It was dark.

It was dark. Jennifer Pettigrew had spent the entire afternoon talking to Alec Ramsay about his black horse. They had moved inside from the patio, and joined Carmen in the living room beside the fire. Jennifer had changed her tape twice, to make sure every word the aged horseman said was recorded. She dreaded the next page of questions, for they had to do with the last twenty years.

"So, Mr. Ramsay, I have some questions that may be difficult for you to answer, but please try to answer them as best as you can," she said gently.

"As long as they are not about Pam," he said forcefully.

"No; Mr. Ramsay, can you tell me about the last few years you had with Black?"

Alec took a deep breath and stared at the painting above the mantle.

"The Black was over twenty years old. He had so many great get that it seemed like he would live forever. We'd limited his book to about 40 mares when he turned fifteen because he had a back problem. But it was like he'd just gotten better with age. He sired many winners, and he and Satan had a rivalry going. Sometimes Satan would have more winners, but not a lot. As the years went by, new sires came, some from Europe, like Nasrullah. That was a big hit for us, because Nasrullah was just a super sire. He had a Horse of the Year in his first crop here, and kept on going. We still had success with crossing the Black's Arabian blood over straight thoroughbreds and selling our broodmares.

"About a year before he died, I pensioned Black. His back had flared up again, and he was having trouble walking. It was heartbreaking to see him like that, just hobbling around the paddock. There wasn't much the vets could do at that time. They told me the only option I had was to-- Well, you know, I couldn't do that. Black was still fiery; he still had a savage temper when he wanted to. On better days, when he wasn't so stiff, he'd tear off across the paddock, and fight with Satan along the fenceline. He was proud, that stallion.

"The last days he had taken ill, a fever that wouldn't break. He fought the fever for two days. He was always a fighter. I stayed up with him the last night. He was laying in the straw, looking badly beaten. The vet was coming to give him a medicine tube, and I was going to meet him there. I was sitting in the straw with Black when he just shuddered; his legs curled up and then he struck out; it was like he was trying to run. I held his head in my lap and talked to him, and eventually he went still. His breathing was shallow. I cried for the first time in many years that night," he stopped; the pained expression he wore told Jennifer everything.

She felt a tear roll down her cheek. Carmen's eyes were glassy, also. The room was heavy with sadness for a horse long since passed. Jennifer realized for the first time just how important the black stallion was to the man before her. Carmen stood up and got a box of tissue from the kitchen, wiping her eyes as she sat back down. She passed the box to Jennifer, who took a handful.

Alec cleared his throat and continued, his voice wavering.

"I wanted to say goodbye to The Black in a way I felt would honor his life and accomplishments. The traditional way to lay a horse to rest is cremation, except for three things: bury his head, so that he may see; his hooves so that he my run swiftly; and his Heart, for the will to keep running in face of defeat.

"I could not bear to do that to him. Though the burial is symbolic, I couldn't bring myself to have that done to the Black's body. I was told the only horse in a long while who'd been buried entire was Man O' War. Because I had great respect for Big Red, I didn't want to take away from his glory," Alec explained. He took a sip of water before continuing.

"So, I had the Black cremated in his entirety. It was so hard for me to have done, but I felt it was the best. A few days after that, I hopped a plane for Arabia."

The United Arab Emirates was as boring as Jeremiah had told Georgie, at least from the air. From his plane window all he could see were miles and miles of brown sand. The city of Dubai itself was quite like an American city, with its tall, modern buildings and paved streets. The only differences were the few mule carts among the cars, and long robes covering the people from head to toe. Upon landing, he, Manuel, and Helen were chauffeured directly to Nad-Al-Sheba Racecourse, where Dark Strike was waiting.\par \tab The track was an oasis in the desert. Its entrance was beautifully landscaped, with palm trees and exotic flowers surrounding a long, art-deco style sign that proclaimed "Home of the Dubai World Cup". The group was given a grand tour of the facility. The grandstand was luxurious, with richly upholstered seats and televisions hanging every few feet from the rafters. Grounds crews drove tractors around the track, which Jeremiah inspected thoroughly. Helen was completely amazed at the track's sparkling new jockey's quarters, where everything was scaled to her size.\

"No stepstools! I can't believe it!" she exclaimed.

Long, low barns were arranged in careful rows on the backstretch. They were state-of-the-art structures, with all manner of safety features. The stalls were still too new for crib marks. In a horticultural feat of epic proportions, there were huge expanses of pasture behind the barns.

"Green grass in the desert, whodathunk?" Jeremiah quipped.

Dark Strike was stalled in the barn with other American imports. As usual, Bob Baffert had his big horse, this time Preakness winner Delta Bluesman. Elliot Walden brought his mare Searchlight for the feature race, as well as a colt for the Dubai Derby, Got Game. There were other trainers with horses for races on the World Cup undercard; some brought sprinters for the Duty Free, some had turf milers for the Sheema Classic. This year's World Cup renewal had brought out a strong contingent of Americans.

The next morning, Jeremiah was out early on his borrowed pony, Fez, observing the other horses' workouts. He saw little, however, for a crew of turf reporters stopped him when he passed the rail, throwing questions at him from every direction. The press had been relentless since he'd made the announcement the day after his conversation with the McBees. He calmly obliged them, for a while. His main concern was the mentality of Striker, who'd been increasingly hard to handle since he'd gotten off the plane. Manuel was with him in the barn, calming him for his international debut.

Helen pushed through the crowd of pencil-pushers and hopped over the rail to meet Jeremiah.

"What are we doing this morning?"she asked, panting.

"Just go easy with him today, get him used to the track. It's like Churchill Downs, deep and sandy."

"Aye, aye," she said with a salute, and bounded back over the rail.

Between questions Jeremiah caught glimpses of the competition: a dark brown gelding son of Sunday Silence from Japan, a chestnut filly from Great Britain, and Godolphin's two entries, Monserrat and Dubai Magic.

The Japanese gelding, Little Tokyo, was almost as tall as Striker, but was thin and wiry. The filly was also quite large, and had a sweeping stride.

"Dangerous," he noted. In fact, all the horses on the track were incredibly talented, so much so that he was beginning to feel slightly out of place. His doubt increased when he saw the two Godolphin horses work out.

Monserrat and Dubai Magic were both classic European-style racers. Their manes were pulled neatly, with banged tails and croup marks. Monserrat was a grey son of Daylami. Daylami had won the Breeders' Cup turf in his only American start, and won the hearts of many. The colt was from his first crop; he had won two stakes on the turf in France. Dubai Magic was a dirt racer, sired by Aljabr. That colt's bright bay coat was in full bloom; dapples covered his belly, neck, and flanks. The pair would be highly competitive as the home team, with more experience on the track and in the hot desert temperatures.

The heat was one thing Jeremiah wasn't used to. It was still wintry in Kentucky, yet even in the summer the mercury never rose as high as it did in Dubai. The Japanese horse was wringing wet by the time he left the track, though he'd only trained at a canter. The filly shook her head uncomfortably and then stopped; her groom and trainer rushed out to see to her with a bucket of water. Dark Strike would certainly feel the heat in his coal-black coat. Wiping sweat from his brow, Jeremiah turned Fez toward the track opening and back to the stables.

As he approached, the sounds of a struggle echoed from his barn. Urging Fez faster, Jeremiah leaned forward to see what was happening. Manuel, not looking where he was going, ran out of the barn and into Jeremiah's path. Fez skidded to a stop; Jeremiah slid from the saddle and in three steps was inside the barn. Dark Strike was tearing around his stall, tossing his head and snorting. Helen stood at the front of the stall, waving her hands when the horse charged the door.

"What happened?" Jeremiah shouted.

"I don't know!" Helen cried. "Manny went into the stall with the saddle and Striker just lunged at him!"

"Whoa! Whoa, Striker!" Jeremiah bellowed. Startled at the noise, Dark Strike stopped in mid-stride. Jeremiah slowly opened the stall door and stepped inside. Striker was blowing hard and sweat ran down his sides. Cautiously, quietly, Jeremiah walked to the horse's head. The reins hung limp from the bit; he grabbed them up and patted Striker's bulging neck.

"Whoa, easy," he cooed.

"He just go loco," Manuel muttered. The groom had come back into the barn and was watching as Jeremiah unbuckled the bridle.

"Well, there goes our training today," said Jeremiah shortly. Then he looked up at the groom, who was staring down at the straw. "It's fine, Manuel, he's still a little kicked up from the flight."

"I'll just walk him," offered Helen.

"No, I'll take care of him. Helen, you and Manuel can take the day off. We're all just a little kicked up from the flight."

Jeremiah hung the sweat-covered bridle on the hook in the tackroom and brought out Striker's leather halter. The nameplate flashed in the sunlight as he placed it on the black horse. He led Striker to the washrack and hosed him off. Striker calmed down instantly as the cool water splashed over his back. When the horse shook off, tiny droplets showered Jeremiah, cooling him off, too. They would have a hard thirty days in Dubai, Jeremiah knew, if they couldn't keep calm.

The next morning, Manuel and Helen met Jeremiah at the barn. He'd arrived early and saddled Striker while it was still dark. After giving Helen a leg up on Striker, he led the horse to the track. Manuel rode along behind on Fez. The track was still; they were the first ones out.

Dark Strike looked around with interest, his ears flicking back and forth. Helen held him at a walk for one lap of the track. With sweeping strides he paraded past the grandstand, empty and waiting for the big day. Striker was unfazed by all the new sights; even the oddly-shaped Nad-al-Sheba strip didn't confuse him. He leaned into the bridle suddenly, pulling Helen forward. She cued him to trot, and Striker surged forward. The horse skimmed the sand lightly; if not for the races Striker would certainly have been a dressage horse.

As the sun broke up the darkness, more horses came out to work. Delta Bluesman strode proudly onto the track with his workmate, Winter. The two trotted briskly around once, then set up for a gallop. The press swarmed around Bob Baffert as he watched his pair go around the course. Flashbulbs popped like lightning when the horses passed. Jeremiah watched the spectacle from his safe spot on the rail, laughing to himself. There were benefits to being a virtually unknown trainer, after all.

Striker, meanwhile, had seen the other horses enter the track and immediately began to pull at the bit. Helen steadied him; his smooth trot broke into a jolting prance. Delta Bluesman cantered past them, followed by Winter. Striker tossed his head and snorted, trying to free himself from Helen's strong hold. She turned his head toward the rail, away from the other horses. Striker promptly spun around, swishing his tail irritably. Helen glanced over at the rail; Jeremiah waved for her to let Striker lose. She gave the horse his head and he cantered off toward the others. He seemed to take to the track well, Helen thought. Much better than Winter, who was already blowing as he trudged through the deep track.

After an hour of light work, Jeremiah highjacked Fez from Manuel and rode out to Helen and Striker. He clipped a lead onto Striker's bridle and led him to Manuel, who threw a cooler over the horse's broad black back after Helen dismounted. The groom strode off quickly, leading the horse to the wash rack.

"How did he feel?" Jeremiah asked Helen.

"He felt real good, like he liked the track okay," she replied.

"Great. I noticed he got a little rowdy out there, huh?"

"Yeah, when those other two passed us it was like he wanted to go run 'em down," she said, a perplexed look on her face. "He's not done that before," she added.

"No, he's not usually like that...." Jeremiah's voice trailed off as he watched the horse walk back to the barn. Striker stopped every few strides, turning his head to look back at the other horses gallop. Manuel pulled sharply on the lead each time, until they were out of sight of the track.

"Think he's still hyper from the trip?" Helen asked.

"No, I don't think so," he said, "I think it's something else."

"Oh, well, when you find out what it is, would you please fill me in? In the meantime, d'you mind giving me a lift to the jockeys' room?"

Jeremiah nodded, and Helen clambered up behind him on Fez. The pony's ears flicked back and forth as if contemplating where the additional weight had come from. He took a few tentative steps forward, then, at Jeremiah's urging, he trotted on.