The Black Stallion Mystery (11 page)

“But he didn’t,” Henry interjected, for the Sheikh had turned away and the trainer didn’t want the conversation to end. It was just getting interesting.

Abd-al-Rahman was looking into the empty stall. “No,” he finally said, “but Tabari’s father did, centuries later, and using the same foundation stock. He named the young stallion Ziyadah and this is his stall.”

The name was not unfamiliar to Alec and Henry. In Arabic it meant
superb in speed
. And Ziyadah had been the Black’s sire.

“You mean
was
his stall, don’t you?” Henry corrected. “Ziyadah is dead. It says so in the books.”

“No, he is very much alive,” the Sheikh answered, his dark eyes sweeping over the mountain ridges. “He runs high and fast, so fast that his tail appears to catch on fire. The natives call him Firetail but we know it is our Ziyadah!”

There was a long moment of silence. Then Henry asked, “Why are you so sure?”

“Because of the yearlings we sent to America. They were
his
. Only Ziyadah could stamp his colts in such a way. Truly you are not surprised! Is that not why you and Alec are here? When you looked upon those colts did you not know they came from the same mold as the Black? We knew you would attempt to find their sire.”

“And now that we are here?” Alec questioned.

The tall man smiled for the first time. “Now that you are here, Alec, I hope that you and the Black will help me catch Ziyadah!”

The black stallion pushed his head over the stall door, his nostrils swelling as he looked toward the stables beyond. But it was Henry who snorted.

“One moment you say you know it’s Ziyadah because he sired the Sales yearlings and now you’re asking our help to catch him! How’d you breed the mares?”

“They were pasture bred.”

“If Ziyadah runs in the mountains how’d he reach your fields? Your end wall must be thirty feet high.”

“We don’t know.”

“Has he been back since?”

“No, or we might have caught him. We’ve been waiting.”

The mountain silence was broken by a loud shout, then a man’s whistle, followed by the dull rumble of running hoofs. The mares were being brought in from the fields. The Black whinnied.

“Come, you are tired and hungry,” Abd-al-Rahman said graciously. “Your horse is safe. He will not be bothered for none of our people are allowed here. It was so willed by Tabari’s father upon his death.”

Alec looked questioningly at a nearby chair with a blanket across it. Overhead hung a black-and-gold braided halter and lead rope.

Following the boy’s gaze, Abd-al-Rahman said, “It is only the chair of old Nazar, the mute whom Tabari is taking home. It was he who took care of this barn and of Ziyadah as a colt. It was he who set him free.”

They started down the lane toward the stables.

“Intentionally?” Alec asked.

“No. Nazar was most devoted to Tabari and her father. They were the only ones who could read his face and signs. Despite his age and muteness Nazar had no equal in the care of horses. That is why Abu Ishak put him in charge of his most prized colt.”

“Then how’d he let Ziyadah break away from him?” Henry asked.

“Nazar had lavished much love and attention on the young horse,” Abd-al-Rahman answered. “Tabari says that Ziyadah followed him around as would a bodyguard. Often he would race in a circle about Nazar until one would have thought the thunder of his hoofs would have broken the old man’s lifelong silence.”

“But how’d he get away?” Henry persisted.

“I’m coming to that,” the Sheikh said patiently. “It seems that Abu Ishak was worried because Ziyadah had started jumping very high and none of the pasture fences could hold him. He therefore ordered the old man to hobble him for fear the young stallion would rake his belly on the stones and become fatally injured. To Nazar this was like clipping the wings of a hawk, so unknown to Abu Ishak he would set Ziyadah free for a while each night. One night the young stallion did not
return to him. He has waited all these years, keeping his stall fresh and his halter ready.”

“No one saw Ziyadah leave the fields?” Alec asked incredulously.

Abd-al-Rahman shook his head. “It is said that the night riders heard the thunder of his hoofs and that there was a trail of sparks as of horseshoes striking flint. One rider said he saw Ziyadah going over the end wall but that of course was impossible.”

“Unless he had wings,” Henry mumbled.

“When did the natives first see him after his escape?” Alec asked thoughtfully.

“Shortly after Abu Ishak’s death. It is ironical, is it not, that he did not live to know that Ziyadah was not dead after all? He and Tabari had returned to Arabia certain of the young stallion’s death, for the bones of a horse had been found in a deep abyss.”

“And the natives call him Firetail?” Alec asked, recalling the fiery horse he and Henry had seen the night before.

“Yes, but he is Ziyadah. Of that I’m sure.”

“If he sired those colts you’re right,” Alec agreed quietly.

Abd-al-Rahman’s home was like the kind found in a fairy tale, complete with towers and brilliantly colored windows of tinted glass. The Sheikh and Alec and Henry climbed a double flight of stone stairs, stopping before an arched front door. Two English footmen in the familiar black-and-gold livery and wearing white gloves opened it.

Alec hung back, awed by the splendor within, but Henry followed close at the Sheikh’s heels. Opening doors, the footmen walked ahead through richly colored rooms with luxurious divans and walls covered with intricate tapestries of carved designs and figures.

The atmosphere was that of ancient Arabia and it reached out and enveloped Alec. Yet he saw too the changes made by Tabari’s youthful hands. From the gilt ceilings hung crystal chandeliers. The furniture was modern, more English than Arabian, and a hidden phonograph played soft string music.

Abd-al-Rahman came to a stop. “You must bathe and eat, then we shall talk more,” he said, leaving them.

Later, in their rooms, they were served a sumptuous dinner of excellent roast beef and chicken, together with many vegetables and salad. For dessert they had cheese. They spoke little for they were half-famished.

When Henry had finished he sat back and said, “What do you make of what he told us, Alec?”

Alec glanced out the open window overlooking the gardens and fields. “Why would he be lying?”

Henry’s gaze shifted to the nearby servants and he said, “For the same reason he registered El Dorado as sire of the Sales yearlings. What reason would he have for doing that when he says it was Ziyadah?”

Alec shrugged his shoulders. “Ask him. Maybe he’ll tell you.”

“Maybe he will,” Henry agreed. “He’s talking more now that the boss is gone.”

“Boss?”

“Tabari.”

“Oh,” said Alec.

Henry glanced behind Alec, suddenly aware of the slight figure that had silently approached the table. “Yes?” Henry asked.

The man touched his forehead and breast before saying, “If you are finished, please follow me.” His accent was as Arabic as were his features yet he, too, wore the black-and-gold livery of the English house servants.

Henry turned to Alec. “Shall we go?”

“Do you have any other suggestions?” Alec asked. He wasn’t joking. He didn’t like the looks of the man who was waiting for them to follow him. His eyes, as
yellow as a cat’s, smoldered even though he smiled and bowed humbly. His body was small and slight, almost gnomish, and he had long scraggly hair that hung down almost to his shoulders. He looked evil, withdrawn, and ancient. He smiled again, patiently awaiting them.

Henry shrugged his shoulders and stood up. “Are you taking us to the Sheikh?” he asked.

There was a nodding of the head, nothing more.

“All right then,” Henry said. “Go ahead, Alec.”

The man’s straw-thin legs moved silently, swiftly, leading the way. He led them along the echoing length of a gallery and then down a flight of deeply carpeted stairs. They passed the front door with its ponderous bars and bolts and went through another hall into a long, green-paneled library. Finally they came to a stop before a closed door.

The servant knocked lightly and then stepped to one side, motioning them to enter. Henry took hold of the large brass knob and turned it slowly. There was a dim light burning in what seemed to be more a stone cavern than a room. Abd-al-Rahman sat in a straight-backed chair before a huge fireplace. There was no fire burning, however, and the dim light came from a small desk lamp.

The Sheikh rose from his chair and closed the door. “Welcome to my house,” he said, smiling. “It is here I would live if it were not for my pretty wife.” Even though he spoke lightly he seemed to mean what he said. He had removed his fine British clothes and was wearing those of a desert Bedouin, the tight camel’s hair breeches and short jacket bearing the rips and sweat stains of many long and rough rides. For the first time
since Alec and Henry had met him he did not have a hat on and they noticed that his hair, like his beard, was cropped short.

“I do hope Homsi was gracious,” Abd-al-Rahman said. “Often he is inclined not to be. It is his defense because of his small size. Tabari objects to him but there is nothing I can do. Or
want
to do,” he added, smiling again. “His body is little but his heart is great. We grew up together and he has served and guarded me well. It is customary in my country, as you probably know, to have such a close, personal servant and I am afraid Tabari must put up with him.”

Alec and Henry were so occupied in looking about the room that they scarcely took in what their host was saying. There were two long, narrow stained-glass windows flanking the great fireplace. Except for three hard chairs and a desk there was no furniture. There were a few books and the lamp on the desk. Nothing could be more simple than this room—or was it a cell? Gone was the splendor to be seen on the other side of the door. Gone were the hanging gardens and playing fountains. This was the room of a solitary man.

The heavy layer of dust over everything made Alec aware that despite Abd-al-Rahman’s greeting the Sheikh spent little time here. Whose room had it been?

“This was where Abu Ishak worked out his horse-breeding program,” the Sheikh said, a slight uneasiness in his tone. “He did not want it used by anyone else but since I am carrying on his work …”

He did not finish but turned to the desk, his fingers nervously tracing the dust.

“Perhaps we can talk somewhere else then,” Henry
suggested. He could feel his temples throbbing. He blamed it on the heat and dust of the small, closed room. Or was it some undefinable fear? Had Abu Ishak wanted this room kept closed for a special reason? Was that why Abd-al-Rahman too acted so jittery?

“No, it is best that we stay here,” the Sheikh told Henry. “You will better understand what I have to say.”

Alec asked, “You mean the paper work Abu Ishak did here led to Ziyadah?”

“
And
the Black,” Abd-al-Rahman admitted, nodding his dark head. “It was to this room he came when Tabari was a little girl. From Arabia he had brought his finest horses and for the same reason as his great ancestor who had built this stronghold—
because he was fearful of desert raids
. Abu Ishak was confident that he would produce a superior horse if left alone. He carefully fused one strain with another, experimenting as no other sheikh had ever done, even Barjas ben Ishak. Finally he produced Ziyadah and realized his work was almost done.”

“
Almost
done,” Henry repeated. “I thought you told us Ziyadah had the speed of the desert winds.”

“But Abu Ishak insisted that the horse must also prove himself as a sire, one who would pass down his speed and stamina to his colts. He arranged the first and what proved to be the last mating. He sent to Arabia for
Jinah Al-Tyr
.…”

Alec repeated the name aloud and Abd-al-Rahman’s sharp eyes turned to him. “Of course you would know her name, Alec,” he said quietly. “She was the dam of the Black, and this was the mating that produced him.”

The Sheikh went to the huge fireplace and stood
before the old wire screen which guarded a rusty grate. “Her name in Arabic means
wings of the bird,
” he continued, “but Jinah Al-Tayr had lost her wings. She was so old that Abu Ishak had her brought to the court of Ziyadah by cart, for he knew her ancient legs could not have withstood the rigors of the long journey. It was only a few days after the mating that Ziyadah escaped.”

Abd-al-Rahman’s gaze swept the bare room. “Abu Ishak remained here until mountaineers found the skeleton of a horse which he pronounced that of Ziyadah. Then he left this room and house never to return.”

Henry moved toward the door. “Later in Arabia, Jinah Al-Tayr foaled the Black, is that it?” he asked.

The Sheikh nodded. “Yes, and Abu Ishak watched him grow with great pride, knowing Ziyadah lived again.” He paused, smiling. “Please do not leave, Henry,” he asked most graciously.

Henry did not like the Sheikh’s smile any more than he did the room. “I thought you were done,” he said.

Abd-al-Rahman’s smile disappeared. “No, as a matter of fact, it is only here that I enter the story. What I have told you I have learned from Tabari.”

The Sheikh returned to the desk, his right hand coming down on it with such force that the lamp rocked on its base, throwing its unsteady gleam into the deep shadows of the room.

Alec shifted his feet uneasily upon the stone floor. He felt the heat and closeness of the room more than ever as the Sheikh suddenly turned his dark eyes on him.

“Little did Abu Ishak dream that the final result of all his work and that of his ancestors would be responsible
for his own death. If he had not already willed the Black to you, Alec, Tabari would have had him destroyed on the very spot where he threw her father. It is ironical, is it not, that while both Ziyadah and his first son are here Abu Ishak is dead?”

Henry had moved back from the door. “Not only ironical but most interesting,” he said. “How do
you
figure in all this?”