Breath

by Jackie Morse Kessler

  “No.”

  “This is bad.”

  “Very bad.”

  He’s so very good for her, in every way—he listens to her, he gives her advice, he supports her when she tries new things. And then there’s the other way he’s good for her, how his touch does such things to her. At first, she hadn’t known whether it was the Sword that kindled her attraction to him—the Red and Pale Riders had long been partners, on and off the battlefield. But soon, she didn’t care how her feelings for him had begun; they’re her feelings, and she treasures them.

  She treasures him.

  Both of them turned to the east to watch the Black Rider and her horse approach, sliding across the sky like an oil slick.

  “Could she move any slower?” War growled.

  “Be nice.”

  “I am being nice.”

  “Be nicer.”

  “Take your advice and shove it where the sun doesn’t shine. Please,” she added sweetly.

  “Much better.”

  The black horse finally landed on the beach. Famine, the Black Rider, slid off her mount and fished something out of her coat pocket—a sugar cube. She offered the treat to her steed and another to the white horse, which had come prancing up to the black. The white steed accepted the snack and sneezed its thanks, and then it and the black horse nuzzled as they chewed. Famine patted her steed’s neck, then walked over to War and Pestilence. She was head to toe in black; a gloved hand kept her broad-brimmed hat from flying away in the wind. She approached the other Riders stiffly, as if she were saddle sore. Then again, it wasn’t like she had much padding to cushion her, so maybe riding her steed was painful.

  Whatever. It wasn’t War’s problem.

  Her face hidden in shadow, Famine nodded at the other Riders. “White,” she said to Pestilence, and then, cooler: “Red.”

  “About time,” War muttered. At Pestilence’s pointed look, War forced herself to grin. There, she was all about the good cheer. “Thanks for coming.” See that? She was practically drowning in diplomacy.

  “Where’s your steed?” Famine asked, darting a glance up and down the beach.

  War shrugged. “Somewhere on the island. Killing rats.”

  “You’re letting it kill?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t tell me how to handle my steed. Besides, the rats don’t belong here. The Polynesians brought them when the rats stole aboard their ships.”

  “Infesting them,” said Pestilence, nodding.

  “Gorging on their grain,” said Famine. “And after the settlers abandoned the island, the rats remained, dining on a smorgasbord of newborn birds.”

  “Destroying the ecosystem,” said Pestilence.

  They all knew this because the parts of them that were Horsemen had experienced those events, and they themselves remembered it as a sort of race memory. The Riders’ collective conscience. If War were still in high school, she would have rocked her history class.

  “So yeah, I’m letting my steed get its jollies by taking out as many rats as it wants,” War said. “I like birds. Especially with a side of fries.”

  Famine’s nostrils flared, but she didn’t rise to the bait. “You wanted us to talk. So? Let’s talk.”

  And War couldn’t think of a thing to say.

  He listens, but he doesn’t say much, not about himself. He hasn’t even told her his name. When she asks, he says that Death is always personal, so whatever name she chooses for him, that would be his name for her. At first, she thinks this is incredibly romantic. But over time, she comes to see this as sad. To try to better understand him, she doesn’t call him by name, any name, not ever. He’s simply Death, the Pale Rider.

  And she is his handmaiden.

  Pestilence cleared his throat. “Have you heard from him?”

  There was no need to clarify whom the White Rider meant. Famine shifted her feet. “Not since this morning.”

  “Us, either,” said Pestilence. “What was he like when you saw him last?”

  The Black Rider’s jaw worked silently, as if she were grinding her teeth. “He was cold,” she finally answered. “But that’s nothing new.”

  “Were you on the job?”

  “At a wedding.”

  “Let me guess,” War said. “The bride starved herself to fit into her wedding gown.”

  “It’s not your concern,” Famine snapped.

  Ooh, she must have hit a nerve. “Touchy touchy.”

  “Back off, Red.”

  “Look at that,” War purred. “Famine found her backbone. No, wait, that’s just your spine. Sticking out prominently. Because you don’t eat.”

  Famine’s mouth twitched. “I said back off.”

  War grinned, and the Sword said, “MAKE ME.”

  “Ladies,” Pestilence warned. “We don’t have time for this.”

  War took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She knew she was being bitchy, but only part of that was actually her. Most of it was from the Sword. The Red Rider had a long history with the Black Rider. Neither of them liked each other. And it usually ended with one of them killing the other. The Sword tended to bring out War’s ugly side, especially when Famine was nearby.

  SHE DESERVES IT, the Sword said.

  “He’s right,” War gritted. “Sorry. I’ll behave.”

  The Sword mocked her. She ignored it.

  Famine nodded curtly. In the shadows of her face, her eyes glittered. No, there was no love lost there. War’s fingers drummed restlessly against her arms, and she told herself to let it go.

  “You said he was cold,” Pestilence nudged.

  “He said things to me.” The Black Rider’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “Cruel things. True things, if harsh.”

  War snorted.

  Famine sniped, “What?”

  “He’s always harsh. Cutting.” War smiled tightly. “Sometimes, he’s funny. Sometimes, he’s dark. But he’s always harsh. Ruthless. Brutal.”

  “This isn’t about you,” said Famine.

  “I didn’t say it was.”

  “No,” said Pestilence. “It’s about him. Frankly, he scared the hell out of me today.” He told them how, in some flyspeck village in some backwater country, Death had completely eradicated malaria.

  “He slaughtered disease,” War said. “I’m impressed.”

  Pestilence shot her a look. “Do you have any idea how reckless that was? What I had to counter that came to take malaria’s place?”

  “He threw disease off balance,” Famine mused. “He stepped into your territory.”

  “That’s not like him,” Pestilence said.

  “At all,” War admitted.

  “And then all the crows died.” He described the birds, black and frozen, falling from a tree.

  “My God,” War breathed. “That’s . . .”

  “Bad,” said Pestilence.

  “Bad,” she agreed.

  “You’re overreacting,” Famine said. “He’s acting a little oddly—so what?”

  “A little?” said Pestilence.

  “So some crows died. That doesn’t mean anything other than some crows died.”

  “What about the malaria?”

  “Yes, well,” she said, shrugging. “He made a bad decision. Like that’s never happened to you. He’s just a little off today. That’s all.”

  Pestilence’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “You really think that?”

  “Of course. We all have our days.” Famine glanced at War. “Some more so than others.”

  War spluttered, but Pestilence held up a gloved hand. Seething, she bit her tongue and ignored the Sword’s suggestion to cut Famine down where she stood.

  “This isn’t just having an off day,” the White Rider said. “This is sea-change different. When have you known him to just let things die like that? Or to blow away the balance of disease? Even when plagues ravage entire countries, he sits back and lets things run their course. You know why? Because disease isn’t his demesne. He’s said as much to m
e.”

  Beneath the brim of her hat, Famine’s face was inscrutable.

  “The Spanish flu killed off almost a hundred million people,” he said. “He didn’t stop it. He could have, but he didn’t.”

  “Neither did you,” Famine commented.

  “That was before my time. And don’t change the point. If he didn’t step in to stop something like the Spanish flu or the Black Plague or AIDS or even Alzheimer’s, why on earth would he kill off malaria now?”

  “Change of heart,” Famine said coldly.

  War rolled her eyes. “Oh, for God’s sake . . .”

  “That wasn’t some quick-fix miracle cure,” Pestilence said, his voice rising. “What he did was rash.”

  “You’re both making too much out of this. So he’s acting different. Maybe even rash. That doesn’t mean anything,” Famine insisted. “He’s allowed to be moody.”

  “This isn’t just some temper tantrum,” Pestilence said.

  The Black Rider pulled her coat tighter around her and didn’t reply.

  Missy tells him that she loves him, but he doesn’t reply—not with words. He holds her and loves her, and makes her feel so very alive.

  But he never says those three words to her.

  She still tells herself that it doesn’t bother her.

  “Don’t you see what’s happening?” Pestilence looked at Famine, then at War, who grumbled and turned away.

  “You do see it,” he said softly. “Don’t you?”

  War refused to reply. She knew what he was insinuating, but she refused to acknowledge it.

  “See what?” Famine asked peevishly.

  “This morning,” the White Rider said, “when he visited me, he gave me a gift. That’s when he destroyed the malaria, and then he told me my work was done.”

  Famine grew still.

  “Did he give you anything?”

  “At the wedding,” she said slowly. “He had a bouquet of flowers, and he gave them to me.”

  Blood roared in War’s ears. “He gave you flowers?” She could count on no hands how many times Death had given her flowers.

  Uneasy, Famine said, “They dried up as soon as I touched them.”

  “You get flowers,” War snarled at Famine, “and you get a day off,” she said to Pestilence. “Me? I got the shaft.”

  A beat, and then Famine asked, “Is that what they’re calling it these days?”

  “He cut me off!” War gnashed her teeth. “That was my gift: He cut me off from him. I can’t feel him.” She remembered him leaning over her, the press of his lips against hers—the sudden chill as he stole her heat. “He was right there, a breath away from me, but it was like there was a wall between us.”

  Famine frowned. “I don’t understand. He . . . what, took away your empathy?”

  “Only with him. But isn’t that enough? He shut me out. Me.” War ignored the sudden sting in her eyes. Softly, she said, “He hurt me so much.”

  “Ask yourselves now,” said Pestilence. “Has he ever, ever, done anything like this before? Not just in your experience, but in your Rider’s?”

  “He’s always cold,” Famine said.

  “Harsh,” said War, shivering.

  Pestilence said, “But he isn’t rash. Out of all of us, he’s the one who’s patient. He’s the one who understands the importance of waiting.” He looked at Famine. “He’s acting rashly, for the first time in forever. He’s gotten colder, crueler.” He turned to War. “He’s gotten distant, has even cut off the one person who could truly understand him. He’s giving us gifts. Don’t you see what’s happening here? He’s suicidal.”

  The words rang true, and not just because the White Rider obviously believed them.

  He spoke the truth. War could see it, could feel it.

  She turned her back on him so that she wouldn’t punch him in his fat mouth. But already, the Sword was laughing and laughing and laughing as images of blood ran freely in her mind—her blood, the blood of others, it was one and the same.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Famine said. “He can’t be suicidal. He’s Death.”

  “Oh, so you’ve never been hungry?”

  The Black Rider didn’t reply.

  “I’m telling you,” Pestilence said. “He’s suicidal. And that’s not the worst of it.”

  War rubbed her arms. “No?” she said, not looking at him. “What could possibly be worse?”

  “Have you noticed the weather?”

  That threw her. “What about it?”

  “It’s gotten colder. Windier.” Pestilence paused. “Angrier.”

  War got it. Eyes wide, she turned to face the White Rider. “You can’t mean . . .”

  He nodded, once, his mouth set in a thin line.

  Famine let out an exasperated sigh. “It’s just the weather.”

  Pestilence insisted, “It’s him. When he gets cold, the world follows.”

  “You’re insane. Winter happens. Wind happens.”

  “But it happens more erratically when he’s like this,” Pestilence insisted.

  “How do you know that?”

  On his brow, the Conqueror’s crown gleamed. “Because I know.”

  “He’s right,” War whispered, her words half lost as the Sword clamored for blood. “Oh God, he’s right.”

  Famine spluttered, “Right about what?”

  “This isn’t just about him being suicidal,” Pestilence said grimly. “He’s suicidal, and he’s taking the world with him. If we can’t stop this—if we can’t stop him—then it’s going to be hell on earth.”

  Pestilence

  “You’re being dramatic,” said Famine.

  “I wish I were,” Pestilence replied. He took a moment to quash the nausea that suddenly flooded him—the White Rider antacid special, much better than the pink stuff he used to chug. “You have no idea just how bad it’s going to be.”

  A SHEET OF WHITE, the King wailed.

  Yes, he growled silently. I know, shut up.

  You can’t tell them, the Elder whispered.

  I have to.

  What will the knowledge do, other than break them?

  What other choice did he have? The three of them were coworkers, and like it or not, what was happening now was part of their job. Granted, it was firmly in the “Other Duties As Assigned” column, but still, the responsibility was theirs.

  To his left, War stood in profile, rubbing her arms as if to ward against a chill. Her cherry red coat looked almost cheerful in the sunlight, but her face was a study in solemnity—tight jaw, pinched mouth, a troubled look in her eye. She, at least, understood what was to come.

  Of course she does, said the Elder. She’s his handmaiden. She should be ecstatic. The Last Ride is coming.

  You don’t know her, Pestilence chided. She’s not like that.

  She’s War. Of course she’s like that.

  Acid bubbled in Pestilence’s stomach again. He swallowed thickly, tasting bile.

  Billy Ballard is delivering his grandfather’s eulogy, pretending his stomach isn’t about to rebel. He talks about the man who had become his father figure, the man who taught him how to ride a bike and throw a baseball and how to always find his way home. He talks about his grandfather’s slow slide into Alzheimer’s, and how over the last couple of years of his life, Gramps had shown remarkable resilience. Medicines and prayers and everything in between go only so far, he tells the mourners—the sick still must have spirit. They have to want to be healthy. They have to want to live. And his grandfather fought tooth and nail for life. He had enough spirit that three years ago, he even stood up to Death himself.

  The mourners think he’s being metaphorical. He lets them think that.

  He tells everyone that even though his grandfather lost the battle against Alzheimer’s, he held on to his dignity until the very end. He’s never been prouder of the old man.

  He won’t say goodbye, he tells the mourners. As long as they keep his grandfather’s memory in their minds,
part of Gramps will live on.

  To his right, Famine hid in shadow, from head to foot. She was thinner than he remembered, and clearly anorexic, even though her long coat and baggy pants hid it well. He’d tried to talk to her about it, once. That had gone poorly. Even before that ill-fated conversation, he’d tried to become closer to her over the years—hunger and disease tended to work hand in hand—but she always kept her distance. She was far more guarded than any of the previous Black Riders. More wounded, perhaps.

  Lady Black, whispered the King.

  Once, yes. That playful name was from the time when Famine and Pestilence had been closest, during the first thousand years that the King had reigned as the White Rider. But the time of Black and White together almost intimately was long gone. Now he had Marianne, and Famine had . . . whoever it was that she had.

  Three years ago, Billy Ballard had kissed the girl, and she had kissed him back. With tongue. Since then, he and Marianne have been together. It’s only gotten better after high school. Now they’re freshmen in college—same state, but different schools; he’d gotten a full scholarship to his, and her parents had handpicked hers. They talk every day and see each other almost every weekend. They do the party scene; they do the quiet scene. They learn more and more about each other as they slowly discover who they are. Eighteen, and learning about how far first love can truly go.

  Eighteen, and learning about life.

  “He’s not suicidal,” Famine said.

  “He is. All the signs are there. And more than that,” Pestilence said. “Can’t you feel it? Deep down, in the part of you that makes you what you are, that makes you the Black Rider . . . can’t you feel that something’s wrong?”

  Famine gripped the brim of her hat and said nothing.

  “Can’t you feel it in your gut?”

  War barked out a laugh. “That’s just hunger pangs she’s feeling.”

  “Red,” he sighed. “Please. For this once, can the two of you let it go?”

  “She started it.”

  Famine snorted. “Oh, please . . .”

  “Well, you did. Okay, not you, but the Black Rider did.” War’s eyes glittered like diamond chips, enticing and sharp. “You had to goad her on, didn’t you?”

  “Enough!” Pestilence shouted. “This isn’t about the two of you!” He glared at them both. Famine, hidden within shadow, was still, but War laughed softly, lushly.