The Black Stallion Mystery (10 page)

“Naturally,” she replied sweetly.

Henry spoke for the first time. “You sound like you expected us,” he said as politely as he could.

“We did,” the Sheikh answered, “but not so soon. Unfortunately we did not hear the plane nor Angel’s signal. But then it was such a bad night.”

Tabari laughed gaily at their immediate surprise and her raven-black hair rippled about her neck as she tossed her head back. “You look so frightened, both of you,” she said, her eyes flashing.

“But—” Alec began and then stopped, for Abd-al-Rahman had joined his wife in laughter. Their voices rang clearly and sharply in the fragrant air.

Alec stared at Tabari, attracted not by her laughter or what she’d said but by the sudden recklessness of her eyes. It was as if she’d momentarily thrown off her cloak of maturity and was about to ask if she could ride the Black!

Then Tabari stood up in the carriage, her figure slim and supple in gray gabardine and a yellow scarf knotted around her neck. “Nazar,” she said, turning to the third occupant of the carriage, “do not your ancient eyes burn with envy at sight of such a horse? Is he not everything my father dreamed he’d be as a mature stallion?” Her eyes remained on the old man who sat quietly opposite her and her husband.

Obediently Nazar turned and looked at the horse but his stare was vacant and disinterested. Of the three he was the only one wearing complete Arab dress. A red shawl that matched the flowing garment he wore over his slight body covered his head. When he finally turned his wrinkled face toward Tabari his expression had changed, his eyes becoming very alert and keen. But he said nothing.

“He is very old and tired,” Tabari told the others softly. “He can neither speak nor hear but he reads my lips easily. He was my father’s dearest and most devoted servant. Now he wills that I return him to our native land to meet Allah.”

She spoke reverently of Allah yet her accent was very British as were her clothes, her Victorian carriage, and her liveried coachman. While her husband’s accent was British as well, his appearance was more striking, a mixture of the East and the West. His dark face was framed by a flowing white head shawl secured by a
cord as jet-black as his beard. His six-foot lean figure, however, was clothed in whipcord breeches, gleaming English riding boots, and a dark blue sweater.

Tabari sat down again, and for a fleeting second Alec thought he saw a shadow of deep sorrow flit across her face. Then it was gone and a slow smile crept about her mouth.

“You must return home with our distinguished guests,” she said sweetly to Abd-al-Rahman, “and see that they are comfortable. It is not often that we are so honored.”

The Black was attempting to bite the mares again, and Alec pulled him away without taking his eyes off Tabari and her husband. He listened to them talk as if this were some casual meeting in a park at home.

Abd-al-Rahman smiled patiently at his wife. He looked like a good-humored hawk as he leaned over and patted her hand. “You know the road is dangerous by carriage,” he said. “I like to be with you.”

In sudden anger Tabari withdrew her hand and said, “Your sitting next to me doesn’t help and Jason knows every foot of the way. It will not be the first time I have traveled it alone.” She sat back, her features set and proud.

The Sheikh continued smiling. “It’s only that I like to hold your hand along the way,” and he swiftly caught her wrist and held it.

For a moment they appraised each other in strained silence. Then Tabari smiled archly.

“I was only thinking of our guests,” she said coquettishly.

The Sheikh seemed to be turning over in his mind
what his wife had said but he did not speak or look away.

“And it is strange, is it not,” she went on, laughing, “that you let me fly alone but do not trust me on our very own road?”

Abd-al-Rahman listened as though fascinated. When finally he spoke, however, it was in short sentences. “Go then.” A flush came over his face. “Be careful. Perhaps I never should have taught you to fly.”

Her eyes opened wide. “But it was you who suggested it!”

“So I did,” he said glumly. “So I did.” Then, kissing her lightly on the mouth, he stepped out of the carriage. “All right, Jason,” he said to the driver. “Guide your horses well.”

“Yes, sir.”

Tabari, glancing at Alec and Henry, said, “See that he makes you comfortable, my friends.” Her gaze swept to the Black. “As for Shêtân, his stall has been ready a long, long time.”

Astonished by Tabari’s parting remark Alec watched the carriage speed across the bridge. What had she meant? He turned to Abd-al-Rahman. “Are we in Arabia?” he asked. “Is that what Tabari meant by saying the Black’s stall was ready for him?”

The young Sheikh’s eyes followed the fast-moving carriage as he answered, “No, Alec, we’re far from there. This is a stronghold built by Tabari’s ancestors centuries before the Black was ever foaled. He has never been here.”

Henry spoke. “Just where are we then?”

“That I cannot tell you, old fellow,” the Sheikh
answered. “I have many enemies who would rob me of my horses if they knew.”

Henry snorted. “A good chance they’d have of finding their way here,” he said.

By this time the carriage had disappeared in the distance. “You are right of course,” Abd-al-Rahman said kindly, “but only because it has been kept secret for a very long time. It was here that the strongest desert chieftains carried on their most important horse-breeding operations. The grass and water are the best, as you can see. It is also well protected against the winds—” he hesitated, smiled and went on—“and raiding parties. There is nothing to fear here from our enemies yet it is central enough to conduct business.”

“You must have good horses to make all this worth while,” Henry said.

The Sheikh’s smile faded. “You should take that for granted, Henry.”

“I do,” the trainer answered.

“I know. That’s why you came.”

“Tell me,” Alec asked quietly, “how do you know so much? What made you expect us?”

“It’s our business to know anything that has to do with fine horses,” Abd-al-Rahman answered with a half-smile. His sharp gaze shifted to the Black. “He’s as proud as a peacock, isn’t he?”

Expecting no reply and getting none, the Sheikh started down the road. “Come, please,” he said pleasantly. “It is but a short walk.” His body was lean, tall and straight. His strides were those of a desert hunter, springy and quick.

They passed through the carved wooden gate,
which opened and closed easily on well-oiled hinges, and found themselves on a widespread and gently rolling plain. The grass here, watered by underground springs, was even more lush than outside the wall. Towering shade trees and foliage were thick; the whole place had an air of summer drowsiness, and the great mountain which served as a backdrop added to the serenity of the scene.

Abd-al-Rahman, glancing back at the gate as if listening for the sound of the carriage, smiled and said, “My wife is like all women. She seeks to love and dominate at the same time. I suppose I have spoiled her, though. There is so little she can do here.”

“Doesn’t she like it?” Alec asked.

“She prefers home, Alec, or at least vacations in England where we have many old school friends. This is too isolated for any woman and most men. It is why I insisted upon her learning to fly years ago. Now she escapes like a winged bird and returns as willingly.”

The road had become a well-attended driveway with white stone fences on the sides separating the plain into field after field. A small band of mares grazed in one pasture and as they approached Alec took firm hold of the Black’s lead shank.

Henry said quietly, “These are the race mares, Alec.”

It was as simple as that. From this band had come the Sales yearlings they’d seen in America. Unlike the carriage horses these brood mares were large and tall. They had size without coarseness. The Arabian’s refinement in conformation and head was there for the world to see. From this type of mare the Black, too, had come.
Where was the sire?

At a turn in the driveway they left the fields behind and soon came upon an enormous stone house rising story after story against the base of the mountain and supported by tall columns. Yet for all its great size there was a softness to it because of the many beautiful gardens which surrounded it. Small fountains played upon statues of animals and birds all made from the same golden-colored stone as the house. There were terraces of flowers ablaze with color, and fish ponds and sparkling, rushing streams. It was an intricate maze of hanging gardens, reservoirs and stonework.

There were men at work, planting, pruning and caring for these gardens. They stopped to look at Alec and Henry as the group went by. They were curious without being excited, as if visitors were to be expected. Tall and muscular, they had sharp, dark features but there was no Arabic blood in them. They wore the leather clothes of people whose home was in the high mountains. Obviously they were natives of this land, whatever it was.

Alec and Henry walked slowly beside the young Sheikh, their eyes bewildered at what they saw and their senses captured by the enchantment of the gardens. The air was spiced with scents of flowers and blossoms, and there was no need to ask who had planned these grounds. It had to be Tabari, for her feminine touch was evident everywhere.

At a fork in the driveway Abd-al-Rahman led them away from the house.

“Come,” the Sheikh said, “as horsemen you must first see my stables and, of course, care for your horse.”

Directly ahead a high arch in the shape of a giant horseshoe extended over the road, supported by two statues of rearing horses with water spouting from their mouths. Alec and Henry walked beneath the arch, watching the sunlight sparkle upon the golden-colored horses as the fountains splashed upon them.

A few minutes’ walk brought them to a bridge spanning a large stream whose rippling-white waters were rushing to reach the lower fields. On the other side of the bridge was a great tent more than a hundred feet long and thirty feet wide. It was open at one end and just within the flaps sat a small group of Arabs around a smoking fire. Alec could smell the coffee that was being made.

It might have been a scene in Arabia, and Alec looked beyond the tent, almost expecting to see a herd of camels lying on the ground patiently waiting for the caravan to move on. Instead he saw only a small flock of grazing sheep and goats.

Abd-al-Rahman explained without stopping, “We brought the most chosen of our tribe with us, mostly for
work in the fields and stables. Tabari has no use for them in the house … but then they have no use for houses.”

Just ahead, deep within the shadows of the trees, was a quadrangle of stables. On top of the iron-barred gateway was a stable clock, its long gilt hands pointing almost to noon. The buildings, consisting of only one story each, were of the same golden-colored stone and architecture as the house.

The Sheikh stopped in the center of the stableyard and addressed Alec. “I’m assuming you want to care for your horse yourself.”

“Yes,” Alec said. “Where do you want him?”

“Not here,” Abd-al-Rahman answered. “Not near the mares. Come.”

He led the way to the other end of the stableyard and through another gate. They went into the forest again, the pine-needled lane rising with the easy slope of the land as it approached the base of the mountain. Near the stream and directly opposite the massive house was a circular barn. Within were three huge stalls. On the door of the largest and most luxurious of all was a small gold plaque of a young boy and a rearing horse, with emeralds for the boy’s eyes and rubies for the horse’s.

“Who are they?” Alec asked, recalling the statue he had seen earlier.

For a moment Abd-al-Rahman didn’t answer. He opened the door of the adjacent stall and motioned Alec to take the Black inside. Then he said solemnly, “They are the boy who became one of the greatest tribal leaders of my country, and the horse of his young
dreams. His name was Barjas ben Ishak, an ancestor of Tabari. He died in 1689.”

“Without ever finding his dream horse?” Henry asked, anxious to keep the Sheikh talking. He followed Alec into the Black’s stall. There was hay in the rack and a sack of feed below it.

“Yes,” Abd-al-Rahman told Henry. “But he raised many fine horses. The best one of all occupied that particular stall. It is not unusual in my country, you know, to choose one horse to idolize even though we may have hundreds. It was so in the case of Barjas ben Ishak.”

Alec listened to the conversation while tending his horse. He thought of the big, empty stall next door, bedded down and waiting, just as this one had been … for what stallion if not the Black?

Henry was prodding Abd-al-Rahman further. “Then it was Barjas ben Ishak who built this place?”

“Yes. In those days, even more so than now, the strongest tribes were those with the finest horses. Their lives depended upon the speed and stamina of their mounts.”

Alec left the Black’s stall. The sun was shining upon the gold plaque on the adjacent door and the jeweled eyes seemed to be winking at him realistically. He found it difficult to turn away.

“His were a wandering people,” the Sheikh went on, “not only from desire but from necessity as well. They needed fertile pastures and good climate for their stock. And then, too, his greatest fear was that his best horses would be stolen. He watched over them as he never did his family. He knew their genealogy from the days of Mohammed and sometimes even before that.”

Alec turned from the shining figures of the boy and horse and went to the Black again, making sure he had left nothing undone. The stall was large and the bedding thick. The Black had been watered and was whiffing his feed.

Abd-al-Rahman continued, “It was on one of his long journeys north that he heard of this protected mountain plain. Later he brought his finest mares and stallions and built this stronghold. He was confident that if left in peace he would some day produce the stallion of his boyhood dreams, one whose speed would be that of the desert winds and who would sire equally fast colts.”