The Pale Sands of Time

I cannot tell you when I first had the dream, for it was a thing of twisted shapes and distorted landscapes, populated by unfathomable creaturesof both shadow and light. It always began with the sound of hooves striking the earth. It always ended with the hourglass. I know I had them as a boy, for as a boy my mother would show great displeasure upon hearing tales of my strange escapades through the realm of twilight.

At first, the visions were playful. Horses, the one animal to which I have always felt an affinity toward, galloped at full speed down a country highway. They passed meadows of grass and flowers, and milking cows could be seen in the fields. The dream would always end with an old man, looking like my father, pointing at an ornate hourglass, which seemed to have only been recently turned over.

However, with my father’s death, the visions became darker, taking on an almost sinister quality. The horses no longer galloped alone, but had four riders – one per horse. They wore strange garments, as if some kind of bronze-age warriors riding into battle with long, draping cloaks which billowed out in the wind. The idea that they were riding to war was quick to form in my mind. The image of the hourglass was altered, now showing the bottom half full while my father’s figure was replaced by that of a skull – a skull that seemed to mock me with laughter as it handed me the hourglass.

The visions had become painfully clear to me. Death rode with those Horsemen and would come with them, just as he had come to me in dreams. I knew that it would not be long. I could hear the beating of hooves every night growing louder and louder, closer and closer still.

I had a plan. I knew I could never save myself, for how could I escape the monsters which came from my own dreams? Instead, I might still be able to save my poor wife and child. My wife knew nothing of my dreams; though I was sure she had her suspicions about my night terrors. Yet I thought that maybe if they never knew the particulars, if they knew not who stalked me, perhaps they would be spared the fate I would most certainly find.

Now here I stand at the window of our small living room, looking out into the fading light of dusk and brooding about how I came to be in this position. I know that they will be riding tonight, for I have come to know Death, and he has a presence that precedes his coming. The baby cries in one corner of the room. Hopefully his teething will not rouse the attention of the Pale Horseman. I can sense that my dear wife is staring at me, crocheting some garment and worried sick at my preoccupation. I wish there was something I could do to ease her pain. I can only hope that I can do her some justice by keeping her from our visitors.

I watch as Death takes the sun down below the horizon, bathing the world in the darkness of a night that I can only assume to be my last. A cold wind blows in through the cracks of the windowsill and the old wooden planks of the exterior wall creak in protest. My wife is asking me about what is troubling me, but I cannot speak. The cold has entered my throat, a chill that works its way down into my chest with the realization that whatever I say next to her, my beautiful bride, will be the final and most powerful words I have ever spoken to her.

Oh, God in heaven, this is the last! Such pain I feel, of words I should have spoken, of things I should have done. I cannot believe I have allowed my life to lead me this way, but I could never think of any recourse. For so long I have had the vision and for so long I had imagined that I would know how to cope with the situation. But is it true? Do the Horsemen come for me this night?

Before my eyes my question is answered, for upon the hill, riding down the highway at full speed ride four horses.

With a terror I have never known, I turn from the window and order my wife to grab our child. She simply stares at me blankly, as if not comprehending my words. I have no time to waste explaining, so I pull her from her chair and push her toward the small crib in the corner. Quickly, I must douse the lamps so that maybe my family will be left unseen by the demons who so quickly now are racing for our home.

She asks me what is wrong and I tell her that she and the baby must hide. I take her to the linen closet down the hall and have her sit with the baby. Then I cover them with a bedcover. She is terrified, my poor wife, but I must be very hard with her or else she will not mind my words. She must stay here, I tell her, and not leave until all has gone quiet or else all of us will die.

And above all, silence that baby! Feed it or something, just keep it quiet!

I close the door and my hands are shaking. I feel a tingle down my back and the hairs on my neck stand on end. It feels like I should go mad, that I should somehow start blubbering like a baby myself, but I know I must keep strong for the sake of the two I have just now hidden.

The sounds of hooves knock at my door.

Without thinking, driven by some strange impulse, I walk back into the living room and to the front door. The night is so dark, so cold. I know that I am walking toward my end when I see the horseback riders in the road outside, just past the now open door.

I walk past them and into the night, staring into the sky. There are but a few stars and the moon is but a sliver, sickle-shaped and casting a pale light. Covered in the pitch black and bitingly cold wind, I suddenly feel a peace which I have never before known, except in times of sleep. Is this the calm before the storm? Is this how it feels to place your neck on the chopping block?

The rider in black nudges his steed and comes before me. I look at him, this Dark Horseman, and see no face behind the hooded cloak. His face is shrouded in darkness, but still I can feel his eyes upon me, two dark pits that radiate an absence of light.

He holds out in his decayed hand a large, ornate silver hourglass. It is the same from my dream, only now its sands have completely ran out.

He speaks to me in a voice so deep and dark it must come from the depths of the abyss. With it he tells me that my time has come. I have a choice. Either I am to take the hourglass and ride with them, or I shall choose my fate and die.

I look from the Dark Horseman and to the other riders. One is red, covered in armor, the other is white. There is a rider missing from the last and now I know just what all of my dreams have meant. Now I know why there has been so much death in my life, why there has been so little time.

I take in one last, final breath. One choice or the other, I can never return from the decision I make. To live and never see my wife and child again would be terrible. Yet, as the one who brings death, would I not indeed see them again, someday?

With a tear in my eye, I behold a Pale Horse.

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A/N: This story was written for a writer's challenge group, where we were given the task to write a short story somehow concerning an hourglass. Reading my other stories, can you possibly imagine that I of all people would somehow incorporate Death into the equation? j/k

I wanted to incorporate a little Stream of Consciousness writing into this, as I've never really thought to focus on that particular style before. This is my first attempt, so let me know if the latter part of the story is as coherent as the first part, as I tried to transition myself with a narrative backstory before jumping fully into another style.

Thanks for reading!