King of the Wind (4 page)

A
GBA’S THOUGHTS were brought up sharply. The door to the stall was opening silently, and Signor Achmet was standing over him, the sun glinting along his saber. An angry light leaped into his eyes as he looked down at the boy.

Agba sprang to his feet, waiting for the tongue-lashing, waiting for the bony fingers on his shoulder.

But the eyes of the Signor were no longer on him. The groom was examining the foal’s chest, his face frozen in horror. He was shoving the mare aside to look closer. At last he uttered three words and each fell with a ping, like hail on a rooftop.
“The wheat ear!”

Agba came as close as he dared. He bent low so that he, too, could see the foal’s chest. And there, just as the chief groom had said, was a cross-graining of hairs closely resembling a ripened beard of wheat.

“The wheat ear!” Signor Achmet’s voice broke. “It foretells evil. The droning of the bittern last night warned me. The yellow-eyed owl warned me. Ill luck will attend the colt’s days. Ill luck will hang low over the royal stables.”

His eyes fixed on the foal’s chest, he got slowly to his feet, drawing the saber at his belt.

Agba smothered a cry. Unmindful of his own safety, he thrust himself between Signor Achmet and the foal. He fell to his knees, lifting the tiny foal whose legs beat a tattoo in the air. With a look of triumph he pointed to the white spot on the off hind heel.

Signor Achmet’s eyes narrowed. His brows came together in a black line. Agba could see him weighing the two in his mind—the white spot against the wheat ear. The good sign against the bad. The scales tipped even.

Just at that moment the wild boar let out a squeal of anger. It reminded Signor Achmet that the boar’s sole purpose in the royal stables was to turn away evil spirits from the horses and receive them into his own body. Grudgingly the groom sheathed his saber.

“May the evil spirit enter the wild boar,” he muttered.

A deep sigh escaped Agba.

“But the mare’s milk will give the colt no strength,” the Signor added quickly. “She will die. It is the will of Allah.”

The groom’s prediction came true. In spite of Agba’s care, the bay mare lived only a few days after the birth of her colt. When the Signor heard about it, he came thudding in his yellow slippers to the mare’s stall. He made another prophecy.

“The foal will die, too,” he said as he lifted Sham’s eyelids. Then he shrugged his bony shoulders. “There is nothing to be done. Go to your quarters. Begone!”

Agba ran out of the stall. He took no more notice of the boys in the corridors than if they had been flies. He did not know where he was going. He only knew that he wanted to run until he could run no more—away from death and life.

He ran now, down through the wilderness of corridors to the courtyard gate. Two soldiers were patrolling the gate. They waved Agba through without question. Was he not the first slaveboy of Signor Achmet? Was he not often sent to the shops on errands for the chief groom?

“Run, run!” the soldiers cried to him.

Out the gates, down the hill to the city of Meknes he ran, past corn mills, past camels browsing before the tents of Arabs, past mules laden with crates of screaming chickens, past shepherds leading their flocks to market—down into the dark, crooked streets of the city. He ran faster and faster, dodging barking dogs and pigs and goats. He flew past the shops—the scriveners, the meat-fryers, the shoe-makers, the waxchandlers. Shopkeepers tried to stop him, to lay hold of his sash, but he was quicksilver in their hands.

“Some evil spirit must be after him,” they laughed to each other, white teeth flashing.

On and on he went, weaving his way between street jugglers, snake charmers, water carriers, and small boys scurrying about with great trays of bread. He was trying to run away from trouble, but it hugged him like his own shadow. “Maybe if I run faster,” he thought. He doubled his fists close to his body. He plunged on. He could feel his lungs pumping for air. His breath came so fast it hurt him. And suddenly he was almost knocked flat by the saddle trappings of a camel.

He stopped and stared. The camel was followed by her calf. A thought startled Agba.
Camel’s milk!
Horses of the desert were often raised on it. He had heard Signor Achmet say it was better than mare’s milk. Stronger. Richer.

He ran to the driver, pulling the hem of his mantle to attract his attention. The driver turned around angrily. At once he recognized Agba. The boy had often been sent to him to buy camel skins for making stirrup leathers.

The driver’s scowl turned into a greedy smile. Here was an emissary from the royal stables, from Signor Achmet himself! If he favored the boy there was no telling what riches might come to him. Perhaps the Signor wanted to buy a camel for the Sultan to ride. Perhaps he would be made second in command to the Signor and have a hundred slaveboys to come at the mere clapping of his hands.

His smile became a frightened squawk when Agba crumpled in a little heap at his feet.

With a swish of his robes, the driver dismounted, unwound his turban, and began fanning the boy. A crowd of men and boys gathered. They were full of words.

“The fast of Ramadan has weakened him.”

“We saw him running beyond his strength.”

“He is the first slaveboy of the Sultan’s groom.”

But only the camel driver worked over the boy, rubbing his hands, fanning him furiously. He held a leather water vessel to the boy’s lips. Agba’s eyelids flickered. He tried to drink. The water tasted warm and leathery. He hid his head in his arm.

The Arab was beside himself with worry. He
must
please this small emissary from the royal stables. He took one of the many identical goatskin bags from the camel’s load, untied a drinking vessel, and poured out some of the precious camel’s milk he was taking to market to sell. Then he added a few drops of wild honey, and gave the cup to the boy.

Agba took a sip. He held the milk in his mouth. It was thick and rich. It was both bitter and sweet at the same time, but it was good! He raised his eyes to the Arab’s and smiled.

The Arab was transported with joy. He turned to the crowd about him, waving his arms wildly, showing his toothless gums in a broad grin.

He made Agba drink the full cup. Then he gave him a whole goatskin sack of milk to take along and a little jug of the wild honey besides. There would be time enough later to find out what the boy wanted.

“Go back now,” he urged, “before the sun climbs higher. Sleep. Your message can wait.”

As Agba walked away, hugging his precious gifts, the driver smiled, rubbing his hands together.

W
HEN AGBA reached Sham’s stall he was afraid to open the door and look inside. Afraid that the colt would be gone, too, and the stall would have that lonely, empty look that stalls take on when their occupants are dead.

He slipped inside and closed the door behind him. Now he looked. The colt was there! He was lying on his side, breathing so lightly that for a moment the boy was not sure. Then he took a step closer and smiled at his fears. The colt was alive, but oh, how thin and weak he was! His sides were almost as flat as Signor Achmet’s prayer rug.

Agba took the goatskin sack from inside his vest where he
had held it close against his body to keep the milk warm. He filled a cup with it, adding some of the wild honey.

A whimper came from the tiny form on the straw.

Agba knelt down beside him. He stirred the milk with his fingers, then slid them into the colt’s mouth.

The colt began working his mouth curiously. He bit the boy’s fingers with his baby teeth. Then he sucked at them. Softly at first, then fiercely, with all the strength he had.

Agba dipped his fingers again and again. He had never known such happiness before. He made little purling noises in his throat. He made all sorts of promises in his mind. “My name is Agba.
Ba
means father. I will be a father to you, Sham, and when you are grown the multitudes will bow before you. And you will be King of the Wind. I promise it.”

The boy stirred the milk absently, lost in the future. It took the hungry bleating of the colt to bring him back. Sham was not concerned with having Agba for a father. What he wanted now was a mother. He nudged the horseboy with his pink muzzle. “More milk!” he whinnied.

The corners of Agba’s mouth twisted into a smile. He went on with his feeding until Sham fell asleep.

Notwithstanding his dark prophecy, Signor Achmet seemed not in the least surprised when, day by day, Sham grew steadier on his finely drawn legs. “He will live,” he said, in the same dry, cracked tone he had used when the mare died. “It is the will of Allah.” Then he took to watching Agba through narrowed eyes to see that he did not neglect the other horses.

Sham thrived on camel’s milk and wild honey. And Agba thrived on Sham’s worship to the point that there was a kind of hunger within him when the colt was out of his sight. And when the other boys so much as touched Sham’s coat, his face clouded.

He moved Sham out of the brood-mare stable and into the stall of his dam. He brought his own hammock down from the horseboys’ quarters and strung it in Sham’s stall.

He made his prayers in Sham’s stall, carefully spreading his mantle to kneel on, and facing the eastern sky that showed itself through the round window at the back of the stall. After touching his head to the mantle, he formed the words with his lips, “Allahouakibar! God most great!” Then he rose, stretched his arms upward, his palms to the heavens, and made his own private prayer for Sham’s welfare.

When the winds blew sharp and the rains came, he made a kind of flockbed mattress from wool fibers that he begged from a weaver. Part of it he slept on and part he used to cover Sham and himself. Lying so, each took warmth and comfort from the other.

As Sham grew, he was turned out on grass with the spring colts. But by some quirk of nature they refused to accept him. Either they chewed at his brush of a tail and kicked up their heels at him, or they would have nothing at all to do with him. It was as if they thought he was too little to bother about.

Sham, however, seemed not to mind. He turned tail and larked across the paddock all by himself. He was busy learning about the world. He found that if he swiveled his ears he
could bring in sounds from behind—hoofbeats catching up to him, the panther-like tread of Signor Achmet, the quick, pattering footfalls of Agba, the melody made by his own hoofs.

The world was full of wonders! If he stretched his nostrils to the wind, he could sift the most interesting smells—the delicious fragrance of clover, the biting smell of smoke from the burning stubble of cornfields, the perfume from orange and lime groves, the spicy aroma of pine woods beyond the city wall, the musky smell of the wild boar, the cool, moisture-laden scent of the clouds that blew over the snow-topped mountains. He could not label the smells as yet, but he was sorting them out in his mind.

Most important of all, he was toughening his muscles and sinews. He taught himself to wheel and plunge, and to run until he felt a soaring motion.