|
He steadied himself for mounting the saddle of his now-familiar steed. His right leg completed the arc and he settled in to the seat with a mixture of confidence, and regret. Then, with a jump of the kick start, the engine roared to life. The pistons engaged in a satisfying churn as if chewing on a prime cut of beef. The moment has come again. Time to ride.
 He revved the engine and began a steady acceleration along the dusty desert road. Twenty miles per hour, and the air pressed around his aviator’s glasses and into the dry hollows of his head. Thirty, and the wind sang through his ever-bared teeth, his red bandana and leather jacket shielding his rib cage from the gale. Forty, fifty, sixty miles per hour, and his gloved hands gripped cold on the vibrating handlebars. At sixty-one-point-eight, this precise speed, his steel steed declared its power with a loud shriek of grinding metal. At once, the conjoined forms of bike and rider blurred into the landscape and disappeared from this moment. Which moment they would overtake next was foreknown only to the motorcycle, the Rider, and to the Horsemen who commanded them.
The sensation would never become familiar, nor comfortable. Passing through time and space is equivalent to experiencing the briefest blink of an instant that seems to last an impossible breadth of time. There is a pain endured while breaking across both the third and fourth dimensions. It feels like one’s body and soul are being torn from each other, and the impression it leaves is the sensation of eternal loss. Such is the true nature of traveling What Might Have Been, and the Rider’s only solace is that his endless task to traverse this dark place where time bends into other planes is a task that no other mortal soul would ever need bear. Unless, that is, the Rider should fail.
An unending-moment later and the Rider arrived, materializing out of thin air at his assigned destination, and he came to a skidded stop on a pallid ground. He dismounted his motorcycle, the engine sound diminishing to silence. The bike’s form shimmered and faded out of the sight of human eyes, all without one word or deed by the silent Rider. He adjusted his holster and black powder pistols, not knowing if this time he would have to brandish them for the purpose of the Horsemen.
He surveyed the countryside that now surrounded him. It was a deathscape: gray, void of anything living, riddled with trenches and ashes. A noxious haze hovered low in the air that was full of the stench of infection mingling with rotting flesh. Muffled explosions reverberated through the ground, and lights in the distance indicated that men were out there, engaging in furious battle, and many lives were being lost. The place, Wytschaete, Belgium. The year, 1914. It was the autumn of the first year of the Great War.
He was not here to save all the many men whose lives were in peril. He was here to save just one man. A man, who by all accounts, was a most excellent and loyal soldier of the German army. In what would be a winless war where the prime goal would ultimately disintegrate into sheer preservation of existence, this front line soldier, in spite of being aloof, bookish, and disinterested in most of the common interests shared by the majority of young men, was still strongly regarded as a brother in arms, and he shared in the trust forged among all dedicated soldiers by the hot iron of certain death. Even though the war had just begun a few months before, this soldier had already shown that he could be counted on to defend the man at his right and at his left, and he had proven himself brave time and again in the midst of the thunder of heavy artillery. A good man, a worthy man.
A man whom the Rider was loath to rescue.
 The Rider, the very figure of death standing alone in No Man’s Land, straightened his skeletal frame and tilted his head heavenward, as if he were the Grim Reaper waiting to discover which poor souls he would be taking today. He was indeed waiting. The wind soon picked up and the cast of clouds swirled, opened, and through the center of this sudden and surreal storm came thundering hooves. As the clouds continued to swirl and funnel down they took on the form of four stallions, one white, one red, one black, and one pale. As the horses came galloping toward the forsaken earth four flashes of lightening ignited the presence of horsemen on the back of each one. They touched down and closed the distance to the Rider while the Rider stood motionless. He seemed perfectly willing to let the four horses trample him should their masters be so inclined. But with a shift of the wind, the whole world fell silent, and the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse surrounded the unthreatening Rider.
The Rider recollected back to when he had awakened from his own death to the presence of these four formidable spirits. “We ride at the pleasure of the Almighty Sovereign.” Pale Horseman had declared. “Now, so will you.” His eternal mission was unfortunate, yet it was necessary and perpetual. And thinking back to what he had done to deserve this sad duty caused him to choke on his remorse. The Rider was unhappy with his bondage, yet he embraced it. It is the debt he owed.
“I am ready for further instructions, Sirs.” The Rider bowed his head.
The horseman on the red steed, War, gave the command. “You know who you are to save today, and now listen to the manner in which you will save him. If you do not follow these instructions to the letter, the Apocalypse will be imminent. You are to take on the form of a German Officer. You are to meet with three other officers who are on their way here from Messines. They will recognize you and call you Köster. You need not say anything to them, but you are to go with them. They will arrive at a trench where you will see your charge. And the tool you will need,” the Red Horseman reached under his cloak, obtained the item, and stretched down from atop his mount to give it to the Rider, “is this.”
The Rider looked at what the Horseman offered him. “But, Sir,” the Rider responded, “it’s a book.”
“That it is.” The Horseman seemed oblivious to any thought that the assumed tool of combat did not exactly bear a threat.
“You want me to beat someone with it?”
The Horseman was not amused. “What you hold in your hand is more powerful than any artillery ever designed by man. Its impact is more ferocious and far-reaching than any nuclear bomb will ever be. War and death were never inspired by gunpowder or steel, but by Godless ideology meeting the lusty imaginations of power hungry men. It just so happens,” the Horseman continued,” that the particular book you now possess will be the inspiration for another. The philosophy it contains will rival a far worse ideology that is emerging right now among other evil men. You must save the life of your charge, and you must present to him this book. The Final Days are inevitable, but if you do not do this, then the world will fall to the worse ideology before the time desired by the Almighty Sovereign, and many more souls would be lost that will otherwise be saved by your success in this mission. Consider that your success will inoculate the world from a far more lethal disease.”
The Rider nodded his head and placed the book in his leather jacket. Although he knew the answer would probably be an unsympathetic one, it nagged at him as it always did and so this time he asked it. “Is there no hope if I do fail?”
The Red Horseman did not answer and turned to go, as did the Black and Pale. But the Horseman of the white steed, Conquest, held back to respond, “You are not altering a man’s life path as much as you are preventing a disruption in that path. It is predestined by the Almighty Sovereign. You do your part, and mankind’s unbridled Free Will takes care of the rest.” With that, the Four galloped back up into the cloud and disappeared from view. The sky closed shut, and like silky sediment a circle of steamy wisps rained back down on the Rider. The vapors covered him and became both flesh and mantle. He took on the appearance of a German soldier, complete with a coat and hat decorated with colors and symbols of rank. He took out the book and thumbed through the pages as he walked toward the front.
The bombs got louder as he neared the combat zone, and still he walked on across the shell shocked landscape. Eventually he took his red bandana from his neck, the only remaining vestige of his true self still evident, and wrapped the book in it and placed it back in his uniform’s coat pocket. Between nearby blasts he heard a voice frantically screaming out, “Sir! Sir! Here!” He looked for the source of the calls. Two arms flailed around just above the earth, and he went to the trench of the voice. He kneeled down and the owner of the voice forcibly threw him down into the ditch.
“Sir, are you in a hurry to die? You might have been killed! There are snipers!” The Rider looked at his would-be savior; a soldier who could not have been more than eighteen years old.
The Rider got to his feet and straightened his uniform and hat. “Thank you, soldier, for your care. What is your name?”
“Weber, Sir. Are you with the other officers?”
The Rider was glad that his mission to find his contacts would not be as hard as he thought. “Yes, soldier, I am with them. I got separated. Do you know where they are?”
“Yes, Sir. They were heading just north of here to the base. You can get most ways there from this trench, but be careful of the brown rats. They are all over the place, and they’ll eat your eyes out of their sockets as soon as look at you.” The Rider thanked him for the guidance and headed on to the anticipated unpleasantness, in hot pursuit of fulfilling his mission and getting out of this stinking place full of young men destined to die ugly deaths.
The trench was a maze with sharp turns and offshoots. There were stretches of trench that were void of any humanity, and parts that were densely populated with men. Artillery became live in the sector, and most men were animated with the activity of delivering return fire. Pushing through the deep and narrow ditch and gaining some directions along the way, the Rider finally made it to an access point of the trench, and although the battle was now steady and in earnest, he was far enough back from the front line that it seemed a bit safer than where he found young Weber. Now that he was able to leave the trench, however, he did not know where to go, and all of the men were too distracted with the battle to be bothered with giving directions anymore.
He made his way down a hillside and headed for what looked to be a sort of open shed. There were several men standing around a table, and he thought they might be in charge. As he neared the structure the Rider saw that the men were studying a map and in hot debate over it. One man looked up from the argument and called out in astonishment to the Rider, although he knew the Rider’s human appearance by another name.
“Köster? My God, Köster! I thought you were dead!” The others looked up in surprise. They all received the report that the man who now stood before them was killed just the day before. And indeed they were right, although the Rider assured them that they were mistaken.
Three of the men gathered together some of the letters and maps strewn across the table, and one of them encouraged the Rider to go with them. “Come along. We have a plan to break this stalemate, and bring a decisive victory to the Fatherland. Come along, Köster!” He followed them. In a few minutes they arrived at a dugout that contained five soldiers, three of whom were gathering weaponry to take back to the front line, and a couple who appeared to be on standby waiting for further instructions. One soldier in particular took the Rider’s notice. He was young, with dark hair, and a short mustache, and seemed to be doodling on a small piece of paper in the palm of his hand. They had that soldier give them a report of what was going on with the fighting, which amounted to a brief summary that the French had taken up showering with shells and machine guns, but there was no evidence of any advancements being made by them, and the front was awaiting instructions on what advancement they should make. The next moment the officers were back to a arguing about when and where to make their push, although it was amazing that they could even hear each other over the din of bullets and bombs from the front. Meanwhile, the young dark-haired soldier went back to sketching.
The Rider had found his charge.
The Rider, in spite of the noise and mayhem, attempted to engage the young soldier who he would endeavor, regrettably, to preserve from a counter-fate that would bring about an untimely Apocalypse. “What are you doing with that paper?”
“Just a sketch. When I am not a soldier, I am an artist.” The young soldier showed the Rider his work, a caricature of a confident General Karl von Bulow, with Belgium neatly tucked under his left arm and holding a bayonet rifle in his right.
The Rider studied the sketch and nodded his approval. “So you think well of the war effort so far?”
“I think we shall win, if the will of Germany is stronger than that of the French and Belgians, and that shouldn’t be too hard. For my part, I believe it is imperative that we win the war, and I have vowed to not take leave until we do.” The soldier accepted back his caricature of the general and put it in his pocket.
“That is a very strong resolve, soldier. So why are you here instead of in the trenches?”
“My duty today is to await the orders of the officers. When they determine their course of action, it will be my privilege to deliver those orders to the front line.”
“Very impressive. You seem to be an incredibly dedicated and strong willed young man.” The Rider pulled the bandana-wrapped book from his coat and presented it to the soldier. “A soldier of such strong will and such dedication to the future of a strong German nation might appreciate this book. Please take it enjoy it whenever you have the opportunity.”
The soldier looked at both the cover and the spine. The World as Will and Idea by Arthur Schopenhauer. “Oh, Sir, I have been wanting this very work! Thank you, I will indeed read it when I next have the chance.” The soldier immediately started glancing through the pages with hungry eyes, as if he might be willing to let the battle rage on without him rather than put the book away for another time.
At that moment the officers started pushing the infantry soldiers out of the dugout as they attempted to lay the map out on the ground to make a decision on where they intended to flank the enemy. “Please, for the moment, no unnecessary personnel in the dugout. Except you, messenger. You stay.”
This was the cue.
“Sirs,” the Rider addressed, “While you define the tactics let me have a word with him in a quieter location. He has been a dedicated soldier and has much he could share of the enemy’s tactics in this sector.” The officers nodded their consent to the idea and got back to crouching down on the ground over their map. The Rider turned to the soldier. “We must move. Quick.”
They hurried together away from the dugout, the Rider moving himself and the soldier quickly back in the direction of the shed where he first met up with the officers. The soldier looked puzzled, but he dropped the bandana onto the page where he was reading and slapped the book shut as he followed on without question. A moment later the faint sound of a whistle through the air came in stronger and louder. When the whistle grew low, like it does when the proximity of a shell is dangerously close, the soldier turned around. He turned around just in time to see the shell impact right on the dugout where he stood only a minute before. The young man turned white. There was no impulsive thought, no moment for reflection. The soldier’s conscience knew in that instant the dull, formidable truth: he should be dead.
But he did not cheat death, he was forcibly pulled from it by this officer who he had never met before this day. He placed his attention back on the Rider, who was still moving fast and pulling the soldier along.
“How did you know? You knew… how did you know?” The soldier stopped in his tracks, frozen until he could understand what just happened.
“It was just not our time to die, I suppose,” The Rider knew this was not an answer the soldier would buy, but he did his best to sound astonished himself.
“No, you knew. How could you have known that a shell could have made it so far back from the front line? And about the book, how could you possibly know about that? I know the other men tease me on of my choices of literature… of course, they are all so interested in the frivolous dime store novels... but how would you know? What is going on?”
Most charges were not so sharp, and most missions did not require him to make himself so conspicuous. But here he was, confronted. “I don’t know. Call it divine providence.”
“Divine providence! Ha! There is no such thing,” the soldier retorted. But then, obviously still puzzled, his mind worked on the possibility, and he looked down at the book that was still gripped tightly in his hands.
“Then call it what you will, but consider that since you are still alive you must have things to accomplish before you die. And it must be important for you to have that book, since I just happened to have it and desired to get rid of it, and luckily you wanted it. Now go your way. You are on my orders to return to your usual post. I must go and report what has happened.” The Rider was mildly impressed that even he thought he sounded fairly convincing, so he turned to go in order to discourage any further questioning.
It worked, too. The baffled soldier did not counter his superior, and made his return to the front line. Later he would wonder about the strange officer, who he came to learn was killed near Namur. In fact, his death was reported to be around the same time the young soldier met him. All he had as evidence, however, was a red bandana with the initials TR4 imprinted on it.
 The Rider walked east from the battlefield until the barren land became greener countryside and no one was around. His outward appearance of a fair haired, middle-aged German officer melted away, revealing again the dry bones of the former sheriff whose life had been forfeited and whose soul was now held for ransom by the four keepers of mankind’s fate. He adjusted his black hat and secured his leather jacket close around him.
“You did well,” the Rider heard Conquest’s voice. “Hitler will read that book more than a dozen times during the Great War, and the ideology it contains will be his greatest inspiration to authoring Mein Kampf. Because of it, Germany’s invasion of Poland will stymie Stalin’s design to take over Europe. Because Hitler is the one who initiated World War II, because it will be a war on the two fronts of Europe and Russia, and because Hitler will be successfully defeated with a subsequent four-decade US military occupation in Europe, Stalin will never get the chance to realize his vision of overtaking the world.”
“Yes,” thought the Rider, “but the concentration camps, the millions who die…”
 “Yes, we mourn those who die, but all do die,” Conquest responded to the Rider’s unspoken regret. “You must understand, had the world proceeded on the course which you prevented today, Stalin and his soviet collectivism would have been responsible for the execution of over 100 million souls throughout Europe – over 10 times the number of prisoners who died in Hitler’s concentration and POW camps. The first ones to be killed for refusing to bow to the Soviet state would have been the same souls that Hitler killed. And even more than that would have died in the famines which would have ensued after the soviet state gained control of the farmlands. So many souls would have been lost to despair. Your work saved them.
The Rider was not interested in hearing further about how the breakdown of Europe would have lead to the undoing of the whole world, although he was aware that the Horseman was ready to tell him. “Just glad to be of service, sorry for the circumstances, and happy it is over.”
His motorcycle materialized before him. He kicked his leg around and settled in as the engine ignited on its own volition. It purred in idle, ready to go.
“Where to next?” The Time Rider looked to the air, waiting for one of the Four to give him new orders.
The voice of War, the Red Horseman, rung in the Time Rider’s head. “Where a time path needs to be secured, of course. Where souls need to be saved.”
|
