The Black Stallion's Ghost (8 page)

Alec didn't like it. The mare was so ready to be bred. His concern must have been obvious, for the captain said, “You needn't worry. I can put him at the far end of the barn, well away from her.”

“All right,” Alec said resignedly.

Later, he walked beside the captain through the evening shadows. He had spent the last hour as he would have done at home, putting up his horse for the night. He had brushed him off and cleaned his feet. He had fetched water and hay for him and put his bed straight. He had made sure the stall door was locked, so there was no possibility of the Black's getting to the mare—but he knew his horse's squeals would go on most of the night. There was nothing more to be done except wait for morning, when he could leave.

He wondered if it had been a mistake to stay. Perhaps he should have tried to make it, even going with Odin part of the way. But he didn't trust the old man. A short while ago, he had seen him disappear into the gravelike hush of the swamp, taking to the Seminole village the message which the captain had given him. No, Alec decided, he would not have wanted to go along with Odin.

Yet how much safer was he here? Alec tried to shrug off this line of thought. It was silly to think he was in any danger. He was with another horseman who had been good enough to put him up for the night.

A mist hung over the silver-blue sheen of the swamp; the stars shone like primrose diamonds in the heavens. It was really a very beautiful night. Nothing moved. Nothing stirred. One should feel a great peace on such a night, and yet …

Alec felt no peace, only a sudden dread. He tried to shake it off and couldn't. He had the crazy thought that the captain would
not
have let him leave the hammock even if it hadn't been for the storm. Why did the captain want him there?

The strange house where he must spend the night loomed before him.

Alec was given a bedroom on the second floor. After washing, he went to the open window that looked out over the swamp to the south and west. He still had no idea why the captain was in the Everglades. It had to be for reasons other than privacy, although Alec was sure that must have something to do with it. Was it, as well, to retrace the steps of his long-dead ancestor, the guide to a Spanish Conquistador? If so,
why
?

Alec could feel the throbbing in his temples; he knew it to be a self-warning of danger despite the aura of peace and quiet that had settled over the hammock and the swamp.

Why did he feel the need to be so alert when everything appeared to be perfectly all right? The message had been sent to Sugarfoot Ranch. In the light of early morning, he would be on his way back.

Yet appearances could be deceptive, and the captain seemed anything but normal. Alec remained at the
window, his face silhouetted against the light, breathing in the night air.

He wasn't afraid, he told himself, only concerned and cautious. If he had been afraid, he would have been able to smell his fear; it had a scent of its own and was unmistakable. He hated it.

He had every right to be suspicious. He couldn't be certain Odin had taken the message to the Indian village and that it would reach the ranch. However, there was nothing he could do about it except to be alert every minute he remained on the hammock. Caution was not cowardice. Caution was born of wisdom that he had acquired the hard way. Like the captain, he, too, was a professional.

Alec gazed at the vast expanse of saw grass and wondered how much of it was tinder-dry. The afternoon storm had done little to relieve the drought, but at least it was the forerunner of the wet season to come, when torrential rains would help keep the Everglades alive.

He saw no evidence of smoke or fire as a result of the lightning. Yet he knew that in some areas the deep deposits of peat soil were powder-dry and, once ignited, might smolder for days, if not weeks. There was always the danger of the sea of grass becoming a sea of fire from such a storm. It was not a prospect to make one feel at ease. He turned away from the window and left the room.

He had reached the top of the dimly lit stairs when he heard the music. It was very faint at first, then it swelled, mounting to a clash of cymbals before fading away again.

Alec started down the stairs. The captain must be playing a record on the phonograph he had seen earlier. The music had a strange, dreamlike quality.

He heard a thin, haunting piping sound and, despite his knowing that he was listening to a record, a shiver went up his back. It was a long flute passage, mysterious and remote, and yet he was certain he had heard it before!

Alec came to a dead stop, for the music suddenly created a feeling that
something
was about to happen. The haunting flute passage ended but other sounds from other instruments came to him in the darkness of the stairs, taking him far beyond the house to the outer world of stars and distant solitude.

He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the strange mood that had come over him. It was weird music, almost uncanny. The notes seemed to have receding echoes, giving him the distinct impression that he was listening to the shrill cries of distant birds. It was ominous music and yet he found he was not frightened by it. Instead it brought to him a feeling of excitement, an intoxicating sense of danger, of challenge!

The flute passage began again. He listened to the shrill, piping notes, wondering why they sounded familiar to him. He could not have explained the way he felt except by saying that he seemed to be suspended in some kind of dream.

There had to be a reason for the familiarity of the notes. He sought it desperately, knowing that the explanation would shake the unreal mood that held him. The answer finally came to him.

The bird notes he had heard on his way here! The notes
had followed him for a short while. Actually he had never seen the bird, if it had been a bird at all
.

The music quickened and Alec's heart raced with it. Perhaps it was only a coincidence that the haunting notes of the flute were similar to the ones he had heard in the brush; yet the similarity alarmed him. He smelled his own fear.

The music came to an end but it was a full minute before Alec moved. Only when he heard the unmistakable sounds of the captain removing the record from the turntable did he continue down the stairs. When he entered the large living room he had regained control of himself.

The captain, searching Alec's eyes to learn his reaction to the weird music, shifted his gaze to Alec's hands. Alec quickly unclenched them. He had no intention of letting the man know what he was thinking. He moved easily across the room to the phonograph and glanced at the record.

“I've never heard more
ghostly
music,” he said.

“Many find it frightening,” the captain answered, his voice oddly deep. He placed the record on a high shelf.

“I'm not surprised,” Alec said quietly.

For the first time, he noticed the twitching of a muscle on the right side of the captain's cheek. Evidently the man wasn't as relaxed as he pretended to be. It made it easier for Alec to meet the captain's eyes.

“Although I helped write the music,” the captain continued, “there are times when it frightens me, too.” He smiled slightly and put a hand on Alec's arm, leading
him across the room to the high-backed chairs beside the fireplace.

“You're a composer as well?” Alec asked, impressed. Frightening as the music had been, he recognized its high quality.

“Oh, no, Alec,” the captain said. He lit the oil lamp overhead. “It's the only music I've ever written and it happened quite by accident. Well, if not by accident, under rather strange circumstances. Would you like to hear about it?”

Alec sensed the captain's mood and knew he would go on without any encouragement from him, but he nodded anyway.

Several seconds passed before the captain spoke again. “I have no musical talent, but like most circus performers I have always given intense thought to the music that accompanies my act.” His dark eyes were staring into space. “In many ways the music is as important as the training, for it creates the mood to which performers, as well as the audience, respond.

“Years ago, I had a friend in Paris, a remarkable music teacher, a man of great skill and talent. I told André of my new act and asked him for music that would give my mare the necessary cues for her movements and, at the same time, create an ethereal, ghostlike mood.”

The captain paused, his eyes becoming focused on Alec again. “You see, Alec, she works alone in the ring.”

“
Alone
?” Alec repeated. “Without your hands and legs to guide her? I wouldn't think it possible.”

“Her cues are set to music, as I have said,” the captain went on quickly and with pride. “Not easy, of course, but I have accomplished it. She works in a dim spotlight in a darkened arena. It is most effective.”

“I should think so,” Alec said, impressed.

“She is called The Ghost. Do you think it is a little too frightening for Americans?”

“Not at all,” Alec said, smiling and feeling more at ease. “Ghosts are popular in America, too.”

“
Bon
, that is fine, for I did not want to change it. But to return to my music. I told André that I must have an original composition, something entirely different to create the mood I wanted for The Ghost.

“I recall pacing his studio, trying to explain to him what I meant. I began humming to help transfer my thoughts to music. And, as always when I'm perplexed, I began rubbing the little figurine which I have carried since I was a small boy.”

The captain paused, a large hand digging into his pants pocket. He held a small image before Alec's eyes. “This is she,” he said in a confiding tone. “Without her I would be nothing.”

Alec stared in astonishment at the grotesque object in the captain's hand. It was yellow and might well have been solid gold. Even so, it was not the value of the figurine that startled him but the large head with the small green eyes and the long, pointed ears. The body was frightening, too, for it was thin and horribly twisted, as if she—if it could be called a female figure—was in agony.

Never in Alec's life had he seen a more ugly, evil-looking object. He tried to keep the disgust from his
face, for the captain was holding the figurine lovingly in his large black hands. Only when his fingers closed over the figurine, shutting it off from Alec's view, did he resume his story.

“You must understand, Alec,” he went on, his tone still confiding, “that André was a man to whom music was the most important thing in life. He had no use for would-be musicians like myself. Nevertheless, he listened to my humming a long while and then he said,
‘Philippe, you are a most peculiar man in many ways.'

“Then he asked me to continue my humming while he put the notes down on paper. At first, I thought he meant it just as a gesture. But he was serious, and in a moment I had lost my self-consciousness and the melody came effortlessly, almost of its own accord. I recall feeling very strange at the time and yet being very calm about it.

“The only thing that mattered,” the captain went on, “was that I knew the tune was exactly right for the mood I'd hoped to create. André knew it, too. He asked me to repeat it time and time again. I had no trouble obliging him for it was as if I had always known it.”

The captain's gaze met Alec's. “This I know now to be true, Alec. The melody itself was deep in my subconscious, some memory of my parents' or grandparents' singing when I was a child, its origin more Carib Indian than Haitian or African. All my life I have obeyed the promptings of my inner self and it has accounted for much of what I have accomplished in my work. No one else would have dared attempt to train an
haute école
horse to obey musical cues!”

Alec wanted to look away from the captain's unblinking gaze but couldn't, so he nodded his head in full agreement. He must not make an enemy of this man. Nothing was as simple as it sounded, but he'd better believe the captain if he wanted to remain friends with him.

“André completed the arrangements, writing parts for all the instruments, and we had an original composition of breathtaking beauty so right for my act.”

Alec said nothing, not thinking it wise to bring up the
fearful
quality of the music as well. He watched the curled fingers of the man's hand open and once again the gold figurine was exposed to his view.

“Do you believe in the powers of the
supernatural
, Alec?” the captain asked softly.

Alec tried to shrug off a sudden feeling of dread. He said half-jokingly, “I carry a good-luck piece like a lot of other superstitious jockeys, if that's what you mean.”

“I mean much more than that,” the captain said. “Do you believe in signs and omens?”

“I suppose everyone feels he's had a premonition now and then of something that might happen. But to answer your question, no, I don't believe in signs and omens, Captain.”

“It is not your nature to believe as it is mine,” the captain said. “I am more superstitious than most men. I believe strongly in her powers.” He raised the figurine to Alec's face. “I must never let her fall into strange, unkind hands.”

Again Alec fought the impulse to turn away from the frightening ugliness of the image. He must not let
the captain know how he felt. He stared into the figurine's green eyes held opposite his own. They seemed to be winking back at him. He knew his imagination was playing tricks on him but he didn't turn away. Why did the captain want to know how much he could take before he revealed his fears openly?

The green eyes continued winking and Alec had no idea how many minutes he looked into them before the captain put the figurine back in his pocket.

“It has been in my family for many, many generations,” the captain said, his voice now more matter-of-fact. “Strangely enough, some of my ancestors believed—as does Odin—that it was found in an Indian burial mound not far from this hammock.”