Unadorned
A Fairy Tale
by
Pamela Bruns

Two cloaked travelers footsore and lonesome stood on the edge of a precipice. The icy wind whipped their cloaks and cut their skin while the weak morning sun offered nothing but long shadows and dim light. Below them, a village lay still and quiet. A young mother sat on the ground beside a fire, her infant nursing at her breast. The travelers were lean and sharp eyed. Woman knew the signs of the stars, the tidings of the wind, the tides of the ocean. Man knew the danger in the asp, the power of the fire, the strength in the earth. Together they were home, but destined to be wanderers upon earth, finding wine and bread provided for the journey. Man and Woman looked down on the valley. They had learned the way of wisdom, and that way stopped their feet. In silence, they surveyed.

“The wind tells me there is death in this valley. It is a strong death, not disease, nor famine, nor drought, nor age. It is Death.”

Man nodded. The smell of woodsmoke filled his mind and his mind was filled of memory. He knew it was here too, Death. But life sat in front of them, Mother. Nursing an infant child. Unaware or unconcerned of their presence.

Man and Woman considered. Woman looked west. Faint stars still sang, unaware of the sun’s creeping glow. She listened to their whisper. They were praising Creator.

Mother stood up at their approach. A young girl darted from a tent and clung to her legs. So, there were two. Mother looked defiant at Man and Woman. Her silence was echoed in the falling snow.

Woman looked at Mother and nodded her approval. “Where is Father?”

She motioned to a snowy wood to the west.

“He brings us wood to burn, he is life-sustainer.”

“And you are life-giver.” Woman stated.

Man nodded. It was good, but for the Death.

“Mother, where is Life-Taker?”

Mother shuddered. Crystal tears danced on her cheeks.

Man continued, “We call him by name, Death. He is not disease, he is not famine, he is not drought, he is not age. He is Death unadorned. Do you know him?”

Father was leaving the forest. His haul of wood was good. His haul of fish was good. He heard voices.

Death whispered to Father. “Do not trust the strangers.” Father responded. “Be silent Death, you tormenter. Become what you are.”

Man watched Father approach and was glad. “Friend, we are looking for Death. We know he is here, we read his signs.”

“Who are you?”

“I am Man, and this is Woman. And you are Father and Mother but what do you call your children?”

“Our children and called Loved and Cherished.”

Death sat behind the woodpile, seething. Fiery bursts came from his nostrils. His horned face scowled in derision. Man and Woman have no place here. He would listen, wait, and destroy.

Woman looked around the valley. She felt the desolation in the marrow of her bones. The singing stars had vanished, but the wind rolled down the precipice into the valley and told its secrets. She spun toward the woodpile. “Look there, Man. Beyond the woodpile Death sits listening to us. He is a coward.”

Death would not be outed so easily. It roared in anger and thrashed its mighty head. Mother gathered her daughter and infant into her arms. She stood by fire. She knew its secrets. It had whispered its truths through charcoal and ash. Father walked forward toward Death and grabbed him in his strong hands.

“This one lives among us. We call him tormentor. He wishes to harm us. But he fears ash and oil, water and wine, bread and prayer.”

Man and Woman surveyed Death. Father unhanded Death, and it faced Man and Woman. Hate erupted in its eyes.

“What form, Death, do you take when you leave this village?”

“Anyone I like. And I like many.”

“What is your tell, Death? So, we may recognize you in the cities?”

“I cloak myself in beauty. You will not find me.”

“By what Name are you destroyed, Death?”

Death was silent.

Man asked again, “The Name?”

The answer broiled with venom. “Only Life destroys me.” Death roared in rage and lunged toward the little one called Loved. His claws outstretched, but Mother and Father defeated his attempt, and he slunk to the woodpile.

Death mused to himself. “I will be rid of Man and Woman.” He called Apollyon from the Abyss.

Apollyon and Death conversed.

Man and Woman felt the danger. That night Man and Woman sat with Mother and Father beside the fire. The stars sang. The children slept. Man watched the power in the consuming flames. He felt earth steady beneath his hands. Steady. Consuming. Steady. His heart beat out the rhythm. He whispered, “And the asp is in the woodpile.”

Moonshine strung memory across the northern lights. Silence held fire and Man listened. Darkness held stars and Woman listened.

So, a night passed, unmarked.

The morning sun silenced the stars, weakened the fire, and sparkled the earth. Man and Woman watched as Father walked into the woods and Mother nursed her infant. Day two began.

Man spoke. “Mother, where are the others in your village? The tents around you stand empty.”

“We are first.”

“Who is coming?”

“We do not know. We did not know Loved before she came or Cherished before she came. We did not know you.”

Man nodded. It was good.

Death and Apollyon watched and waited.

Man looked at the Asp in the woodpile. He knew Death. He knew Life. Apollyon was unknown to him. But he knew the Asp, the heavy sleepy weight it brings, the quiet slide to death.

“Ahh,” thought Man. “This Apollyon is a tool, the asp in the woodpile. The bringer of Acedia. Death, adorned. The quiet slide.” And Acedia was named and dispatched. Death roared.

Evening drew fast and the furious songs of stars erupted. Father and Mother within their tent ate wine and bread. Man and Woman tended fire and ground the winter wheat between honest stone and heartbreak. Woman heard the stars praise. Man heard the fire praise. The Northern Lights danced heartache peering over horizons at wise ones with camels and myrrh. Death rattled in the woodpile. Throwing shadows of despair and envy.

Woman listened to the stars. She stood. Sometimes good and heartbreak hold hands. It keeps the dance together. Man felt the earth tremble; trees quake and whisper. One for the feeding trough, where the bread of life sleeps. One for the terror, the deep and ancient heartbreak that held Life who poured forth into frothing seas and mountains and Man and Woman. The divine trigonometry.

Death spied from behind the woodpile. A hollow thudded in his chest. A fear. A tremor. And gold and frankincense travelled toward the sunset. He arched his back and spat his venom. And there was wailing in Ramah, for the space of a lifetime.

Unadorned, A Fairy Tale: Copyright 2024 by Pamela Bruns. All rights reserved.