hills. “These
islands are nothing but the tops of a long chain of submerged volcanic peaks, ringed by coral reefs. Just a bunch of toy lands strung together on a plate-glass sea, you might say.”
“Are most of them inhabited?” Alec asked. If people got a look at the Black they’d recognize him for what he was, a very valuable horse. One person would tell another and another and another. Finally the news would reach him and he and the Black would be together again.
“Many of them are as well populated as this one,” the policeman answered, “but there are some that are much too small and barren to support life for very long. Actually they’re nothing but shoals and islets.”
Alec turned away, not wanting to hear any more. He didn’t want to picture his horse in such a place.
Henry asked, “Is there any boat service between the islands?”
“Freighters, if you’re lucky enough to catch one going between the large islands. Then there are fishing boats and motor launches going between the smaller islands if you want to hire one. But there is no regular scheduled service if that’s what you mean.”
“And no planes?”
The policeman grinned broadly. “Not in this particular section of the archipelago. Our terrain is not suited for the cutting out of landing fields. Besides, most of us feel there is little need for such speedy transportation.”
Stopping the car, the officer reached out through the open window to grab at a cluster of bananas hanging from a nearby tree. He handed one to Alec and one to Henry and then began peeling his own. They were high above the harbor if not many miles distant from it. Sounds carried clearly across the water and they could hear the shouting porters on the freighter and the straining noises made by the overburdened tenders.
“They have begun loading,” the police officer said, pointing with his banana at the ship. “It won’t be long before they leave us now.” He pointed seaward where a fishing boat with sails blown out like the wings of a great bird was coming into the harbor.
“Isn’t that a pretty sight?” he asked softly. “A little slow, perhaps, but beautiful … very beautiful and so very quiet.”
Alec’s eyes left the boat for the rainbow, which still hung faintly over the lush and fertile island. His gaze followed the arch to the point where it dipped into the distant sea. “Are there islands in that direction, too?” he asked. He was grasping at every ray of hope. Might not the rainbow be an omen, telling him where he might find his horse?
“To the northeast?” the police officer asked, following the boy’s gaze. “Yes, a few, but none of any size or consequence.”
They continued on and soon were climbing one line of hills after another. They passed many great plantation houses all perched high above the city and resplendent with their swimming pools and gardens. Fields of cane were everywhere and to Alec and Henry they looked like the rustling stalks of tall, straight corn to be seen in the Midwest at home. The only difference was that here towering royal palms fringed the fields and beside them flowered hedges of red, pink and yellow hibiscus.
After another hour of driving the cultivated fields dropped behind and the road wound its way through jagged upland ravines.
“This is the only section of our island too rugged to cultivate,” the policeman explained.
“What’s that down there?” Henry asked suddenly.
Far below there was a dark, sloping patch of land, a solid mass of jungle green surrounded by mist.
“It’s an abandoned plantation,” the officer explained. “Nothing more at this time of year than fields of vast mangrove swamp. During the dry season most of it is parched and baked.”
Alec looked down upon the green walls of brush and jungle which seemed solid and almost impenetrable.
“Was the horse seen around here?” he asked.
“Yes, on the lower beach,” the officer answered.
Sand and sea bordered one end of the abandoned fields. There the breakers of the green and blue Caribbean reached an unbroken line of jungle that edged over the bright sand.
“Who reported him?” Henry asked. “You mean someone lives in that swamp?”
“Oh yes. We have our Experimental Stock Farm Station in the old plantation house, which you can’t see from here. It’s a branch of our Veterinary Public Health Service,” the officer explained.
“Then they were the ones who reported the horse?” Henry asked.
“Yes, after some farmers from the village just below reported seeing him on the beach.” The police officer pointed to a small patch of farmland midway to the jungle. “That’s the village of Crane. Let’s find out if anyone has seen him since.”
The village was a mere huddle of palm huts among coconut trees. It was neither clean nor picturesque and there was squalor everywhere. Donkeys, children and chickens ran about in the dirt road, while adults squatted over piles of bananas, mangoes, limes and coconuts.
The police officer brought the car to a stop before one of the huts and the men there quickly gathered around him, jabbering so excitedly Alec had difficulty making out what was being said. However, the officer seemed to understand for he quickly left the car and went along with the men. Alec and Henry followed.
A black goat lay dead behind the hut. The policeman knelt down beside it, examining a small neck wound. Finally he looked up at the group and asked, “Did he die like the cow?”
A big man nodded vigorously, perspiration streaming down his face. “We prayed hard for him to get well but he died all the same. We’re being punished for some wrong we done. We’re being punished for sure.”
Turning back to the goat the police officer said, “Tie him to the side of my car and we’ll take him to the Experimental Station. Then we’ll know for sure.”
He stood up, straightening his jacket casually. But his eyes disclosed his great concern. “Last week they lost a cow the same way,” he stated to Alec and Henry.
“What way?” Henry asked.
“Paralytic rabies. We had her examined and found Negri bodies in the brain and spinal cord. So we’re sure.”
Alec and Henry said nothing. They were both well aware of the consequences of rabies. It was a disease fatal to animals and humans.
The officer went on. “We believe we know, too, how she contracted it, for there was no mistaking the bite wound.”
“From a mad dog,” Henry guessed, “one you’ve already killed?”
“No, not a dog. And I’m afraid this carrier is still very much alive and active—”
“But he must be destroyed!” Henry interrupted urgently. “He’s capable of infecting human beings as well as animals!”
The police officer said gravely, patiently, “We’re well aware of that, sir. The problem of our Veterinary Public Health Service is to find him. He’s a winged carrier, one that unfortunately feeds on warm-blooded animals … a vampire bat.”
Alec turned to look at the villagers’ palm huts, which were open to all winds, and at the shelters for animals that consisted only of a roof on four poles. None offered protection from such a deadly night marauder. And the Black—assuming he was in this locality—was no better off.
CHILD OF DARKNESS
9
They drove down to the beach, their eyes going often to the lifeless black goat strapped to the right fender. There was no road beyond the village they had just left and they simply used the beach, for the tide was out and the sand firm. Stiff trade winds blew in from the ocean and shell-pink clouds studded the azure sky.
They passed a small group of brightly colored boats anchored a short distance offshore. The men on board waved to the police officer; he waved back but kept going, his face grim.
“We have never before had a vampire bat on Antago,” he said. “I believe he was transported from Trinidad in one of those fishing boats. The men go there frequently.”
“Are you sure they have vampires in Trinidad?” Henry asked.
“Yes, and not only there. The child of darkness has long been known to be a source of annoyance
and fear throughout South America … and in Central America and Mexico as well.”
“Child of darkness?” Alec repeated. “You call him that?”
The officer shrugged his shoulders. “When I lived in Trinidad he was called that very often, especially when he chose to sleep near highly populated centers. Some people took him as much for granted as a domesticated animal or”—he turned to the sea before finishing—“perhaps a rat is a better comparison.”
“Yet they knew he could carry disease?” Alec asked incredulously.
“So can rats,” the policeman answered quietly.
“But the vampire lives on the blood of his victims.”
“So does a horsefly, a mosquito or a tick.”
“You sound almost resigned,” Henry said grimly.
“Not at all, just realistic. You asked, you know, and I’m only doing my best to acquaint you with the facts which are well known to public health authorities in all tropical countries. You, of course, do not have such a problem in your temperate climate, where the vampire bat does not exist.”
“Thanks for that,” Henry said.
“He ranges from southern Brazil to southern Mexico. But until now I had never heard of any in the West Indies.”
Alec interrupted. “I’m certain I saw bats flying outside last night, lots of them.”
“We have many other species, of course, but they are harmless, eating only fruit and insects. There’s one species, too, that I’ve seen fishing with the pelicans and terns.”
“Then the vampire bat is the black sheep of the tribe,” Henry said thoughtfully.
“I suppose you can call him that,” the police officer said, nodding his big head. “There’s no doubt that he will attack any animals loose in fields or tethered in open stalls. He’ll go after fowl asleep in roosts, too.”
“And humans?” Alec asked.
“Only when he can’t get the food he needs from animals and poultry,” the officer answered gravely.
The Black Stallion and Flame Page 6
