The Black Stallion's Ghost

by Walter Farley

  There was no humor in the masklike face before him, and Alec knew he had miscalculated when the captain’s dark eyes burned into his own. He should have kept quiet. He believed now that he was coping with a man not completely sane.

  Their gazes held and Alec did his best not to betray his convictions. Finally the captain smiled and the tension was broken. “You have nothing to fear from me, Alec. I make no apologies for my beliefs and I certainly do not want you to forgive me for them. Please do not look at me as if I were a mentally sick person and you must humor me. That is too much, and I would like us to continue being friends.”

  Alec was startled by the ease with which the captain had read his mind and even more by the direct accusation. “I meant no criticism of you or what you believe in,” he said quickly. “One lives according to his own beliefs, not those of others.”

  “Très bien, that is what I hoped you’d say! You are a very tolerant fellow, Alec.”

  Alec wondered where such a conversation was leading and how he’d ever get through the night. He tried to read the captain’s face.

  “It is for that reason I wanted you to stay,” the captain said.

  Alec smiled, surprised at his courage in confrontation with this man. “Because you believe I am a very tolerant fellow?” he asked. “Only that?”

  “Of course, Alec,” the captain said kindly, staring at him fixedly. “You are the kind of person who would not think it a complete waste of time to pursue another’s fantasies even though you did not believe in them yourself.”

  “And that is important to you?” Alec asked.

  “Oui, it is important to me,” the captain repeated. “I have waited a long time to tell someone what I know to be true. But what more I have to say can wait until we have had our dinner. I have talked long enough for now.”

  Alec watched the captain rise from his chair, his tall body moving easily and with perfect coordination. He strode toward the kitchen like a tiger in motion.

  What more did the captain mean to tell him? Alec wondered. His muscles felt tense and he sought to relax them by getting to his feet and walking around the room. He must be ready to move in any direction at a second’s notice. He had no intention of being easy prey to a man who had the stealth and cunning of a jungle animal. He would have to be on guard every moment during the long night to come.

  THE LEGEND

  8

  “I believe in a world that is far from ordinary,” the captain told Alec after dinner, “one that transcends anything yet conceived or even considered by serious and practical people. If I told them what I tell you, they would think me mad.”

  Alec said nothing. All through dinner he had done little but listen to the captain speak of images and symbols that had guided the course of his life. His was more a dark world of mystery and fantasy than one of imagination, pure and simple. The captain might well be a citizen of France, but his Haitian ancestry was the root and essence of all he believed.

  “I have not lived in vain, Alec,” the captain went on, “for I have proof of everything I have told you.”

  “But why tell me?” Alec asked. “I do not believe all this.”

  “Because your coming here is one of the signs,” the captain replied quietly.

  “In what way?”

  “When I saw your horse on Swedish television, I knew I would find him in America. Truthfully, I did not expect our paths to cross in this swamp, but now I realize it could not have been otherwise.”

  “But why my horse?” Alec asked. He knew the answer and was only stalling for time. It had been evident from the moment the captain had set eyes upon the Black that he coveted him for his mare.

  “Your horse is worthy of The Ghost, and I would like her to have a foal,” the captain said.

  “The Black can’t be used now,” Alec said, surprised at the cold defiance in his voice. He saw quick anger come to the man’s eyes and added more warily, “You must understand, Captain. You’re a horseman. I don’t have to tell you what using him now would mean.”

  Alec searched the captain’s face for understanding but found none; there was only a creeping coldness that was more frightening than anger would have been. He knew now why the captain had wanted him to stay. It had nothing to do with companionship; this man had no need for the company of others. It was only his horse the captain wanted.

  The man stared steadily at Alec for a long while. Then he spoke and, surprisingly, his voice was kind. “Of course I understand, Alec. As you say, I am a professional horseman like yourself. We must have patience to get what we want, n’est-ce pas? Later, then?”

  “Yes, later,” Alec repeated. “There’ll be no problem when the racing season is over.” For a moment he felt that he could cope with this man if they continued to talk of horses. He sought to keep to the subject.

  “You will be without an act when she’s with foal,” he said.

  The captain shrugged. “Oui,” he agreed. “But she has worked a long time. She is not young any more. I will use another horse or, perhaps, I will wait until her colt is old enough to train.”

  “It might be a filly,” Alec suggested. “Then you’d have a mare to take her place.”

  “I hope not. A stallion is easier, much easier than a mare to train for the ring.”

  Alec shook his head. “I don’t follow you,” he said. “I can’t see a stallion being as tractable as your mare, especially one with the Black in him. He’d blow up in the ring.”

  “No, Alec,” the captain said. “With a stallion there is just one fight, always at the beginning. When he learns that you are his master, it is over and the rest is easy. With most mares the fight is never over.”

  Alec said, “I suppose it depends on the temperament of the stallion.”

  “Of course, some fight longer than others, but in the end they all become obedient. They quickly learn to avoid punishment, while mares do not.”

  “You can’t punish the Black,” Alec said. “You can ask and even be firm, but if you fight him, he’ll fight back.”

  “That’s part of training, Alec,” the captain said, his eyes suddenly afire. “But you must win. There is no other way. A horse is the slave to man, not his master.”

  Alec dropped his gaze, reminding himself once more that he must not antagonize this man. At times the captain seemed sensible, even friendly, but he was always dangerous. Alec warned himself not to forget it for a moment.

  Suddenly the captain sprang to his feet, lightly, silently, and again Alec was reminded of a jungle cat as he watched him go over to the trunk beside the fireplace.

  “Now I will show you more, Alec,” he called from across the room, “much more.” He removed the thick folder and returned to the table.

  Sitting down again, he pulled out all the papers in the folder and spread them across the table for Alec to see. In addition to the circus prints Alec had seen that afternoon, there were handwritten notes and some legal-looking documents with signs and figures and coats of arms. Most of them were in old-fashioned handwriting, in Spanish and French and still other languages that Alec did not recognize. There were musty drawings of strange, weird creatures, half man, half animal—primitive art of the kind a child might draw. All were very old, for the ink was faded and the papers tissue-thin.

  The captain’s face bore the look of one on a great adventure and his eyes burned with intensity.

  “These records tell of the old race from which I come,” he said. “A few were in my possession before I visited Haiti. It was there I found Odin and he had the others hidden away, given to him by his father and to his father before him, to the beginning of—”

  He checked himself and paused a moment, as if undecided how much to tell Alec. Finally he continued. “The first of these old records was made by my ancestor who was chief guide to the Conquistador Pedro Menéndez de Avilés.

  “It is an account of what happened in Florida and the record was passed on to his son, who, it was said, had powers out of the ordina
ry in Haiti. He was regarded as being very strong and fearless by his people, even worshiped by some. He was half Carib Indian and half African, a most potent mixture of bloods.”

  The captain paused again and his dark eyes had a far-off look, as if some strong feeling stirred within him. Alec detected, too, a quick flash of fear as if he thought he might be betraying a secret and would have to pay the consequences. Nevertheless, after a moment the captain continued.

  “It was he who made his way to this swamp and lived here for many years before returning to Haiti. Most of these drawings were done by him.”

  The captain picked one up, studying it carefully. “He brought back a legend that has been passed on from generation to generation in my family. Even I considered it full of impossible events, but it has remained with me always.”

  Alec was moved by the emotion he saw in the man’s face, and despite his self-warning to be cautious, he knew that the captain’s excitement was being transmitted to him. It was as if the captain had entered a magical world with new and unheard-of joys in the offing. Yet there could also be new and unheard-of dangers! Alec turned away. He wanted no part of the captain’s strange undiscovered world.

  Finally, against his will, he turned back. The captain had gone to the darkened window. On his face was a look of haunted longing for someone or something he desperately wanted to see. Alec was stirred again by emotions he did not understand. He glanced out the window himself, half expecting to see a vision, anything that would account for the strange feeling he had that there was a persistent calling coming from outside. But there was nothing beyond the open window, only the blackness of the night. Not a whisper came from the swamp.

  “The legend is of Koví, believed by my people to be one of the most powerful of all supernatural beings,” the captain said quietly without turning to Alec. “It was said that he swept through the trees like a giant firefly, his belly flashing, with smoke and flame pouring from his mouth and nostrils.”

  “And you believe this?” Alec asked incredulously.

  “I believe what I have been told,” the captain answered. “As I have said, Alec, mine is an old people with old beliefs and mysteries; I would not expect you to believe them.”

  He turned away from the window, his eyes meeting Alec’s. “Nor should you,” he went on, “for they are not of the ordinary.”

  “Then why are you telling me?” Alec asked. The Haitian people were well known for their supernatural beliefs, some as strong today as they were in the time of the captain’s ancestors.

  “I am not sure why I tell you this,” the captain answered. “It is, perhaps, simply that you are here as I am here. It might be for the reason that you, too, are a professional horseman. The signs may have shown you the way here as they did me.”

  Alec dropped his gaze. The captain gave the impression he had embarked on some great and marvelous adventure. Alec had no desire to go along. He tried to decide what best to do. Again he warned himself not to antagonize this man. He must hang on to the lingering belief that the captain, despite his supernatural beliefs, meant him no harm.

  “Do you mean the legend has to do with horses?” Alec asked.

  “Very much so,” the captain answered. “My people looked upon horses as gods returning to earth in animal form. They ran in terror before the mounted Spaniards, believing them to have supernatural powers that enabled them to control the god-horses.

  “However, my great ancestor, the chief guide to de Avilés, knew the horses were animals and, according to his records, wanted a mount of his own. De Avilés promised him a horse if he would betray his people by leading the Spaniards into the swamp where the Caribs were hiding. This he did quickly and with no remorse.

  “During the attack, the Caribs in their terror and need called upon Koví for help. They asked him to destroy those who had gained control over the god-horses. It is written in the records that Koví answered by bringing swift death to the invaders, and upon my great ancestor fell the most dreadful fate of all. Upon him and his family the curse of Koví, a fear and suffering worse than death itself, would forever remain.”

  “That’s primitive nonsense,” Alec said.

  “Perhaps I would think as you do,” the captain answered, “if Odin had not convinced me otherwise. When I arrived in Haiti a month ago, he was dying. I found him on the floor of his hut, his body twisted in agony and his flesh as cold as death. I thought him dead until I opened his eyelids and found him staring at me in mortal terror. He seemed to know who I was, for his twisted body, which I had thought paralyzed, uncoiled with the lithe movement of a snake, and he jumped to his feet.

  “I hardly knew what he was up to when he grabbed the figurine from my hand. As I have told you, I often hold it when I’m under any kind of stress or strain. I attempted to get it back from him, telling him who I was, but he continued to look at me in horror, as if he believed some terrible thing about me. It was then, too, I realized that his twisted body was not unlike that of the figurine.

  “He began to speak in a kind of monotone, never taking his eyes from mine. I barely understood him. It sounded as if he were warning me of something from which there was no escape. There were only a few intelligible phrases that I could make out and ‘the curse of Koví,’ repeated over and over again.

  “As the moments passed, I found that to understand his mutterings really didn’t matter much to me. I had become very dizzy, almost to the point of fainting, which had never happened to me before. It was a shaking experience. Lights seemed to flash from behind my eyes. My ears drummed to the sound of his monotone. I didn’t collapse but I came very close to it.

  “I don’t really know how long it went on. When I recovered my senses I found myself sitting across from him on the dirt floor, my legs folded as were his, and strangely conversing with him as if we had known each other a long time.

  “He seemed to know why I had come to Haiti, more than I understood myself, actually. He knew that I am a professional horseman. How, I do not know, even now. Throughout our conversation, his eyes never lost the expression of looking at me as one marked for death; yet there was compassion in his gaze, too, as if he sincerely wanted to help me—or perhaps it was that he believed we could gain strength from each other.

  “It was shortly thereafter that he dug up a metal canister containing most of the old records and drawings you see on the table. He gave them to me, as if wanting to rid himself of them. Perhaps that was so, for I know now they were responsible for his condition when I found him.

  “I stayed with him, and during the hour that followed, the terror seemed to leave his body. When I asked him how this thing had come about, he told me that the curse of Koví was upon him for having used a horse in the tilling of his land. I laughed at this but was stopped short by his shrill warning that I, being a professional horseman and of the family, would suffer the most horrible death of all if something was not done to help me.

  “When I heard this and looked more closely at the drawing of Koví in my hands, I felt the greatest fear of my life. I wanted to get away immediately—from Odin, from Haiti, from everything my family represented. But I knew I could not run. It was too late for that. I held the ancient records of my family in my hands. I had nowhere to go but to pursue the legend of Koví. This I knew instinctively and without any doubt, as if I had known always that such a time would come.”

  The captain paused and Alec remained silent. The captain’s world was one he never would understand. He could call it “primitive nonsense,” but to the captain it was far more than that.

  “I tell you this, Alec, not expecting you to understand but hoping that it will help satisfy your curiosity as to why I am here with Odin. The curse of Koví is upon us.”

  The captain paused again and no breath seemed to stir within him. “In possessing these ancestral records and drawings,” he went on, “I have become involved in what has gone before and, in effect, am held to be an intrinsic part of it. As Fate would have it, I a
m a horseman not unlike the first of my great ancestors, who betrayed his own people to possess a horse. It is my objective to pursue the legend to the end, to Koví himself, if he exists more than in the minds of men, so that I will be freed from the curse of my ancestors.”

  The captain studied Alec’s face, then picked up the papers from the table. “Do I need to tell you, Alec,” he said, “that according to these records the home of Koví is in this area?”

  “You’re crazy,” Alec said quickly, without thinking.

  Surprisingly, no anger showed in the captain’s face.

  “No, Alec,” he said. “I have all the proof I need. He was seen by my people, and it is written in their records. There is the drawing, too, of what they saw. Would you like to see it?”

  Without waiting for a reply, the captain picked up one of the drawings and handed it to Alec.

  Alec was determined not to recoil at the sight of a weird picture, any more than he had when he saw the grotesque figurine. Each was the work of a superstitious mind, producing what it wanted to see. Yet a feeling of terror swept over him as he looked at the drawing.

  He had expected to see a drawing of a supernatural monster, half man, half animal, anything but the childlike lines that filled the tissue-thin paper. He could make out no central figure. There was just a series of designs, mosaic in composition, depicting eyes and limbs and parts of bodies, some recognizable and others not.

  The very air in the room grew cold. The drawing was obviously the work of a person whose imagination was guided by the subconscious.

  “What do you see?” the captain asked anxiously. When Alec did not reply, he repeated his question.

  It was like looking at a picture puzzle and being asked, “How many objects can you find? What do you see?” Alec thought. Only this puzzle conveyed more than one’s eyes beheld; it transmitted a cumulative force of dread that was almost overpowering. He was seeing it as he was meant to see it, journeying back through time to view the drawing through the eyes and primitive mind of the person who had created it.