The Black Stallion's Ghost

by Walter Farley

  The mare became excited again, tossing her head and blowing through large dilated nostrils. The captain quieted her while keeping his eyes on the stallion.

  “Your horse, Monsieur Ramsay,” he said finally, “is superb. I have seen him before but only on the television. It was while I was in Sweden last month.” Then his unblinking black eyes turned to Alec. “And you … yes, you were riding him in the race I saw. But I did not think …” He paused, his eyes revealing an emotion for the first time.

  Alec was used to people looking surprised when they first met him. He was no one’s idea of a prosperous and well-known rider. For one thing, he appeared too young, although most times he didn’t feel it. And today he was wearing the most tattered jeans and worn-out boots he possessed. But the captain’s bewildered look made him feel better about being there. The man was human after all.

  “I apologize,” the captain said, smiling for the first time. “I should have known right away, seeing you with such a horse.”

  “Not at all. You didn’t expect to see me, any more than I did you.” Alec paused and found it easier to meet the man’s eyes. It was time for a question of his own. “And you … do you live here?”

  There was no hesitation in the captain’s reply; it was as if the barrier between them had been dropped quickly. The smile remained on his thick lips as he said, “Only for a short time. My home is in France, but then”—he shrugged his shoulders—“anywhere the circus plays I call home. I have a contract with your Ringling Bros. Barnum and Bailey Circus beginning in April.”

  Everything was falling in place. The winter training quarters of the Ringling Circus was in Venice, Florida, not far to the north. The captain and his mare were probably on their way to it, whatever his reason might be for stopping off at this remote hammock. Perhaps the captain’s reason was little different from his own—an opportunity to “freshen up” in a place where no one knew him, preparing himself and his mare for the hard season to come. If he looked at it that way, Alec summed up, their meeting in the swamp was not frightening at all.

  The Black pushed his body hard against him, and Alec knew he should get him out of there immediately. “I’d better go,” he said, his gaze turning to his horse.

  “There will be no trouble. We can keep them apart.” The captain’s words were clipped and more heavily accented than before in what seemed to be sudden urgency. “I would like you to stay very much.” There was a long pause while Alec turned to him. “Please, Monsieur Ramsay, I beg you to stay, if only to have lunch with me.”

  “Lunch?” Alec repeated, more to himself than to the man. It seemed incongruous that in the middle of a swamp he should be asked graciously to lunch as if he were back in town. He looked beyond the meadow but saw nothing except jungle-choked mangroves etched against the incredible blue of the sky.

  “My house is just a short distance away,” the captain said, “and you must be tired. It will do you and your horse good to rest before starting back. As I said, there will be no problem with our horses. We are professionals, are we not?”

  The captain did not wait for an answer but moved along, leading his mare toward the mangroves. Alec hesitated, then followed quickly—almost as if the decision had been made for him and he had no choice. He was amused by his thoughts. His inquisitiveness had been aroused and he wanted to learn more about Captain Philippe de Pluminel. No harm could come from having lunch with him. And, as the captain had so rightly said, both he and the Black could use a rest before starting back.

  The captain walked with the same lightness he had shown in the saddle. He moved more like a cat than like a man over six feet tall and so heavily muscled. He strode along a wide path through the mangroves without once looking back to see if Alec followed; it was as if he expected nothing but obedience to his wishes.

  Alec kept a strong hold on the Black’s halter. He did not find the man’s conceit amusing but was determined to know more about him. He found that he was a little apprehensive but not afraid. Fear was something he had no thought of ever disclosing to this man. He, too, could conceal his emotions when necessary.

  Alec’s steps slowed as they emerged from the mangroves and he found himself in a cultivated garden of riotous colors. The brilliant red of poinsettia bushes was everywhere and there were rows and rows of hibiscus and poinciana plants.

  If he had had any doubt the flowering paradise was the work of man, he had only to look beyond. Near the edge of the saw-grass swamp was a house, shaded and half-hidden by towering trees and shrubs. Alec followed the captain toward it.

  It looked like a farmhouse and it had been built on stilts, perhaps to keep out the high water of the swamp during the rainy season. But as they drew closer, Alec saw it was like no farmhouse he’d ever seen before. The roof was fantastic. It rose high in the center and was topped by a strange-looking tower. What made it even more fantastic was that the roof dipped down on the opposite side almost to the ground! Never in his life had Alec ever seen a more ridiculous-looking building. It was made of unpainted cypress wood but looked more like one built of papier-mâché by a completely demented person.

  Without a word, the captain strode onto a path that led toward the rear of the house, not bothering to glance behind to note Alec’s reaction to the strange-looking house. He crossed another clearing and went directly to a small barn.

  Alec waited while the captain put the mare away. The Black hated to see her go and there seemed to be no end to his nickering.

  When the captain returned he said, “I have another place for your horse.” His eyes were evasive and Alec felt the first stirring of fear within him. He shrugged it off and followed.

  Beyond the barn and deep in a grove of coconut palms, they came to a low shed, freshly whitewashed. The captain pulled open the double doors. Inside was a single room with a dirt floor, empty of machinery and adequate for use as a temporary stall.

  “He’ll be all right here,” the captain said. “We can give him water and a bit of hay.”

  Alec nodded. It would be only a short while before he’d be leaving.

  After taking care of his horse, he walked alongside the captain toward the house. There was some kind of game going on between them, he decided; it was apparent the captain wouldn’t impart any information willingly, and Alec was determined to wait him out.

  They went up the long steps leading to the front entrance and Alec noted the strange symbols and ornaments carved on the heavy oaken door. The interior was dim, for the few windows in it were shuttered and deeply recessed. As his eyes became adjusted to the semi-darkness, he saw a large living room with hand-hewn beams running across the ceiling and a great fireplace in which a fire was smoldering. The odor of burning wood filled the room.

  It was a hot day and yet the house was chilly, even cold, despite the fire. Alec shivered. He couldn’t be sure whether it was the cold or his mounting uneasiness that caused it.

  The captain’s tall figure moved across the room, momentarily blocking out the light from a window. He called loudly, “Odin! Odin! Êtes-vous ici?”

  Alec’s knowledge of French was only elementary but it was enough for him to understand that the captain had called, “Odin! Odin! Are you here?” Then the captain did not live alone. Who was Odin?

  After a moment’s hesitation, Alec followed the captain into the next room, which turned out to be the kitchen. It had a wood-burning stove, a large sink, a hand pump, and some utensils. But there was no one there and the captain left it for still another room beyond.

  Alec went to the doorway and peered inside. The window shutters were closed, and in the dim light of a kerosene lamp he could see an old man sitting on a high straight-backed chair. The captain stood beside him, speaking rapidly in French.

  Alec made no attempt to understand what was being said. He was startled by the old man’s appearance; he wore a big, shapeless black felt hat and in his right hand he held a long rod with a spear-tipped end.

  Alec backed away from the doorw
ay, then came to a stop as the old man rose from the chair and took a step toward him. Odin was wearing a crimson smock with gold braid around the edges. Beneath the smock Alec saw a laborer’s corduroy trousers thrust into the tops of knee boots. The old man was gazing at him steadily, and the captain, too, now turned in his direction.

  Alec stood still, startled by the weird sight, his mind working feverishly. Who were these people? And this Odin—his face was neither Indian nor black but a combination of both, and perhaps other races as well. His skin was old and weathered from decades of living in the sun, and yet his eyes were not aged at all. They burned into Alec’s with almost savage intensity.

  What have I walked into, so unprepared? he wondered.

  The old man stood quietly, his legs astride, watching Alec. Then, suddenly, he raised a huge brown hand to his chest in some sort of ritualistic gesture. With that the captain spoke, as if on signal.

  “I have explained to him that you are my guest,” he said. “There is nothing to fear. He is just very old.” The coldness in the captain’s eyes made Alec feel uneasy despite the comforting words.

  “But he is very capable despite his age,” the captain continued. “He goes where he pleases and wants only to be left alone. Take his hand, Alec. I beg of you … je vous en prie,” he added urgently, his gaze returning to the old man.

  Alec was frightened, feeling that anything might happen. He reached out for the old man’s hand.

  If felt cool and, despite its size and strength, there was no pressure at all. It was almost as if he were touching a ghost. Alec wondered if he was being successful in keeping the alarm from showing in his eyes.

  They returned to the large living room, leaving the old man alone. The captain put his arm around Alec’s shoulders and said warmly, “Now, we shall have our lunch and talk. We have much to discuss, oui?”

  Alec looked at him. Those dark, unblinking eyes would give nothing away. And Alec found that he didn’t care about learning anything more. He wanted no answers to this mystery. His only thought now was to get away. He could no longer ignore the chill running down his spine and there was no way to stop it. The realization had come to him that there was not just one unstable man in this place, and of the two men the captain was the more dangerous.

  THE PROFESSIONALS

  5

  Alec realized that his sudden desire to leave came as no surprise to this man. He believed that the captain had expected it all along. He found the silence of the room and the man’s cold stare more alarming than the fear within him.

  Was the captain truly dangerous, as he believed, or were his suspicions brought about by this unusual house and the old man in the back room? Alec had never dreamed he could be so susceptible to moods and surroundings. It was as if his brain had become a battlefield of conflicting emotions.

  The captain smiled at him, a small smile, almost a grimace but a smile nevertheless. It threw Alec completely off balance again. There might not be anything to fear from this man, he told himself. The captain was eccentric, of course, a person of many moods, but not mad.

  “It is not a cheerful house,” the captain said quietly. “It was built more for shelter and protection than warmth and light. However, we can make it a little more pleasant.”

  He opened the large oak door, allowing the sun’s rays to enter the room; then he opened the window shutters for still more light.

  The captain’s explanation and the brightness of the day helped rid Alec of some of his apprehensions. “Who is Odin?” he asked boldly.

  “My great-uncle,” the captain said quickly, as if he had anticipated the question. “He is a descendant of the Carib Indians, not the Seminoles. The Caribs were fierce warriors and knew this land long before the birth of Christ.” He added nothing more, and Alec thought it wise to remain silent.

  “Now for lunch,” the captain said graciously. “If you’ll excuse me a moment and make yourself at home …” He left the room, moving with the fluid grace of an animal.

  Alec went over to the fireplace and sat down in one of the high-backed chairs. He was committed and there would be no leaving until after lunch. He looked around the room, noting the bareness of it. It didn’t seem to have been occupied for very long; there were few of the personal things that make a house a home. A portable phonograph was on a table with several records beside it. It was battery-powered, for there was no electricity. Evidently the captain enjoyed music enough to carry a phonograph with him wherever he went.

  A large kerosene lamp hung from the ceiling and there were several books on the table below it. Alec picked one up. It was on horsemanship and had been written by the captain himself. Since it was in French, Alec didn’t attempt to read much of it, but he was very impressed.

  Had he allowed himself to give way to needless fears? Alec wondered. The captain was a professional horseman like himself and, according to the blurb on the jacket of the book, was the world’s foremost authority on dressage.

  Never in his life had Alec failed to get along with someone who loved horses. It was too strong a tie to be marred by his apprehensions, let alone fear. He had been ridiculous to believe otherwise, he told himself.

  Another book Alec found on the table dealt with the Spanish conquest of Florida. It was for the serious student of history, being an English translation of Spanish documents written in the late 1560s. He noted penciled notations in French in the margins and wondered what they meant.

  Alec put down the book, a little self-consciously, when the captain appeared carrying a wooden tray, which he placed on the table. There were many kinds of canned meat as well as fresh fruit, and Alec suddenly realized how hungry he was.

  The captain motioned Alec to a chair and sat down himself, his back as straight as it had been in the saddle. For several minutes they ate in silence, then Alec asked, “Are you a student of Florida history as well as a professional horseman?” He nodded toward the books.

  “Only recently,” the captain answered. “I have learned from Odin that my people lived side by side with white men during the Spanish conquest of Florida. Of course it was as slaves,” he added. There was no bitterness or hostility in his voice, only acceptance.

  Alec waited expectantly, hoping the captain would tell him more of his own accord. He did not think it best to press him.

  “In fact, one of my great ancestors was chief guide to the Conquistador Pedro Menéndez de Avilés,” the captain continued after a short pause.

  Alec detected the pride in the captain’s voice.

  “De Avilés was the founder of St. Augustine,” the captain explained. “Unknown to most historians, he also did a considerable amount of exploration here in the Everglades, which could not have been done without the aid of my ancestor, who was a Carib warrior.”

  Alec was unable to keep the surprise from showing in his eyes. Was this why the captain was here then, to retrace the steps of an ancestor dead over four hundred years? He studied the man’s face, noting again the strong blending of African and American Indian features with hints of still other strains.

  The captain gazed back, his eyes as intent as Alec’s. “You look surprised, Alec,” he said quietly. “I might even say frightened. There is no need to think of one of Indian or, for that matter, African ancestry as a villain.”

  He paused before going on. “It is true that the Caribs were no less warlike than the Conquistadores. For they, too, were raiders, coming from the interior of the Guianas and as far south as the Amazon jungle. They invaded Haiti and the other islands before becoming slaves themselves. No different,” he added, “from the Africans brought to the New World by the Spaniards to work the mines.”

  The captain stood up and began clearing the table. The conversation seemed to have come to an end. Suddenly he stopped and sat down again.

  “So it is that I am of Carib origin as well as African and Portuguese and French and Haitian. Truly a strange mixture, n’est-ce pas?” he asked, smiling broadly for the first time.
/>   “Oui, Captain,” Alec answered, hoping that the tension between them had come to an end.

  “Comprenez-vous French, Alec?”

  “Un peu.”

  “Beaucoup more than un peu, I’ll bet,” the captain said warmly.

  Alec helped take the dishes into the kitchen. His feeling of apprehension had been greatly relieved by the friendly exchange.

  “Your English is perfect,” he said.

  “Thank you. Not perfect but passable, I suppose. I have made many trips to England. Circus life makes it easy for one to learn languages.” The captain began rinsing the dishes beneath the hand pump.

  “And Odin?” Alec asked, wanting to learn more. “He lives here? You came here to see him?”

  The captain’s eyes became wary again but he did his best, Alec saw, to be pleasant. “Not quite,” he answered. “Odin lives in Haiti. He knew of this hammock and we came here together.”

  There was no further explanation and Alec did not prod him. He was willing to wait. The captain was no longer the frightening man he had seemed; neither was Odin, whom Alec believed to be demented but harmless.

  They finished the dishes and returned to the living room, where the captain motioned Alec to a chair beside him.

  “It is good to have a professional horseman for company,” he said. “I have always had great respect for one who rides a racing horse … not so much because of the speed itself, but to ride in the midst of others also fully extended calls for great skill and courage.”

  “A jockey has to take the dangers for granted and do the job,” Alec answered. “I enjoy it. I wouldn’t want to do anything else.”