The Young Black Stallion (11 page)

Desperation and the will to survive lent new strength to Rashid’s muscles. He squeezed his legs as tightly as he could around the stallion’s girth but was barely able to hang on. The giant horse bolted across the plain as if shot from a cannon. Rashid bounced up and down, grabbing handfuls of mane to pull himself back into his seat. Bending forward, he locked his arms in a death grip around the stallion’s neck.

He did not see the band of riders join in pursuit nor hear the thunder of their mounts’ pounding hooves. He knew only the roar of the wind in his face and the contoured flesh of Shêtân’s powerful fore-quarters beneath him, stretching farther and farther with each tremendous stride.

The world passed by in a blur. Ground blended with sky. There was nothing he could do to slow the stallion’s charge. Across the open plain they bounded, careening between boulders and jumping over rocks. In Rashid’s ears the booming of his heart mixed with
the drumming of Shêtân’s hooves. Tears came to his eyes as the wind cut into them like a knife. Shêtân’s black mane enveloped him and stung his face. Only the surge of the stallion’s muscles beneath him reminded him that he was still tied to the earth. But for that Rashid felt he could break free of the world and lift off into the sky.

The band of riders followed in pursuit like a pride of hungry lions trying to run down its prey. Shrill war cries spurred the horses on and quickened the pace of the chase. This was Abu Ishak’s game, the one he played best. His men whipped their mounts, pressing them to greater and greater speeds as they swept across the plain, but the young black stallion continued to widen the gap between himself and the other horses. Shêtân skimmed over the ground on long, slender legs, half on the earth, half in the air. He inhaled great lungfuls of air, fueling the fire that powered his driving hooves.

Soon Abu Ishak saw that he would have to change his strategy if he wished to outrace Shêtân He signaled for his men to break up into different groups. They flanked off to the sides and managed to steer the young black stallion away from the open plain and toward a high ridge that seemed to rise up out of nowhere. Shêtân ran toward the base of the sheer wall and made for a spot where a gully had been washed in the cliff face by some bygone rain. The unstoppable stallion raced on. Rashid clung to his neck, never wanting to let go, trusting the stallion to determine their fate. His eyes were shut tight, so he was caught unprepared as Shêtân sprang forward and began scrambling up the cliff face.
Rashid slipped off the stallion’s back and tumbled to the ground.

The stallion continued climbing upward, pressing himself hard against the mountainside. He leaned forward to maintain the fragile balance that kept him upright. If he faltered in his ascent for a moment he would pause and then, finding firmer ground, push ahead once again. When Abu Ishak and his men reached the base of the cliff, they watched as Shêtân climbed higher and higher up the impossibly steep incline. The men uttered cries of disbelief as the stallion scaled the ridge wall. His hooves slipped again, but this time he could not regain his footing. Body heaving, hocks trembling, the force of gravity finally overwhelmed him. The stallion shrilled loudly and slid down the cliff face in a shower of loose stones and earth that rained upon those who waited below.

Before the stunned Shêtân could recover from his fall, the horsemen backed him up against the cliff wall, breaking into a cacophony of whooping, whistling and clapping. He could not avoid their ropes. One length of rope, then another, looped around his proud head and pulled tight around his long, arching neck. Three handlers dismounted and tried to gain control over the wild black stallion. The rest of the horsemen formed a wide circle around them. Not a face could be seen, only the glint of dark eyes peering out from their
kufiyyas
as they straddled their mounts.

Inside the circle Shêtân erupted into a violent rage, rebelling against the ropes that held him, his eyes white and staring, his nostrils dilated and red. The horse reared up, his forelegs pawing the air. He was the
epitome of a wild, uncontrollable stallion. The handlers struggled with the ropes, but as soon as they managed to get Shêtân’s hooves back on the ground, the stallion reared up again. His flailing hooves kept them at a distance. Try as they might, the handlers couldn’t move in any closer. Then, with a massive jerk of his head and neck, the stallion broke one of the ropes cleanly in the middle. He ripped another out of a bewildered handler’s hands. The lone tribesman that managed to hold on to his lead was yanked into the air and toppled to the ground.

As if to show he had no fear of them, Shêtân now stood still, pawing the ground, daring his enemies to make another move toward him. A ripple of nervous tension seemed to run like a wave through the closed ring of horses and riders. They backed up farther, enlarging the circle, giving the stallion all the room he needed.

The men sat straight in their saddles, at attention, and waited for a word from their leader. A few had unslung their rifles and held them ready at their sides. The horses that encircled Shêtân consisted of mares and stallions, colored bay, chestnut and roan. They were working horses, Arabians, all of the purest strain. They held their graceful heads high, their hot coats shining in the sun, their uplifted tails flowing behind them like cascading waterfalls. They were as fine and proud a band of horses as ever stood in one place together, yet it was Shêtân whom their leader sought. It was
he
whom Abu Ishak valued above all others.

At these close quarters the difference between Shêtân and the rest was plain to see. Even Abu Ishak’s
golden stallion seemed wary of the renegade in their midst. It was not just Shêtân’s great height or ferocity. The young black stallion was a wild creature, ready to fight to the death. He was a black volcano about to explode.

The men began to speak in hushed whispers among themselves. “Man killer … devil horse … bewitched …”

“Enough of that talk,” their lord spat back to silence them.

One of the tribe’s senior advisers ventured to defy his leader’s command. “But what good is such a horse? He has the look of a man killer. Certainly he is untamable.”

The desert sheikh listened to his old friend speak. Then he turned to Shêtân, regarding him with the eye of a superb horseman, and said, “By the Prophet, did you not see him run? When Allah condensed the south wind to create the first horse,
this
is the horse he meant to make! Wild and powerful he may be, but he is no demon. He is a stallion, a drinker of the wind, as much a part of nature as we are.”

As sight returned to his eyes Rashid found himself lying where he had fallen. Shêtân stood next to him, and the two of them were surrounded by horses and riders. The scout tried to sit up. His body was numb. He could very well have broken bones, but in his present state of shock he felt nothing. He was covered with dust, his clothes were soaked with sweat, his hands were still clenched into fists. Hunks of black hair that had been torn from Shêtân’s mane stuck out from between his fingers.
Oblivious to his surroundings, he stood up, staggering as he tried to take a few steps, and then fell down. Blood trickled from a cut on his forehead and spattered onto the ground.

There was a ringing in his ears. The sound grew louder but no clearer. He looked up into the sky and the sun blinded him. He raised his hand to try shading his eyes from the glare. All he could make out were shadows moving around him, right to left, left to right. But there came no rush of footsteps. None dared approach and incur Shêtân’s wrath. It was as if the young black stallion was guarding him from those he thought would do him harm.

Rashid watched Abu Ishak dismount from his chestnut stallion and hand the reins to an attendant who was quickly by his side. The desert chieftain’s iron-gray hair and jutting beard made him stand out from the younger riders. The history of countless desert battles seemed to be etched into his dark face.

He separated from the others and stepped into the circle. Shêtân wheeled around on his hind legs, pacing back and forth. The desert chieftain gave no outward sign of uneasiness at the stallion’s furious display. His fixed stare never left Shêtân’s piercing eyes. “Shêtân,” he called in a calm, high-pitched voice, hypnotically repeating the stallion’s name over and over, then speaking to him in lyrical, courtly Arabic. The gentle sound seemed to soothe the young black stallion. Abu Ishak approached slowly and unafraid. The stallion’s body trembled, but he didn’t lash out as he had at the others. His ears pricked forward and his eyes shone with recognition, but his sharpened instincts for survival
made him wary. His flesh rippled with taut muscles as he whistled softly through his nose.

When Abu Ishak was within a few feet of Shêtân, he stopped and held out his hand. The wild stallion came to him! There could be no doubt now that Shêtân remembered his former master.

Rashid was dumbfounded. He had never gotten any sort of obedience out of Shêtân, even after all they had been through together. Then Abu Ishak came along, simply called him by name and the devil horse went to him. It was unbelievable!

The sheikh’s voice fell to a whisper as he reached out and ran his hands gently over Shêtân’s glistening neck and coat. In one swift movement he slipped a loose-fitting halter over the young stallion’s proud head. After securing the halter and lead rope he waved his hand in the air ritualistically. Then he bent over so his nose came close to the stallion’s nostrils and breathed into them. In sharing his breath this way, Abu Ishak offered his spirit to the young black stallion. They were one, joined by the breath of life.

A heavy silence had fallen over the surrounding circle of mounted riders. The witnesses to this scene watched and wondered how this horse could be the same uncontrollable creature that had led them on a wild chase over the plain and fought them like a rabid beast. From a pouch hanging at his waist, Abu Ishak took a handful of grain and held it out to Shêtân After a moment’s hesitation the stallion accepted it.

“Enjoy it, wild one,” he said. “We are going home.”

The desert lord had shown once again why he was regarded as one of the greatest horsemen in all of
Arabia. The only sounds were the heavy breathing of the horses and Abu Ishak’s reassuring words to Shêtân as the stallion chomped on his feed. The proud horseman ran his hand slowly and continuously over the stallion’s neck.

One of Abu Ishak’s lieutenants cautiously interrupted and asked, “What about him?”—nodding toward Rashid, who groveled in the dirt at the desert chieftain’s feet.

“Take the boy prisoner,” the sheikh said. “We’ll talk to him later. Now that Shêtân has been returned to me, those who tried to steal him must be punished and the life of the ancient herder avenged. I am sure our young friend will be able to tell us much in that regard.”

The men cast a critical eye upon Rashid, sizing him up in quick, darting glances. Rashid’s mouth felt chalky and dry. He tried to swallow and averted his eyes from the wolf pack that surrounded him.

And then, from high atop a nearby boulder where a lookout had climbed to keep watch, came the bellowing cry “
Riders!
A score or more, coming fast!” The hypnotic spell that Abu Ishak had cast upon Shêtân was broken. The stallion jerked his head against the lead rope. The lookout pointed to a cloud of dust growing larger on the horizon. The faint popping sounds of rifle reports could be heard in the distance as a raiding party bore upon them at full gallop.

The men snapped to attention. Abu Ishak called out his orders. “Abdullah! Rahail! Take your men to the western flank! Mustafa, you and Mohammad take the eastern!”

The squads of men rode off to meet the intruders
while their leader led Shêtân to an alcove in the rocks where the stallion would be safe. Two guards escorted the captured scout along also. Abu Ishak had his hands full trying to calm Shêtân, who was becoming more anxious as the sounds of distant gunshots came closer and closer. The leader was uncomfortable staying behind. A chieftain’s place was in battle beside his men, not hiding in the background behind a rock.

After a few anxious minutes a messenger returned from the skirmish with a report. The fighting was becoming fierce. The enemy was a raiding party of considerable size and wore the striped shepherd coats favored by the clan of their blood rival, Abd-al-Rahman. Abu Ishak’s second in command had been wounded. The sheikh knew he must join the fight, but he felt uneasy about leaving Shêtân He had not spent so long searching for the young black stallion to risk losing him again. But his men needed him, and he was obliged to help them. It was his duty as a leader; he had no choice.

He reluctantly tied his end of the rope around a tree and secured it, leaving Shêtân in the hands of the two guards. The stallion tested the restraint of the halter and pulled on the lead rope while the desert chieftain rode back with the messenger to join his men.

The air was filled with the sounds of battle. Bullets whizzed overhead and ricocheted off the rocks. In the distance, metal clashed on metal as sabers struck hard on one another. Men shouted and the wounded cried out for help. Hidden from sight in the rocky alcove, Shêtân strained at his rope and rocked back and forth on his hind legs. Rashid and the guards took cover in a shallow cave while Shêtân remained tied up outside.

The sounds of combat began to grow fainter. Soon Rashid heard only the crackle of distant gunshots. The men emerged from their hiding place in the cave. One guard climbed over the rocks to the lookout’s perch to gain a better vantage point from which to observe the fighting. The other guard kept his rifle trained on Rashid.

“Our forces are beginning to turn the tide of battle,” the lookout announced. “It’s only a matter of time before Abd-al-Rahman and his men are driven out of our district.” On the horizon Abu Ishak was chasing his
rival away to the frontier of his territory, followed by his band.

Rashid heard a slight, nearly imperceptible sound—the faint crunching of a footstep. Only an experienced tracker like himself would have noticed it. The sound seemed to be coming from behind a nearby wall of stones. Rashid turned to see if the guards had heard it too, but they hadn’t taken notice. Nor did they see, as Rashid did, the long, dark muzzles of two rifle barrels sticking out from between the rocks to take aim at them.