The Four Horsemen Of Death

You can't do that. We'll be ruined if you do that. This I thought sitting on my favorite hill watching the world go by. But we did it nonetheless and I was but a poor boy those many years ago, needing of both direction and a woman; with no clear voice to speak. But that's what I thought.

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The village had covered itself in darkness, blocking the light of day. "The light is bad for business," they said. And business had been bad for a very long time, the suffering too harsh to keep enduring. We all knew something had to change. I thought it meant we'd have to change our business to work in the light. Instead we chose to keep our practices but continue them unseen in the black shadows - where we could do anything. We slipped below the water line of life, holding our breaths and defiantly declared this was our way of life.

So be it, what could I do?

The last of the Light Wizards had been killed in preparation for the dark coup. Mourning swept across the berg with his passing even as a new morning of prosperity was declared by the Power Lords. People had more faith in the Power Lords than the Light Wizards and gobbled up the false new hope - a struggle we continue to this day. Even after the Four Horsemen showed up to wreak nightmares never seen before.

I knew, of course, the horsemen existed, but our idyllic village was of the light and these shadows creatures cannot ride in the sun. Only those who give them haven allow them to exist - and we were the last of the villages to join. We'd been proud of our ways of light, unmarred by the horsemen's foul licks of despair, and stubbornly assumed that even with plunging our town into darkness, the horsemen still not dare visit us.

For a while, it was true, feeding our delusions and we drank ourselves drunk with the wine of victory. Even when they showed up I think some still did not believe it.



They were first spotted on the Great Plains, and prophets came to warn us, to move us back to the light before destruction came our way. But like the light, prophets are bad for business, and as such were declared heretics and malcontents and the true agents of destruction. But I listened and went to look for myself and, yes, the Four Horsemen of Death stood in doom, studying us, searching for how best to pick us apart, to cause the maximum damage. I thought: Good, maybe this will change our minds.

The Four thundered in screaming terror across the plains and villagers scurried like cockroaches running from an impending foot. Fire arrows torched buildings and homes, burning souls alive. A crack formed in the capitol's foundation, the earth shook with such fury. For the first time, blood flowed in the street gutters from our own dead bodies trampled mercilessly by the horses' razored hooves. From the hill I saw smoke rise from my village and I wondered if we'd ever fully recover.

Slowly, ashen faced, reconstruction began. To fix it all would take years of determination but a healing of sorts began and I was encouraged. Each of us knew too many attacks by the horsemen meant eventual obliteration. Our glorious new dawn spawned a hangover and a painful sobriety. Cautious but optimistic, I awaited word from the Power Lords on the changing of our ways. At first, they would not speak, but then:

"They shall not return!" proclaimed the Power Lords, much to the relief of the gullible villagers. "Nor do we have to move back to the light. All will be fine!"

Crestfallen, I went back to the mount where I could see the Riders return. Stopping them was impossible, no more than a starving body can stop hunger without food could we stop the Riders without light. Strange Plants began to grow in dark corners of my village; mushrooms of mania, poppies of paranoia, roses of rage. Holy water was sprinkled on the growths, to make them pure. Shamans dispatched from the Power Lords preached we must change our ways, that we must do right by God and nature, and that anything else was unacceptable. We must do anything and everything, they said, except remove the darkness. Anything but that.

We are a village clever at self-deception.

Nah, they wouldn't put us in the street to die

But all I remembered was the horror. The First Rider spewed seeds of mistrust (thus spawning the Strange Plants) and villager turned upon villager, doubtless in the other's intent to harm. "Why else do you seek the dark? No good, lazy bum just wants to take without giving! I will shackle you in irons! I will doom you to hell!" But it was the horsemen they truly wished to shackle - and they believed they were doing the one while doing the other. And thus I found many brothers and sisters in chains.

The Second Rider threw knives of fear into the the heart which bled many homes as truth spilled out onto green lawns turned black. Truth was the enemy, truth was doom, true was the End. Good men told good lies, facing the knives in what they called bravery. "He died so that we may live! We all must do the same to keep our way of life. Blessed be the death that keeps us from the truth." Better to fear change than fear death, they cheered, and great bombs and wonderful weapons were constructed to keep them safe - as if objects of man could ever stop the Riders.

The Third Rider blew Winds of Despair, wilting souls under his stampede. Why move from the unstoppable horses' paths? Be trampled and die. "We shall pray for us and ask God to take away our despair. We shall ask for mercy, for what kind of god leaves us hopeless in the dark? We shall be faithful in our hope of deliverance. God will come, we need do nothing!" But it was not God who moved them to the darkness - and praying away hunger is a waste of energy.

The Fourth Rider poured the poison of lies into the villagers' well and it was he who declared it Holy Water and the source of salvation. The Riders' currency was one of terror, a god more hallowed with every passing day. "If only I had terror - more terror," murmured the bent-backed villagers. "Terror makes us safe from the terrorists who prey upon us." The poisoned well twisted their minds, some even arguing the Horsemen were the saviors. And in this way they hoped to gain favor from death.

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In death we trust

The Four Horsemen have returned, of course, more than once. Devastation increases with each visit; bolder strikes, more opportunities for imprinting desolation, more mistrust, fear, despair and lies. Prophets who once warned of the oncoming hell were hanged, the Power Lords claiming the prophets were the cause of the Riders return, for speaking ill of the horsemen. But as I look at my village now, I wonder of our lives.

Chains are churned out night and day, mimicking their enslaved hearts. Sharing is increasingly constricted and those who are without declared as demons. Rage without reason like a cancer grows, with reason branded as the domain of the weak. Above all, the capacity for self-deception is the holy temple of dark salvation, one villager inquisitioning another: "Will you allow me to be deceived?" If the answer is negative, the traitor is hauled away in righteous haste so the land may be purged and made safe for almighty liars.

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As for me, I'm still in need of direction and a woman. From a distance I see my village has been badly hurt and her capability for healing vastly reduced. And if I speak what I see I am damned. If I do not speak, I am damned. But I fear the next attack may be the fatal one to end our grand folly. I stay on the hill because from here I can still see the sun. So I sit, watching the sun set, and waiting for the Riders' return...



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