The Black Stallion's Ghost (5 page)

Anger glittered in the man's eyes and it was evident that the mare felt his annoyance. Her body moved violently. There was a gentle pressure of the man's hands and it was enough to restrain her.

“I'm sorry about that,” Alec said.

“It was to be expected.” The man's gaze remained on the stallion. “It is good to hear one talk to animals as you do,” he added. “It is a simple thing, but few seem to know it is the only way.”

Alec was used to having professionals scrutinize his horse, just as he, too, carefully noted everything about another's. He studied the mare before him. She possessed the full, unsloped croup and high-set tail so characteristic of the Arabian. Her long, arched neck and slim, sinewy legs indicated the desert breed as well. But her head, although tapered, did not have the dish-faced profile of the Arabian. And she had a slight ramlike convex nose common to Spanish-Barbary stock. She was broad of chest and deep through the heart like the Lippizaner, and had that breed's wider hips and back ribs. The additional “room inside” and the compactness of body structure gave her stamina as well as force.

Alec decided that she might well possess the best of many breeds—or, at least, the best for the kind of work she was doing. Her height was just under sixteen
hands, and her weight was proportionate to her size, solid but not heavy. She was a mare he would have liked to own.

His gaze and thoughts returned to her rider as the man dismounted. Alec's first reaction was that he had been right—the man was well over six feet tall.

“My name is Captain Philippe de Pluminel,” he said.

Alec took the man's offered hand. “Mine is Alec Ramsay.” He smiled, hoping the captain would smile back and, perhaps, explain what he was doing with such a highly trained horse on a remote hammock in the Everglades.

No smile appeared on the man's masklike face. Yet Alec found that it did not frighten him any longer. He recalled other horsemen who allowed no emotion to show on their faces so as to reveal nothing of themselves or their motives. Alec decided that he would let the captain divulge as much or as little as he chose without any prodding from him. If he read the dark face correctly, this was a man of experience, used to command and, most of all, impatient with anyone who questioned him too closely. And, apparently, Alec's name meant nothing to the captain—just as the name Captain Philippe de Pluminel was not familiar to him.

The mare became excited again, tossing her head and blowing through large dilated nostrils. The captain quieted her while keeping his eyes on the stallion.

“Your horse,
Monsieur
Ramsay,” he said finally, “is superb. I have seen him before but only on the television. It was while I was in Sweden last month.” Then his unblinking black eyes turned to Alec. “And you … 
yes, you were riding him in the race I saw. But I did not think …” He paused, his eyes revealing an emotion for the first time.

Alec was used to people looking surprised when they first met him. He was no one's idea of a prosperous and well-known rider. For one thing, he appeared too young, although most times he didn't feel it. And today he was wearing the most tattered jeans and worn-out boots he possessed. But the captain's bewildered look made him feel better about being there. The man was human after all.

“I apologize,” the captain said, smiling for the first time. “I should have known right away, seeing you with such a horse.”

“Not at all. You didn't expect to see me, any more than I did you.” Alec paused and found it easier to meet the man's eyes. It was time for a question of his own. “And you … do you live here?”

There was no hesitation in the captain's reply; it was as if the barrier between them had been dropped quickly. The smile remained on his thick lips as he said, “Only for a short time. My home is in France, but then”—he shrugged his shoulders—“anywhere the circus plays I call home. I have a contract with your Ringling Bros. Barnum and Bailey Circus beginning in April.”

Everything was falling in place. The winter training quarters of the Ringling Circus was in Venice, Florida, not far to the north. The captain and his mare were probably on their way to it, whatever his reason might be for stopping off at this remote hammock. Perhaps the captain's reason was little different from his own—an opportunity to “freshen up” in a place where
no one knew him, preparing himself and his mare for the hard season to come. If he looked at it that way, Alec summed up, their meeting in the swamp was not frightening at all.

The Black pushed his body hard against him, and Alec knew he should get him out of there immediately. “I'd better go,” he said, his gaze turning to his horse.

“There will be no trouble. We can keep them apart.” The captain's words were clipped and more heavily accented than before in what seemed to be sudden urgency. “I would like you to stay very much.” There was a long pause while Alec turned to him. “Please,
Monsieur
Ramsay, I beg you to stay, if only to have lunch with me.”

“Lunch?” Alec repeated, more to himself than to the man. It seemed incongruous that in the middle of a swamp he should be asked graciously to lunch as if he were back in town. He looked beyond the meadow but saw nothing except jungle-choked mangroves etched against the incredible blue of the sky.

“My house is just a short distance away,” the captain said, “and you must be tired. It will do you and your horse good to rest before starting back. As I said, there will be no problem with our horses. We are professionals, are we not?”

The captain did not wait for an answer but moved along, leading his mare toward the mangroves. Alec hesitated, then followed quickly—almost as if the decision had been made for him and he had no choice. He was amused by his thoughts. His inquisitiveness had been aroused and he wanted to learn more about Captain Philippe de Pluminel. No harm could come from
having lunch with him. And, as the captain had so rightly said, both he and the Black could use a rest before starting back.

The captain walked with the same lightness he had shown in the saddle. He moved more like a cat than like a man over six feet tall and so heavily muscled. He strode along a wide path through the mangroves without once looking back to see if Alec followed; it was as if he expected nothing but obedience to his wishes.

Alec kept a strong hold on the Black's halter. He did not find the man's conceit amusing but was determined to know more about him. He found that he was a little apprehensive but not afraid.
Fear
was something he had no thought of ever disclosing to this man. He, too, could conceal his emotions when necessary.

Alec's steps slowed as they emerged from the mangroves and he found himself in a cultivated garden of riotous colors. The brilliant red of poinsettia bushes was everywhere and there were rows and rows of hibiscus and poinciana plants.

If he had had any doubt the flowering paradise was the work of man, he had only to look beyond. Near the edge of the saw-grass swamp was a house, shaded and half-hidden by towering trees and shrubs. Alec followed the captain toward it.

It looked like a farmhouse and it had been built on stilts, perhaps to keep out the high water of the swamp during the rainy season. But as they drew closer, Alec saw it was like no farmhouse he'd ever seen before. The roof was fantastic. It rose high in the center and was topped by a strange-looking tower. What made it even more fantastic was that the roof dipped down on
the opposite side almost to the ground! Never in his life had Alec ever seen a more ridiculous-looking building. It was made of unpainted cypress wood but looked more like one built of papier-mâché by a completely demented person.

Without a word, the captain strode onto a path that led toward the rear of the house, not bothering to glance behind to note Alec's reaction to the strange-looking house. He crossed another clearing and went directly to a small barn.

Alec waited while the captain put the mare away. The Black hated to see her go and there seemed to be no end to his nickering.

When the captain returned he said, “I have another place for your horse.” His eyes were evasive and Alec felt the first stirring of fear within him. He shrugged it off and followed.

Beyond the barn and deep in a grove of coconut palms, they came to a low shed, freshly whitewashed. The captain pulled open the double doors. Inside was a single room with a dirt floor, empty of machinery and adequate for use as a temporary stall.

“He'll be all right here,” the captain said. “We can give him water and a bit of hay.”

Alec nodded. It would be only a short while before he'd be leaving.

After taking care of his horse, he walked alongside the captain toward the house. There was some kind of game going on between them, he decided; it was apparent the captain wouldn't impart any information willingly, and Alec was determined to wait him out.

They went up the long steps leading to the front
entrance and Alec noted the strange symbols and ornaments carved on the heavy oaken door. The interior was dim, for the few windows in it were shuttered and deeply recessed. As his eyes became adjusted to the semi-darkness, he saw a large living room with hand-hewn beams running across the ceiling and a great fireplace in which a fire was smoldering. The odor of burning wood filled the room.

It was a hot day and yet the house was chilly, even cold, despite the fire. Alec shivered. He couldn't be sure whether it was the cold or his mounting uneasiness that caused it.

The captain's tall figure moved across the room, momentarily blocking out the light from a window. He called loudly, “
Odin! Odin! Êtes-vous ici
?”

Alec's knowledge of French was only elementary but it was enough for him to understand that the captain had called, “Odin! Odin! Are you here?” Then the captain did not live alone. Who was Odin?

After a moment's hesitation, Alec followed the captain into the next room, which turned out to be the kitchen. It had a wood-burning stove, a large sink, a hand pump, and some utensils. But there was no one there and the captain left it for still another room beyond.

Alec went to the doorway and peered inside. The window shutters were closed, and in the dim light of a kerosene lamp he could see an old man sitting on a high straight-backed chair. The captain stood beside him, speaking rapidly in French.

Alec made no attempt to understand what was being said. He was startled by the old man's appearance;
he wore a big, shapeless black felt hat and in his right hand he held a long rod with a spear-tipped end.

Alec backed away from the doorway, then came to a stop as the old man rose from the chair and took a step toward him. Odin was wearing a crimson smock with gold braid around the edges. Beneath the smock Alec saw a laborer's corduroy trousers thrust into the tops of knee boots. The old man was gazing at him steadily, and the captain, too, now turned in his direction.

Alec stood still, startled by the weird sight, his mind working feverishly.
Who were these people?
And this Odin—his face was neither Indian nor black but a combination of both, and perhaps other races as well. His skin was old and weathered from decades of living in the sun, and yet his eyes were not aged at all. They burned into Alec's with almost savage intensity.

What have I walked into, so unprepared?
he wondered.

The old man stood quietly, his legs astride, watching Alec. Then, suddenly, he raised a huge brown hand to his chest in some sort of ritualistic gesture. With that the captain spoke, as if on signal.

“I have explained to him that you are my guest,” he said. “There is nothing to fear. He is just very old.” The coldness in the captain's eyes made Alec feel uneasy despite the comforting words.

“But he is very capable despite his age,” the captain continued. “He goes where he pleases and wants only to be left alone. Take his hand, Alec. I beg of you … 
je vous en prie,
” he added urgently, his gaze returning to the old man.

Alec was frightened, feeling that anything might happen. He reached out for the old man's hand.

If felt cool and, despite its size and strength, there was no pressure at all. It was almost as if he were touching a ghost. Alec wondered if he was being successful in keeping the alarm from showing in his eyes.

They returned to the large living room, leaving the old man alone. The captain put his arm around Alec's shoulders and said warmly, “Now, we shall have our lunch and talk. We have much to discuss,
oui
?”

Alec looked at him. Those dark, unblinking eyes would give nothing away. And Alec found that he didn't care about learning anything more. He wanted no answers to this mystery. His only thought now was to get away. He could no longer ignore the chill running down his spine and there was no way to stop it. The realization had come to him that there was not just
one
unstable man in this place, and of the two men the captain was the more dangerous.

Alec realized that his sudden desire to leave came as no surprise to this man. He believed that the captain had expected it all along. He found the silence of the room and the man's cold stare more alarming than the fear within him.

Was the captain truly dangerous, as he believed, or were his suspicions brought about by this unusual house and the old man in the back room? Alec had never dreamed he could be so susceptible to moods and surroundings. It was as if his brain had become a battlefield of conflicting emotions.

The captain smiled at him, a small smile, almost a grimace but a smile nevertheless. It threw Alec completely off balance again. There might not be anything to fear from this man, he told himself. The captain was eccentric, of course, a person of many moods, but not mad.

“It is not a cheerful house,” the captain said quietly. “It was built more for shelter and protection than
warmth and light. However, we can make it a little more pleasant.”