“We could separate,” Steve suggested. “You take one tunnel and I the other. We’ll come back after going a short way.”
“A short way wouldn’t do it,” Pitch protested. “We must be all of half an hour from the chamber. No, Steve, we’d better stick together. We need each other now.”
“Then let’s go to the right,” Steve suggested quickly. “The right way could be right,” he added without smiling.
Pitch nodded, and once again they made their way downward. They had traveled for about fifteen minutes when the burning match disclosed another tunnel, going still farther to the right.
“This is the end,” Pitch said dismally. “We may have been lucky enough to guess correctly the first time, but doing it again is asking too much of luck.”
Steve said slowly, “Will it be to the right or the left or back?”
They stood there long after the match had burned out, neither saying a word. Finally Pitch struck another match, and in the light their faces were haggard and old, far beyond their years. When the match burned out, Pitch took Steve by the arm and led him down the tunnel to the right.
They went along for an hour, coming across several more tunnels, and always they went to the right without stopping, without talking. It didn’t matter to them which direction they took now, for they were fully convinced they weren’t going to find their way back to the chamber. They still looked hopefully for the chalked arrows each time they came to another tunnel, but they really didn’t expect to find them either now.
After a while their stops to rest became more frequent, for they were conserving their energy. And the intervals between the striking of matches were longer, for the matches too had to be conserved. They needed the matches more than ever now. Not so much for showing them their way, as for the warmth they gave, a spiritual warmth that penetrated deeper and deeper into their very souls as they went along. Each time a match was struck they looked more eagerly at each other, as though they had not seen one another for a long, long time. Darkness did that to people. One could take only so much darkness. Their hands were raw from constant contact with the uneven wall, but they did not know they bled. Their cramped muscles no longer pained them; it was as though they had always walked in this hunched position, and always down, down. Was there no end to this descent? they asked themselves over and over again. Did it end nowhere? Yet the air remained fresh. It had been almost an hour since they had last seen a ventilation shaft running hundreds and hundreds of feet up to the surface. They had stood beneath it a long time, gazing fixedly at the small patch of blue sky above. Yes, it was blue now instead of gray. They had noticed that immediately. The rain must have come and gone, then. They had talked about it at length before giving up their patch of blue for the blackness ahead.
Much later they came to another tunnel, where Pitch slipped to the floor, saying, “I’m almost whipped, Steve. I’d like to rest awhile.”
Slowly Steve stretched out on the floor behind him, too tired to remove his pack. “We’ll rest, Pitch, as you say. Later we’ll have something to eat. We’ll feel better then, much better.”
He closed his eyes and thought of the two of them cooking their meal down here. Maybe it would be a record of some kind. “The World’s Finest Underground Meal,” he thought morosely. It would make a good story to tell the fellows back home. Yes, he’d say, we had chipped beef and beans cooked just right over our Sterno stove. Steve opened his eyes as he thought of the can of Sterno. “Pitch,” he said slowly, “how many cans of Sterno did we bring along?”
“About eight.” Pitch spoke with an effort, then Steve heard him chuckle. “But I’d figured on using driftwood to cook most of our meals. That’s a laugh, isn’t it? Lots of driftwood down here, all right. Just bundles of it.”
“At least we can use the Sterno when we’re getting low on matches,” Steve said thoughtfully. “It’s too bad we didn’t think to use a can when we first started back. We wouldn’t have lost our way then.”
As Steve finished, Pitch’s steady breathing reached his ears. It was good that Pitch was sleeping, he thought. They both needed sleep. It probably wasn’t even dark outside yet. But it didn’t matter here. Down here one didn’t have to wait for night to fall before going to sleep. It was always night here.
It could have been a minute or hours that Steve slept when suddenly he became conscious of a low, steady hum in his ears. He thought it was Pitch’s breathing until he realized there was no break in the sound, no interval as there would be between the deep breaths of a sleeping man. Steve opened his eyes. The hum was very low yet very distinct. He tried to place the sound; it was something he should know. It came from the tunnel to the right.
“Pitch!”
Steve listened again. It was still there, low and never-ending.
“Pitch!”
He was beginning to wonder if he actually did hear anything. He wanted somebody else to hear it. Pitch had to hear it!
“Pitch!” Frantically Steve climbed to his feet and shook Pitch’s leg until he awakened.
“Listen, Pitch! Do you hear it?”
Pitch sat up but said nothing.
The low humming swept through Steve’s ears until he couldn’t stand Pitch’s silence any longer. “You hear it, Pitch! You do hear it, don’t you?” His voice was pleading, entreating.
“I think I hear something,” Pitch said slowly. “I’m not quite sure, though. My ears …”
“It is a low, humming sound, Pitch? Do you think it might get louder if we walked down that tunnel to the right?” Steve was almost in a frenzy. He wished he could see Pitch. He would be able to tell by his eyes whether or not Pitch was saying he did hear something just to agree with him. But he couldn’t see Pitch.
“Steve!” Pitch’s voice was raised, excited. “I do hear it now. It sounds almost like water—rushing water!”
“Yes, that’s it!” Steve yelled, moving past Pitch. “It’s a stream!” He was already on his way down the tunnel when Pitch rose from the floor and hurriedly followed.
Steve was in a half-run when his outstretched hands banged against a wall in front of him. “A match, Pitch. Quick!” he cried.
Striking a match, Pitch moved up toward Steve. Ahead they saw that the tunnel took a sharp right-angle turn to a short flight of steps cut in the stone. Eagerly they rushed up the steps, and before the lighted match had gone out completely they saw that the tunnel now ran up instead of down.
Then it was dark again.
“Careful,” Pitch warned. “Let’s go slowly now.”
Steve went forward, his head and shoulders down as before, his skinned hands trailing the walls on either side of him. The low, humming sound became louder. It rushed and roared in his ears. His half-steps came faster until he was running again.
“Slower, Steve! You’re going much too fast,” Pitch warned from behind. “Stop, and we’ll light another match now.”
In the light of the burning match, they saw that the tunnel continued to lead upward. Steve plunged forward. After the light died out, he had gone only a few yards when his right shoulder crashed heavily against stone. He reeled back from the force of the impact, falling at Pitch’s feet.
Quickly Pitch struck another match and bent down toward Steve. The worry in his eyes turned to anger when he saw that Steve was all right and climbing to his knees. “You fool, Steve!” he shouted. “You can’t go plunging through this tunnel. You should know that by now!” Then the anger left his voice as he said, “I’ll go first from now on, Steve. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
Steve nodded, but he was only conscious of the ever-increasing roar ahead of them. “We must be very close to it now,” he said.
The tunnel took a sharp turn to the left this time, and Pitch struck another match. Ahead, the tunnel continued to lead upward, but Pitch too knew they were almost at the end. The roar had become the distant sound of rushing water. They moved forward, with Pitch striking matches more frequently than before.
; Soon they noticed that the ceiling of the tunnel was gradually becoming higher. They were able slowly to straighten their backs until finally they were standing upright for the first time since they had left the chamber.
Pitch struck another match, and this time they saw the waters of a very narrow but fast-flowing stream plunging directly across their path. They moved forward. The tunnel came to an end at a doorway leading to a high natural cut in the rocks through which the underground stream flowed. It came from their right, rushing past them and continuing downward. Along the stream a narrow path had been cut in the stone.
Turning to Pitch, Steve asked anxiously, “Shall we go down or up the stream?”
Pitch had bent down to the water and was tasting it. “Fresh water,” he announced.
Steve drank with him, then said, “I think we should follow the stream down, don’t you, Pitch? It has to lead somewhere.”
“I think we should, Steve.”
Striking another match, they walked cautiously along the stream. They had gone only a short distance when Steve said quickly, “I’d swear it’s getting lighter, Pitch. Don’t you notice it?”
“It doesn’t seem to be quite so dark,” Pitch agreed cautiously.
They struck another match and saw the gradual curve in the course of the stream. While the match burned they walked quickly forward and then slowed down as the light flickered and went out.
The burned match dropped from Pitch’s fingers as he grabbed hold of Steve’s arm. Ahead of them the blackness of the curving stream gave way to a dim gray light. They rushed forward, needing no burning match to guide their running feet. Rounding the curve, they came to an abrupt stop as they saw a large opening in the rocks through which came the light of late afternoon.
They stood there quietly, neither of them saying a word. And when they walked forward again their steps were unhurried as though each was experiencing an emotion he wanted to prolong. For they were walking from the fear of death into the light of the living.
The roar of the stream became louder but they did not hear it; their dazed eyes were focused upon the blue sky ahead. It wasn’t until they stood in the great opening in the yellow rock that they saw the water pouring in a silken sheet of white, crashing far down onto the rocks of a large pool two hundred feet or more below them. And stretched before their eyes, as far ahead as they could see, was a long valley within the yellow walls of Azul Island!
“A lost valley,” Pitch said unbelievingly. “A lost world!”
But Pitch’s words went unheard by Steve. His eyes were fixed upon the shadows to the left of the pool below them. He watched for a few minutes, then his hand tightened on Pitch’s arm. For grazing below was a large band of horses, their long tails touching the ground and their small heads stretched forward as they cropped the blue-green grass. Steve’s breath came short at the sight of them, then his breathing seemed to stop altogether. Leaving the herd, moving from shadow to sun, stepped the giant stallion of the cliff! He walked toward the pool, his proud head raised high, his muscles moving easily beneath sleek skin. The sun’s rays turned his chestnut coat into the glowing red of fire.
Under his breath, Steve murmured, “Flame!”
FIGHT OF THE STALLIONS
8
They stood there for a while in silent awe and wonder at the scene below them. Steve’s eyes never left the red stallion as he stretched his long neck in a graceful arc to the water. But Pitch’s gaze turned from the horses to the valley carpeted with the short, thick, bluish-green grass. He followed it with his eyes as far ahead as he could see, then looked over the rolling land that led to the yellow walls rising high about the valley. There the grass grew tall and had the appearance of young, green cane. It bent slightly in the breeze that blew down the valley from the south. As he looked, the shadows of the western walls lengthened until they reached the floor of the valley, where suddenly they turned from the dark ominous black of night to an almost brilliant blue. Pitch grabbed Steve’s arm. “Blue as blue can be, Steve,” he said slowly. “Blue Valley.”
The boy looked over at the shadows that had picked up the blue in the grass. “That’s where the island gets its name then, Pitch. Azul means blue in Spanish. Blue Island. Blue Valley, as you say.” But then his eyes went back to the stallion, who had finished drinking and now stood at gaze, his head moving slowly from side to side. “Let’s get closer, Pitch,” Steve said. “I want to get closer to them.”
Slowly they made their way down the steps cut in the rock until they had almost reached the valley floor; then they came upon a large cave.
“We can set up camp here, Steve,” Pitch said. “We’re near water. It’s everything we need. Just think, Steve,” he continued more slowly, “the last persons who lived in this cave were the Conquistadores!”
But Steve had turned away from the cave and was again looking at the horses grazing but a short distance away. He took off his pack, letting it slide to the ground, but he didn’t follow Pitch into the cave.
His eyes devoured the red stallion, as though to fix him forever in his memory. Yet he had always known this horse in his dreams. He had looked upon him many times as he was doing now. So he wasn’t surprised to see the small, arrogant head with the large eyes set low in the wide and prominent forehead. It was the head of an Arabian, as he knew it would be.
Still in the sun, the red stallion continued to stand at gaze with only his head moving slowly, watchfully. He was like a giant statue. Steve’s eyes moved over every inch of him. He watched the alert, shifting gaze of the stallion, then studied the wedge-shaped head and the small ears now pricked forward until they almost came to a point at the tips. The stallion’s head was raised high, yet set at an angle, accentuating the high curve at the crest of his long neck. The length of his back, along with his large size, made it apparent to Steve that he was not a pure-blooded Arabian. Yet Steve knew, from the red stallion’s head and neck, from the well-muscled withers, chest and shoulders, from the unusually long quarters and strong legs, that there was a preponderance of Arabian blood in this horse.
The red stallion moved; tall and long-limbed he trotted, his tail flowing behind him and his heavy mane sweeping lightly in the breeze. After a short distance he came to an abrupt stop, his gaze still shifting about the valley floor to the north, his ears alert.
Steve, too, turned his gaze down the valley, but he saw nothing in the dim, fading light of sunset. Still, he knew from the red stallion’s actions that he was uneasy. And whatever it was that bothered him was downwind, so the breeze could not bring any scent to his nostrils. He was not frightened, Steve decided, only cautious.
The thirty-odd mares and their long-legged foals were still grazing without so much as a glance at their leader. They were not restless and Steve knew that only a signal of danger from the red stallion would make them abandon their grazing. Yet what had these horses to fear in this lovely, serene valley? Few animals dangerous to them would be on the island. And no animal could withstand the powerful, crushing hoofs of their angered leader.
Steve was watching the band, thinking how little they resembled the small, wiry horses on the plain outside the walls, when Pitch joined him.
“Steve,” Pitch said excitedly, “look what I found!” He held an iron spur with a sharp-pointed rowel at the end of it.
Taking the spur from Pitch, Steve ran his fingertips over the spike-wheeled rowel, thinking of the damage it could do to a horse when it was on the heel of a vicious rider.
Pitch said almost reverently, “It’s nearly three hundred years old, Steve. Think of it! And there’s a heavy wooden table in the cave. There are a couple of chairs, too,” he went on quickly. “I’m sure we’ll find other caves like this one and probably many other historical relics!”
“But Pitch—” Steve’s voice was a little annoyed as he turned to his friend. “Why be bothered by relics when—” He stopped as he saw the eagerness leave Pitch’s eyes. “I mean,” he went on, his voice gentler, “those h
orses down there—they’re alive, Pitch!” His eyes pleaded with his friend. “And they, or rather their ancestors, were left behind by the Spaniards too. Think of it, Pitch! Look at them!” Steve’s voice was raised as he gestured in the drection of the horses. “They’re nothing like the horses on the plain.”
Pitch was now close beside him. “No,” he admitted, “they’re not. But don’t you think it’s because conditions are so much better here, Steve? There’s plenty of good grass, water, and the walls protect them from the wind.”
Steve shook his head. “No, Pitch. It isn’t that at all. These horses have the breeding. I’m convinced that the Conquistadores brought only their finest horses to this valley, and that those on the outside were pack horses or of a crossbreed which didn’t work out for them.”
“You might be right,” Pitch said. “I’ve never seen such beautiful animals and, certainly, never any like that red stallion.” He stopped abruptly, turning to Steve, his eyes searching. “Red stallion …” he repeated slowly. Then, although he said nothing more, Steve knew Pitch was thinking of Flame and the story he had told him the night before.
Their eyes went back to the red leader as he continued moving uneasily away from his band.
It was Steve who directed Pitch’s attention to the band once more. “They all have Arabian blood in them, Pitch. Notice their wedge-shaped heads.” And then Steve went on to point out every physical characteristic of the Arabian that he had observed in the horses. He concluded by saying, “They’re the same horses the Conquistadores rode centuries ago, Pitch. Maybe even better with their inbreeding and the fact that only the finest and strongest stallion could survive as their leader in this small valley. It’s his blood that makes them what they are! Look for yourself, Pitch. The red stallion is king of this band and sire of all those long-legged foals running around. They have his blood, and the finest and strongest of the colts will one day take his place.” Steve’s voice was so low that it almost seemed as though he were talking for his own benefit.