Death Takes a Bride

Mala should have known what all the rites meant. The runes wound around her wrists like bracelets, all the protections in the world for what they called the killing tide. It was supposed to strike only the frailest of women, and the elders made sure she had taken her cups of herb concoctions in the event that something happened on the day of her ceremony. She hadn't glimpsed her soon-to-be husband yet, though they had spoken on either side of a curtain to share their first words to each other, and through the gap he had grasped her hands in a firm yet gentle grip. Just that one touch had been enough to make a spark light in her heart.

The morning of the ceremony, the elders painted her face and wrapped her up in seven layers, each one having a special meaning in their small village. The first innermost layer was yellow like the rising sun—a reminder of the beauty of a new beginning. The second, third, and fourth layers ran from deep purple to burgundy to a pale shade of crimson—the colors of the three goddesses who were said to be incarnations of the the crone, the mother, and the maiden. The fifth layer was midnight blue for the Sky Mother while the sixth layer was dirt brown for the Earth Mother. And then the last, white, was the layer of innocence, the first that would be stripped away when her new husband undressed her before they shared their marriage bed for the first time.

The one thing amiss was that Mala needed a crown of flowers—which usually would have been picked and fashioned by the mother of the bride, but Mala had been alone for six full moons. Her mother had gone the way of the Earth Mother just before the last frost. The ground had still been too stiff for a burial, so a pyre had been fashioned for her mother's body. Even now, Mala wore a vial of the ashes from a chain around her neck. She didn't think much of wearing it on the day of the ceremony—it was a way to keep her mother close, after all—but the elders might have warned her against the ill omen of such a thing.

Ducking out of the tent where she had undergone her preparations, Mala went into the forest to pick the prettiest wildflowers she could find. The rustle of leaves was a calming sound as she hummed and twisted stems into a circlet shape. When she was done, she held it up to the light and smiled.

But then color began to leech out of her vision, her hands suddenly feeling the ache of cold.

Her heart stuttered in her chest, and the words killing tide shaped on her lips.

Turning her face, she saw a hooded specter dressed all in black. The figure stared at her, watching, but made no move to come closer. All strength had fled from her limbs; she could barely keep her eyes open.

"Please" was the one word she managed to get out as she shivered, the flower crown falling from her fingertips.

The specter drew closer but did not touch her, instead reaching for the circlet. Right before her eyes, the once-living wildflowers wilted one by one, the smell of rot reaching her nostrils.

"Please," she tried again, her breath now coming in gasps as her chest tightened. It felt like someone had a vice grip around her heart and clenched it just to prove that he could.

The edges of her vision began to darken.

"Please!" The word was less sound and more air. "I—I have so much left to live for!"

The air seemed to stand still, a moment frozen in time, as her gaze fixed on the specter.

"I do not make bargains with maids," came a voice that held no hint of emotion to it. She couldn't even tell if the voice was feminine or masculine. But something eased within her body, her breathing loosening, as if she were being granted a chance to make her case to the specter who had come for her.

"I'm not a maid," she managed to say. "I'm—I'm a bride."

A moment passed, then another, before a skeletal hand brushed its fingertips against her cheek. "You cannot escape your fate, no matter what you are."

"I just want to live," Mala said, her voice sounding broken even to her own ears. "Please. I'll do anything."

"You have nothing to offer me," the specter replied, "except yourself."

The wheels began to turn in Mala's head. She could escape the killing tide. She could. She just had to be careful how she worded the bargain she was ready to propose.

"Let me go to be wed, and I'll be your servant by day and a wife to my husband by night."

"I have no need of servants," the specter said. "I take what I please."

"You are not all-powerful like the Sky Mother and the Earth Mother," Mala said, "but I was born from both as a mortal woman."

A breath passed, and now Mala could see clearly again. Something shifted in the specter's posture.

"I do not make bargains," said the specter, "but you have me intrigued."

"Is that a yes?"

"Perhaps," the being murmured, "but I may change my mind."

Mala was ready to argue again—do anything to convince this powerful entity—until she blinked and found she could see colors again. The coldness she had felt seeped away, bringing back the warmth of sunlight.

But on her wrists, where the protective runes had been, there were now thorny tendrils—like shackles—spread on her skin.

"You are mine," she heard whispered on the wind.

Her hands clenched into fists, but she did not attack the ground in fury. Instead, she brushed any debris from her skirts before standing up on her slippered feet. She even managed to coax her lips back into a smile.

Mala would be wed, and she would build her home and family—no matter what deal she had managed to strike with the spirit of Death.