The Young Black Stallion Read Free

sleek skin as the black colt walked away from the others. When he stopped, it was to raise his head defiantly. His eyes, set low in his wide, prominent forehead, missed nothing.
    “He is too nervous to live in our tents as a family friend,” the young man continued. “There is nothing to fear here, and yet he will not quietly graze like the others. It is not a good omen for our tribe.”
    “True—he is not like the others,” the old man said solemnly. “Neither is he bred like the others.”
    “Ah,” the young man said, smiling. “It is his
breeding
that you have kept secret. You who must watch the mating of every mare to every stallion. I see him now with your eyes. He is not purely bred. The length of his back along with the largeness of his body are so evident. But, truly, there is a preponderance of Arabian blood in him or he would not have such a fine head. Tell me again, Great Father, what is he called?”
    “Shêtân, he is called, the name given him by our chieftain the night he was foaled. It was then Abu Ishak said to me, ‘Mark this hour well, Great Friend, for the colt of colts has been foaled. He is born of fire, and no other will dare play with him for fear of incurring his wrath!’ ”
    “But why curse such a noble animal with the name of the Devil himself?” interrupted the young herder.
    The old man shook his head impatiently. “The name is a sign of respect, not a curse. It is a warning for men to beware the powerful stallion this colt will become. Have you not seen the fire in his eyes? From the moment he was foaled, it was plain to behold that he would be different from the others.”
    The young herder smiled doubtfully. “As you say, Great Father. For me, the color is the most striking difference. Abu Ishak is not alone in wanting a black Arabian as his most cherished possession. They are rare indeed, and one is fortunate to either breed or steal one. Tell me, Great Father, who was the dam?”
    “It was the mare Jinah Al-Tayr, Wings of the Bird. But Jinah Al-Tayr had lost her wings,” he added sadly.“She was so old that I had to bring her here by cart, for her ancient legs could not have carried her so far.”
    “Why did our chieftain go to so much trouble, Great Father?”
    “Abu Ishak is a very wise breeder,” the old man said. “He knows the genealogy of his horses from the days of Mohammed and sometimes even before. He wanted an outcross to the blood of Jinah Al-Tayr, for he believed that the pure Arabian horse of his ancestors had been so intensely inbred over the centuries that he no longer was a prolific breeding animal.”
    “So he bred the old mare to Ziyadah?” the young man asked. “It is known that he is the most superb in speed among all our stallions.”
    Pulling his cloak about him, the old man said, “Perhaps. It is what we were told to believe.”
    “But you, Great Father, are chief herder. You record each mating. You must know.”
    “I know many things, my son. Such as, Ziyadah sires colts the color of himself, chestnut with eyes a light brown, as golden as his coat. There is no resemblance to Ziyadah in this black colt, neither in color nor substance.”
    The young man’s almond-shaped eyes were alive with curiosity. “What do you mean, Great Father?” he asked kindly, not wanting to prod too strongly. He had great respect for the weary old man, but he wanted to hear this tale once again. He had no doubt that the ancient herder changed the details of his stories from time to time. “Is the black colt then like Jinah Al-Tayr, whom I never have seen?”
    “No, he is not like her either,” the old man replied.“Although Jinah Al-Tayr, buried now beneath the ground, was tall and long-bodied, more in keeping with his size. But she never before had foaled a black colt, and never one like this.”
    “Then what do you mean, Great Father?” the young man cried, forgetting all caution. “Why have I heard you call the black colt the Son of the Midnight Sky?