The Black Stallion's Ghost

by Walter Farley

  The captain stayed on the bank wherever possible, grasping roots that were anchored in solid ground to pull himself along. Alec followed closely, staring into the darkness and feeling very much alone; he knew his horse never would have traveled such a route as this.

  He saw the glint of moonlight on slime-green water just ahead. It was a backwater rather than a spring—a low point in the swamp, a stagnant pool without current, awaiting the summer rains to bring it back to life.

  The powerful stench from the rotted tangle of grass and plants invaded his senses again. He staggered from the effect of it and from his weariness as well. His footsteps squished in mud and water that had spilled into the slough from the stagnant bayou.

  They moved slowly toward what looked like a solid wall of twisted branches and tree roots fighting the encroachment of the swamp. He followed the captain out of the slough and once more the ground became firm, a deep mat of moss, beneath his feet.

  The captain’s strides quickened as he drove through the heavy growth, hunching over to enter a dense tangle of thickets and vines. Alec lessened the distance between them, his smaller size making it easier for him to move beneath the jungle canopy overhead.

  Upon reaching the high ground of the hammock, the captain came to a stop and turned to Alec. In the bizarre light, his features appeared more Indian than black.

  Alec said, “My horse could not have come this way.”

  “If he did not turn back, we will find him on the other side of the hammock,” the captain answered, his voice but a whisper. “The source of all the other channels begins in a large spring there.”

  Once more the captain was on his way, snaking through the heavy growth. Alec hurried after him until, finally, they reached a clearing, and the hammock’s spine rose above them.

  The captain encircled the base of the hill, which, Alec knew, must be an Indian burial mound. There were no hills in the swamp other than those made by man. This one was over fifty feet high and covered with lank grass and palmetto bushes. Its soil was composed of the bones and skulls of Indian dead and their enemies. The inaccessibility of this hammock had provided the Indians with a secure hideaway from all who sought them. Alec didn’t want to think of what it offered him now.

  Farther on, the captain came to another stop. He caught Alec’s arm and pulled him around roughly. “Not a sound,” he whispered urgently. “Listen.”

  Alec heard a horrible faint sound close by. He turned quickly in the direction from which it had come. A large gray figure passed between him and the silent bushes below. It melted so quickly into the blackness that he couldn’t be sure what it was—or if it had been anything at all.

  He turned to the captain but the man wouldn’t meet his gaze. “What was it?” he asked.

  The captain ignored his question and began running again. Alec followed, telling himself that he had seen nothing that couldn’t be explained. He would not be frightened.

  He slipped to his knees but got up to hurry after the captain through a dense growth of high ferns. The wind was hushed, but he heard the murmur of the great swamp beyond and wondered what, besides themselves, moved within the heavy veils of darkness.

  A sudden cry broke the silence, swelling to the heavens. A shiver ran down his back and his strides slowed immediately. What could it be—a catbird, a night owl, or what?

  Ahead, the captain was running as fast as before. Alec hurried after him. He must hold on to the captain as long as he could; it was better, much better, that he did not travel alone. How much farther did they have to go?

  Finally they reached a deep basin only partially filled with black water. This was the spring, the source of the other channels. The captain said, “He will come here if he has not already turned back. Be still,” he added in warning.

  Alec wondered how long the captain would be able to control his fear of whatever it was he believed threatened them. His gaze was not toward any of the dry sloughs through which the Black might come, but on the dense foliage beside the black pool. Alec would have liked to be able to look inside the captain’s mind, to find out what it was for which he searched.

  For several minutes Alec listened for the sound of the Black’s hoofs. He heard nothing but the soft lapping of water in the pool. Then came a sound unlike any he had heard before. It became more distinct, a soft murmur, almost a whimper that he immediately associated with an injured animal!

  His eyes searched the edge of the swamp from which the sound had come. High in a group of cabbage palms he saw a movement, a gleam of white between the fronds—then, as quickly, it was gone.

  Alec felt fear rise within him. He sought to subdue it by angrily accusing himself of weakness. He would not be led into the captain’s superstitious world of obscure shadows and ominous sounds. He had seen nothing ghostly or unreal but some kind of animal! He allowed his cold anger to come forth in all its fury, hoping to freeze out his fear.

  Finally he turned to the captain and found him staring high into the trees as if whatever had made the cry was still clearly visible to him. Looking into those fearful dark eyes, Alec knew without doubt that the captain believed he faced certain death.

  Suddenly there was a great shaking of the captain’s body, as if he was making an attempt to overcome whatever horror and fear possessed him. Alec put a hand on his arm but the captain brushed it roughtly to one side. Then, quickly, he walked toward the trees, his back straight, like someone who had never known the meaning of fear.

  Alec watched the captain disappear among the cabbage palms and wondered momentarily if the fear he had seen in the man’s eyes was only a reflection of his own. Perhaps, like the captain, he was beginning to exaggerate everything out of proportion to the truth. If he lost control of himself, he would know panic and terror.

  Alec forced himself to wait quietly for the captain’s return. He concentrated on the brilliance of the moon reflected in the black water. He would not let the captain or the overwhelming solitude of the swamp break him down! His gaze turned to a tall oak tree near the grove of cabbage palms. Perhaps if he climbed it he might be able to see his horse approaching the hammock.

  A hunched figure darted from the bushes and staggered toward him. At first Alec didn’t believe it was the captain, for the figure was neither tall nor long-limbed but horribly bent and moving forward feebly, head hanging close to the ground and eyes lowered. Alec shuddered and ran forward.

  “What happened?” But it was almost as if he were talking to a ghost. He attempted to hold up the captain but his great bulk was too much for him and the man slipped to the ground. Alec looked into a face he barely recognized.

  It was gaunt, sallow, and pinched; the dark skin, more gray than black, was drawn tightly about the cheekbones. Instinctively Alec shrank back in horror.

  “What happened to you?”

  The haunted eyes were open and staring. The thick lips moved and the tongue slid from side to side but no words came, only stuttering, stammering sounds.

  Alec held the captain’s head for a long while, waiting for sounds to become words while the mouth kept opening and shutting like a fish’s.

  What had the captain seen or done in a few minutes’ time to cause such great horror?

  Finally the captain’s mouth stopped opening and closing, but the lifeless eyes remained on Alec, never blinking, never leaving him for a second.

  “Can you hear me?” Alec asked the captain as if speaking to a child.

  With great effort, the captain raised the upper part of his body until he was in a seated position; then he began rocking slightly back and forth while his dark, staring eyes remained on Alec.

  “Can you get up?” Alec asked, trying to lift him to his feet. The captain pushed him away and remained where he was, his black hair falling over his face; his rocking continued.

  He would never be able to move him, Alec decided. He had no doubt that the captain believed he had seen Koví. Nothing else could account for such terror and deterioration of his ph
ysical and mental capabilities. The captain was suffering an adventure of horror the like of which Alec could only imagine. He must not try to visualize what it was or he, too, would live in the captain’s nightmare.

  “I must go for help. Do you hear me? Do you understand?” he pleaded.

  Alec waited for a nod of the head, anything that might give him some assurance the captain understood. Instead, the man smiled faintly. Alec fought back the panic that came to him quickly at the sight of that grim smile; it seemed to imply that the captain knew all about where he was going and what would happen to him.

  Alec shuddered and rose to his feet. He must find his horse quickly and then ride for help. It was the only possible, sensible, sane solution to what he faced.

  “Stay here,” he said quietly, “and I’ll be back as soon as I can. It may take a long time, but wait.” He didn’t know if the captain understood him or not; it didn’t matter any more.

  Alec walked quickly past the pool. Somewhere in the darkness he heard a single strident note, followed by a rippling movement in the water. An alligator was there, waiting for him, but he had no intention of wading through the water to reach the slough on the other side. He intended to skirt the pool along the edges, but first he must climb the tall oak tree to see if he could sight his horse.

  As he neared the grove of cabbage palms, he heard a rustling in the fronds. A bird or an animal, he decided. Anything but what I’m thinking. Keep going.

  He went on, keeping to the watery edge of the grove, and placing each foot carefully before him so as not to step on anything that might be lying in wait. The full moon helped him find his way and he glanced at it often, dreading the clouds in its path, which hid its light from time to time.

  Suddenly there was a crackling noise from a nearby clump of palmetto bushes. He froze, waiting in the absolute silence that followed. He saw nothing, and went on, cautiously making his way around trees and mangroves. Once again, a sudden noise startled him and he came to a stop. This time, it was the low piping note he had come to know so well. He felt his heart beat faster.

  Several minutes passed before he heard it again, this time coming from another direction. “It has to be a night bird,” he told himself. “Keep going.” It was repeated several more times before dying in the night.

  He walked very fast, never looking for the source of the sound. For all he knew, his ears were playing tricks on him. But the low note came again, from far behind. He did not turn to look back but kept walking, faster still. The note came closer, rising in intensity until it became a horrible whistle. Still Alec did not look back. He would have liked to believe it was all nonsense, but it wasn’t. His discomfort grew as he continued on his way. His face twitched; he ground his teeth, grimly determined to keep going and not look back. What was real and what was imagined?

  The whistling continued and now seemed to come from all about him. He stopped abruptly and clapped his hands over his ears. His eyes searched the trees. There was nothing, just as he’d expected, nothing at all.

  What then accounted for the noise? It resounded from everywhere, swelling and triumphant, insistent, surging and falling, coming from afar and yet near, as if drawing him, luring him—to what?

  Was this what had terrified the captain? Was it a cry of madness, created in the captain’s mind and now in his own?

  Alec ran forward, pushing the long ghostly veils of Spanish moss out of his way. When he reached the trunk of the tall oak tree, he realized that the night had become hushed again, as if the noise had never been.

  His gaze traveled up the trunk of the tree with its strong boughs laden with Spanish moss. It rose well above the nearby cabbage palms, and from the top he’d be able to see far into the swamp.

  Springing up, he caught hold of the lowest limb and pulled himself to the first crotch of the tree. From there he moved quickly, from limb to limb, higher and higher. He reached the uppermost limbs of the oak tree and had no trouble seeing over the tufted heads of the cabbage palms. The limb swayed beneath his weight, but he had no fear of its breaking. His gaze scanned the sea of saw grass spread before him, and he waited impatiently for the moon to emerge from behind a filmy bank of clouds.

  Finally he was able to make out the rambling courses of the dry sloughs running through the saw grass. His eyes followed each one until they became fixed on a single moving object. He shouted at the top of his voice, his call to the Black filling the night.

  KOVÍ

  13

  The black stallion was nearing the end of the dry slough when he came to a sudden stop. He stood silhouetted in the moonlight, as if turned to stone.

  Alec did not call to him again but started down the tree. He was halfway to the ground when he heard the animal-like whimpering. It came with electrifying suddenness and he froze immediately, his hands clutching the trunk of the tree to keep from falling. He was certain it had come from high in the branches overhead. What animals could climb trees—raccoons, opossums?

  The whimpering echoed faintly at first, then grew in intensity until it shook the area with a pathetic sobbing. There was a primitive timbre to the sound, and Alec realized that no animal could make such a human sound.

  Was it real? Was it imagined? he asked himself once more. Was his mind playing tricks on him again? He stared into the darkness and knew he was becoming dreadfully frightened. He could hear the whimpering whether it was imaginary or not!

  Suddenly it stopped and there was a long silence. Alec made up his mind to get to the ground, to run, hoping to reach his horse and find courage in the Black’s company.

  He slid down the trunk, his feet reaching for a lower limb. Above him in the leafy branches he saw a movement. He clutched the tree, his eyes riveted to a dim figure. Real or not, it stood out in the darkness. It was no animal but an impression of fleeting whiteness … or a beam of light … not strong but misty and with grotesque human features! Then it was gone and the whimpering came again, a new sound, higher than before and more sorrowful, sobbing as if its origin was in the very depths of despair.

  The pathetic sobbing and the figure he had seen in the branches above shocked Alec into panic. Instinctively his hands let go of the trunk and he fell, clutching boughs to slow down his momentum but frantically seeking escape from what he believed was following him and blocking out the sky.

  He struck the ground hard, rolled over, and clambered to his feet. Then he ran into the brush as fast as he could go, without ever once looking behind. All reasoning, all reality had given way before the grotesque form he had seen in the branches. It was a terror he had never known before.

  He plunged through trees and crossed stretches of deep muck and black water, not caring what dangers lay in wait. Nothing could be compared to the horror that was behind him! All else was hidden from his eyes. He wanted only to melt away in the darkness so he could not be found. He plunged into the swamp, not feeling the saw-grass barbs that ripped open his flesh. He believed there was no escape, for he heard the mournful whimpering in every direction he ran.

  The wave of terror that possessed him was never-ending. He did not stop running even though he believed every path led to his destruction. He ran until he thought he could go no farther, but still he kept on going. A frantic dash carried him out of the saw grass into a dry slough. He slipped and fell and didn’t get up. He lay there, waiting for his breath to return and wondering if the horrible whimpering would ever stop.

  Finally he struggled to his feet and began running again. The faster he ran, the more he was pursued by terror. His headlong flight without thought of what lay ahead took him into quicksand, where only his great momentum saved his life by propelling his sprawling body across the sand and water to solid ground. He clutched at roots and stalks of saw grass, pulling himself forward on his belly, writhing like a snake until he was free of the mire.

  He lay still, spent from total exhaustion and fully expecting death to come at any moment. The night was hushed. He struggled to a sitting p
osition and looked back. Nothing had followed him into the swamp. At least, nothing he could see or hear.

  Alec did not know how long he lay there before he got to his feet and staggered down the slough, conscious only of the fact that he must reach his horse. He came to a sharp bend and stopped abruptly. He knew something was close by. He felt the presence, but he started walking again. His face twitched and he ground his teeth in his determination not to give way to terror.

  A glimmering shape passed like a film of vapor over the saw grass to his left and then was gone. He would have liked to believe it was mist but was convinced it wasn’t. His ears were alert for any sound from the Black, but he heard no neigh or thud of hoofs. Then came a soft splash where there was no water, followed by a slight murmur in the saw grass.

  He came to a halt, his eyes searching the night. Unfamiliar, floating fancies began to take shape; he shook his head angrily. He was creating images out of brush and saw grass that were absurd and past all reason! Had he gone so far that there was no escape from the captain’s dark world of the supernatural?

  He heard a single distinct note from a short distance away and a chill ran through him that had nothing to do with temperature or weather. The note was repeated from a dozen different points in the saw grass, as if the night were filled with babbling voices.

  The noise became an endless wail, a horrible, toneless, screeching cry of despair. His head was split with the sound of it, and yet he was unable to move, to run in terror as he had before. It seemed to hold him as if it were a solid mass through which movement was not only impossible but inconceivable.

  The toneless wail wavered and babbled a few feet away from where he stood. It could not be and yet it was, he told himself. This was real and no nightmare. The danger was here and now! He smelled the sweet, sickening odor that had assailed his nostrils during his dream. It was not the stench of the swamp but that of human decay and death!