The Black Stallion's Ghost (2 page)

She turned her head as if she didn't know where the sounds were coming from, or why. She began trotting around the ring, slowly at first, but as the notes quickened so did her flying feet. The notes became a horrible whistling. She slowed abruptly, as if realizing there was no running away from the crackling noise. The notes became slow with her strides, even sly, with long pauses in between.

She continued trotting around the ring but now her strides kept time with the notes. She paused with each syncopated step, dancing as she moved in measured, cadenced strides, the embodiment of supreme grace and beauty.

The captain missed nothing as he watched her floating about the ring with no movement of ears or nostrils.
Like a ghost
, he thought,
her namesake—but a ghost only in her lightness of foot
. She was very much alive, his mare. Everything in her was attuned to the music. She raised her legs high in time to the rhythm.

The pauses between the shrill notes became longer. Obediently, she slowed her strides without lessening their lofty height, giving the impression of barely touching the ground as she moved forward.

He watched her perform the
passage
, and wondered how anyone in the audience could not be captivated by her dancing fire, even if ignorant of the noble art of dressage in its highest form. There was no evidence
of her great strength being tried in the disciplined, controlled trot. Instead, it was as if she performed that slow, measured pace for her own delight.

Did the Swedes appreciate what she was doing riderless
? he wondered.
Without benefit of physical commands of hands and legs to prompt and guide her into the movements of
haute école? Almost every circus could boast of having a horse and rider skilled in dressage. But no horse, so far as he knew, could give such an exhibition alone! It had taken years of hard work to achieve this perfection!

The music grew louder, flowing around him and into the hall. The piping notes in the background were barely audible but he heard them, as she did. They became more distinct, more commanding, and her movements changed quickly.

She slowed her forward movement still more without the slightest change in gait or lofty carriage. Suddenly she was trotting in place, her hoofs faultless in their timing, and dancing like the “god-horse” the ringmaster had announced. Truly, she did not look earthbound!

The captain watched her perform the
piaffe
with critical eyes, and saw no mistakes. In all the years they had worked together, she had never been as faultless as now.

Finally the music stopped and she was released from the
piaffe
. She made a slow circuit of the ring, then stopped to stand magnificently in the spotlight as if awaiting the acclaim she knew she deserved.

With great effort, the captain controlled his anger at the crowd's polite but restrained applause. In every other country they had played she had received a
tumultuous ovation at this moment. His disappointment was not for himself but for her. He knew she missed the cheering. Always, she reacted to a stirring wave of applause by working better.

As if in a great cathedral, the crowd waited without word or sound for the mare to go into her next display. The captain resented the coldness of the elegantly dressed audience. Were the Swedes unimaginative as well as dull and unappreciative? Were their reactions based on what they knew was expected of them as a nation of reserved and practical people?

He was angry inside and he sought to quell the mounting hot temperament of his own blood. Yet a freezing coldness was there, too, controlled but with an ever-creeping deadliness. He concealed it well. Nothing showed in his face. He looked calm and dispassionate, his eyes a steady, black stare.

He watched his mare as she quickly responded to the clash of cymbals by breaking into a canter. The cadence of her hoofs picked up as if she had been eagerly awaiting the change of pace. And yet her quickening strides were more floating than driving, so she appeared no more earthbound than she had at a trot.

Faster and faster she circled the ring until she was in a gallop. Suddenly she spun on her hind legs, pirouetting in place and spinning in a small circle as if she sought to drive a hole into the tanbark with her hoofs.

The music rose in a great crescendo and a moment later she lifted her forelegs in the air at an acute angle while balancing herself on her hind legs. She held this pose for several seconds before coming down.

The captain waited for the crowd to applaud her
levade
, and when the rippling of applause finally came, he smiled. She was reaching them and she had much more to give.

To the roll of the drums, she rose again in the
levade
and finished with four jumps on her hind legs that carried her across the ring in the
courbette
. Only then did she bring down her forelegs and trot slowly around the ring, still swaying to the music, forever dancing.

His heart went out to her, for he knew how much she enjoyed her dancing. It was the woman in her, he thought. No stallion, no gelding he had ever trained could equal her lightness of foot, her natural rhythm.

He no longer cared if the crowd applauded or not. It made little difference now. He was celebrating with her these difficult movements brought to perfection by their many years of work together. Her own will had merged with his. She was indeed one with him in all respects.

Now, nearing the end of her performance, she was in the center of the ring. The music faded and only the shrill notes of the flute were heard. They became louder, as they had been at the beginning, and she responded quickly to these signals. Everything in her was alerted. It was evident in the movement of her muscles beneath the spotlight, in the quivering of her nostrils and the ceaseless twitching of her ears.

Once more the notes were so constant that they became a horrible whistle. As they approached their highest pitch, it appeared that she could no longer tolerate them and sought escape. She sprang into the air with her forelegs stretched out while drawing her hind legs beneath her in the difficult
ballotade
.

The captain was unmindful of the applause. He heard only the horrible whistling notes and his eyes were only for the mare. Again she rose from the ground. This time in midair she kicked out her hind legs savagely in unison with her forelegs as if to ward off a pursuer. Truly, she appeared to be a winged horse, a Pegasus, soaring through the air, her head raised high and her mane and tail flying!

The breathtaking
capriole
was the climax of her performance, and when she had finished the lights in the great hall went on, growing in brightness and brilliance. The mare stood still in the center of the ring, her ears alert, her nostrils flaring.

The ringmaster motioned the captain forward and he joined his mare reluctantly, standing beside her in his dark evening clothes.

He raised his hand to acknowledge the ever-mounting applause of the crowd when they saw him. Like her, his movements were proud, cool and controlled. It was not as he wanted it. They applauded now because he stood with her beneath glaring lights and they were able to see and judge the act for what it had been—a serious exhibition of horse training.

Few Swedes cared about imagination of any sort, he decided. They wanted their Art to be obedient and useful, nothing that might ever excel and surpass life itself. They had seen no ghost-horse, no winged Pegasus—only a well-trained animal. They would not waste their time pursuing idle fantasies. They had no part in his own imaginative world.

He had little use for such practical people, and he did not want to be influenced or changed by them and
others of their kind. He ceased listening to the applause and concentrated only on his mare and his own thoughts. He stroked her neck beneath the gray mane.

This was to be his last circus performance in Europe, for he had agreed to a contract with Ringling Bros. Barnum and Bailey in the United States. It meant a well-deserved vacation for him and his mare; they would not have to work again until he joined the Ringling Circus at its training quarters in Florida.

He would leave this land of coldness behind to pursue something he'd wanted to do all his life. He would visit Haiti on his way to the United States and find out for himself what the land of his ancestors was truly like. He had heard many strange things about Haiti and a legend that was filled with impossible events—one he'd been told by his father, when a child, passed on from generation to generation as part of their heritage. He had an overpowering urge to learn more about the legend, and because he believed in signs and omens, the contract with Ringling Bros. coming at this time pointed the way.

The applause continued and he saw some children standing up and hanging over a balcony rail, waving their programs at him. He waved back, knowing they had seen The Ghost as he had planned they should see her. The circus was for children and the imagination of children.

The lights dimmed except for the yellow spotlight as he backed his beloved mare out of the ring. Little did she know what he had in store for her across the ocean. He wanted her to have a foal and he had found the stallion that was right for her in every way. He had seen
him on Swedish television only that week, a horse called the Black, the American champion, winning a great race in Florida. That he should find such a stallion now, after so many years of searching, was still another sign that pointed the way for him. He was determined that nothing would keep him from acquiring the Black for his mare. He was a man who took what he wanted. He was as remorseless as he was powerful.

The applause continued long after he stepped behind the black velvet curtain, but he did not return to acknowledge it.

The stallion tossed his head, sniffing the spring air with dilated nostrils. He was a coal-black silhouette against the golden light of early morning. Within his great body was a fierce, insistent, almost intolerable longing for a mate. He became more excited than ever when the wind brought the sharp odor of mares to him from a distant pasture.

He gave a sudden shrill neigh which was clearly meant for the mares he could not see but knew were there. He gathered himself, rocked back on his hindquarters, and plunged forward. The morning echoed to the wild pounding of his hoofs as he raced down the field, his black mane and long, thick tail gleaming brilliantly in the sun.

He kept close to the arrow-straight fence which separated him from other paddocks and fields like his own, all green with lush grass. When he came to the end he stretched his head high, peering over the top board.

Now he could see the mares and he shrilled again the high, clear note of the stallion—challenging and passionate and urgent with life. His calls shattered the morning stillness and some of the mares raised their heads and turned his way. A few began to gallop in wide circles but the majority continued grazing as if they had not heard his love call. He repeated his clear, happy neigh of desire, hoping to attract the running mares—but soon they, too, turned away from him and continued grazing.

In ever-mounting fury and frustration he raced back and forth along the high fence, displaying all his speed and strength and fire. When he stopped it was only to paw the ground and send clods of earth flying. His neigh changed with his stomping; it became more metallic and threatening, more demanding than loving.

The mares raised their heads again and listened. They saw the stallion in all his maturity and masterfulness. They listened to his calls, which rang so defiantly across the field. Then, as one, they took flight, streaming away from him in a tangle of bodies and plunging hoofs.

He watched them go, his eyes sparkling with a savage fire. He continued snorting and the veins beneath his silken coat swelled. He rushed madly in a wild gallop that sent the earth flying from his hoofs.

Later, when his anger was spent, he sought the shade of a towering oak tree. There he carefully lowered his body to the ground. He rolled over, his legs hanging limply in the air, and rubbed his back and hindquarters against the cool turf.

Alec Ramsay had watched his horse from a
perch on the top board of the fence. “Is that the way to behave?” he called to the Black. “You should know better.”

The stallion continued rolling, paying no attention to him. It didn't matter; Alec had learned long ago to speak to the Black whether or not the stallion listened.

Alec smelled the pungent odor of steaming cane juice in the air and looked beyond the green carpet of fenced pastures to the tall chimneys of a distant sugar mill. Long columns of gray smoke floated and wavered above the stacks, scenting the land with an almost overpowering sweetness. Sugarfoot Ranch was an appropriate name for this place, he decided.

After having spent the previous two months in the teeming coastal city of Miami, Alec had not expected south-central Florida to be as enjoyable as it was. Most winter visitors, like himself, were lured to the coastal areas and never saw the vast, sparsely populated region on the edge of the Everglades.

He turned his face to the tropical sun, enjoying it and the peaceful quiet. His hard body beneath T-shirt and jeans was as brown as his face. He was thoroughly happy with his well-earned vacation after the grueling races at Hialeah Park in Miami. There was no one around to tell him what to do. The Black was his sole responsibility. It was almost as it had been in the beginning, so long ago.

He watched a great heron in long-legged flight against the blue sky and listened to its raucous cry. He followed it as it flew low over a grove of tall coconut palms, the fronds moving languidly in the soft breeze.

His gaze returned to his horse and he found the
Black still lying on his back, his hind legs drawn up and forelegs spread outward. Alec smiled; it was a most unusual position for a horse who led such an active life. Perhaps the Black, too, was succumbing to the languor of this land.