One day, a short man and a tall man arrived at the blacksmith’s door.
They introduced themselves as travelers and inquired whether the blacksmith might offer lodging for the pair. They explained it was only for one night, and tomorrow, they would be on their way.
The blacksmith didn’t ask their names or where they were headed. Instead, he welcomed the men inside, for he understood the weariness that followed a day on the road.
Like his visitors, the blacksmith was also tired. He’d spent hours laboring in front of the forge, but he was a gracious host and appreciated good company. He rested his hammer on the anvil, grabbed a large pot, and set to work creating a warm meal.
When dinner was finished and their bellies full, the blacksmith offered his bed to the travelers. At first, they resisted, because where would their host sleep? But the blacksmith laughed and told them not to worry. The barn was full of fresh hay, and when one is without a bed, a mound of dried grass is the next best thing.
All three men slept soundly, and the next morning, the blacksmith rose with the sun to make breakfast. As the three men ate fresh eggs and sipped coffee, they chatted about the weather and their plans for the day. When their bellies were full once more, the host packed the leftovers in two pouches and walked his guests to the door.
But as they were about to set out, the shorter one hesitated. He turned to his tall friend and said, “Your divinity, shouldn’t we give this man something for his generosity? He fed us, gave us his bed, and made us feel welcome even though we’re outsiders.”
The tall man contemplated the words of his companion. “I suppose you’re right,” he said. “I will make a home for him in the afterlife, but perhaps he would like something in this world as well.”
The blacksmith, standing no more than an arm’s length from the men, looked on sheepishly. He’d heard stories of gods testing their disciples by disguising themselves as mortals, but never imagined he’d be one of the lucky ones. So, when the travelers told him to make three wishes, he was happy to oblige.
“I want to live happy and healthy for one hundred years!” said the blacksmith.
The tall man nodded. “So it will be.”
“Next, I wish for this shop always to be as busy and prosperous as it today,” he said.
The tall man nodded again. “So it will be.”
“And for your final wish?” asked the shorter man.
The blacksmith looked from his hands to his forge, to his anvil, and then to his stool. “I know!” he exclaimed. “I wish that whoever sits at my stool remain there until I release them.”
The tall nodded again. “So it will be.”
After his visitors left, life went on as usual for the blacksmith. While his friends and family aged and their bodies grew frail, the blacksmith’s arms were strong as ever. The man’s business remained steady, and the flame in his forge never went out. The blacksmith worked hard, but he also ate well and always had more than he needed.
In what felt like the blink of an eye, one hundred years flew by. Things were going so well that the blacksmith didn’t realize a century had come and went.
Then, there was a knock at his door. The man expected it to be a customer, a friend, or maybe another traveler.
Instead, it was Lady Death.
She was as beautiful as she was intimidating, and the blacksmith, although he had never met her, realized who she was the moment their eyes met from across the threshold. And because one must never keep a lady waiting, he invited her inside.
Like all humans, the blacksmith thought about death from time to time. He knew that his day would eventually come, but as Lady Death stood in front of the forge, her presence threatening to choke out the flame, the blacksmith could only think of one thing…
Was there time for him to finish one last project before they went?
Lady Death smiled in response, and the man motioned to his stool. Happy to rest her weary bones before her next journey, Lady Death sat and watched the blacksmith transform a steel bar into a set of horseshoes. The man was a wonder to watch. He expertly heated, hammered, and filed the steel before applying a thick layer of beeswax.
And if Lady Death thought he was stalling, she said nothing. Only after the horseshoes were stacked in a neat pile, when the blacksmith rested his hammer on the anvil and removed his leather apron, did Lady Death announce it was time.
But when she went to rise from her stool—she couldn’t. She tried repeatedly, but each time she tried to stand, she remained rooted to the chair by an invisible force.
The blacksmith couldn’t believe his good luck! He, an average mortal, had outsmarted Lady Death!
Giddy that his plan worked, the blacksmith decided to celebrate with a feast. But when he went to the pig’s stable, something strange happened. The animal, seemingly normal in every way, was immune to his knife. And his ax. Even his hammer, the same one he used to mold steel, bounced off the pig as if it were made of rubber.
The blacksmith was confused but not concerned. He turned to one of his chickens and quickly severed the bird’s head. But while he was busy tying the feet, the chicken’s head rolled back towards the body and reattached itself.
The blacksmith’s heart sank. He realized that with Lady Death sitting on his stool, no animals could be slaughtered. The man contemplated his options, and instead of releasing his prisoner, he decided to live off porridge, bread, and berries.
Winter was especially hard that year. With the earth temporarily dormant, food was scarce. The blacksmith couldn’t borrow provisions from his neighbors because they too were suffering in the absence of Lady Death. Faced with the very real possibility of starvation, the man cursed his decision to play with fate.
But then it was Spring. Seemingly overnight, the sun rose, the soil warmed, and gardens took root. The blacksmith and his neighbors rejoiced, but their joy was short-lived. Because when the flowers bloomed and the fruit showed up, so did the bugs. Every fly, gnat, beetle, tick, ant, spider, moth, and mosquito usually killed off during winter, was alive and well. They covered the ground and crowded the air. Even the hardy plants like bush beans and parsnips were devoured by swarms of insects.
The blacksmith sighed. He might be a clever man, but he was also a foolish one.
And so, nearly a year after Lady Death arrived at his door, he went to see her. While the woman listened from her perch atop the stool, the blacksmith expressed his regret. He regretted holding her hostage, delaying her duties, and believing he knew better than the divine creator. He apologized for believing her work was without merit, something to be feared instead of honored.
The blacksmith released Death from the stool, but instead of retaliating in anger, she smiled and reached for his hand. She removed the hammer from his fist and, with a wave of her arm, smothered the coals in the forge.
“Here, let me show you what you’ve been resisting,” said Lady Death as she walked him to the door. “For you, a man of the Earth, my realm will feel unfamiliar at first. Because the afterlife is not how it appears in stories or nightmares.”
Lady Death opened the door, and in place of the cobblestone walkway and garden gate that had always been there, the blacksmith saw a field of light.
And finally, her words made sense: “What awaits beyond the veil is something so vast, so transformative, one must be willing to endure it, to understand.”
.
This story was adapted from the Czechoslovakian tale “The Blacksmith’s Stool” by Parker Fillmore.
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