The Young Black Stallion

  The stallion continued to stomp and pummel the floor with his hooves and batter the reinforced metal walls of the stall. The truck rocked back and forth, rolling farther and farther into the desert. Rashid was safe for the moment, but he must plan ahead and keep his wits about him. He could not give up hope.

  The bodyguards in the cab of the truck were laughing and talking together so loudly that Rashid could hear them through the compartment wall. They mocked the likes of Ibn al Khaldun. “… and did you see the way he slept with his dogs as if he were one of them?” one said. “Ha! His greyhounds smelled better than he did.”

  “Yes, it is too much like living in a barn every time we visit the outer tribes,” replied the other, his voice tinged with disgust. “By Allah, it will be good to return to the settled places and get away from those backward herders.”

  “You have to give that Khaldun credit, though. His spies had old Abu Ishak figured out pretty well,” his friend reminded him. “The black beast was practically delivered into our hands. What I can’t understand is how Abu Ishak knew exactly where the horse would leave the mountains and reach the plain.”

  “It’s that falcon of his,” Mansoor said. “Khaldun’s spies report that Ishak’s falcon can track anything. By following the bird he could guess when and where Shêtân would leave the mountains. Say what you will about the likes of Ishak and Khaldun, but never doubt they have an uncanny way with animals.”

  “It’s hard to find fault with anyone when your pockets are stuffed with English pounds, eh?”

  “Let’s see, what will be the first thing I do when I get home, go to the baths or have a massage? Perhaps I’ll do both. Then I might have a nice lamb dinner at Ali’s and …”

  Rashid stopped listening to them through the compartment wall. So that was how Abu Ishak caught up with him. The bird had been shadowing him. It wasn’t his imagination after all.

  He sighed and leaned back against his cushion of blankets. A bath, a massage and dinner, he thought. Wasn’t he as worthy of such luxuries as any man? Why should these men profit from his bravery? They did not fight the leopard with only a knife. They had not lived in those Allah-forsaken mountains as he had. All this he had done for nothing? No, the game was not over yet. Perhaps, after he had put enough distance between himself and Abu Ishak, both he and Shêtân could jump free of the truck and escape together.

  But before he could make any more plans, fatigue overwhelmed him. His gaze drifted absently out the truck window and up into the desert sky. The night was bright. Clear strands of starlight filtered through the glass. Neither the jolting of the truck nor the pounding of Shêtân’s hooves could keep him from falling asleep.

  THE STORM

  14

  The truck hit a bump and Rashid fell off the stack of blankets, landing on the floor. He had no idea if he’d been asleep for minutes or hours. Nor could he recognize his surroundings upon opening his eyes. His heart began to race. The floor beneath him trembled. Where were the mountains, the stars? Where was Shêtân?

  Then, like a cold hand falling upon the back of his neck, memory returned. He recalled all the things that had happened to him the day before and how he had come to be hiding in the back of this truck. He stood up on tiptoe and peeked over the top of the stall divider to take a look at Shêtân The stallion tried to lash out when he saw him. Rashid backed away. “Easy, Shêtân,” he said. “I wasn’t the one who did this to you.”

  The war bridle was still wrapped tightly around the stallion’s head. The rope was soaked with sweat and blood. Shêtân had rubbed his mouth raw on it and a reddish froth had begun to foam there. The cruel bridle held his head secure, but the big black horse continued to relentlessly pummel the rear door with his hind legs. Cracks were already beginning to form where the bottom of the door met the floor of the truck.

  Regaining his seat on top of the stack of blankets, Rashid ate a few more handfuls of grain. Shêtân’s hooves hammered the truck walls, and the sound reverberated like gunshots in his ears, punctuated by the loud laughter, arguing and cursing of the men in the cab of the truck. The truck’s powerful engine groaned as it made its way up and down the steep dunes and over mile after mile of featureless sand.

  Shêtân was suddenly quiet. Rashid thought that the stallion finally must have exhausted himself. The young stallion’s ears pricked up over the top of the stall divider. From outside a faint, hollow booming rumbled through the night. The distant thunder was followed by an ominous, dull buzzing. It became louder and proceeded to drown out the deepening moan of the truck’s engine. Rashid could feel the truck slowing down and could sense something was happening. The walls of the truck heaved as if they were quietly being squeezed together and then pushed apart, as if they were inhaling and exhaling around him.

  Pulling himself up to the window, Rashid peered out into the night. A storm was approaching. Yellow fingers of lightning tore through the savage sky and dipped down to claw the ground. The scout marveled at the strange sight. More than two years had passed since any rain had fallen in the desert. It would mean good grazing for many months to come.

  Heavy pattering began drumming on the roof and on the sand outside. The truck sounded as if it were being pelted by stones. Its diesel engine began coughing and losing power. The truck ground to a halt while Rashid strained his eyes in the dark. As the lightning flashed, he could see layer upon layer of dark clouds settling upon the desert. The line of dunes was blurred. The air was filled with flying specks.

  Locusts! Huge swarms of locusts were running ahead of the storm. The buzzing he heard was their approach, the chattering chorus of their singing wings. Another flash of lightning lit up the inside of the truck. Locusts were crawling through the cracks Shêtân had kicked in the bottom of his stall’s door. They buzzed around, bouncing madly off the ceiling. Rashid took a blanket and stuffed it into the cracks to try to keep any more bugs from getting inside.

  Outside the storm was fully upon them. The sky opened up and showered them with locusts and curtains of rain. A swarm of the big, fat, reddish grasshoppers landed on the truck window, and Rashid could barely see through it. The desert sand seemed to be alive with them. As lightning streaked the sky, everything in either direction appeared to be covered by a thick, crawling red carpet of insects.

  At least they wouldn’t have to worry about Abu Ishak following their trail so easily, Rashid thought. By now the sand whipped up by the storm would have covered their tracks. Playing hide-and-seek with the Cat was one thing, with Abu Ishak quite another. Clever as the Cat was with all his mechanical toys, he was not nearly as dangerous as the desert lord. It was Abu Ishak catching up to him that was the grimmest possibility Rashid could imagine. The thought of the storm erasing their tracks brought a sigh of relief from him as he watched the locusts pile up outside. He thought longingly of all that good eating going to waste. How he relished the taste of crispy locust roasted over an open fire.

  “Jâ-ba-l-hmes ehemseh!” he said to himself. “Father of roasting, roast them!”

  Soon the rain and wind began tapering off. The storm was passing as quickly as it had come. Only the locusts remained. Rashid heard the powerful diesel spark and come alive as the driver switched on the motor. Then, with a shuddering quake, the engine began to sputter and die. Again the driver tried to start the motor. It churned away but refused to fire. Something was wrong! Loud cursing erupted from the cab. Immediately Rashid’s instincts told him his hiding place was no longer safe. He stepped to the back of the truck and quietly undid the latch that fastened the rear door. He opened it just enough to squeeze through and then closed it again. Locusts wriggled out from under his feet as he softly touched the ground.

  He heard doors creak open and slam shut as the men jumped out of the truck’s cab. Rashid crouched down and rolled under the truck to hide. Huge springs, gears and axles surrounded him. The crawler tracks were covered with dead locusts. Footsteps made a crunching sound as the men walked over the carpet of grasshop
pers. The restless light of their flashlights flitted about as they moved to the front of the truck and opened the engine’s hood. Rashid crawled behind a tire. There was no need to panic, he kept telling himself. He was out of sight and hidden in the darkness. Just be still, be quiet, wait and listen.

  The driver climbed up onto the front bumper to look at the motor and in a moment delivered his verdict. “Bloody locusts fouled the damn motor. Looks like we’re walking, chief.”

  “Can’t you fix it?” asked one of the bodyguards anxiously.

  “Not with the tools I brought with me,” replied the driver, stepping down from the bumper.

  Mansoor was livid with anger. “What do you mean you can’t fix it?” he shouted. “Let me see that!” He pushed his bodyguards out of the way and climbed up onto the bumper to have a look at the motor for himself.

  Rashid could hear the sound of something poking around at the engine, and then Mansoor must have burned his hand on some hot metal because be began howling in pain. He dropped his tools and they clattered off the bumper. The flashlight rolled on the ground. The beam of light was shining on Rashid’s hiding place under the truck! He froze as a hand reached down to pick it up. They would have only to look in the direction the light pointed to see Rashid huddled there beneath the truck’s undercarriage but, praise Allah, the man did not notice him.

  Mansoor turned his anger on the driver, blaming him for all their troubles. “You fool! Do you have any idea what your carelessness is costing me? Years’ worth of planning and work have gone into this project, and now you tell me it will all be ruined by your stupidity!” He kicked and banged the fender of the truck in a fit of temper.

  “How could I guess that we would run into a plague of locusts?” the driver protested. “I followed your instructions to the letter on what to bring. There was never any mention of special tools or any spare parts!”

  While Mansoor and the driver shouted at each other, Rashid slipped out of his hiding place. Under the cover of darkness he crept stealthily out of sight into the desert, gently picking his way through the piles of locusts so as to make as little noise as possible. When he was certain he could not be seen, he stopped. Rashid watched the men cluster around the front of the truck inside their tiny island of lantern light. The truck’s headlights steamed in the cool desert air, their beams shining off into the night.

  Mansoor stopped shouting, groaned and then sulked in silence as he paced back and forth. Suddenly he ran around to the cab and yanked open the door. He took the map from the dashboard and brought it around to the front of the truck to examine it in the light. The others crowded around.

  The Cat appeared to be taking a bearing with his compass and making notes on the map. He began to talk excitedly. It was difficult for Rashid to make out what they were saying. He heard only fleeting words carried on the gentle night wind. “… Scratch original plan … destination … hidden port … west-southwest twenty degrees … truck not important … all that matters is Shêtân …” Then he heard “Shêtân” and “Get Shêtân” repeated loudly over and over again.

  The men ran around to the back of the truck and shone their lamps on it. They swung open the door to Shêtân’s stall. The stallion shrilled loudly as the men began to lower the loading ramp. Locusts swarmed around the light and clung to the outside of the truck. Now, covered with locusts, the ugly metal vehicle looked as if the insects had claimed it as their own. “Damn bugs!” cursed the driver.

  Shêtân vainly kicked out at the men with his hind legs. Mansoor kept out of the range of Shêtân’s hooves and edged his way up to the front of the compartment, staying on the far side of the stall divider. He un-snapped the lead shank from the halter. Twisting the war bridle, he caused Shêtân’s legs to buckle with pain as the coarse rope bit further into the stallion’s sensitive mouth. This was a battle of wills and there could be only one winner, he who held the rope.

  Shêtân backed down the ramp and out onto the ground. The men were ready with their ropes and whips, but this time they were not necessary. Shêtân followed Mansoor, head down, apparently beaten. Hidden in the darkness, Rashid watched this scene unfold and wondered if perhaps the stallion was only pretending to yield, biding his time and waiting for the right moment to strike out again at his captors. Shêtân might be relying on his cunning now instead of his strength. One thing was certain—while he wore the war bridle, fighting with brute force was useless.

  Shouldering their rifles, Mansoor and his men left the truck behind them and set out single file into the night. “With luck we’ll make it to the coast by dawn,” Mansoor said.

  Rashid followed after them, staying as close as he dared. If one of them had turned and looked, they might have seen him trailing behind them in the pale moonlight, but no one did. Rashid was still certain that given a chance, he could outsmart the Cat and steal Shêtân back for himself. After all, he was full-blooded Bedouin and they were not. The will to triumph over the impossible was his birthright.

  Across the smooth sands of the dunes Mansoor and his men led Shêtân Rashid felt the desert breeze as it brushed his cheeks. It tasted of the timeless Rub‘ al Khali, a place where the folly of men was as insignificant as the dust blown in the wind.

  As the light of approaching dawn spread out from the east Rashid had to fall farther back to remain out of sight. They passed through unsettled dunes and out onto a flat plain. Low, sloping hills bordered the desert to the south and melted into a gray haze that ran along the barren coastline. Soon the lights of a harbor could be seen flickering in the distance.

  The trail Mansoor was following became a road. Rashid saw smoke rising from the cooking fires of mud shacks and black tents that began to appear along the way. They were reaching the outskirts of a port town. Palm trees grew here and there. Needle-shaped minarets, built atop dockside mosques, seemed to rise up out of the sea.

  Up to that time most of the scout’s experience with water had been limited to wells and an occasional oasis. On the Sands water was scarce, a thing to be cherished. Now he marveled at the vast expanse before him. The sea stretched out to the horizon. Colors blended and changed from gray to green to blue.

  Rashid left the road and slipped behind one of the huts. The back door had been left open, and Rashid could hear a man snoring inside. He peeked into the room and saw what he was looking for lying at the foot of the bed. After waiting a moment to make sure the man was really asleep, Rashid stepped quietly through the door. He picked up the man’s clothes and slipped outside again. He took off his own tattered rags and dressed himself in the man’s cloak and kufiyya. With these he would be able to disguise his identity and venture closer to Shêtân without being recognized by Mansoor or his men.

  Hopping a fence, Rashid ran back to the road and after the others. A crowd had gathered around the giant black horse and the men who came from out of the depths of the great empty desert. “Praise be to Allah!” came their bewildered cries. Their eyes were full of wonder. Girls ran forward bearing well water for the strangers, but the men did not stop to drink. “Are you not men?” they asked with perplexed looks. “Do you not thirst?” Mansoor and his men said nothing and pushed their way through the crowd.

  The people backed away. “What manner of witchcraft is this?” someone asked. “None but the hardiest camels are able to cross that stretch of desert.” The children, however, were not so timid. They ran after the strangers and the big black horse. When the bodyguards tried to shoo them away, the children only laughed at them. Street dogs trailed behind. The air was filled with their barking and yelping. The Cat led Shêtân and his strange parade along the main road into town.

  They passed the thatch-roofed suq, and Rashid paused beside the outdoor market to whiff the exotic and pungent smells that met him there. A few buyers and sellers of food argued over prices while flies hovered around piles of dates and meat, buzzing back and forth from one pile to the other. Hundreds of salted fish were spread out on the ground to dry in the sun. Ra
shid wet his lips as hunger and thirst welled up inside him. But how could he buy anything to eat? He hadn’t a single riyal to his name.

  He meandered behind the food stalls, watching for a careless or preoccupied merchant of whom he might take advantage. But the hucksters weren’t particularly busy and kept a sharp eye on him. Rashid had to content himself with sorting out something to eat from a basket of rotten vegetables he found in a refuse pile.

  After his meal, he left the suq and made his way down to the docks. He passed whitewashed buildings that crowded the narrow streets. Beyond the crisscrossing maze of shadowy alleys and white walls, fishing boats rolled at anchor in the harbor. Up ahead he could see the towering figure of the black stallion surrounded by a milling throng of curious onlookers.

  As Rashid came closer, he saw Mansoor give Shêtân’s lead to his bodyguards and leave the stallion in their hands. The stallion did not resist them. He still seemed to be biding his time, waiting, watching—but for what?

  Mansoor pushed his way out of the crowd and ran up the steps of an official-looking waterfront building. The sign on the door was printed in Arabic and read SHIPPING OFFICE—RADIO DISPATCH.

  Rashid wondered what the Cat was up to now. He sat down on a nearby bench and waited. After some minutes the door of the office banged open and Mansoor came out with a lively step, wearing a satisfied grin on his face. A man in a shipping agent’s uniform came to the door after the Cat had left. The agent looked stunned. He scratched his bald head and then began to finger the crisp English pound notes that the rich stranger had just placed in his hand as a tip.