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"The Sheik, Abd-al-Rahman, was incredibly surprised to see me at his doorstep," said Alec. He was coming to the end of his tale, and the end of the interview. Jennifer eagerly jotted notes as he talked, but with tears clouding her eyes. This was the part of the story that not many knew, the part that most confused her.

"I told him about the Black's death, and he was very upset. I think the only one more upset was Tabari, his wife, who had named Black. His Arabic name was Shetan, you know, it means 'devil'. I never thought it was a good name for him, but I guess he was just closer to me than to the Arabs. Well, I told them that I wanted to return Black to his homeland.

"The Sheik told me where I should go to do that; it was a broad, flat, sandy place, where the wind whipped up small clouds of dust and blew them around so that I couldn't hardly see in front of me. I waited a few days, until the wind died down some, then I took one of the Sheik's horses out early one morning. It was very nice that morning, cool for the desert, and perfect for a ride. The Black would have loved it; I could see him prance and kick up dust as if he were right there. But the horse I borrowed wasn't anything like him; it took a swift kick in the ribs to get him to canter," a look of disgust flashed across his wrinkled face.

"I stopped on a dune. It was completely still all around, no wind, not even a cloud in the sky. I took the urn from my saddlebag and opened it; I started to cry again, for the first time since his death. I tried to hold myself together, it was very hard to, and sprinkled the ashes onto the ground. They fell in a line; I couldn't stand it. I kicked the horse around and sent him galloping right through the stuff. But just when I got up to the line, the wind picked up. The sand started to blow around, and the ashes with it. I tried to shield my eyes as the dust blew up in front of me. I stayed there for a while, watching the sand swirl on the wind for hours.

"The Sheik finally came up to get me. I told him what happened, and he told me something I've never forgotten --

When God wanted to create the horse, He said to the South Wind: I want to make a creature out of you. Condense. And the wind condensed.

"The Black was truly a creature of the wind; he could be calm and gentle, or as furious as a tornado. It's the worst curse ever put on humans; that we should outlive our most trusted and loyal companions."

Jennifer glanced back at the painting. The sand billowed up in the background, the only evidence of the invisible wind. Like the wind, the Black was all around them; though unseen, he was not ignored. It was quite fitting for such an influential sire.

"Mr. Ramsay, how did you come to be here, in Lexington?" she asked.

The old man thought for a few minutes, then said: "I saw the horse business in Kentucky did better than in New York. All the great stallions were here, and still are today. It is a horse paradise, this town. I loved it."

But Jennifer knew the real reason. It had been nearly a decade since Alec Ramsay had moved into the little condominium in Lexington. Jennifer had still been in college when he arrived. Hopeful Farm, which had suffered financial hard times after the Black's death, was nearly bankrupt. Despite Alec's hard work to keep the farm, it was sold to a group of thoroughbred breeders at auction. Furious with everything to do with New York racing, he left the state, threatening to never go back. He'd kept his promise; though the New York racing scene hardly paid attention to the old man anymore. Once in Kentucky, he settled into the condo and hardly went out. It was quite heartbreaking, the way he'd ended up.

"Mr. Ramsay, are you aware of any descendants of the Black racing today?" Jennifer asked. As she waited for his answer, she shuffled the newest Racing Form to the top of her stack.

"No, Miss Pettigrew, I haven't been following racing like I used to," he replied.

Thirty days passed quickly for the Dark Strike team. Manuel spent his entire day at Striker's side, brushing, braiding, and checking every inch of the horse's body. He even slept outside the stall at night. During Striker's workouts, he watched from a spot in the grandstand he'd staked out, and was ready with water and towels when the horse came back blowing. Helen rode Striker every morning with a confidence she'd never had before. It was as if the desert air had done something to her head, for she found her timing sharper than ever. Jeremiah was up with the sun every day, planning works for Striker and analyzing the competition. He'd also developed quite a nice tan, much to Helen's chagrin.

"Why does everyone tan, but not me?" she whined.

Dark Strike had blossomed on the desert strip. His works were fast, he even posted the fastest work of the day twice. The heat didn't seem to bother him, either. Jeremiah decided that had something to do with his long-lost ancestor, though he didn't say it out loud. He worked at night, also, for the race was held at night, under the spotlights. The horse was fit and strong, the panther of the desert. He was ready to pounce.

The week of the Dubai World Cup went by in a blur. The McBees arrived that Monday. Georgie was even more talkative than usual; she had conversations with everyone at Nad-al-Sheba and lit the press on fire with her exuberance in answering their questions. Tuesday Dark Strike had his final work, in blazing fast time. The papers on Wednesday reported that Striker had blown himself out too hard, that he'd have nothing left for the race. Jeremiah ignored everything in the news, except the weather. Wednesday night was the post position draw, which was televised in Dubai and several European countries.

Twelve golden eagle statues were lined up on a long table at the front of the Nad-Al-Sheba clubhouse. Each trainer was called to the front, where he chose one. On the eagle's base was a number; that number would be the post for the trainer's horse.

Bob Baffert was first; Delta Bluesman would break from post five. Next was the Japanese trainer; Little Tokyo got post three. The Godolphin trainer went up for the first time for Dubai Magic; that colt was running from number one, the rail. The trainers went up, one by one, carefully choosing which eagle to take from the table. Jeremiah, cheered by the McBees, picked post position six. The final trainer was of the British filly, English Muffin; she got post ten.

The final post positions were listed on a large bulletin board behind the table of eagles:

Post 1: Dubai Magic (UAE)
Post 2: Searchlight (USA)
Post 3: Little Tokyo (JPN)
Post 4: Wellspring (GB)
Post 5: Delta Bluesman (USA)
Post 6: Dark Strike (USA)
Post 7: Monserrat (UAE)
Post 8: Araztotle (FR)
Post 9: Iron Giant (IRE)
Post 10: English Muffin (GB)
Post 11: Four O Clock (USA)
Post 12: Singed (JPN)

Thursday everyone rested while the McBees toured the city. The day was fairly calm save for a terrible accident that morning, when one of the horses training for the Dubai Derby broke down. The colt was rushed to the on-track hospital where vets put his leg back together, but his career was ruined. This made everyone slightly jumpy, for injuries such as that were never predictable.

Friday, Helen took Striker out for a walk. This time Jeremiah rode alongside on Fez, who held his blazed face high, pompously strutting beside the regal thoroughbred.

"Helen, you know something?" Jeremiah began.

"What?"

"Helen, I think we've got this race in the bag," he replied.

"You do? So sure? I think we've got a great chance, but even I, the 'newbie', know better than to make such bold statements," she said, in mock disbelief.

Jeremiah shot her an annoyed look. "Yes, I am so bold as to say something like that, to you, " he said. "I know something about Striker that may surprise you, that may make our chances look so much better than everyone else's."

"What do you know?" she asked, lowering her voice.

"Well, along back when I first told you about this race, I found something--"

"OH MY GOO-HOOD-NESS!!!" Helen shrieked. "I knew you'd find it! Oh my goodness! I know, you found that pedigree!"

"You know about that? How?"

"I gave it to you!" Helen cried, and she beamed.

"You gave it to me? So then you saw what was on there that is so interesting to me?"

"The Black!"

"Yes, The Black," said Jeremiah. "Striker has that staying blood in him, that Arab blood in him. Of all the others entered, he's the one who most belongs here. This is the Black's homeland, and I think that's why Striker has settled in so nicely. But it's also why he's been so high-strung."

At that, Striker reached over and nipped Fez's neck; the pony jumped sideways, nearly unseating Jeremiah. He settled the pony as Helen tried to hold back Striker.

"Let's go back," said Jeremiah. Fez, his pride broken, hung his head the whole way back.