A Fifth Rider

Joah stands before the hearth, warming her hands by the fire. Her thoughts are of Blue, of the dreams, of the riders. As she gazes into the fire, the flames lick up in a shower of sparks, her eyes directing each flicker though she is barely aware of it. Twice since the dreams began, the incubus, Severus, has appeared before her as if entranced: first as a red-haired man, crossed with blood and scars, then pale as death, a scythe in hand. She could barely move or speak or breathe in his presence. “I rode with him,” she thinks, “I rode…but to what?”

The room grows warmer and stiller, the silence a palpable presence, till a thud at her feet interrupts Joah’s thoughts. She looks down to see a slim, red leather volume lying at her feet. Its pristine cover belies its great age. A gilt stamp of a tall man in a chariot drawn by four horses adorns the front panel. In his left hand, the man holds high a winnowing fork; in his right, he holds the world. Joah bends to pick up the book; as she studies it, it seems to open of its own volition.

The Prince of Peace is the Royal-Sent Champion,
The Rage-Warrior stands for all the wars, 'til there are none,
The Dark-Guest, equals eye-for-eye, ‘til due is done...
And Death...is always coming for someone.
That's why the Horsemen must ride,
The Horsemen must ride...
Following side by side, ever-rushing tide,
Ranging far and wide,
The Horsemen must.


(The Four Horsemen by MoonBee Canady)

Read Blue's Dream.

ίππος χλωρός

Joah turns fitfully in her sleep, kicking the quilt and sheets to the floor unknowingly. “The stars are not wanted now; put out every one.” A multitude of whispers stirs the air. “Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun.” She tries to lift her head, shaking the sleep way, and finds herself standing on a barren promontory, the dull orange moon low in the sky. She turns slowly around to see a pale green horse, ribs protruding, sickly and weak. Voices as dry and barren as a wasteland murmur, “Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods.” Her eyes gaze up from the horse to its skeletal rider, wrapped in a winding sheet, a long thin stave in its hand. The sound of a death rattle, then the whispers: “For nothing now can ever come to any good.” The horse and rider move toward her as a chittering sound comes from the rider’s unmoving mouth. “ίππος χλωρός, θάνατος,” it says. The rider extends one bony hand to Joah, pulling her up behind it. She mounts and rides.

ίππος μέλας

Joah walks along the shore of the Toxian Sea, the hem of her dress dragging in the wet sand, her boots sinking to the heels with every step. The twilight rain drizzles bitter cold as she watches the sea foam wash up crusty chunks of old tar carried along by brown water. She has been unable to sleep, all rest eluding her, so she paces while the first light of weak sun fights the clouds, the upper limb failing to clear the horizon.

She stops where the rock jetty meets the shore, a shiver running through her that does not come from the cold or the rain. The many whispered voices sound inside her. “Come and see…” they say, as she turns slowly toward the pinnacle facing the sea wall. In the distance there stands a black horse, its rider dour, graying and deathly thin. He raises one arm to show a pair of scales in his hand. As he does so, the wails of the hungry and dying fill her ears. The rider locks his eyes with hers and gives a silent, mirthless laugh. “ίππος μέλας,” whisper the voices, “Come and see….”

Read Blue's Dream.

ίππος πυρρός

Joah tosses and turns on her narrow bed, slowly realizing that she is sitting in the dirt, her dress torn, dust covering her hands. She runs her tongue across her cracked and dry bottom lip, looking around, trying to gain focus in the hot, dry night. The sound of the wind whips past her, a spray of dirt peppering her face, stinging. She hears a noise like rumbling thunder, and turns to see it sounds from the feet of a fiery red horse, flying down the path behind her in a cloud of dust, all of a lather and foam with sweat. On its back, hands gripping a greatsword, sits a blood-streaked rider, dark eyes blazing, and auburn hair streaming behind him like the mane on his mount. The sound of many whispers echoes on the wind as the rider thunders past: ίππος πυρρός.

Read Blue's Dream.

ίππος λευκός

I was lying on a cushion reading, the fire warm at my back, and drowsing a little when the temperature in the library dropped noticeably and Legion stepped to lean against the pillar supporting the stairs to the attic. I gazed at her impossibly smooth pale skin, drawn to the darkness of Her eyevoids. As I looked, the central pillar of the Library began to twist and spread, leafless branches shooting upward from a gnarled trunk. “Legion?” I whispered, but She said nothing, her head nodding to on side, motioning. I followed the tilt of her head and saw a suit of gleaming armor. It was almost white, the light glinted from it so fiercely. A white horse stood next to it, its eyes red and staring. His head was held up, his mouth closed, and a snorting sound came from his flared nostrils as if checking for danger. As I focused on the armor, the sights in the visor opened, revealing nothing within. A stream of beetles poured out. They swirled, moved by an unseen whirlwind, slowly forming into the shape of a man in white clothing. He wore a bow but carried no arrows. He looked at me, his face impassive, and turned to mount the steed beside him, a pale rider on a pale horse. I heard the words, “ίππος λευκός” uttered in many whispering voices. The wind whipped the rider’s robes and then he was no more, man and horse dissolving in a mist.

Read Blue's Dream.