To Ride the Gods’ Own Stallion (10 page)

Soulai stared at the fierce blue creature lying on the pouch. “The uridimmu,” he asked, “it travels by night?”

Habasle climbed to his feet, suddenly impatient. “I don't know and I don't care. Don't waste your time whining about something you can't control. Now which do you desire?”

Soulai's indignation returned. He stood as well. “What does it matter which I desire? I'm only a slave.”

For a moment Habasle looked directly at him. It was a look colored by pity. “And you will always be a slave,” he said quietly. “Even when your debt is repaid, you'll still be a slave because you think like a slave.” He shaded his eyes and glanced at the sky. “We'll move on until high sun, then rest until nightfall. Fasten the rug on Ti.”

River's Edge

Soulai's stomach growled louder. His feet burned from the hot grit stuck between his toes and from his sandals' chafing straps. But he kept plodding.

The sun was beating straight down on their heads now. Its heat radiated off the stone-strewn road; its light glistened through the long string of saliva dangling from Annakum's black lips. The dog's curling pink tongue fluttered like a heavy-winged butterfly.

Soulai was walking behind and a little to one side of Ti, resting his hand on the sweat-streaked rump. The silvery tail, dulled with dust, switched fitfully. Although the long hairs stung Soulai's shoulders and arms, they provided some relief from the bothersome black gnats that dove at his face, tangling themselves in his eyelashes. Swatting them away for the hundredth time, Soulai shaded his eyes and looked to the road ahead. It shimmered with heat, no end in sight.

Habasle pulled on the reins at that moment and the progression halted. He, too, shaded his eyes and scanned the land, not ahead, but east. Soulai followed his gaze. It took a moment to find the faint trail that sloped away from the road and toward a winding growth of dusty grasses and low trees. Annakum took the opportunity to flop down in the scant shadow of a wormwood bush. His entire body shook with his rapid panting.

Habasle looked down at the dog, then at Soulai. His hand still guarded the lumpy bandage beneath his blood-stained tunic, and he hunched upon Ti's back, blinking, as if trying to steady his thoughts. If he had any, they weren't shared. Abruptly he pulled the reins to the side. Ti stumbled, then dropped his nose to the ground and, blowing little puffs of dust as he went, cautiously began picking his way downhill.

Against a white sky, the two vultures continued gliding in long, looping circles. Why were they so certain death was near? Soulai thought irritably. Heaving a tired sigh, he started down as well. Annakum shook his head violently, climbed to his feet, and followed.

Soulai watched the ground closely, for the path, if you could even call it that, was pitted with exposed rock and creased with fissures. Half a dozen times he slipped on loose pebbles and almost fell.

Before long, brittle-limbed bushes began blocking their way, some taller than Soulai. Even Ti had to stop and start, sometimes doubling back to find a passage. The slight, hot breeze that had seemed an aggravation on the main road evaporated amid the increasingly dense scrub. Sweat streamed down Soulai's back.

Scurrying and fluttering and slithering noises increased as the brush thickened. Soulai was mindful that they weren't the only creatures present, and, with thoughts of the uridimmu consuming him, he flinched. Colorful flocks of darters and bee-eaters waited until the last moment to burst skyward. Red-bellied locusts launched their leathery bodies at his face. At one point, he halted and held his breath as some unseen animal passed nearby. He exhaled with relief when he spotted Annakum weaving his way through the undergrowth. His uneasiness returned, though, when he noticed something unusual in the mastiff's gait. The dog seemed disjointed; he was stumbling over the uneven ground like a drunken man.

Soulai was watching Annakum so intently that a loud grunt dangerously close to his other side caught him by surprise. He spun around in time to get a glimpse of a large, hairy animal pushing its way through the scrub. A boar? Or the uridimmu? He hurried to catch up with Ti.

The stallion moved along more quickly now and Soulai knew why: The cool scent of moisture ahead teased his own nostrils. His dusty throat yearned for a swallow of water, his swollen feet for a soak in a stream. The grasses beneath them turned a brighter green and ceased springing back. Swarms of insects attacked his ankles as a stumpy black and yellow snake glided to cover, leaving a smooth depression in its wake. Hoofprints and footprints began filling with water.

Finally, with the lifting of a palm frond, he could see the river stretched before them, sunlight glinting off its smooth surface. A pair of leggy white egrets waded along the opposite shore. Soulai immediately squatted in the mud and cupped water to his mouth. Ti waded in to his knees, lowered his head and noisily sucked and swallowed, his eyes closed with the sheer pleasure of it. Habasle lifted a leg over the withers and dropped with a small splash. Steadying himself against the horse's shoulder, he gingerly bent and scooped a little water to his mouth. With careful motions he splashed some along his forehead and neck, too.

He stood looking upriver then, and Soulai, turning his head, saw that Annakum, up to his belly in the water, was still panting heavily, but not drinking. The dog seemed confused. Soulai cast a worried look at Habasle, but he, too, wore a blank stare.

Without a word, Habasle turned and laid his hands on Ti's back. He made a little leap to remount, but, apparently, he couldn't summon the strength, for a flick of his wrist summoned Soulai. Although there was no one watching, Soulai flushed with humiliation as he bent his back and Habasle stepped up onto it, then swung his leg over Ti. Habasle gathered the reins and thumped his heels.

Fear grabbed Soulai. Habasle was going to cross the river! And he was taking Ti with him! The opposite shore was only an arrow's flight away, but between the banks stretched a rippling green skin that certainly hid a host of watery monsters.

He wanted to protest and lunge for the reins. But, at Habasle's insistence, the stallion was arching his golden neck and stepping hesitantly deeper and deeper into the river. The thick tail was soon taken up by the current and it floated on the surface like an elegantly fringed veil. Ti's next step apparently found no bottom, for he plunged into the water. The river's force gathered around his body, angling him and his rider downstream.

Soulai's heart pounded so fast he grew dizzy. They were leaving him. How could he follow? He couldn't swim. The current tugged at his calves, taunting him.

He stepped backward, panicking a moment when his sandal got stuck in the mud. He vividly recalled the chiseled stone panel outside the royal library, the one showing people drowning in a river to avoid capture. That's what would happen to him if he dared take even one more step. The waters would grab him and suck him under, squeeze the life from him. Great fishes would nibble at his fingers with their slimy lips. He'd seen it.

Habasle looked over his shoulder and whistled. “Annakum,” he called. “Here!”

The mastiff stood still, with his head lolled to one side and two long strings of saliva drooping from his mouth, ignoring his master's summons. Habasle called again; his whistle sounded sharper. The dog pricked his ears but didn't move.

Angered, Habasle yanked Ti's head around and rode the horse the short way back. The current landed them downriver. They came splashing through the shallows, Ti nodding his head and chewing upon the bit as if this were but a game. Annakum jumped aside.

“Annakum, here!” The words pierced the air with authority. Obediently the mastiff rose, waded a few paces, and began swimming the river. The waters pulled him south.

“Do I have to whistle for you, too?” Habasle was reining Ti toward the river.

Soulai fidgeted. “I can't swim.”

“Then drown.” Heels thudded and Ti stepped off into the current.

Soulai watched them go a second time. His shoulders rose and fell with his rapid breathing. Just let him go, he thought. Let him go. He's sick, wounded—let him die alone. I hope he dies alone. A thought popped into his mind: Then I'll be free! His mind raced. If Habasle died out here in the wilderness, he could take Ti and find his way home, couldn't he?

His stomach doubled upon itself. The fleeting thought of freedom was smothered by fear. He had no idea where he was or how he could possibly survive alone. Maybe the vultures did know the future.

As he watched Ti's gold-and-white head bobbing above the cloudy water, he opened his mouth to beg Habasle to come back. But before there was any sound, the stallion began turning. Ears flattened in annoyance this time, Ti pumped a smooth arc and headed for Soulai.

When his hooves found bottom, the tired horse lugged his dripping body and rider from the water once more. Soulai stared up at the silhouetted pair. Rising as they had from the river's murky underworld, Habasle and Ti appeared regal and godlike.

Between labored breaths Habasle muttered, “I'm not crossing again, so if you're coming, climb on now.”

“On Ti?”

“No, on my back. By Ishtar, you're stupid.” He sucked in his breath as if a sharp pain had grabbed him. After a moment he slowly let it out. “You helped last night,” he said curtly. “I'm helping you now. Climb on.”

Soulai threw his arm across Ti's slippery rump and jumped. His chest bumped against the horse's flanks and he slid to the ground. He tried again, grasping the wet rug and jumping higher, but Ti was growing fretful and beginning to prance. A sharp hoof landed on Soulai's toes.

He refused to cry out, for he saw Habasle's scornful expression. A hand was thrust toward him. He gripped it, hopped twice, and leaped as high as he could. Habasle groaned but held steady, and Soulai swung his leg over Ti. The hide was slick; there wasn't much to grab on to. He sat deep, centering his weight over his hips and trying to balance with Ti's ambling gait, for the horse was already heading toward the water.

Across the river Soulai could see Annakum crawling onto the bank. The dog shook off a great halo of spray, then threw himself into a stand of tall grasses, flattening them as he rubbed his coat dry. Soulai hoped he'd live to feel grasses beneath his feet again.

Already the water was lapping at his toes and calves. As it climbed past his knees, he stiffened. He lifted his chin higher, becoming acutely aware of his own breathing. Then Ti stepped into nothingness. Soulai gasped. The horse sank lower; he couldn't hold them both! They were drowning! Cold water rushed between his knees and the warm hide, and he felt his seat lifting from Ti's back. He threw his arms around Habasle's waist and clamped his chin onto his shoulder.

“Ow! Get off me!” Habasle jabbed an elbow backward, but Soulai's grip was frozen. With his free hand, Habasle tugged at one of Soulai's wrists. Strong fingers managed to work it free. Another sharp elbow and Soulai was falling sideways, clawing at Habasle's tunic. Then Soulai tumbled into the river.

The green water closed over his mouth, his nose, his eyes—a suffocating blanket. He gulped a great swallow of muddy water. Flailing, coughing, choking, Soulai reached out blindly. Each tantalizing contact—a flank, Habasle's heel, a hock—slipped from his fingers. Ti was pulling forward, Soulai realized, forward and away, and he was sinking down, drowned and forgotten. As if from a great distance, Soulai watched himself struggle.

Somehow the strands of Ti's long tail drifted between his fingers. They felt as solid as a rope, and he clutched them desperately. Immediately the sinking stopped and Soulai felt himself being towed forward. He twisted, kicking against the water until his face broke through—one quick gasp of air—then sank again below the surface.

Ti's pumping hock caught him in the belly, but Soulai refused to loosen his grip. The horse's stroke grew panicky, but Soulai hung on, gritting his teeth through the pummeling, gasping for air when he could.

At last his toes were dragging through coarse sand. He let go of Ti's tail, managed to bring his feet underneath him, and stood. Clutching his stomach, he coughed uncontrollably. A giant shivering seized him as he fell to his knees. The coughing turned to retching. Smelly water, colored with mud, pushed past his tongue. Out it spilled, from his mouth and his nostrils. He crawled farther up the bank and collapsed face forward.

Behind him he heard Ti's labored breathing. It compressed into a brief grunt as the horse shook himself off, pelting Soulai's back with more water. Then the clanking sound of the iron bit mixed with those of ripping grass and the monotonous twitter of birds. The hot sand warmed Soulai's thighs and arms; it felt good. The sun was blotting dry his skin, the breeze sifting through his hair. He'd live.

Footsteps approached. Soulai opened his eyes to a blurry view of Habasle's feet. Dried figs plopped one after the other onto the sand in front of his nose. Then the feet disappeared.

Beggars and Dreamers

For the third time since they'd left the river, Habasle counted on his fingers and looked over his shoulder. Soulai had turned twice, cringing, expecting to see the uridimmu—in whatever horrible form it took—stalking them. But land and sky, and a sun sinking behind frayed pink clouds, were all he saw. So this time he bent his head and continued trudging up the long, grassy slope. He was exhausted and, to tell the truth, empty of caring. All he wanted was to collapse somewhere and sleep.

As the sun touched the horizon, a quickening wind began flinging dirt and bits of leaves at them. It grew stronger and stronger until both boys had to shield their faces. Ti bent his head into his chest and pushed on. Annakum was nowhere to be seen.

Dur Sharrukin's walls finally loomed ahead and Soulai risked a glance between splayed fingers. The city stretched only half as wide as Nineveh, though a spectacular temple rose from its midst, spiraling in brilliant enameled tiers toward the heavens. The outer walls bristled with nearly half a hundred square towers, their broad stone faces reflecting the orange sun like warriors' shields. He couldn't say exactly what it was, but he sensed there was something odd about this city.

Huge stone slabs began to crop up among the wind-whipped grasses, and first Ti, then Soulai, tripped. Other slabs joined these to form an unkempt roadway to Dur Sharrukin's main gate, but when their footfalls on the stones brought no sentry's call, Soulai's suspicions deepened.

The two great wooden doors at the main gate rotted on their posts. The one on the left, in fact, had partially pulled away and was hanging at such a precarious angle that Soulai was careful not to touch it as he peeked through the gap. “The whole city's empty,” he said in amazement. “There's no one here.”

“Except the ghosts of the dead,” Habasle responded.

Soulai turned. “What?”

“Three kings and eighty years have passed since Sargon the Second built here. He died in battle before sleeping in his own palace—a bad omen. Thus, it's been abandoned.” Habasle slid off Ti, obviously in great pain, for he held his side and sagged against the stallion. “I discovered it last year. And if you fancy your limbs, I'd move away from that left door.”

Soulai sprang aside. Flushing, he searched his owner's queer smile for a prank. Habasle snickered in an unnerving manner. “Naramsin, my servant at that time, uses his remaining arm to stir a pot in the kitchens. Try your luck at the other door.”

By then Soulai would have settled for sleeping beneath the blackening winds, but he knew better than to ignore Habasle's command. Holding his breath, he crept toward the right door and cautiously tested his shoulder against it. A menacing creak rasped the air and he closed his eyes and waited, but nothing fell. He pushed again, and gradually, amid more nerve-wracking creaks and scrapes, the door opened. Habasle shoved his way inside. Soulai coaxed Ti through the narrow entry and was almost trampled when the horse's hip got caught against the door and another loud creak shot him forward in a frightened leap. Somehow the door stayed in place.

“I want Annakum in here, too.”

Reluctantly Soulai ducked back outside and scanned the dusky flatland. There was no sign of the mastiff. A section of grasses shivered with the passage of the wind. Or possibly a jackal. Or…Soulai shook away images of the uridimmu. He slipped through the entry again.

Habasle was settling himself inside the gatehouse, a narrow, high-roofed building with two small rooms and stairs that climbed to a row of lookout windows. Glazed tiles in red and white and black formed a decorative band around the first room.

“I don't see Annakum,” Soulai began hesitantly. “But I think something's wrong with him. I think he's…gone mad or something.”

“He's not gone mad,” Habasle snapped. “He's no doubt decided to keep guard outside the walls tonight. Close the gate, then, and keep Ti close.” The braided hobbles hit Soulai in the back as he headed out of the gatehouse. “And don't bother with a fire; I'm burning already.”

Soulai carefully shoved the gate to the city closed again and walked to where Ti was hungrily tearing at the dead grasses poking from a dirty trough. His back was hunched against the wind, his tail tucked between his legs. Sand had crusted the lashes around his eyes. Sheltering the stallion's face as best he could, he guided him to a protected corner beside the gatehouse. As he bent to knot the hobbles around Ti's ankles, he wondered why they were needed here within the city's walls. Unless the walls had holes. It had been eighty years. Suddenly he wished for a fire, a big, crackling one. Wild animals wouldn't approach a fire, would they? Not even mad dogs or lions.

When he had removed the rug and bridle and rubbed the sweaty spots smooth, Soulai searched through the darkness for suitable forage. His heart thumped with every step. In a crack beside a wall he found a scrawny sapling and wrenched it from its hold. He carried it back to Ti, who eagerly began ripping the small leaves from the branches. It wasn't nearly enough for the exhausted horse, and Soulai frowned with worry as he patted Ti on the neck and left him for the night.

A dusty haze hid all but the brightest stars now, and a queer burnt smell filled the air. Jackals set up a howling chorus right outside the walls, making Soulai hurry into the gatehouse.

Habasle was already asleep in the center of the first room, one arm bent under his head, the other wrapped around a pouch held close to his stomach. The way he'd drawn up his knees reminded Soulai of how his younger sisters slept.

At least there'd be some peace, he thought, as he made his way to the near corner and sank to the floor. Never in his life had he been so tired. The musty green flavor of the river water rose to his throat and he fought back the urge to vomit again. Wearily he unfastened his sandals and poked at the liquid-filled blisters on his soles. While the air had cooled, a warmth still radiated from the clay tiles, and it soothed his aching legs.

He was sitting there in the dark when a hideous camel spider as big as his hand darted past his feet. The hairy creature raced across the floor and right up and over Habasle's arm to seize a scorpion that had been investigating the pouch. It disappeared just as quickly with its prey.

Soulai's empty stomach growled. Everyone was eating but him, and he began to wonder if there were more figs in Habasle's pouch. He risked the loss of a hand if he was caught. Of course, he might be at risk just looking at the pouch. With his master in such a fevered state, who knew what could happen? He hugged his knees and stared at Habasle. He looked so helpless right now. An unexpected feeling of power grew inside Soulai, such that another rumble from his stomach moved him to action.

As silently as the moonlight drifting across the gatehouse steps, he rose, paused, then tiptoed around Habasle. Holding his breath, he knelt. Slowly he reached out. His stomach gurgled in anticipation. Habasle's breathing changed and Soulai froze. At last he pinched the lip of the pouch and, exhaling, slid it free.

Habasle's eyes shot open. “No! No! No!” he yelled.

His flailing arms knocked the pouch to the floor. “Damn you to Nergal, no!”

Soulai scrambled backward.

A dagger cut the air, jabbing blindly. “I've been waiting, you son of a jackal. You'll never have Ti. Get away!” The black eyes glared but didn't focus, though the knife kept slashing the air. “Fish-headed monster!” Habasle growled. “Red-robed demon!”

The ashipu! Soulai realized, trembling all over. Habasle thought that he was the ashipu, come to kill him.

“It's just me,” he blurted in defense, “Soulai. It's me, Soulai.”

Habasle blinked. The knife hand fell limp. He shook his head and stared dumbly around the room. Suddenly his eyes closed and he collapsed. Only the rapid rising and falling of his shoulders showed that he was alive. He shivered. “By Ishtar, I'm cold,” he mumbled. “Build me a fire.”

Still trembling, Soulai ran from the gatehouse and found the branches from the tree that Ti had stripped of leaves. He returned, snapped the twigs into pieces, and piled them in front of Habasle. He waited, then carefully reached for the larger pouch, the one he knew contained a flint. Habasle just lay there, glassy-eyed and moaning slightly.

Between Soulai's cupped hands, the spark caught and quickly ignited the kindling. He remembered another dead tree, a larger one, and ventured into the night to break off its lower branches and add them to the fire. Soon the light from the blaze was flickering up the four walls of the room. It illuminated bas-relief carvings that showed two men joined in a series of battles against monstrous creatures.

“I thought you were the ashipu.” Habasle's voice came low and solemn, almost an apology.

“I know,” was all Soulai could bring himself to say.

“He's trying to kill me.”

I know that, too, Soulai thought. But out loud he said, “Why don't you tell your father? He's a king; can't he do something?”

Muffled laughter came from the other side of the fire. It stopped and started, climbed and fell, like the senseless chatter of a nervous monkey until Soulai demanded, “What?”

Habasle pointed out the arched doorway at the clearing sky. “See those stars?
They
tell my father who he may see and when. And if he isn't sure, the ashipu tells him.” Habasle stopped laughing. In an entirely different voice he said, “In my whole life, I've seen my father only once.”

He rested his head on his arm, stared at the fire, and remained quiet. After a while his eyes closed. As time passed, his moaning grew louder, and Soulai could tell that the fever had taken hold again. Habasle mumbled nonsensical words. “Into the darkness,” Soulai heard. “All day…darkness, white robe…figs, no meat…emmer, no meat…” The words fragmented until Habasle was only tossing his head back and forth and moving his lips in whispers.

Soulai felt a twinge of pity. Habasle's words were tortured by a sickness, to be sure, but at their core was a loneliness much like his own. He, too, had been abandoned by his father. Memories flooded over him: days spent gathering pistachios with his mother, laughing with his younger sisters, secretly sharing his latest clay sculpture with Soulassa. Tears blurred his eyes and he dug his chin into his knees.

In his mind he also saw the lion and the dead goats. And the burned remains of the hut.
Better that you'd never been born
, came the words.

But I'm stronger now, he argued with himself. In two months I've barely touched any clay. I have scars! The disapproving face of his father appeared in Soulai's mind. He wasn't a man yet, it seemed to say. Not yet.

Soulai stared through the doorway at the black sky. A gust of wind sprayed sand against his cheek. His stomach still hurt, but from a different sort of emptiness. Eventually he resigned himself to a miserable night and stretched out on the floor. Just as sleep began to pull over him, Habasle spoke again, this time clearly.

“Damn this worm! It's eating right through me. My other pouch.” He held up his hand, and Soulai, fumbling to waken, got up to hand the pouch the short distance. Habasle reached in and pulled out a small clay tablet, much like the ones Soulai had seen in the royal library. He rolled onto his back then, with a pained grunting, and laid it atop his chest. Soulai returned to his corner and silently watched Habasle's strange doings.

“He may control King Ashurbanipal, but he won't hold the reins of King Habasle,” he muttered. “The great gods who dwell in heaven and on earth have granted me their favor. Like real fathers, they have raised me. I hear their murmurings in my ear. I read their signs in the sky. I have Ninurta's blessing in Ti and I have this tablet. And now only I will say when the moon disappears.” Habasle chuckled. “I'll show him.” He chuckled again. “I'll show everyone.”

Soulai could make no sense of his owner's boastful words. It was the fever talking, he decided, so he stretched out again and closed his eyes. But he was still awake when the command came.

“Tell me a story.”

The words surprised Soulai. When a snicker followed, however, he doubted their urgency. He waited, listening for the steady breathing that would show that Habasle slept.

“Wake up! Wake up, you good-for-nothing wretch.” A palm was slapping the tile floor. Soulai bolted upright. His pity vanished when he saw Habasle's arrogant grin. “I want a story. Now.”

With his anger mounting, Soulai sorted through the tales he knew. He tried to reach back to his mountain home, to the times when the storyteller in his uncle's village—

“Just choose one!” Habasle ordered.

“It's from my village,” Soulai blurted, scrambling to piece together the story he'd been hearing on the night of the fire. It was an oft-told favorite about a certain lazy fool who spoke vainly and acted stupidly. A malicious sense of mischief overtook him. The story would be perfect. He shivered with the danger of telling it, but, as Habasle was feverish, would he even understand? He cleared his throat and began.

“In a mountain village near ours lived a man who never lifted his hand to any sort of work. He had no family to feed him, and yet he didn't starve. This was because he had convinced the others in his village that he was going to be wealthy some day and that if they would only feed him now, he would feed them all in the future. So, although they had their doubts, the people came to this man every day and gave him some bread, some eggs, and a cup of oil. And every day—”

“No meat?” Habasle interrupted.

“No meat,” Soulai replied. “But every day this man—”

“Seems they could have given him a little meat now and then,” Habasle argued.

“They didn't give him any meat.”

“Not even a thimbleful of ox tongue?”

“No ox tongue, no meat. They gave him bread, eggs, and oil. Do you want to hear the story?”