The Fifth Rider: New Damascus

  Though he had come out to the desert hoping to seek the benevolence of some celestial body, Jacob know felt very afraid. His legs shook so badly he couldn't stand, and when he tried to crawl away from the approaching dark mass, he found his back slam against the side of a rock. Trapped, by weakness or will he couldn't say. But the darkness was approaching and he could hear hooves drumming against the ground.

  To his amazement, Jacob saw that the writhing black smoke was hardening and the enormous heads of four horses began to take shape. He heard their cries that were nothing like the braying of horses he had encountered before. As they approached they seemed to speed up and loom even larger than he first considered, shifting forms striding atop them, standing taller than mountains.

  One of the horses reared upwards, its front legs kicking in the air and Jacob saw the tall, proud head of its rider lifting up, screaming into the crackling air. The sound was at once too terrible and too big for him to comprehend and he felt something warm trickling from his ear. Startled, Jacob pressed his fingers to it and found blood, more warmth dripping from his nose and down to his lips.

  At once a universe and then a mile away, Jacob saw clearly what was riding towards him and made one last attempt to rise to his feet and run. Groping with the rock he was pinned against, he tried to pull himself upwards, panic and adrenaline lending some false strength to his arms, but then a strong burst of wind knocked him over.

  His face smacking into the rock, his vision bursting into coloured lights, Jacob fell to the sand again, moaning. He found his breath again, his chest hitching in panicked hiccoughs, and though he could not see them yet, he could feel the weight and presence of four riders coming to a stop in front of him. The dull thud of hoof striking into sand, the warm gush of air from the horses' noses, and the strange susurration of wind through smoke.

  He hid his face in his sleeve, still curled up in the sand. He didn't want to see, didn't want to be awake. He could feel the four figures, riders, specters staring at him, their sightless gazes boring into the back of his head, and he wondered why they didn't speak. Finally, his panic subsiding, Jacob pushed himself up again, turning his head slowly behind him to see what had been summoned.

  The four horses were enormous beasts, all dark and surrounded by the ash-coloured smoke. At once they seemed both solid and diaphanous, as if at any moment they could disappear into their black cloud again. The four figures atop them seemed similar, cloaked in voluminous black folds of cloth that shifted like wind. Their hoods were so deep he could not see even a hint of their faces. He wondered if they had faces.

  “What demons are you?” He stuttered, trying to rise once more, but stumbling to his knees. He wiped his bleeding nose with the sleeve of his cassock, one hand still clutching his bible firmly.

  The four riders didn't respond, merely adjusting their reins as the horses shied and stamped at the ground. Jacob stared at them, his head still burning, and wondering if he was in a fever dream.

  “Who are you?”

  “That...” A dry, shapeless voice slithered out from one of the hoods. “...is a better question, preacher man.”

  Jacob felt an odd sensation, as if someone had walked over his grave. Any small amount of courage his outburst had been borne of instantly withered away. He realized, kneeling in the desert and staring up at the four entities that they were so much older than he could imagine.

  The horses began to stamp again, their ears twitching, and the riders seemed to lean forward, drinking him in. Their growing interest in him frightened him more than anything, and Jacob wished he could move. They stood before him in an encroaching half-circle, closing in on him like a pincer. They shifted in and out of clarity, though the tallest one in the centre remained still and aloof more so than his peers. The furthest left wheeled his beast around, cutting in front of Jacob, bending down his impossibly long form and sniffing at the blood trickling out of Jacob's ear, before trotting back and standing in line with his brothers.

  Jacob tried again to speak, though his voice was dry and cracked. “Who are you? Why are you here?”

  “Because you summoned us.” The furthest left rider sounded amused, a measure of contempt in his voice. Their voices at once seemed like they existed only for his ears, and were made up of the dry breezes that stirred the sand. “You called us Jacob, son of Jonathan, son of Joseph.”

  “Preacher, son of Abraham, son of Adam.” His brother agreed.

  The tallest rider, who had remained silent up until now, tilted his head towards Jacob. “ Brother, do you truly not know us?”

  Jacob trembled, the familiarity of the rider’s voice disturbing him. “Brother?” He wished he could back away further but didn’t have the strength. I was praying for God.

  The tallest rider shifted his head in what would have been a silent chuckle, as if he could hear Jacob’s thoughts. “You called us…you carry small tokens of us with you even now.”

  The rider pointed to something in the sand. Curious, Jacob dug at the pointed spot and found his hand sickle, lost and almost swallowed up by the desert. He almost flung the sickle away when he realized its meaning. He looked up, wide-eyed at the tallest rider, and in his mind he knew its name was Death.

  The black smoke and shifting clouds that formed the riders seemed to solidify more and Jacob realized their forms were hardening, defining qualities he had not noticed before. The rider beside Death, now the largest and broadest, pointed to the pistol tucked into Jacob’s waistband. His father’s pistol…an instrument of War.

  Jacob dug into the inner pocket of his cassock, bringing out his leather bible and Ellie’s slim cigarette case. With fumbling hands he opened it, two of the pre-rolled cigarettes falling out, tobacco dust sticking to his fingertips. Death and disease that lingered in the air…for Pestilence. The rider on the left side of Death nodded towards him, as if to confirm his thoughts.

  The last rider on the far left, thinner than his brothers, pulled on the reins of his horse. He was the one who had come over to see Jacob more closely, and he seemed to vibrate with a menacing glee. Jacob felt an intense dislike and unease for that rider in particular and defiantly he said, “I have nothing else.”

  Let it not be true. I cannot have something for Famine as well.

  “Open your bible, preacher,” It gloated. Jacob did, confused, but then saw the few strands of golden hair he had tucked inside the cover. “What you hunger for most but cannot sate.”

  Those words stung with their cruelty, but Jacob knew he couldn’t do anything to the mocking rider. There was nothing he could do to any of them, not even run away. Though they were terrible and they frightened him, Jacob began to reason with himself that they might share a purpose, as they did not seem interested in harming him. Perhaps they were the instruments he had prayed for. “W-were you sent? Has someone heard my prayers?”

  The riders glanced at each other except for Death, who was still unmoved and undisturbed by anything. He finally spoke. “As we have said, you have called us and we have come.”

  Jacob was filled with a bizarre hope. Frightening though they were, many of God's servants had terrible aspects. It could not be a coincidence that he was here in this desert with these beings. “My town...my town – we have been plagued with awful things. Sights and trouble stirred up by some demon to sway faithful hearts, so many are dead – please, please help New Damascus.”

  Death waved a smoky hand in the air, gesturing for silence. “We are not here for New Damascus. That is now the name of a town that will only be forgotten.”

  Jacob gaped for a moment, stunned. “Please...help me...”

  Famine snapped his reigns in annoyance, his beast snorting and stamping below him. “Do we look like farmers to you, preacher? Think carefully on who has answered you this day. You have summoned a cleansing. A total cleansing.”

  Jacob turned white, all blood draining from his face and he suddenly felt so dizzy he was afraid he would lose consciousness. He mutely shook his head, u
nwilling to confront the truth but unable to deny it whilst in front of the four riders.

  Death moved his horse aside, his arm sweeping to the empty space beside him. “Ride with us, son of Adam. We have brought you a gift.” In the empty space the smoke swirled and Jacob heard the nervous panting and stamps of a fifth horse. Its ears swiveled in the air and he saw its eyes, like the flaring of a hot red coal, before he saw the rest of it materialize.

  He felt himself being pulled to his feet by an invisible hand. “Please...please save my town.”

  Death hushed him gently, drawing the reigns of the fifth horse forward. “Of course, brother. In our way.”

  He did not know where he found the strength, or the reason why, but it was as if an invisible hand helped Jacob into the saddle of the hell mount and made him take its reigns. It felt surprisingly firm and solid beneath him, and in a small way he was comforted. The other riders suddenly seemed to whip up great winds around them and without his prompting, Jacob's mount suddenly spurred into a gallop along with its brethren. They stampeded across the sky, desert vanishing beneath them, and Jacob could do little more than hold on as tightly as he could lest he fell.

  He saw a bright light in the distance, and it soon loomed in his view as the horses sped towards a great fire. Jacob choked, thick smoke curling into the air and stinging at his eyes. He didn't realize he had the strength for any sound left, but a strangled, gurgling moan ripped from his throat as he watched New Damascus burn. He viciously sawed at the reigns of his horse, yanking its head to the side and flinging himself from his seat. He tumbled to the ground in front of the town sign, blackened and cracking.

  Though he had not drank water in days, Jacob sobbed into the gritty dirt and flying ash his town was reduced to. He smelt sulfur, foul and pungent in the air. His body protesting, he pulled himself up from the ground and looked to his chapel, groaning and bellowing smoke as flames licked up the sides.

  The four riders descended more gracefully to the ground, their steeds unperturbed by the fire around them. Jacob felt so betrayed and was furious with himself for ever trusting them. “Why did you do this? Why did you have to completely destroy it?”

  War wheeled around him, his horse snorting out hot gusts of breath. “You show mercy by giving a sick beast a quick death. This town was festering.”

  “There were people here, good people-”


  “Hush, son of Adam.” Death sounded irritated with him for the first time, his voice still gentle but verging on impatient. “You do not anger with a being for its function. Come with us, there is nothing left for you here.”

  Jacob stepped back away from them, suspicious. He could feel the heat from the fires around him, almost unbearable, some of his hair even curling and breaking away into greasy dust. There was something eager in their voices he did not understand. “Take me too then. I named New Damascus, I am a part of this place. I should burn with it.”

  He turned on his heel and began to stride towards his church. He had built it with the help of the town, laid down its foundations, nailed its structure into place, and there was someone inside he wanted to take his last smoke-strangled breath with.

  He heard the horses whinnying behind him, a sound of nervousness and fear. War's voice cracked through the air like a whip. “What foolishness is-”

  “Halt, preacher.” Death's voice came to him like an invitation, gentle but compelling. “Halt, Jacob.”

  Jacob heard hoof-beats on the ground and the four riders wheeled in front of him, their beasts standing flank to flank and barring his way. A mad recklessness had taken over him and he found he wasn't afraid. “Let me go.”

  Famine clucked an invisible tongue, the sound horrible and dry like the clacking of bones. “There is nothing for you in there.”

  Death looked down at him from his looming height. “You do not die today.”

  Jacob said nothing, his hands balled into fists by his side. Suddenly, he reached into the pocket of his cassock, bringing out his pistol and cocking the hammer in one smooth motion. He pressed it to his temple.

  To his surprise, though it was as he had hoped, the riders seemed to grow nervous, their horses shying back. Pestilence spoke in his whisper. “That is the greatest sin, son of Adam.”

  Jacob looked straight at Death, at the formless hood where there was no face, and he pulled the trigger.

  He felt the explosion, his hair burning and catching on fire briefly. Too quickly for him to see, Death raised its hand and Jacob fell to the ground. It took him a moment to realize he had felt himself falling, that there was a stinging in his palms, something warm and wet trickling down his face, and that he felt all of this.

  Death hissed, the first time Jacob saw it angry, and it snapped its hand back in an irritated motion. “So you die today, preacher. Mark it well. I, however, will not be collecting you for a very long time. This day, your death, you will spend an eternity waiting to fully realize.”

  Death and his horse spun away angrily, a giant sickle appearing in its hand that it swept across the sky. More meteors of burning rock fell onto New Damascus, demolishing the rest of anything standing.

  Jacob blinked, the amount of pain he was in took him by surprise. Gasping, and gritting his teeth, he found the bullet on the ground, still covered in blood, some of his hair and a thin skein of something pulpy. Sick, his fingers closed over it and he held it in his palm. He stood shakily to his feet, swaying. The other riders shied away from him, giving him room and he took another step towards the church.

  Though the fire licked away at him, though his skin sizzled and blackened and he felt his flesh burning, Jacob walked through the church already dead but still breathing, and knelt by Ellie's remains.

  ***

  When Jacob stepped out of the church his skin was peeling, his arms blackened and crusty and his hair had completely burned away. There was an angry, inflamed wound on the back of his head where one of the beams of the church roof had fallen on him. His cassock was no more than tatters around him, and stepping outside he pulled the remains off of him.

  The four riders waited for him outside, like a vigil. He glanced up briefly at them, too sore and tired to want to argue any further. He saw one of them, Famine, with a half-empty bottle in his hand. To his surprise, Famine offered the bottle to him and it was cold to the touch.

  Gratefully, Jacob drank its contents almost in one gulp, the cold sweet drink briefly soothing his insides. Famine tapped a hand curiously against its reigns. “What is in that, preacher?”

  Surprised, Jacob glanced from the bottle to Famine. “Sarsaparilla.”

  “There is something to its flavour...it cloys...yet it is unlike honey or nectar.”

  Jacob almost felt like laughing, the conversation was so absurd. “It's sugar.”

  “Have you finally made your peace, son of Adam?” Pestilence asked in its hushed tones. It held the reigns of the rider-less horse, who huffed in Jacob's direction.

  “Ride with you...” he said quietly. “...why?”

  Death took the reigns of the horse and led it towards Jacob. From his vantage point it felt as if he were placing Jacob under a final scrutiny before finally approving. One long, sleeved arm snaked around Jacob's shoulders as Death bent close to his ear. “We have been searching for you, brother. You are the fifth rider and we are eager to teach you.”

  Jacob shivered uncontrollably; Death's touch was fleeting and slight but seemed to leave behind its own blanket of cold weight. “A rider? Like you? But there are only four horsemen.”

  “With you there will be five. As it must be. As it has not been for too long.”

  Jacob shrugged away from Death's reach, pain flaring up around his body from the burns and the smoke. “And who would I be amongst the devil's harbingers?”

  The four riders all laughed in unison then, and Jacob had to clap his hands over his ears. Their laughter was not loud, but it seemed to drum and seep inside his chest, filling his skull with a sound that felt like mou
ntains quaking. Their voices blended together and he heard all of them say, “You do not bend the knee to those lesser than you,” and continue laughing.

  Death tugged on the fifth horse's reigns once more, letting them drop as the mount picked its way over to Jacob, nudging him gently with its massive nose. He placed a hand against its flank for his knees still felt weak, and he strangely found connecting with the beast made him feel stronger, calmer and at peace.

  “Let us call you properly then, Dementia,” Famine said, extending a hand of welcome to Jacob.

  “Madness,” Pestilence echoed.

  “Chaos,” War thundered.

  “The mania inspired solely and cultivated only in the broken minds of men. Subservient to and yet cause of all other destruction. The only one of us who must be human. We have been missing you, brother, and you have been missing us. Come ride, you will be used to the madness that follows in your wake soon. The first time is always the most painful.” Death held out its hand and swept it meaningfully across the still burning remains of New Damascus.

  Jacob stood thunderstruck, his hand clutching the mane of his horse. When he was finally able to speak, it was almost inaudible as every word had to be forced through his chattering teeth. “The blood in the well...the stillborn deaths...the men wh-who...”