The Black Stallion and Flame

by Walter Farley

  “Leave on your light but don’t jiggle it,” the veterinarian told Henry irritably. “Anything we do now will only stir them up more.”

  But suddenly one of the bats dropped on Henry’s head and the older man let out a great shout. His roar, echoing and re-echoing through the chambers, caused the bats to start flying and suddenly the chamber was filled with streaming forms.

  The men threw up gloved hands in front of their faces to ward off the flying bodies. Louder than Henry’s shout were the guttural squeaks of the bats and the roaring beat of their wings. The noise was deafening.

  Finally, when it became quiet again, the veterinarian said, “I’m afraid the vampire left with the others, but keep your lights on the crevice to make sure.”

  “I’m sorry,” Henry apologized, “but that—”

  “You couldn’t help it,” the veterinarian said. “There’s no need to apologize. And after all he might still be here. Watch now. If he comes out, he’ll scramble sideways first, much like a crab.”

  They waited in silence, the dead, stagnant air inducing a clammy sweat which was most uncomfortable. Alec was conscious of the living wall beside him, for he could hear the workings of hundreds of insects. He told himself that even the cool breeze of bats’ wings might be easier to endure than this.

  Suddenly the vampire came out of the crevice, crawling along the wall a few steps at a time. He seemed to be completely ignorant of their presence yet he was in the full glare of their lights. He had raised himself high on his hind legs while his long thumbs were directed forward and outward, supporting the fore end of his body and serving as feet.

  Raising his net, the veterinarian waited for him to come a little closer. “Notice the way he walks,” he whispered. “All other species flop along the ground in the most awkward, ungainly way, but he—”

  The veterinarian stopped talking for the vampire had paused as if suddenly undecided about the light. He seemed more disturbed than afraid. He wrinkled his ugly little face and bared his razorlike teeth in what appeared to be a sneer. A musty, acrid odor which became almost overpowering emanated from him.

  Henry shivered. “Go ahead, catch him if you’re going to,” he whispered uneasily. “Or use your gun.”

  “Don’t flicker your light so,” came the sharp reprimand from the veterinarian. “I can’t reach him yet.”

  The vampire looked around and squeaked faintly. At the same time his eyes became more bright and shining. He took another step, then another, moving closer and closer to the men.

  Suddenly the veterinarian made his move. He swung the net quickly with the skill of a man who has caught many thousands of bats and insects. But fast as he was, the vampire was faster. There was only a flash of wings as the bat left the wall too quickly for the eye to follow him.

  “Shoot him!” Henry shouted, his words deadened by swishing wings. But the vampire was gone.

  For a moment they stood in dejected silence, then the veterinarian said, “He’s left the cave to find another place to sleep for the day. He’ll be back with the others tomorrow morning. I’ll get him then.”

  “Where do you think he’s gone?” Alec asked.

  “Almost any place nearby—a tree, a bush, a drain, anything that provides cover from the sun.”

  “With no chance of finding him?” Alec prodded.

  “Very unlikely. It’s best to wait until he returns here.” The man turned to Henry, his face pale. “I’ll use the gun tomorrow. We can’t take any more chances.”

  “Good,” Henry said. “Fine. I just hope you’re not too late.”

  It was a little after noon when they left the Experimental Station and drove down the beach again.

  “It’s too bad you missed your boat for this,” the police officer said.

  “We’ve got lots more searching to do,” Henry said. “What’s the nearest island?”

  “Inhabited?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Alec interjected.

  “There’s one out there, twenty miles away. Not much to it, though.” The police officer pointed to the northeast and Alec recalled the early-morning rainbow that had arched in the same direction.

  “Could it support life?” Henry asked.

  “For a horse?”

  “Sure,” Henry said irritably. “That’s what we’re looking for, isn’t it?”

  “It has a short spit where wild grass grows and there’s fresh water. The rest of it is nothing but rock, solid rock.”

  “What’s its name?” Alec asked.

  “Azul—that’s Spanish for ‘blue.’ How it got that name, I wouldn’t know. Nothing blue about it at all.”

  Alec turned to Henry. “I have a strange feeling about that island, Henry. With a good boat we could make it there and back before dark.”

  The old trainer glanced at the fishing vessels anchored just offshore and nodded. “He could be there as well as anywhere else,” he agreed. Then, turning to the police officer, he asked, “Could you recommend any one of these boats for hire?”

  “Try the Night Owl,” the officer answered, pointing to a black-painted motor launch. “She’s the sturdiest and her skipper knows these waters better than anyone else.”

  Alec liked everything about the vessel but her name. It didn’t appeal to him just then because he associated the night with the marauding vampire. But on the other hand the name Night Owl might be a good omen, for hadn’t the veterinarian said that the owl was one of the few natural enemies of the bat?

  Henry said, “Let’s hire her, Alec. We’ve got nothing to lose.”

  Alec nodded assent, completely unaware that he had everything in the world to lose, including his very life. For in the cabin of the Night Owl slept the vampire, having chosen that vessel in which to spend the rest of the day. The bat hung by his hind feet with his sharp claws and head down, partly covered by a wing. He slept comfortably, awaiting the coming of night, when he would set out once more to feed on another’s blood.

  HERD STALLION

  11

  The Black Stallion had waited three days for the dull pain to leave his foot and was fast becoming impatient with his handicap. The late-afternoon sun shone upon his sweaty body. He was hot and yet he would not leave his station, guarding his band with all the alertness of the hunted. His large eyes were as keen as those of the eagle as he watched his young mares, knowing that never before had they enjoyed such freedom. His nostrils were dilated and occasionally he tossed his heavily maned neck and uttered a high, bugling snort. Oh, but he had known such freedom as this! He loved the blowing of the wind and the green grass; there was nothing to equal the pride and joy of the wild ones!

  Yet everything this horse was stemmed from his forebears’ close association with man. The desert Bedouin had bred endurance, speed and intelligence into his ancestors, creating them for desert warfare. For generation after generation, in constant search of the perfect horse they had followed the practice of breeding only superior animals. The Black could have been their ultimate goal, for there was nothing lacking in his conformation, speed, intelligence and courage.

  This land was new to him and yet he knew the grass was rich in nourishment and that there was something in the very air on which a horse thrived. But true to his desert heritage he denied himself the luxurious, tempting grass for he did not want to become too content or lazy. He had many things to do and could do them best if he was a little hungry and thirsty.

  It was easy to see that many other horses had grazed in this valley. Their hoofprints were everywhere and they were especially heavy near the stream that cut the floor of the small valley. He again looked fondly at his mares and fillies, some of them drinking, others grazing and pawing the grass. They were not wild but settled in their ways. Free as they were now, they looked even more beautiful and spirited to him than they had in their stalls. Their coats were dark brown, the color he liked best of all.

  They were not only spirited but content, nickering to each other and occasionally standing soci
ably alongside each other, head to tail, switching flies and insects from each other’s face.

  He turned again to the hoofprints left by the other horses, well-worn trails with heaps of manure everywhere. He found and smelled another stallion’s mounds, and his blood coursed through him faster. Nervously he got down and rolled in some loose earth, then quickly got up and went to the stream. But instead of drinking he sloshed around in the stream, muddying it.

  He raised his head almost immediately, looking again at his mares, for he must guard them against all other stallions. The faintest signal from him could send them into the water or racing over the ground. Again he smelled the manure of the other stallion. Then he looked around but found nothing to arouse his suspicions.

  He selected the highest ground near his band and grazed a little, eating in short, fast bites. Then he took a few sips of water from the stream, his ears working as he drank. He did no more than refresh himself, lifting his head and letting big drops fall back into the stream. He must not be loaded down with water. It would only stiffen his muscles and shorten his wind.

  He moved around his small band, stopping occasionally to grab a mouthful of choice grass. His glistening black body shone majestically in the late-afternoon sun. He was the picture of awesome fierceness, ready to do battle at the slightest provocation. Again he came to a stop, this time to sniff the wind. His sensitive nostrils picked up a faint whiff of a scent that caused his blood to start racing through his body.

  He stepped a little faster about his band, his muscles moving with the smooth power of coiled springs. He looked as he did when going to the post, his flint-hard hoofs beating rhythmically; all that was missing was Alec Ramsay astride his back. Suddenly he broke into a lope, his tail, which had been almost touching the ground, now swirling high behind him. His long foretop, too, streamed back, getting in his eyes; irritated, he tossed his head, flinging the hair farther back so he might see his mares. He snorted to attract their attention, hoping they would notice what tremendous vitality he had.

  He swept around the band several times, keeping close to the stream where the soft ground was easier on his bruised foot. He didn’t want to limp before the mares or show any sign of weakness. He cleared his nostrils, snorting repeatedly. He wanted the mares to feel as wild as he did, and he knew it would take very little coaxing. By nature they were lovers of freedom just as he was … except that they had never known the delights of living wild and free. But perhaps they had dreamed of it and now it was theirs as well as his! Never again would they have to live a life of domesticity! Once more he stopped to throw back his head and sniff the wind. He didn’t look for another stallion, for his nostrils sought to catch a more familiar scent. Finally he bent down to crop the grass, grazing in alertness, never quite sure, never quite still.

  Soon he would steal the other leader’s mares. He knew it would not be easy, for his opponent was as cunning and strong as he. It would be a furious fight, ending in the death of one of them. Neither would be driven away. Each would stand his ground until the very end. Each coveted all the mares or none.

  He watched his mares and fillies grazing peacefully; they were content in the knowledge that he would protect them. He wandered a short distance away from them. At once they stopped eating as if apprehensive, and no longer did they whisk flies from each other but laid back their ears and kicked out. They moved with him, not wanting to be left alone.

  The Black Stallion stopped, standing more rigid than ever, his nostrils dilated. The wind from the sea to the south blew strong, and although the scent was still some miles away he knew it well. No longer did he need to search the moving air for faint clues. He was certain of the news it carried.

  He stood towering above his harem, lord of all he surveyed and wild with freedom! Yet in his joy he became uneasy, and the silence and solitude of the valley were broken by the working of his nostrils as he continued to sniff upwind. He gave no warning to his mares but uttered bugle snorts of which he alone knew the meaning.

  Finally the Black moved. He ran around the mares fretfully, stopping more than once to sniff the breeze. Then he scanned the distant rock as if looking for something, and bolted again.

  Upon reaching high ground, he stopped once more to survey his band. He inhaled the air deeply and exhaled it without snorting or whinnying. One of the mares started toward him and he drove her back. Trotting again, he circled the small valley as if undecided upon his next move. When the band tried to follow him he wheeled on the mares, squealing and biting to send them back.

  Finally, as if he’d made up his mind what to do, he dashed around the mares and whipped them all into a run, driving them down the dry-stream gorge leading to the big valley and the home of the red stallion!

  He led them through the marsh and onto the sea of blue grass. Quickly he found the large herd of horses grazing midway down the valley. He coveted the beautiful mares, and he took the time to let his eyes run fondly over them, the dark bays and chestnuts, the grays and an occasional white-and-black one. Many of them bore the scars of battle. Like stallions, the mares fought constantly, whether in a contest of strength or in anger or because of jealousy.

  Most of the mares had stopped grazing at the sight of him but they did not flee or appear to be frightened. Yet they were alert to the signals being given them by the young stallions who stood apart from the herd acting as sentinels. They stood with their heads high, proud and free.

  The Black’s own mares were far more excitable and undecided. They circled him constantly as if afraid the wild herd would charge them. At the same time there was a strong tendency on their part to wheel, dart away from him and join the large mass of horses.

  Suddenly the wild ones moved in unison, running to higher ground, and the earth shook to the sound of their plunging hoofs. The Black’s mares became more uneasy than ever and only his sharp commands kept them from stampeding toward the wild runners. He knew they felt the strong urge of herd instinct despite the domesticity they had always known. They tossed their heads and manes, eager to run with the others. The Black snorted at them, refusing to set them free. And during all this time he didn’t take his eyes from the lone chestnut stallion who stood apart from the herd. There was the king!

  Some of the Black’s mares sought to join the wild herd but he ran them down quickly, kicking and biting their shoulders. He kept them in a tightly packed bunch, jealous of their interest in the other stallions, and so fierce was he that they abandoned their attempts to escape.

  Raising his head high, the Black turned to gaze again at his opponent. The red one stood clear of his herd, letting the others form their own groups, but there was no doubt that he was dominating them and keeping them together. His signals to the rank and file consisted of slight sounds and movements. The younger stallions watched him and waited, completely submissive to his bidding. Occasionally he had them race around the herd and bring order to the mares and colts by nipping them with their teeth. They squealed loudly while driving laggard colts into position, ramming into them at full speed and kicking. Finally the great herd was huddled together, becoming part of the colorful valley, splashing it with varied colors—blacks, bays and grays, roans, duns and pure whites.

  The red stallion continued to stand quietly, looking down the valley at his black opponent. The antics of his mares and young stallions hadn’t pressed him into action. He was the picture of alertness and vitality.

  The Black sniffed the strong wind from the south, then moved swiftly about his small band on hoofs that barely touched the ground. He shook his head, still undecided. He swept about his band again, then shrieked his challenge of combat. But he didn’t go forth to meet the herd stallion. Instead he breathed in the upwind with a sharp whistling sound, his head held higher than ever. Suddenly he whirled and hurled himself at his own huddled mares, scattering them! Furiously he drove them down the valley toward the big herd, their racing hoofs sending clods of sod flying into the air.

  He followed
them, driving them on faster and faster by squealing and biting. He appeared ready for a vicious onslaught and a bloody fight with the red stallion! His ears were flat against his head and his teeth were bared, ready to ravage. He made the mares run as fast as they could go and their plunging hoofs echoed in the valley. Quickly they neared the big herd. The Black whistled again, his eyes blazing.

  The young, wild stallions came forward to meet the band of mares, coveting them. The Black drove his band on, still going at full speed. Just before reaching the herd he scattered his mares and the young stallions followed. The Black’s blazing eyes swept to the red stallion, and suddenly he saw him, too, make his move for the new mares.

  It was then that the Black Stallion uttered his loudest whistle yet. But it was not one of challenge! Instead he wheeled away from his mares, his nostrils filled with a scent carried from beyond the herd. Galloping, he swept past the others, his hoofs speeding over the ground like a bird in full flight!

  He never looked back to see the young stallions take his mares into the herd. Nor did his large bright eyes seek the red leader. It was enough that he was unmolested and running upwind!

  He swept into the tall cane, bending the stalks before him. Just beyond was a dark narrow cleavage in the southern wall of the valley and it was toward this that he streaked, slowing only when he had entered it. For a hundred yards the high walls rose on either side of him and then widened, forming a canyon. The ground was soft and free of rock.

  The Black went forward at a trot, breathing the air deeply, and his excitement mounted. He neighed shrilly once, then again. He ran as far as he could go and then stood still, the yellow walls of the canyon rising high above him. He shrilled his cries over and over again until the canyon reverberated with his great longing for the boy he loved.

  ISLAND FORTRESS

  12

  The Night Owl lay just off the southern spit of Azul Island and the tall, heavy black man at the wheel said, “We can go ashore if you like, boss, but you can see ’bout everything from here.”