Disclaimer: I don't own the Black anymore than I own the moon. And I don't own the moon.

Chapter 8

Hours later, I was led down the ramp and back into the paddock. The moment Chaya left, the other two-year-olds crowded over. I escaped as soon as I'd answered their questions as vaguely as I can.

   We'd won the race, but I was strangely tired. Not tired as in tired, but… I don't know. Tired. I fell almost asleep immediately.

   But it didn't matter. After a few days, I was back to normal.

   Chaya had gotten the biggest telling-off in her life by Sims. She told me later that she hadn't been paying attention when she should, and that she really shouldn't allow me to grab the bit and run off in a race, as it would burn me out too soon.

   Why was Chaya being blamed for something that wasn't entirely her fault anyway? It had been me who had run off, not her.

   She also said that they were giving me a break, so that I wouldn't get worn out too easily. So, I was only cantered and galloped lightly in the oval, and the afternoon trail-rides became something to look forward to. Now that we didn't have to worry about speed or stamina or anything, Chaya rode me on hacks and together, sometimes with Moon and Dick, or sometimes alone, we would go off in the woods, trotting around and around the trails, or else Chaya would ride me over to the back pasture where we would gallop from one end to another, delighting in the feel of the wind in our faces. 

   After seven moons, I was back in heavy training, and my next race was soon fixed. This time, with Chaya still jockeying me, I was alert, and when the gates opened, I was off like a shot. We didn't have any problems, because I just raced away and won it by eleven lengths. At least, that was what Chaya had said. And this time, with her in charge, I was kept in check, allowed just enough speed to win the race.

   And so my life went on. I raced, and I won. And I noticed that, as time passed, the horses in the races that I was entered into were getting faster and harder to beat.

   I also noticed that me winning made Sims happy. Very happy. And I didn't want to make him happy. So, I considered trying something new. Something old, actually, something that I had been doing at exercise rides back home. But after giving it a night's thought, I decided against it. My plan had been to intentionally lose races, but Steele would give me grief about it, and Steele was worse than Sims.

   I couldn't do anything; I could seethe and rage watching Sims at the winner's circle, but I could do little else.

   My strained relationship continued with Steele. But at least, we were still on speaking terms, and not mortal enemies.

   It all changed when I was put in a race with him. I had two choices. I knew that he had never lost a race before. I also knew that if I won, he would be mad at me for the rest of my life. But I knew that if I lost, and he won, for he would surely win if I didn't, his ego would balloon out of proportion. Not that it already wasn't. And he would humiliate me for the rest of my stay in captivity.

   We ran. I won the race. And broke the old track record, and set a new one. I'm not bragging; it's true.

   I didn't know what I expected. Or I supposed I did. Chaya and Sims would be happy. Me, I don't know. I'd both gained an advantage and a disadvantage. Sims would be happy. That was the disadvantage. The advantage was that I'd finally beaten Steele, something that I'd wanted to do for months, and something which would prove to him that he, after all, contrary to what he believed, wasn't the fastest two-year-old around. And as I have said, hundreds of times, millions of times so that you must be tired of hearing it, a happy Sims is something I didn't want, but it was either that or put up with Steele. And as I have said before, Steele was worse than Sims.

   I hadn't guessed Steele's reaction.

   The moment we were back home, in the paddock, he whirled on me.

   "Why did you do that? Why didn't you just drop back and give me the race? You would have been second, and second's not bad! " he yelled. This was the first time he had lost. And he had lost only by a nose.

   "Why not? If you had been me, you would have done it." I tried to keep calm.

   The other two-year-olds were now gathered in a circle around us.

   "You knew I wanted to win, so you did it on purpose! " He was seething. But he was partly correct.

    What was I suppose to say? Yeah, man, that's right ? He wasn't a man, but his guess was right.

    My mind heated up. He was unreasonable. If he could win, why couldn't I? "Why can't I? Any horse has the right to. Did you scare the wits out of them so that they wouldn't dare to finish in front of you? Or do you mean to say that every single horse that runs in a race with you has to slow to a crawl and bow and give way to your Royal Highness' self so that you can strut up to the finish line?" I shot back. The words spewed out of my mouth. Months of hatred and bullying and frustration were boiled down to those simple sentences. My voice came out cold and hard, not the way I'd expected it. There was a collective gasp behind me. I turned. The circle parted to let me through. I started walking away.

   But I knew that I'd gone too far. Thoroughbreds are proud. Very proud.

   The next moment, I felt his teeth grip my mane.

   "Say that again, and I'll tear you apart." he breathed. I laughed. Aloud. Obviously, he didn't think I knew how to fight. Unfortunately for him.

   And unfortunately for me. He thought that I was laughing at him. But I wasn't. Really.

   I pulled away. He let me go.

   "You can tell her that, half-breed." His voice came, rough and hoarse from behind me. "Go on. You'd like that wouldn't you? Go tell your poor, filthy, dirty, mother that you, her wild little half-breed son, beat a pure-blooded Thoroughbred in a race, and brought shame on the whole Thoroughbred breed. Go tell her that, and then ask her what did she see in that no-good father of yours that she had to leave behind a promising life and run off with …with the likes of him."

   That did it.

   The red spots began dancing in front of my eyes again.

   A moment later, he was lying on the ground on his back, with a surprised expression, and I was standing over him, breathing down on his face, with no idea how I got there. I'd never been this mad since Jim, my first trainer.

   "You won't live to regret the day you insult my mother again." My teeth were clenched. His eyes widened.

   It was then that I realized: Steele may have acted strong and tough and macho. He may have tormented me. He may have challenged me to fight, and acted confident that he would come out the winner. But inside, deep inside, he was afraid.

  That realization led to another one: Steele was afraid of me! He was scared of me, and that was why he had always treated me different from the others. He sneered and bullied because he was afraid that one day, I would rise up higher than him. And if he could prevent that, he would do anything he could to do it.

   I stepped away, stunned.

   Big mistake.

   The moment my back was turned, he leapt forward and fastened his teeth on my withers. I whirled, my hindquarters churning dust, and tried to reach the crest of his neck. I couldn't lose my footing; the moment I went down, I would be vulnerable to his hooves and teeth, and that would usually mean that I would lose.

   But his head was behind mine; I couldn't reach him with my teeth. So, I reared. He had to rise with me, or else lose his hold. Twisting around, I bucked my highest, all my feet up in the air. He stayed on. My skin felt as if it were being torn apart. I came back down and went into a wild gallop. He ran with me, going awkwardly with his head sideways. I went faster, until the air whizzed by again and the fence blurred into a thin ribbon.

   We were fast approaching the end of the paddock. If I didn't stop soon, we would crash straight into the fence.

   Don't worry, I don't have any intention of getting a fractured skull.

  This had been one of my tricks back in the wild.

   Nearer…near…

   At the last second, I veered away in a sharp turn. Steele's body swung a few inches into the air with the force, his feet pawing madly at nothing. He had to let go, or he would tear out his teeth and his gums.

   He did let go. I kept on running, but slowed down. The pain in my withers was intense. I felt something tickly, craned back my head, and could see blood trickling down my sides.

   Now he was after me, and I had to use all of my speed and agility to get away.

I flashed by a silver shape. Moon. Two bay blurs. Sandstorm and Marionette. A chestnut statue. Phoenix. They were standing, scattered around the paddock, watching us. And we were fighting, Steele and me, to see who would get who. Just like in the wild, when a stallion fights another for a group of mares. Only we were two-year-old colts, in a paddock, fighting for superiority over a group of mesmerized Thoroughbreds.

   Oh well, one has to improvise sometimes.

   They were watching with their mouths hanging open. What, hadn't they ever seen a fight before?

   Then I realized. Oh. They hadn't, because there had been no need for fights; nobody had ever stood up to Steele before. And there hadn't been fights, because the humans would have stopped one before it started anyway. Hmmm. Where were the humans?

   He was neighing something, something about my being a coward and running away from him. His words didn't matter. I shut out his voice and focused on his eyes.

   The opponent's eyes told one everything they needed to know. I'd been told that, and had learned it from experience myself.

   I slowed. I'd reached the other end of the paddock, and I saw Steele standing at the opposite side. So. He wanted it this way. I knew what he was going to do, what we were both planning on doing.

   I pawed the ground and reared, sending out a high whinny. He kicked dust at his end, and snorted.

   At this rate, the grooms would soon be running. They would surely have heard the noise we were making; all the whinnyings and poundings and all the earsplitting screams. I didn't really care whether I earned money or not, but the farm's fate mostly rested on these two-year-olds; the master wouldn't want injured Thoroughbreds who couldn't run at races, or sick horses who had to spend months healing and eat up loads of money at the same time.

   I pinned back my ears and raised my tail. He did the same.

   This was getting serious. The fights at home had always been for fun; even though Raha had been sort of Steele's counterpart back home, when we fought, we'd never really intended to hurt each other. Of course you get the scrapes and cuts and bruises along the way, but we never drew blood. When we bit, we were extra careful to do it lightly, and when we kicked and bucked, we made sure our hooves didn't hit each other's bodies.

   Of course, there were unpreventable accidents; sometimes, our teeth sank in too deeply and caused scars, or our hooves nicked skin, but the fight always stopped then and there, and we always apologized and made up immediately afterward. And we never intended to kill. 

   Steele showed no intention of stopping. And he looked murderous.

   I knew I must be frustrating to him: he was nervous and tensed, and showed signs of worrying, while I stayed calm. But I was all those things inside too; I just learned not to show them.

   I pawed the ground again, lowered my head, and went into a blinding, flat-out gallop. He did the same. I knew that I must be a golden streak, because he was also a black streak heading towards me.

   Then, at the last second before we collided, I swerved and slid to a standstill. Surprised, his speed too fast and his momentum too far forward, he almost fell to his knees when he made a sudden stop. His hooves scrabbled for traction, and for a moment, I though he was going to fall.

   He didn't. Unfortunately. But in the time it took him to regain his balance, I'd already regained mine and was starting toward him.

   He had just pulled himself up when I rammed him with my shoulder. I'd gone into a gallop, and the force threw us both, him backward, me forward.

   Big mistake for me. In the second when my neck was exposed, before we slid to a complete stop, he went for my neck. Now we were locked against each other, hooves madly pawing the ground, teeth reaching for each other's throats, manes and tails flying, forefeet lashing furiously.

   We were both unrecognizable. Two 'tame', previously docile colts were now raging white-eyed monsters; our coats were dusty and our tails tangled. I had the bite on my withers, and a cut across my face, which were both bleeding. He had a large gash on his chest, and when he moved, I noticed he was limping. Plus, there were the hoof-shaped bruises and other, smaller cuts.

   Somehow, I managed to scramble up, and keep him on his back in the dirt. I reared above him and whinnied in triumph, my forefeet pawing the air, prepared to bring them down on his black coat.

    He had another move. He reached out with his forefeet and with a circular pawing motion, hooked my hind feet. I saw him and tried to move. Too late! My feet were pulled out from under me. I went crashing down. The impact was stunning. I shook my head to clear it.

   Steele was now the one standing over me, breathing down my neck, his black face twisted in a mask of malicious glee, bared white teeth inches from my throat.

   I wouldn't let him win.

   I twisted and brought all four feet up above me, like a cat, and began to paw, running on air. With my hooves above me, Steele had to back away or risked getting kicked. 

   That bought me enough time to roll and get to my feet.

   Now, we were equal again. I lowed my head like a bull, pawed the earth, and threw myself against him. My teeth dug into his flesh; a fountain of blood spurted out, spraying us both and some of the others who were watching as well. Using the curve of my shoulder, I hooked my neck with his and used my weight to force him to the ground. The red spots in my eyes had now become a red mist. The blood pounded in my veins, coursed through my body. Whatever casualties I had gotten, I felt nothing. No pain, not even a slight sting or anything.

   I lowered my head and snorted into Steele's face, my ears pinned back, and my teeth bared. The stance of the victor.

   I didn't want to kill him, although that was what wild stallions usually do when they defeat another stallion. I just didn't want him to make trouble ever again.

   Steele lowered his eyes in an act of submission. His ears cupped forward, and his tail thumped the ground.

   I let him up.

   The moment he was on his feet, he dove for my throat. Ah, so he was faking. But he couldn't move fast; I'd given him a deep bite on his back leg. I twisted left and darted in. 

   I was really mad now. My mind filled with images of tearing out the great vein in his throat where his life-blood ran, of watching him sink to his knees and fall to the ground, blood spurting, pouring out in a stream out of his neck, of rearing and pounding his body with my hooves, of neighing the victory cry, of rounding up his band of mares. It was as if I wasn't myself anymore, as if another horse were inside me; it was the wild stallion who saw through my eyes, smelled blood through my nose, fueled my anger.

   I sprang for his throat. Just before my teeth closed on his skin, something was thrown around my neck. Something was pulling me backwards, something stronger than I was.

   I arched my neck and fought back, kicking, thrashing, my hooves digging into the ground, leaving deep gouges on the earth. I couldn't let him get away now that I was so close to victory. My teeth clamped unto something soft. It was a moment before I realized that I was biting cloth. Something was wound around my jaw, going all the way up over my nose and down again, forming a makeshift muzzle.

   I raised my head and threw my weight forward, my hooves pawing the earth, eager to get back to the fight. I could see Steele being dragged away too, muzzled and still kicking. That something that was dragging me away was talking now, in a soft voice. The red dots in my eyes slowly, slowly, gradually lessened until I could see again.

   That someone was now running her hand down my neck. I calmed down and stopped trembling. It was as if everything went back to normal. But inside me, though I knew it was not me, another horse lurked; I was a 'tame' colt, yet at the same time, there was another horse hiding in me, a wild stallion who was not me, who was waiting for a chance to surface again.

   But that chance was not now. I quieted down.

   It was then that the pain hit me full force. I hadn't noticed the pain before. The cut on my nose sizzled and stung. There were slashes in my coat; some streamed blood, while others were already scabbing. I took a step and my left forefoot nearly crumpled beneath me. I looked down and saw a deep gouge on it.

   Steele's wounds were just as bad, I realized. His limping was much worse than mine; the gash on his chest hadn't stopped bleeding, and he looked about ready to collapse. I knew that I must have looked the same. Some other humans had rounded up the frightened horses and were calming them down.

   Sandstorm was wounded! There was blood on his side. How had he gotten that? He'd never been in the fight in the first place.

   They weren't wounds! A human was wiping the blood away. Whose blood? Then I remembered. I looked back and saw my own sweat-and-blood-streaked coat. Chaya was now pulling a soft cloth over my back, wiping away the blood that wasn't mine.

   My coat wiped clean, I'd gotten lesser cuts than I thought. Most were just bruises, and none were really serious. Maybe except for the one on my forefoot.

   The shame came. We weren't supposed to fight! What would Sims say? What would that mean to the farm? If two of the farm's fastest racehorses were grounded for months, would that mean more expenses? Yes that would, I decided. Medicine would be needed, and meanwhile, we wouldn't be earning any money. Then a horrible thought struck me. What if some of the other horses were sold because of us?  I was pulled away from my thoughts by Chaya, who was leading me out of the paddock and into the barn, where I was put back in my stall. I saw Steele being led past my stall door to his stall. Chaya and Dick came in again, bring something with them. What was that they were holding? I pushed my head forward. Dick opened a container and let me sniff it. I shoved my nose into ointment and pain seared across my skin. It felt like I was on fire for a moment. I snorted in pain and surprise and pulled back.

   The human with the white coat arrived. She looked me over, and set to work, with Dick and Chaya by her side, and several other people , including Sims, watching over the stall door. They worked for hours, while I stood on three legs, holding up my fourth to be put in a cast, and yelped with pain whenever anything was applied to my skin.

    They must have painted me all over with the stuff before they left me alone for the night. Actually, I'm exaggerating. And well, not really alone. Chaya pulled up a cot and slept outside my stall door. She woke every few hours to change the dressings. I dozed, the cuts too painful and the cast making it too uncomfortable to go to sleep, yet at the same time, too tired to stay awake.

   That was the way I spent the nights for the next few weeks. My wounds healed slowly. Very slowly. VERY VERY SLOWLY. So slowly that by the time the first bandages and the cast were taken off, I had enough time to decide that, if this was what I would get for fighting, I never wanted to fight here again. Fighting out in the wild was fine. Fighting here wasn't. You could die of boredom, standing all day in the stall, and waiting, waiting, waiting forever for something interesting to happen.

   As the weeks passed, our bodies healed; bruises slowly faded, cuts sealed themselves and vanished, and my injured foot got better. Soon, all that remained was the stiffness, and it too, was gone before long.

   When we finally got well enough to move around, we started being led around and around the yard outside the stable. The walking gave us back our strength and former stamina. Before long, we were being ponied in one of the larger paddocks, by Sir Peppero of course. The ponying gave way to slow walks and short trots around and around the lanes, which gave way to slow canters at the trails.

   We were never worked together. The humans tried, once. It resulted in me giving Steele a bite–a huge one–and him yanking out a chunk of my mane.   

   The humans never did it again.

   This all took a while, and by the time I was back on the oval, the racing season was almost at its end. So was autumn.

   The trees had lost all their leaves and cold winds were blowing once again before I was back in the paddock.

   But not with the others this time. Sims' orders, as usual. Since I was now labeled 'dangerous' and 'prone to kick, bite, or do anything else that might harm the other horses', and 'bully', I was put in with Sir Peppero, and Steele, Sims' favorite, who was 'the victim', was trotting around and chatting happily with a reluctant Sandstorm.

   He came over one afternoon, while we were watching the breaking of one of the farm's yearlings. Being in separate, but adjacent paddocks, we now had to resort to over-the-fence communication. Sandstorm whispered in my ear, ad I whispered back, careful not to let Steele, who was eyeing us as if we were planning a conspiracy, hear us.

   Steele now thought Sandstorm his best friend, Moon his, and the whole paddock his realm. He'd also grown bolder since the fight. Very bold. And daring enough to risk my anger. I watched him gloating one evening, showing off his scars to his audience, and making sure I heard every word of his "word-by-word account" of what had started the fight.

   I acted disinterested. No matter; if I couldn't hear what he said, Sandstorm could tell me everything later. If I wanted to hear it.

   He raised his voice. I turned, flicked an ear, and reached down for a mouthful of grass.

   His voice turned louder still.

   I casually ambled a few steps away from the fence in case he decided to get my attention by coming over and giving me a kick.

   I wasn't going to lose my temper this time. I would play it out, get him irritated, keep him irritated, torment him, taunt him, and see what happened. If I was right, I would be able to drive Steele crazy.

   The next time I hear his voice, he was right next to me, with only the fence between us. And he was yelling.

   "SO, HALF-BREED. HAPPY? THOUGHT YOU BEAT ME, DIDN'T YOU? WE'LL SEE ABOUT THAT…"

   I faked deaf.

   "OH NOW HE'S DEAF. I MEAN, SHE'S DEAF. HALF-BREED MAY LOOK LIKE AN IDDLE BIDDLE BABY COLT, BUT YOU HAVE THE HEART OF A MARE, DON'T YOU, HALF-BREED?"

   He was taunting me. I wouldn't fall for the bait.

   "NO, WAIT. NOT SHE. HALF-BREED DOESN'T EVEN DESERVE TO BE CALLED A SHE. HALF-BREED DESERVES TO BE CALLED AN 'IT'."

   My ears were ringing. If he continued, I would really become deaf. I backed away a few more paces, careful to make it look like I was looking for new grass.

   " 'IT' REFERS TO A THING. THINGS CAN'T HEAR,RIGHT HALF-BREED?"

   Was he trying to be funny? Yeah, he was. But I couldn't hear any laughter. All the others must have been gathered around us by now. Why couldn't any of them have given him a kick?

   " ' IT' ALSO HAS ANOTHER NAME, ASIDE FROM 'HALF-BREED', AND 'IT'. 'IT' IS ALSO CALLED FREE WIND."

   Sir Peppero was the best kicker. Unfortunately, he was away at a trail-ride, ponying one of the particularly frisky three-year-olds. Too bad for me. Steele was lucky this time.

   " DO YOU KNOW WHAT 'FREE' MEANS? 'FREE' MEANS 'CHEAP'. 'FREE' MEANS 'NO COST'. 'FREE' MEANS WORTHLESS."

    Ha ha ha.

   " 'IT' IS IGNORING ME, ISN'T IT?" Steele roared, tossing his gleaming black head.

   Yeah, dude. I'm ignoring you. And I'm getting away with it.

   He must have gotten tired of playing with me. I flicked my tail, hoping to hit him on the face.

   I did.

   That made him more angry. Furious. Raging mad.

   Uh oh.

   I heard hooves. What was he going to do this time? Take his rage out on Sandstorm and Moon and Marionette and Fire Phoenix?

   Obviously not. He wouldn't want to lose favor with them.

   The hooves grew louder. Then they stopped.

   What was he doing? I turned my head.

   Something crashed against me, knocked the breath out of me, pushed me aside.

   Steele had jumped the fence. And he'd landed on me. Intentionally, no doubt.

   I was now carrying him too. He was heavy. Very heavy. The force of his landing made my knees buckle. I staggered and fell. We both tumbled to the grass.

   He sprang up. I scrambled up too. Was he crazy? We were now healed, but we were in no shape to start fighting again, him and me both.

   I rocked backward and felt the wooden boards press against my hindquarters.  

   I was trapped!

   My back was now against the V-shaped corner of the paddock, and there was only one way out. And Steele was barring it.

   There was no room to escape, no room to rear or raise my feet to fight.

Steele was feet away. He lunged.

   He wouldn't leave me alive this time.

   I would not, would not die here. Ironic, isn't it? I'd fought so hard for my freedom, only to die in captivity not through man but through a horse.

   My determination surged. That wouldn't happen. I bared my teeth and lunged too.

   That wasn't needed.

   We heard something, a huge roaring sound. A gigantic black horse burst out of nowhere and charged Steele. He stopped a few yards before us both and stamped the ground with one hoof.

   Now I had someone on the same team with me. Assuming the stallion was sided with me.

   The black stallion pranced a few feet away and tossed his head. Steele's head swung my way, then the stallion's way. He unconsciously took a step forward.

   Good. I now had more space.

   Steele was sizing both of us up. He must have seen the size of the other horse and decided to go for him first.

   The black stallion pranced away some more. Steele followed, now with his back half-turned toward me.

   Great. The stallion was luring Steele away.

   Then, Steele lunged. The stallion moved even further away, until they were facing each other in the middle of the paddock. I slid out of my corner and contemplated my next move.

   Steele had obviously forgotten about me. Was it alright to sidle up next to him and give him a kick? Would it be fair? There were two of us, and only one of him. Maybe, maybe not.

   And while I thought, the two of them decided that they were tired of trying to stare each other down, and moved on to the preliminary fighting: stamping, pawing, tossing their heads, lashing furiously with their tails.

   I studied the black stallion. He was massive; in spite of our already-tall heights, he still towered over both of us. Black shining head…definitely not a Thoroughbred head. His face was tapered slightly. Where had I seen such a face? Very familiar…

  The stallion was now looking bored. He trotted to the end of the paddock, turned to face Steele, and let out a shrill, ringing neigh. Steele snorted uncertainly. The black pawed the ground and charged flat out. His speed was amazing. One minute he was standing stock-still, regal head held high, and the next, he was a black blur streaking toward Steele. I jumped back, even though I was a safe distance away and wasn't the one being charged at.

   They were going to crash. I closed my eyes.

   There was the sound of enormous bodies hitting each other, and a sharp squeal of pain.

    I opened my eyes.

   Steele soared up, higher than my head, sailed over the fence, hooves flailing helplessly, and landed with an earth-shaking thud in his own paddock.

   I ran closer for a better look. The black stallion tossed his head and stamped the ground with his hoof, as if satisfied.

   Steele was unhurt, though shaken. His coat was covered with dark patches of sweat. He scrambled up, threw a terrified look back over his shoulder at us, then took off for the knot of horses standing at the far side of the paddock.

   He would be alright.

   I turned to say thank you.

   And faced an empty paddock.

   The black stallion was gone.