The Four Horsemen of the Acropolis

“That’s an unusual windmill.” His hands occupied with rowing, Fitz nodded toward the silhouette on the hill above them. It was an ancient structure, stout and cylindrical with a dozen arms to the mill. Unlike the four wooden sweeps on the mills Fitz was familiar with, this windmill had small canvas sails, permanently facing the prevailing wind from the north. “That’s no mere windmill,” Fred said, with the authority that comes from complete ignorance. “Well, what is it?” asked his rowing companion, Harry. “It ain’t no giant waitin’ to attack us.” “Well, obviously it ain’t no giant,” Fred said. “You’d have to be daft in the head to think that. Why’s you always so patronising to me, Harry?” “Ooooh, patronising. That’s a big word, isn’t it?” Harry said. “So, tell me, why isn’t it just a windmill?” he asked. “Looks like a perfectly innocent windmill to me.” “It’s a symbol, that is.” “A symbol?” “Aye. A symbol of the oppression of the ruling elite, grinding down the common man to do his bidding. “Don’t you mean a metaphor?” Willoughby asked from the bench behind. “Isn’t that a giant man with the head of a bull?” Harry said. “I think that’s a matador,” Fred offered. “Not a bull-fighter,” Harry said in exasperation. “A man whose own head is like a bull. That’s a metyphore, isn’t it?” “Nah, you dumb bastard,” offered Fred, eager to share his ignorance. “That’s a monotreme. A metyphore is something else entirely.” “Well then Mr smarty-pants…” “I’m not wearing any pants, Harry.” “All right then, Mr smarty-loincloth, what is it?” Fitz and Willoughby listened in stunned silence as the conversation continued to unfold. There was a brief lull with nothing but the slosh of the water, the creaking of the oars, and the monotonous beat of the drum. “Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?” Fred eventually said. “No,” said Harry. “Well, your basic metyphore is … umm,” Fred paused and licked his cracked lips with uncertainty. He had hoped at that moment the ship would run aground or pirates would miraculously appear from a nearby harbour. But no disaster was forthcoming from the tranquil morning to save him. He looked over his shoulder to elicit some help from Willoughby who merely shrugged and smiled. “Your basic metyphore,” he repeated, “is, ummm something like a figure of speech,” he guessed with alarming veracity. “Where you have a word or phrase that ordinarily designates one thing is used to designate another, thereby making an implicit comparison, as in ‘a sea of troubles’ or ‘all the world's a stage’ wot Shakespeare wrote.” “Who?” “Shakespeare. You must ‘ave heard of him. Famous he was.” “Shakespeare?” “Yeah, Warren Shakespeare. Everyone knows Shakespeare. ‘Now is the winter of our discount tent’. He wrote that.” “Why?” “I dunno. Maybe they were havin’ a sale on. Tents can be hard to move in winter. Not many people want to go camping then.” “So, Shakespeare wrote that too,” Harry nodded knowingly. Fitz and Willoughby looked at each other, slightly stunned. That’s a metyphore is it?” Harry asked after a few more minutes of rowing. “Sayin’ one thing when you mean another.” “Yes.” “Sort of like lying.” “No, not like lying. It’s deliberately using a figure of speech.” “Oh, so you must you mean like a simile,” Harry said in an equally brief moment of enlightenment. “My love is like a red, red rose,” he quoted. “Yeah, just like that,” agreed Fred. “But wot’s a rose?” He had been away from England for a very long time. “I think it’s some sort of sailing ship,” Harry said, equally isolated from his country of birth. “Sorta like the old ship, the Mary Rose.” “Right,” said Fred. “My love is like a red, red sailing ship. Makes sense, doesn’t it?” “Yeah,” Harry said uncertainly. “But why would you paint a sailing ship red?” “Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?” Fred said again. “Well of course it’s obvious,” Harry agreed, but then paused a moment. “But just so as to make sure we is on the same scroll …” “Well, it’s to declare your love for someone. No point in sayin’, ‘My love is like a brown, brown sailing ship,’ is there?” “No, I suppose there isn’t,” Harry said. They rowed on in silence, contemplating love, sailing ships and Shakespeare as the windmill eventually disappeared behind a rocky ridge.