The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse and George

I can’t honestly say we were taught about the Four Horsemen in Sunday School.  Not that I’m entirely surprised, it is, after all, a rather grown up topic.  I think that our Sunday School Teachers probably thought that we would hear about them sooner or later and stuck to the more ‘nicer’ aspects of the Christian religion.  In fact those Teachers firmly believed that we would be fully conversant in the dire warnings that the Horsemen brought well before our adulthood.  However, before we reached our adulthood we reached the 1960’s, and yes, we probably did know about the Four Horsemen, but as budding Hippies we had put them in a melting pot already containing diverse Eastern philosophies and religions, Celtic myths, Wiccan by laws, the odd ‘Aliens have Landed’ rumours, and Veganism, we care-freely blended them with Free Love and finally seasoned with a more than healthy dollop of Marijuana.

And so The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse were never taken seriously as a warning again, except by those of a Fundamental Religious Persuasion.  They were removed from our minds as depictions of dire and dreadful prophecies and confined to the pages of Science Fantasy, either singly or en masse……….and they really only have themselves to blame!

When the Four Horsemen do get a mention, and it is rarely that they do, either by the Fundamentalists or the Common Sceptic on the Street, the overriding question is always, “So what?” followed by, “Well, where are they then?”  the more confident and adventurous natured can be relied upon to come up with, “Bring it on Brother!”  The fact of the matter is the Horsemen are late, very late.  This has left the human race organising its own Apocalyptic Olympics for generations, and although they have become very proficient at it, they just lack that finishing touch of utter annihilation of themselves as a species.  Now, as the Horsemen are not actually real, just depictions, I feel I can use any interpretations I care to as an explanation for their tardiness.  (And why not?  All Christian denominations have had a go, this is a chance to put my slant on things.)  The clue is a part-word in the title, The Four HorseMEN of the Apocalypse.  Yep, it’s a gender thing!

A single Horseman, although lacking the impact, would have turned up on time.  A group of males, no matter how well intentioned, can never reach a destination without first dropping off at a pub for a ‘quick one.’   The phrase ‘quick one,’ when applied to an adult male with more or less human qualities, is more truthfully employed to the act of sexual intercourse and NEVER to the act of having a pint of beer with his mates!!  Drinking, usually over a game of cards, or dominoes, or darts, or whatever, leads inexorably to a condition called Severe Intoxication.  Severe Intoxication has several symptoms, which include diminishing mind-leg co-ordination, “EARTHQUAKE!!  Quick, stand in a door way, put your head between your legs, and kiss your arse goodbye…..oh….it appears I’m doing that already.” Forgetfulness, “Where did you say we parked the horses?”  Unreasonable solutions, “OK, we’ve found one horse, do you think the thingy would work if we all showed up just riding him?”  Belligerence, “…….and I KNOW it was YOU, ye gods, it even smells like Death!”  And finally coma.  “”Zzzzzzzzzzzz mutter, mumble, snort, giggle.”

Sobering up can either come slowly, like a winter’s dawn with migraine and toothache, or suddenly, like opening your eyes only to briefly catch a quick glimpse of the trapezing elephant that hits you full on, enveloping your vision in a grey and painful misery……………….Whatever, The Horsemen crawled out of the various gutters or ditches they awoke in and continued on in their mission, only to be stopped in their tracks just before The Event was about to kick-off, by The Champion of Mankind.

The Champion of Mankind was not appointed thus by Mankind, neither was he a self-elected hero, he had just come into being.  He was formed from the collective thoughts and inner feelings of the over ruling majority of those he was deemed to represent.  And he was unsure of what precisely he was supposed to do, he had conducted a half-hearted search for some sort of handbook, or instruction manual, but had quickly decided that it must have got lost in the post.  He was on his own to face……..that was the problem, without the instruction manual, he really didn’t have a clue what it was he had to face.  He was some sort of hero, that he was almost sure of, but a perfunctory glance in the mirror even led to self-doubts on that score.  A plain be-freckled face was topped with sandy hair, his eyes were……..blue?  Yes, blue, well sort of.  And although he had the feeling he wasn’t a midget, he was pretty damn certain  he was challenged vertically.  His clothing, which might once have been white, had now taken on that ‘washed once too often with other coloured garments’ drabness.  He was not happy with the style either, wearing an un-tucked collarless shirt be-girdled by a length of baling twine over a pair of baggy trousers tucked into what looked like dog-chewed Uggies just didn’t say ‘Hero’ to him.  His cloak, knotted by two corners under his chin, was, and he was in absolutely no doubt about this, a table cloth.

He was mounted on a horse, a wooden horse.  Not a magnificent interpretation of a horse as built by the Trojans though.  No, his steed bore more than a passing resemblance to a horse more commonly found in a children’s’ nursery.  Its painted on face with round starey eyes did give it a somewhat creepy look, but this was offset by the flopping of one of its rabbit-like ears forward and the other to the side.  Putting his clothing colour to shame, the main body of the horse was painted in white gloss, which for a hero would have been appropriate, but someone had decided to jazz things up a bit and had overlaid the white with black splodges, some of which were dots, some commas and one definitely a question mark.  The wooden effigy’s short mane and tail were made out of some kind of bristle, the sort you would find at the business end of a yard-broom.  The whole sorry excuse was stood on a small platform, which in turn was mounted on wheels.  To propel himself forward, or backward, (the only directions, he was to quickly discover, he could move in without toppling over) our hero had to take his feet out of the stirrups and give a little push on the floor with his feet.  Trying desperately to salvage some comfort from his bizarre mode of equine transport, the hero thought at least he would save on feed bills, and consequently on cleaning bills.

The whole ensemble was completed with matching sword and shield.  Matching in as much that like the horse, they were made of wood.  He felt that the creator of his hero get-up was very much into  re-cycling, as a closer inspection of the sword proved it to be an off cut of a wooden picket fence.  The shaft had the tell-tale sharp bit at one end and a look of being stuck in the earth at the other.  The cross piece that defined which end it should be held, was crudely nailed to the shaft, and just to be certain, was bound round with baling twine.  Not more of the natural coloured twine that was tied round his waist, the creator had probably run out, but that ghastly bright orange colour, straight from a stable yard too by the looks of it, with limp strands of hay and small clunks of horse manure firmly embedded into it.  It would be nice to say that ‘emblazoned on the shaft was a legend that read, valour, honour, courage,’ or some such, but I can’t, for roughly scratched along the shaft was what, to all intents and purposes the hero took to be the missing instruction manual, short and sweet, it merely read ”Keep ‘em talking!”   “But keep who talking?” Thought the hero, “and for how long, and what about?”  Sighing deeply he returned his sword to his twine belt, as a weapon its uses were severely limited, the only thing that might save him, if he should find himself fighting for his life, would be to hold the pointy end and club his assailant round the head with the blunty end.

The shield was a pretty standard shape, triangular with slightly bulging sides.  It too bore a legend, burnt into the wood in a neat font, to the hero this showed its importance.  Important it may have been, but making any kind of sense was its major let down.  It read, “DOWN WITH APATHY AND UP YOURS.”  As a battle cry to gallop into the fray with it lacked a certain finesse, as a marching chant it didn’t really work either, it was too, well, unfinished is the best way of putting it, almost as though its author had neglected to add those vital components that, whilst informing the reader of its antis, would, at the very least, have balanced things up by giving some clue or hint as to its pros………….I mean to say, ’up yours’ what?

And so it was that the Champion of Mankind, appropriately, according to someone, somewhere, clothed, equipped and mounted found himself in a narrow pass of a mountainous terrain awaiting his fate, prepared to do his duty, and if, when you read that he was mounted, you took it to mean stuffed, that too.  Time moves quite differently on the Not Really Real plane of existence.  The Horsemen entered the pub at around the same time as the hero arrived at the pass, in about 1914.  By 1930 they had got in the fourth round, by 1945 they were downing the sixth.  1960 found them outside the pub staggering in mindless, noisy circles, 1980 they were well and truly fast asleep in boozey, noisome obliviousness.   The 21st century heralded their painful recovery into sobriety, and by the day after New Year’s Day 2014, a hundred years late, they were approaching the mountain pass that led to the fabric of the planet Earth’s reality.  And all that time the Hero had waited, occasionally shifting his seat in the saddle in a vain attempt to ease his ‘numb bum’ and casting impatient looks at his wrist watch.  It was whilst he was checking that his sword would slide effortlessly from his belt for the umptythousandth time, that upon looking up he saw the first signs of them.  They rode four abreast through the pass until it narrowed, there they stopped, not fifty feet from the beginning of the bottle neck where the hero sat, fervently wishing he was still doing the waiting bit, yet wondering what the hell he was supposed to do now it was over.

Besides the cold shiver of fear that made him wish he had double checked that he didn’t need to use the loo before he came out, was the recognition that these were not nice people.  Nice people didn’t take one look at you and then flop about their horses roaring with laughter.  That was just plain rude.  “Keep ‘em talking” was the advice on his sword, so swallowing the lump that had mysteriously appeared in his throat, followed by coughing to make sure no trace of it remained, he began what he hoped was the start of a pleasant conversation,
“Good Morning,” he croaked.
Obviously the lump had stubbornly refused to be entirely budged.  The remaining chortles of the Horsemen hadn’t fully subsided by this time, and the Hero’s greeting brought a surprised silence.  One of the Horsemen leaned across his saddle and said to the colleague next to him,
“What did it say?”  
This time the rudeness made the hero blush a deep red with indignity.  
“I’m not sure,” was the colleague’s reply, “But it is changing colour, I best ride over and check it out.”   
Before the Hero could regain control of his furious hot flushes, the First Horseman of the Apocalypse was in front of him, and his name was Conquest, or it might have been Pestilence, not that either was really his name anyway, more a job description, but for the sake of having to call him something, we’ll say Conquest. (Terry Pratchett has already used Pestilence, and I would hate to tread on such an eminent author’s toes.)

Conquest cast the Hero a quick cold glance whilst he busied himself by first patting the neck of his pure white steed, (and not pure white in a nice way either, it looked more like it had spent a millennium in some deep, dark underground cavern, or some such other place where the sun doesn’t get to shine.)  He carefully replaced an arrow into a quiver hung from his saddle and then slung his bow over his back, adjusted his crown and leaned forward in his saddle to, this time, give the Hero a good hard stare.  The stare bore into the Hero’s head, making him squirm. Conquest’s deeply furrowed brow suddenly relaxed and a light of understanding came on in his eyes.  
“GEORGE!”  He shouted.
The word exploded from his stale-booze tainted mouth with such a force of exhalation that the Hero nearly toppled backward off his horse.  Before the Hero could respond with a ‘What?’ or even a, ‘Who?’  Conquest had half turned in his saddle, and stabbing a finger in the direction of the Hero, yelled back at his companions,
“IT’S GEORGE!”   
This brought blank stares from the other three. With an exasperated sigh, Conquest continued,
“You remember George, Myth George, was made a saint a couple of, I dunno, three, five hundred years ago……..You must remember, got himself into a bit of a pickle involving a maiden and a dragon.”  
“Oh that George,” replied the rider of a blood red stallion which looked as though it was in possession of a nasty and spiteful temper.  “I never heard tell of any dragon though, the way I heard it he was trying to woo the girl by first skewering, and then barbecuing a lizard,  things went tits up when the barbecue fire got out of hand, singed the poor girls eyebrows, her father was NOT best pleased.”  
“I remember that,” said the rider of the jet black horse, “I knew fire was involved somehow, probably why I thought it was a dragon too.”  
“Well it wasn’t, it was a lizard.”  Replied the rider of the blood red, sulkily.  
Conquest, eager to come to ‘George’s’ defence, called back to them, “Well alright then, but it was a bloody big lizard.”  
The rider of the pale, sickly green horse looked up, at least his head, deeply shrouded in the black hood of his onesie, moved to indicate that he had done so, and commented,
“Well it would have had to have been a really big one, girls were not that easily impressed in them days.”  
Satisfied that the argument had been resolved, Conquest turned his attention back to the Hero.

“Now then George, me ol’ fruit, how’s life been treating you?”  Enquired Conquest, in a surprisingly pleasant manner.  
The Hero opened his mouth to inform Conquest that this was a case of mistaken identity, when something in the back of his memory gave an ever so slight twitch.  He seemed to recall something about a fair maiden and a large lizard, or was it a lobster?  He came to the decision that under his present circumstances it just wasn’t worth arguing about, and anyway, if he had to have a  name, George was as good as any.  He looked up at Conquest and smiled,
“Oh you know, so-so.” He said, rocking his hand from side to side, “And you, what are you and friends up to today, anything interesting on the cards?”  
“Ah, funny you should ask, but we...,”  here Conquest paused in his reply and swept his arm backward, almost knocking a set of merchant's scales from the black horse rider's hand who, along with the blood red horse rider, and unseen by Conquest, had  moved up to join him.  The rider in the black onesie stayed where he was.  After a mumbled apology Conquest continued,
“We are on an important mission, we are a tad late, but hey, you know what they say.”  
“Not really,” replied George, “But it does sound intriguing, and very heroic, I would love to learn more about it, supposing that is, it isn’t a secret mission.”  
“No, no, not at all, in fact I do believe it was advertised some two thousand odd years ago in a book, a book I might add, that became a bit of a best seller.”  
Conquest had apparently elected himself spokesman for the group.  
“Now I,”  continued Conquest, thumping himself dramatically in the chest, “I am, as you know, Conquest, my directive is to, well, conquer all of mankind and spread an unhealthy measure of pestilence whilst I am at it, I go first.  Now that chap there, with the sword and riding the blood red stallion, is War, he comes next, his job is to set mankind against each other, murder, war, genocide, that sort of thing.  As for Famine, riding the black horse, he is third in the queue, well, he pretty much does what it says on the tin so to speak, but with a twist, he really is ingenious, mankind will starve to death because of a lack of all decent, healthy, necessary to life grub, but, all those luxury items, like booze and olives, never quite understood that one myself, but it is on the list, chocolate and BigMacs, that sort of thing, well, they will still be available, but to only those who can afford them, hence the dinky little scales he is carrying”   
Here Conquest stopped, and with a self-satisfied grin nodded toward George, inviting an admiring comment, George looked pointedly at the black hooded figure sitting patiently a short distance away,
“And him?”  George asked.  
Conquest looked back over his shoulder,
“Oh him, that’s Death, he comes last of all, he is what you might call a consequence of all our hard labours, we never stick around to see what exactly he does with that scythe he is carrying, bet it isn’t pleasant though.”  
“This is it.”  Thought George, “This is where I must complete my mission, keep ‘em talking, and then talk them out of theirs.”  
With that he drew in a deep breath, set his face to serious mode and gave it his best shot.

“I think,”  said George, “You are too late.”  
“No, just a tad, as I said before, but we are here now, willing and able.”  Conquest had started to frown in disapproval.  
“Please, I don’t mean any disrespect, let me explain, and then perhaps you can judge for yourselves.”  
The three Horsemen in front of George were, as he was well aware, merely depictions, but they were psychotically murderous ones, George had to choose his words carefully.  
“When I say late, what I mean is that there is really nothing more you can do to humankind that they haven’t already done to themselves.  For instance, Conquest, just what is it you hope to conquer and subdue?  The reasonableness in mankind’s minds, the compassion and loving kindness in their hearts?  Believe me when I say, there are orators amongst them who possess words of such persuasive, smooth tongued, believable qualities, and are yet pure evil and full of hatred, that nothing can top it.  Those orators never had to place a poisoned arrow in a bow to conquer, they did it by words alone.  As for giving them a dose of pestilence, they have diseases that would make the black death look like a summer sniffle.  And yet they, with their intelligence and innovation, are developing cures all the time.”  
Conquest opened his mouth to speak, and realised that George’s words needed a little more thought before he did so, he bowed his head in contemplation. 

George turned his gaze to War.  
“There really is nothing you can add to the mix.  Mankind have been warring none stop for the last hundred years, the innovative minds that have developed cures for diseases have also been busy developing weapons of mass destruction, each one more powerful and wicked in its design.  As for…”  
War interrupted George by standing up in his stirrups, and brandishing his sword above his head, he announced,
“All very well little man, but I shall bring them war on a global scale, they will tremble and wet the bed in fear, but they shall, none-the-less, ALL be involved.”  
Still standing and brandishing War cast a triumphant look at his companions.  
George sighed, “They’ve already done that, twice.”  
War’s brandishing stopped and his backside came back down on his saddle with an audible plunk, causing the blood red stallion to lay its ears flat back and bar its teeth.  Giving War a look that said ‘please don’t interrupt’ George continued.  
“As for making them murderous. Have you read the latest crime figures, unbelievable, even their rulers and religious leaders are at it, some good example they’re setting.”  
A warrior who finds himself defeated without even a blow being struck is a sorry sight indeed.  War’s head bowed in shame and his once powerful sword arm dropped down, the magnificent sword’s point touching the dust and dirt.

Famine smirked back as George turned his face toward him.  
“Have you ever got it wrong!”
George’s words wiped the smirk off of Famine’s face,replacing it with a look of genuine concern.  
“Mankind has, as you very well know, had to live with famine for, well, for ever.  They’re used to it.  And as for your ‘ingenious’ plan, let me tell you, they have once again out trumped a Horseman.  They have enough nutritious food to feed the entire world ten times over, but they simply won’t.  It is in the wealthiest nations’ interest to keep the poorer ones on the point of being starved out of existence.  In the past there were those who felt pity for them, especially when the television crews got in there and journalists found fame and fortune by broadcasting images of small children dying in the arms of their mothers.  But then a whole gang of journalists, joined by some well-meaning pop stars, jumped on the band wagon and after a while the rest of the world became, became indifferent to their plight, it had become a common place sight, fact was they were all sick of seeing it.  The donations dried up and the humanitarians turned their attention, and sent their money, to small, and not so small, furry animals, leaving the children to continue, unaided and unreported, to die once more in their mother’s arms.”  
Even Famine felt a sense of shock at this, but there was more.  
“True, luxury consumable goods are expensive, they have always been the distinguishing factor between the have and have not’s.  BUT, even in the lands of plenty the majority of the populace choose, CHOOSE, to eat that which is proven to make them ill and eventually kill them.”  
And with that, yet another Horseman’s chin found itself resting on the owner’s upper chestal area.

George had no idea where the words that had tumbled out of his mouth had come from, but they seemed to be having the desired effect.  He looked past the three in front of him to where Death was sitting.  George opened his mouth, but there was nothing to say.  There never was anything to say to Death, the other three had called him a consequence of their actions, this was not entirely true, Death was a consequence of life itself.  He would always be there, be you good or bad, rich or poor, at war or in peace time, he was the inevitable outcome for all, and he was always last in the line for things to be done.  Conquest, War and Famine had by this time thought over George’s words and they were now looking directly at him.  As ever, Conquest spoke on behalf of them all,
“No wonder they dressed you as a child at play, what’s that old saying, ‘Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings,’ innocence personified.  Well, it worked……this time, but we’ll be back.”  
And with that, and in perfect unison, they spun their horses round and galloped back the way they had come.  As they passed him, Death touched his scythe to his forehead in a mock salute.  He then nudged his horse forward to stand before George.  
“Well boy, you said all the right words, shame you got everything else from the start so very wrong.”  
And with that he set his horse to walking forward again, straight through George, and on toward the Kingdom of Mankind, he was in no hurry, he would get there in the end, he always did.

Leaning forward and resting his chin on the top of his shield, George mulled over Death’s words.  Wrong from the start?  How?  From the start he had been on his ownsome, not, as he recalled, his fault.  He’d not been the one to take a sneaky visit to the pub, he had taken his task seriously, and had turned up bang on time.  No, he decided, Death was being spiteful by trying to take all the glory out of George’s thunder.  The irritation he felt made him give the shield, which was resting point down on the front of his painted on saddle, a sharp tap.  A few crumbs of an aeons worth of grime broke free and crumbled off.  Turning the shield to face him George was appalled at how dirty it was.  He felt a moment of shame, he could have, should have, given it a quick clean whilst he was waiting for the Horsemen.

Pulling his cloak/table-cloth forward, he bunched up a corner, spat on it, and gave the shield a vigorous rub.  A letter appeared.  Half an hour, a filthy cloak/table-cloth, and a very dry mouth later George held the shield at arm’s length and read the legend that was now in it’s entirety.  

The full comprehension of what he read made him feel sick.  Oh, he had got it wrong from the start alright, and in doing so had made the most monumental cock-up of all time, and he feared it could very well be the last cock-up of all time.  He wondered if it was too late to make amends, he had no choice but to try.  Scrambling down from his wooden horse he tugged and pushed it so it was facing in the opposite direction to what he had sat in for so long.  Remounting he held the shield aloft, so its words would shine down and into the hearts of those men who were born to make a difference.  Without those words they too would have succumbed to what was warned against on the shield.  A hundred years ago they just might have made a difference, but now?  After all this time?  After all they had done to each other?  All George could do was hope.