The Black Stallion's Ghost

by Walter Farley

  Yet he did not leave the barn immediately with his weapons. For the first time in his life he was deathly afraid of a horse. He stood in the doorway where he could see the stallion whirling his mare around, dominating her, bringing her to her knees until, finally, she stood quietly before him. His heart went out to her but he could do nothing.

  Moments later, when the stallion whinnied and left the mare, the captain stole silently forward, the pitchfork extended. He saw the stallion return to where Alec lay on the ground and for a fleeting second he wondered if the youth was dead. He hadn’t meant to strike him so hard. It was the horror of the moment, at finding his arms pinned from behind while the stallion came at him.

  The Black sniffed the blood on Alec and shied away again. The one person who might have soothed him lay still. Suddenly a new kind of terror possessed him, one of great aloneness he had long forgotten. He drew back, startled and uncertain. A figure loomed in the night and he turned upon it.

  Savagely he attacked but backed off immediately when the steel prongs of the pitchfork pierced his chest and he felt deep, agonizing pain. He sought escape, his natural instincts telling him to run to survive. The sharp prongs of the pitchfork were thrust at him again.

  He whirled and ran, gaining full stride almost immediately. His mane and tail swept in the wind he created, while the lead shank trailed at his side. Fear and pain had awakened within him the memory of another life apart from the one he had lived these past years. His body responded quickly to the challenge of surviving alone by taking him toward the swamp and escape!

  THE GRASSY SEA

  11

  “Alec,” the captain pleaded, kneeling beside the youth, “je vous en prie—” He spoke in French as if English were unknown to him, then, “I beg you—”

  With difficulty Alec opened his eyes and listened to him.

  “—forgive me. I did not mean to hurt you.”

  There was apology and sympathy in the captain’s words but not in his eyes. Alec wiped the blood from his mouth and gathered what strength he had left; then he kicked upward with all his might. He felt the impact as his feet struck the captain in the chest, tumbling him over backwards.

  Breathing hard from his effort, he staggered to his feet and threw himself upon the captain, his hands reaching for the man’s face. Once more he learned quickly that he was no match physically for the captain. He was thrown off and pinned to the ground.

  The blow Alec expected didn’t come. Instead he was pulled firmly but kindly to his feet and made to walk. He was aware of nothing but the sound of the breeze in the palm trees and, a little later, the lapping of water. He shook his head, trying to clear his vision, to see where the captain had taken him.

  They stood at the edge of the swamp, the house behind them.

  “Where is my horse?” he pleaded. “What have you done to him?”

  “He ran off. I could not stop him.” The captain would not meet Alec’s gaze. “I tried but I could not stop him,” he repeated.

  The dark skin was drawn tight across the captain’s face; there was a tenseness that Alec had not seen before. He knew the man had been terrified and badly beaten by the Black. It was no consolation to him now.

  “He went this way?” Alec felt his heart sink as he looked down the vein of black water that laced the saw grass before him. The bank on either side of the channel was dry from drought and drainage. He had no need to wait for the captain’s reply, for in the bright moonlight he could see the plowing of the Black’s hoofs in the muck.

  Alec tried to control the wild pounding of his blood that only increased the throbbing in his head. What kind of frenzy had driven the Black into the vastness of the swamp?

  The captain shrugged his shoulders. “It was his most direct route of—”

  “Escape,” Alec finished bitterly. “What did you do to him after he bred your mare? That was what you wanted, wasn’t it? You planned it from the beginning. You had no intention of waiting.”

  The captain turned away, and there was a moment of absolute quiet between them. Alec realized it would serve no purpose to find out why the Black had sought frenzied escape from the captain. The horrible shock was that he had chosen the swamp as his refuge, and the odds were great that he would not survive the night. There was no sound from the swamp, no sign of life except for a multitude of insects. Yet Alec knew there was an ominous massing of forces between him and his horse. His fear for the Black’s life was not from unknown dangers but from those that were very real. He was not going to lose the Black to alligators, snakes or bogs!

  “Oui, Alec,” the captain said finally. “It is as you say, I could not wait. I regret it now as much as you do.”

  The moon disappeared behind thin, filmy clouds and the swamp became more dark and silent, the tall reeds and bushes looking like shadowy figures in the night. It was as if a dark curtain had been dropped over this strange, terrifying land.

  “It’s too late for regret,” Alec said. “I must find him.”

  “You have no choice but to wait here,” the captain answered. “He will return very soon.”

  “He won’t come back if the swamp claims him first,” Alec said. “I can’t take that chance.” He turned his gaze from the gleam of dark water to the deep hoofprints on the bank. “How far could he go before becoming bogged down?”

  The captain stared blankly at him, hesitated, then said, “He could go a long way, but he won’t. We must wait for him to return. We have no choice.”

  The clouds passed and the full brightness of the moon was upon them again; the swamp emerged in all its grimness, swelling and triumphant before Alec’s eyes.

  “I have a choice,” he said. “If he knows I’m near, he’ll come to me. Will you help me?”

  The deep quiet held them while Alec repeated, “Will you help me find him? It was your doing,” he added accusingly; yet there was no anger in his voice, only a plea for assistance.

  The captain shuddered and said nothing. The dark water washed about the reeds nearby, and in the far distance, Alec heard the strange cry of a bird. It jogged his memory, as if he had heard it before—a faded, shadowy, half-conscious recollection. He dismissed it quickly from his mind.

  “Are you going with me or not?” he asked again. “You said he would not have gone far.”

  The captain seemed to be thinking hard, as if he didn’t know what to do next. Finally he came to a decision and said kindly, “Please, Alec, it was my doing, as you say, but you must wait until morning. If he has not returned by then, I will search for him with you. You must believe me. It is no place to go at night.”

  “It may be too late by morning,” Alec answered quickly. He realized that it was the captain’s superstitious beliefs that kept him from the swamp at night. The story of Koví might have been told to frighten him and keep him in his room, as he suspected, but there was no doubt in Alec’s mind that the captain believed every word of it.

  He moved down the path beside the black water while the captain screamed after him, “Please … I tell you not to go, Alec.… Je vous en prie … you must wait.…”

  Alec neither stopped nor turned. He did not want to meet the captain’s eyes, that begged so desperately for belief. He knew they moved him; he could ignore such things as old drawings and documents, legends and figurines, even voices, but he could not ignore what lay in the captain’s eyes. They nakedly revealed his innermost thoughts. The captain truly believed that to go into the swamp at night meant certain death—not from natural enemies but imaginary ones. He feared the supernatural monster he called Koví.

  Alec walked along the bank, finding the mud firmer beneath his weight than he had thought it would be. With secure footing he would be able to move fast.

  “You will die with your horse!” the captain shouted. “It is your last chance, Alec … your last chance!”

  Alec was shaken by the warning, but he didn’t turn back. He slipped, regained his footing, and hurried on. His one hope was that the Black
had not gone far and that he would find him soon, at any turn of the channel. The severe pain in his head had subsided but his vision was still blurred. It was, he realized, as if he moved forward in a dream, not totally unlike the one he’d had earlier that night. To prove to himself that he was not dreaming this time, he took hold of a saw-grass spear and pressed the sharp barbs into his flesh until blood came. Then he went on.

  His steps became more cautious as he continued along the channel with its thin vein of black water in the middle. He stayed high on the bank, following his horse’s hoofprints.

  He could no longer see the hammock behind him; the saw-grass empire was all around him. He wondered if he’d be able to retrace his steps when the time came to return. One could easily get lost in this wilderness.

  He continued on, slipping down the bank and into the water occasionally but for the most part making good time. He was startled by a metallic sound nearby and came to an abrupt stop. It was only the whisper of the tall grass as the night breeze freshened. He paused to listen to it, so he could fix it in his mind and not be startled by it again. It was necessary that his imagination play no tricks on him in the swamp.

  It was a simple matter to stay on course. He had only to follow the waterway and the Black’s hoofprints. He willed himself to remain calm. He was determined not to let any strange sounds frighten him. Fear that might cause panic was his greatest danger. If he kept calm and faced natural dangers cautiously but unafraid, he would find his horse and return safely with him.

  He estimated that he had gone another mile when the saw-grass wall on his right gave way to form a large cove in which apparently the water had receded months ago. The crusted mud beneath his feet was baked hard by daily exposure to a relentless sun.

  The cove was all of fifty yards deep and Alec searched everywhere for prints left by his horse. He found nothing. He had lost the Black’s trail!

  The saw grass standing around the cove was dead, the life-giving water having been drained from its roots long ago. Running into the cove were many dry, narrow channels and Alec realized his horse could have taken any one of them. He had a sickening moment in which he accepted defeat; without a trail to follow, he had reached the end of his search. Then, quickly, he shook off his anguish and went to each of the channels, seeking prints or broken stalks that might show him the way.

  Again he found nothing. He began whistling and shouting, calling to his horse. When, finally, his calls ended, no answering neigh came from the swamp.

  He decided to stay where he was and call to his horse time and time again. He should not go down any of the dry waterways unless it was the right one; otherwise he might find himself in a maze with no hope of finding the Black or getting out himself. He must rest and conserve his energy for the time being. If the Black answered, he would hear him.

  For several moments the night was deathly still; then he heard the lapping of water against the stalks of saw grass. It was louder than the breeze could have caused. An alligator? He concentrated on the dark water of the main channel, watching for the slightest ripple.

  He saw a figure emerge from the channel, feet slipping as it climbed the bank. Then a black silhouette stood between him and the moon.

  Once over the shock at seeing the captain, Alec called, “Over here!”

  He wondered what had caused the man to change his mind and follow. The air was as still as in a dream, and for a fleeting second Alec felt apprehension rise within him. Might not the greatest danger of all be from the captain himself, with his supernatural beliefs that could panic both of them?

  He cast aside his doubts as the black figure strode up to him. The captain could help him find his horse, for he knew the swamp.

  There was no emotion in the captain’s eyes. He simply stared at Alec. His face was no longer strong but pinched and haggard, as old as time. He might have control of his body, Alec decided, but he had by no means conquered his fears. It was as if once his decision had been made to enter the swamp, he had plunged recklessly to his own doom. His eyes were touched with death, those of a man observing his own funeral.

  Alec felt a chill sweep over him. “I can’t find his trail anywhere,” he said, hoping to penetrate to the mind of the professional horseman behind that fearful stare. “Do you know which way he might have gone?”

  The captain smiled faintly, as if he found something humorous in Alec’s words. Finally he answered, “All the channels lead to the same place.”

  Alec found it even more difficult to cope with the captain’s smile. He made an attempt to bring order and sanity into his search for the Black.

  “To where?”

  “To the home of Koví,” the captain replied. Despite his smile, Alec knew the captain was terrified almost to the point of immobility.

  Alec moved off toward the nearest dry waterway, but stopped when he heard the captain screaming at him, “No, no … la route vite!” Then it was repeated over and over again. “La route vite!”

  Alec had sufficient knowledge of French to understand, and he turned back. But where was the short route?

  The captain headed for a waterway on the far edge of the cove, and Alec followed him without a word. It was the last channel he would have selected had he been alone. Despite the captain’s terror, Alec decided he would be able to use his knowledge of the swamp. He hurried along, believing he could cope with what had to be done.

  The stench of rotting vegetation assailed his nostrils as he followed the captain deeper into the yellow dried-out saw grass. He tried not to breathe it in. Then, from afar, he heard the strange cry from the bird he had heard before. He listened to it and it seemed to be coming closer! He glanced up at the night sky but saw no sign of the bird, only heard its never-ending cry. Then with electrifying suddenness it seemed to be directly overhead.

  He stopped, his feet frozen in place. The captain had halted too, and Alec looked questioningly at him. But the man was of no help. He seemed to have turned to stone while staring into the sky overhead.

  The cry never ceased and the night was filled with its echoes and re-echoes, as if the intention of the bird was to awaken all the inhabitants of the swamp. Alec felt the first wave of terror sweep over him. He knew he was on the verge of panic and sought desperately to control it.

  The source of the cry was a night bird, he told himself, nothing else. It was a bird he could not name but a bird nevertheless. It was nothing to be alarmed about. He would not be subject to superstitious terror, like the captain. Yet as he continued listening to the cries which were so much like the haunting, piping flute notes of the captain’s music, his stomach turned over in mounting panic. What possessed him? What was real? What was imagined?

  Finally the cry ended as suddenly as it had begun. They stood dazedly in the great silence of the swamp. Alec turned to the captain. The man’s eyes were closed. Alec continued watching him, hoping for a rational explanation of the strange frightening cry. But he realized he would get no answer from the captain. The cry had paralyzed the man with fear. He was whimpering like an animal. Alec waited quietly for a long while for his terror to subside.

  When, finally, the captain moved, Alec expected him to go back the way they had come. Instead, he began running up the dry waterway, leaving Alec behind!

  Alec stumbled as he followed, and fell into the saw grass. He felt the lash of the sharp-bladed stalks and cried out in pain; quickly he regained his feet and set out to catch up to the dark figure running up the slough.

  The night remained quiet but Alec no longer felt that he and the captain were alone. On either side of the waterway there seemed to be a gathering of grotesque and fantastic shapes. “Only bushes and grass!” he told himself. “Keep your mind on what has to be done!” But strange omens persisted in his mind; he ran faster, hoping to rid himself of them.

  The bank became steep and he saw the first gleam of dark water in the center of the channel. They must be nearing a spring or the hammock itself! He followed the captain down
the bank, wading through the water to the other side. He watched where he stepped and looked for any ripples in the water that would warn him of alligators and snakes.

  Turning a dogleg in the slough, he followed the captain through the shallows again, pulling his feet free of the muck as he climbed the bank. On top, immense tongues of saw grass rose above his head. It would be easy to lose all sense of direction here and he wondered if he’d ever be able to find his way out. He pushed on.

  The muck beneath his feet became powder-dry and he made good time. Yet he could not catch up to the captain, who was running all-out ahead of him. Soon, Alec knew, the channel must come to an end and the hammock would rise above the screen of saw grass. As forbidding as it might be, he would welcome it. He ran faster to catch up to the captain.

  The slough widened with dramatic suddenness. At the end of it, the hammock rose majestically from the grassy sea. A wall of palm trees and live oaks stood at the water’s edge, but above and behind the trees Alec saw the grim outline of the hammock’s spine thrust up against the moonlit sky.

  The captain came to a halt and looked back for the first time, as if to find out if Alec was still there. His dark eyes shone in the night, and he waved his arms crazily, pointing toward the hammock. He screamed a torrent of words—French or Haitian or a language Alec could not understand. It made no difference.

  Alec knew the meaning of the words. The captain was telling him that they had reached the home of Koví.

  THE HOME OF KOVÍ

  12

  The ground became spongy beneath Alec’s feet as he followed the captain into a long wallow. He heard the cough of a bull alligator somewhere in the dark but he knew his greatest danger was stepping into a sinkhole. One false step and, without the captain’s help, he’d be sucked deep into the black embrace of the viscous mud.