Read Online The Young Black Stallion by Walter Farley - Free Book Online
Authors: Walter Farley
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He closed his eyes, trying to dream of the desert, but even with his blanket he was too cold to sleep. He pulled out a cloth he found under a pile of sticks on the floor and wrapped it around himself as a second blanket.
When he woke, the gray luster of dawn had already filled the room. Images from his dreams lingered there like ghosts. He saw the falcon circling on the ceiling overhead, the one who pursued him like a vulture. The haunted face of the old herdsman accused him. Rashid’s cries rose up in the cold, gusting wind as he began screaming: “But it wasn’t my fault! You fell on my knife! It wasn’t my fault!”
He sat up and gazed across the room. His focus settled on a human skull. It rested on a shelf and was encased in an elaborately carved black cabinet. For a moment he stared into the vacant sockets of the long-dead eyes. He seemed to be drawn into those dark tunnels, pulled by some overwhelming force.
A low moaning sound filled the room as a blast of wind swept over him. The scout jumped up and rubbed his eyes. Could he believe what he was seeing? Was he really awake?
Only then did he remember last night’s journey that had led him to take refuge in these ruins.
“Rashid … Rashid,” called the wind. The scout’s heart raced. He stumbled on something and looked down to see the floor strewn with bones … human bones. This was not a ruined fortress. It was a house of the dead! What he had mistaken for dilapidated tables and benches were really coffins left out in the open.
The chalklike smell of crumbling bones was thick in the air. His body started to twitch, his fingers to shake. He suddenly felt the extra blanket with which he had slept and which was still draped over his shoulder. It seemed to cling to him. He threw it to the ground.
In horror he gazed upon the crumpled purple cloth. Chills ran down his spine and sweat began to form on his forehead. He had spent the night in a crypt covered by a death shroud! It belonged to some long-dead sheikh. The sticks on the floor were all that was left of his bones.
He ran outside and down the path, slipping on the shale, tripping over stones, unaware of anything except putting as much distance between himself and the crypt as he possibly could. When he finally stopped to catch his breath, he wiped his hands on the brittle leaves of a thorny bush to try to rid himself of the smell. The scent of the dead lingered. But for that, it all might have been a terrible dream.
Unseen terrors would haunt him for the rest of the day. He imagined the falcon waiting for him at every turn, unfurling her wings above him. The face of the old herder was encrusted in the rocks. At dusk he stopped to rest at the bottom of a ravine. He felt theweight of the shroud upon him as he lay trying to sleep and smelled the smell of death.
He didn’t know how long he’d slept when he was awakened by what sounded like the neigh of a horse. Thinking that it might be a warning of Abu Já Kub ben Ishak’s return, he cringed. But the sound slipped by with only a single echo resounding through the deep ravine. No other sound followed, and he could see nothing in the grayness. There was little difference in the light from the time he had closed his eyes. How long had it been—an hour, a day, a week? He didn’t know, but he couldn’t stay where he was. Crawling stiffly out from under his blanket and drawing his cloak about him, he vanished into the grayness.
As he left the ravine, he found the sun was rising and the air already becoming heated. He welcomed the warmth and stillness and solitude. He was high in the mountains, where no riders could follow. It meant no Ibn al Khaldun. No Abu Já Kub ben Ishak. It meant freedom. He forgot his enemies in his eagerness to find his way home. Perhaps the hunters he’d seen had lost one of their horses. The neigh he had heard might mean a loose mount that would help him get there!
He moved carefully over the rugged trail ahead of him.
When he woke, the gray luster of dawn had already filled the room. Images from his dreams lingered there like ghosts. He saw the falcon circling on the ceiling overhead, the one who pursued him like a vulture. The haunted face of the old herdsman accused him. Rashid’s cries rose up in the cold, gusting wind as he began screaming: “But it wasn’t my fault! You fell on my knife! It wasn’t my fault!”
He sat up and gazed across the room. His focus settled on a human skull. It rested on a shelf and was encased in an elaborately carved black cabinet. For a moment he stared into the vacant sockets of the long-dead eyes. He seemed to be drawn into those dark tunnels, pulled by some overwhelming force.
A low moaning sound filled the room as a blast of wind swept over him. The scout jumped up and rubbed his eyes. Could he believe what he was seeing? Was he really awake?
Only then did he remember last night’s journey that had led him to take refuge in these ruins.
“Rashid … Rashid,” called the wind. The scout’s heart raced. He stumbled on something and looked down to see the floor strewn with bones … human bones. This was not a ruined fortress. It was a house of the dead! What he had mistaken for dilapidated tables and benches were really coffins left out in the open.
The chalklike smell of crumbling bones was thick in the air. His body started to twitch, his fingers to shake. He suddenly felt the extra blanket with which he had slept and which was still draped over his shoulder. It seemed to cling to him. He threw it to the ground.
In horror he gazed upon the crumpled purple cloth. Chills ran down his spine and sweat began to form on his forehead. He had spent the night in a crypt covered by a death shroud! It belonged to some long-dead sheikh. The sticks on the floor were all that was left of his bones.
He ran outside and down the path, slipping on the shale, tripping over stones, unaware of anything except putting as much distance between himself and the crypt as he possibly could. When he finally stopped to catch his breath, he wiped his hands on the brittle leaves of a thorny bush to try to rid himself of the smell. The scent of the dead lingered. But for that, it all might have been a terrible dream.
Unseen terrors would haunt him for the rest of the day. He imagined the falcon waiting for him at every turn, unfurling her wings above him. The face of the old herder was encrusted in the rocks. At dusk he stopped to rest at the bottom of a ravine. He felt theweight of the shroud upon him as he lay trying to sleep and smelled the smell of death.
He didn’t know how long he’d slept when he was awakened by what sounded like the neigh of a horse. Thinking that it might be a warning of Abu Já Kub ben Ishak’s return, he cringed. But the sound slipped by with only a single echo resounding through the deep ravine. No other sound followed, and he could see nothing in the grayness. There was little difference in the light from the time he had closed his eyes. How long had it been—an hour, a day, a week? He didn’t know, but he couldn’t stay where he was. Crawling stiffly out from under his blanket and drawing his cloak about him, he vanished into the grayness.
As he left the ravine, he found the sun was rising and the air already becoming heated. He welcomed the warmth and stillness and solitude. He was high in the mountains, where no riders could follow. It meant no Ibn al Khaldun. No Abu Já Kub ben Ishak. It meant freedom. He forgot his enemies in his eagerness to find his way home. Perhaps the hunters he’d seen had lost one of their horses. The neigh he had heard might mean a loose mount that would help him get there!
He moved carefully over the rugged trail ahead of him.
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