Keturah and Lord Death

by Martine Leavitt

  “And why can I not deny you, Keturah?” His voice was insistent. I could not answer but with the truth.

  “Because you love me!”

  The silence into which we spoke vanished, and the wind roared in my ears again.

  “It is true,” he said, his voice both quiet and piercing.

  A deafening crack of lightning, a roll of thunder so loud I felt it in my throat, and rain began to pour out of the sky.

  “Your beloved village is safe,” Lord Death said, and I heard his voice clearly over the storm. “You have until the end of the fair, and then I will send the hart for you.”

  I wondered if he had spoken not aloud but into the airless places of my secret mind.

  The rain woke Tobias. He stared at me with eyes too wide open and did not move and did not look about.

  Lord Death mounted his horse and in the next moment was gone, and I knelt beside Tobias.

  “Is he... ?” Tobias asked.

  “He is gone.” I stroked his hair. “The plague is taken from us.”

  He lay crying for a little time, and I could not tell the rain from the tears on his face. Then, slowly, he sat up. The rain had already begun to spend itself, and the sun began to glint through the clouds.

  He stood, testing each limb as if sensing the life within. He swayed on his feet a moment and then smiled. “I will live,” he whispered. “I feel it, I feel it sure. You did it, Keturah!” he said. “I owe you my life.”

  I put my hand over his mouth.

  “Not I, Tobias. Not I. Lord Death gave it to you, as he

  does every day. Never forget this.” But...

  “Never forget.”

  Tobias smiled. “All I know is, I am alive, and I feel well, Keturah. There is no sickness in me at all.”

  “Come,” I said, “let us go see to the others.”

  XII

  Many startling confessions, and I am saved from a terrible fate.

  When Tobias and I emerged from the forest, we were not where I thought we would be. We were south of the village, at the place where the cart path turned into our newly cobbled road.

  Tobias and I took our way silently into the village. It was strangely quiet and still, and my heart smote me a moment, fearful that Lord Death had lied to me.

  But there walked Tobias beside me, strong and whole and ruddy, and even if he had not been with me, as evidence, I knew I need not doubt Lord Death’s word. My village was saved.

  And yet those words did not echo in my heart as I had once thought they would. I had made friends with death, and it would no longer hold fears for me.

  Thomas Red was walking alone with his mule. He saw me and Tobias, and bowed as if I were a titled lady.

  “Keturah Reeve,” he said. “Well met. Would you do me the honor of riding my mule into town, where the villagers gather? It would be my very great honor, for I have heard and seen that you have saved us from the plague.”

  “Not I,” I said, “but one I know.”

  “But he would not have saved us without you,” Tobias said.

  I had not the strength to contradict both of them, and a ride seemed a good thing just then. And so I rode upon the mule, along our beautiful cobbled road, and soon we saw the villagers in a throng ahead of us. When they saw us, they parted and stood on either side of the road. They fell silent as we approached.

  A child threw a handful of posies onto the road before me, and others began to whisper my name. Soon there was laughter, and someone cheered, and then they all cheered. I looked about me in wonder until we came to the square.

  At the high end stood John Temsland. Tobias led me to him, and I dismounted from the mule and curtseyed.

  The villagers gathered in a circle around us. Goody Thompson and her husband were closest to me.

  “Forgive us,” Goody said, while her man twisted his cap and looked at the ground. I smiled to see them healthy and whole with their beautiful boys.

  I glanced round at the crowd, whose faces seemed suddenly unfamiliar. The air of the village shimmered with an angle of light I did not recognize. I searched for Gretta and Beatrice, and when I found them they smiled and nodded encouragingly.

  “I would reward you, Keturah. What favor might I grant you?” John said quietly. “Ask anything. If it is in my power to give it, I will.”

  In that moment I wished for nothing more than to be the girl I had once been—a girl with hopes of love and a peasant baby of her own to hold, a girl with her whole life clear before her. I wished only for everything to be as it had been before I followed the hart into the forest, before I knew the shadow that the forest could cast in my heart.

  “Sire, if you would do ought for me,” I said, “I would wish it to be this: that you speak no more of it—that we forget past sorrows and ready ourselves for the fair and for the king’s visit.”

  John Temsland studied me for a long moment, then said, “So be it. The king comes tomorrow, but tonight, when all is ready for the fair, there will be dancing.” He looked around at the crowd. “Go. Ready yourselves.”

  And so the villagers filed away, the men nodding and the women dropping small curtseys to me as they went. Gretta and Beatrice made their way over to me, and we watched as people set up their booths. Some of the men erected a stand over the common for the king and his entourage and for Lord Temsland and his wife so they might watch the races and games and dramas that had been planned for entertainment. Atop the hill, silk banners in bright blue and yellow and orange were unfurled from the second floor of the manor house. Musicians began to set up their little bands, and everyone sang and laughed and talked. Women laid aside their spinning and weaving and brought their breads and buns and cakes and cookies, all covered in new, clean cloths. They brought their sewing and crafts and molded butter and soaps and round cheeses. Young men led their best calves and sheep and pigs to the showing pens, and old men tagged them and studied them with a serious eye. And everyone nodded in my direction and smiled.

  Soon people forgot me in their haste to ready for the fair—all but Gretta and Beatrice.

  “We don’t know what stories to believe,” Gretta said.

  “Someday I will tell you the story as it really is, not how others will tell it, my friends,” I said.

  “When you wish,” said Gretta.

  “If you wish,” said Beatrice.

  I did not have the heart to tell them of my bond with Death. Besides, there was yet hope—did I not have lemons at home?

  “Now I must go home and make my lemons into pie. But before I do, we have some errands to do, we three. Come.” I led them to Tailor’s house.

  “But I have already delivered the gown, in your name, Keturah,” Gretta said when she perceived where we were going.

  “Just so,” I said, and continued on. As we approached Tailor’s home, his children came to greet us, but it was only Gretta they crowded around.

  Tailor came out and welcomed us into his home. The children all followed. I stared in awe at the beautiful gown that hung ready for Lady Temsland. Tailor followed my gaze.

  “It is fine work, Keturah,” he said. “You have many surprising gifts.”

  “Sir, I have something to confess, and this is the reason for our visit,” I said. “The gown is not my handiwork but Gretta’s. The explanation of our deception is too long and complicated to give, but please accept my apologies. It is Gretta’s fine work.”

  “Keturah!” Gretta exclaimed. “That is not true.”

  “Ah,” Tailor said. Then he smiled. “Of course I knew, Gretta. Did you think that I could not recognize your fine seams?”

  Gretta spluttered and blushed. “Keturah did it...”

  Tailor continued, “No one else could do such work. In this whole piece there are not more than three faulty stitches.”

  Gretta’s blush turned to paleness. “Three?” Her eyes narrowed. “Three? First five faulty stitches, and even now three! Come, children,” she said huffily. “Let’s go play.” And she led them into
the yard.

  “She is a fine woman, but a proud one,” Tailor said to the open door. “She told me not to wear orange.” He smiled.

  “Tailor,” I said, “perhaps if you will humor her in the small things, you will hold sway in the bigger things. I know she would like to learn from you.”

  “Keturah, you have become wise,” he said.

  “Keturah!” Gretta called from the yard.

  I bade him good day and went into the yard to see Gretta and to endure her chastisements.

  “What of our plan, Keturah?” she asked angrily. “Why did you tell him?”

  “Because, Gretta, I told you—he is not my one true love.”

  “Of course you don’t love him. Who could love a man who wears orange hose? I told him about the weeds in his garden, and today I see they are still there, and bigger, too.” She sighed. “He is an insufferable man,” she said. “But you must forgive him, and then I am sure you will love him.”

  “Gretta,” I said, “I have observed that you treat a man as an old garment to be taken apart and stitched again. Perhaps you could think of him as good cloth, rich fabric that wants only to be embroidered upon. And perhaps, if you will do that, you will see that you love Tailor yourself.”

  “What? I? Love Tailor?” She laughed aloud and then turned toward the door where Tailor still stood, gazing at her. She swallowed her laughter and returned his gaze.

  Jane, the oldest of Tailor’s children, said, “Do you, Gretta? If it is true, we would like to ask for your hand in marriage.”

  “What?”

  “Papa says the clothes you secretly made us must be saved for his wedding day, and so we ask you if you can’t please hurry up and marry him.”

  “You have made clothes for the children, Gretta?” I asked.

  “Well, I couldn’t let them run about in rags when all the other children had new clothes, could I?” she said.

  The littlest one tugged on Gretta’s skirt. “But will you marry us?”

  She gathered them into her arms. “I love you dearly, but it is God’s own truth that I don’t love your papa.”

  The ragged children looked at one another in calm surprise. The eldest girl spoke up. “Papa says you do.”

  “He—he said that?” Gretta asked.

  “Yes,” said the lad. “But before Mama died, she made him promise that he would never remarry unless he found somebody who loved us even more than him. And then all of us had a dream last night. Mama came to us. Death allowed her to, she said. And she told us that Papa would never ask you on his own, and so we must ask you to marry us.”

  Gretta put her hands on either side of her face.

  “Yes. And Papa believed us, and said we must do as our mama said,” the boy continued.

  The youngest one unplugged her thumb. “Papa said making clothes is nothing. He said if you had to care for us day and night, soon you wouldn’t like us at all. Is that true, Gretta?”

  She shook her head slowly at first, and then firmly. “Of course it is not true. If I cared for you a year and a day I would only love you more. It is your papa I would love less.”

  “So you do love him!” Jane said.

  “No!”

  “But you just said...”

  “I .. .” Gretta spoke with great uncertainty. “I do not love your papa, Jane. I love you, but not him. Not at all. No, no. And I never have. And I never will. And I never could. Impossible.”

  The children looked at one another again. “Poor Papa,” the lad said at last.

  They examined their dirty feet closely. “Yes, poor Papa,” said the youngest.

  “Poor? But why?” Gretta asked, touching their sad faces.

  “Because he loves you.”

  “He—” Gretta took her apron hem and dabbed at her temples. “He what?”

  “Papa loves you with a dying and infernal love,” the youngest girl said.

  “Undying,” the eldest corrected. “And eternal.”

  Tailor, who could hear all, stood quietly in the doorway still, his eyes only upon Gretta and a small smile on his face.

  “That cannot be,” Gretta said. She had flushed into a flaming red.

  “We know,” the eldest girl said. “We have known him all our lives.”

  I could not exactly read Gretta’s face. It might have been disbelief there in her eyes, or perhaps an inordinate surprise in the lines of her forehead. It might have been the countenance of one who had seen an angel on the way. She deliberately avoided looking at Tailor.

  I kissed Gretta on the cheek. “I am so happy,” I said.

  Gretta pulled me into her embrace, then let me go.

  “Come, Beatrice,” I said. “I have an errand with you.” I took her arm and led her away, down toward the church. Once I glanced back to see Tailor bow Gretta into his home, the children following as chaperones.

  As we walked I thought upon the dream that all of Tailor’s children had had. Surely Lord Death had arranged their mother’s visitation. Could it be he had done it for me—because he knew I loved Gretta?

  I was still marveling over these events when we arrived at the church. Choirmaster seemed to be waiting for us.

  But it was soon clear that it was Bill he was awaiting, and impatiently, too.

  “Where is he? Where is your cousin, Keturah? Today is the last day to practice!”

  “Sir, I have somewhat to say to you concerning Bill, but it can only be said in privacy. Surely the other boys wish to go watch the preparations for the fair.”

  “Keturah—no!” Beatrice said.

  After hesitating a moment, Choirmaster said, “I fear only a little what you could say, for I am happy today—not only for the tale I heard of you, Keturah, but in a personal matter as well. Singers, you are dismissed. But rest your voices!” They scattered like a flock of gulls, and soon we three were alone in the church.

  “Choirmaster,” I began, “it is not her fault—it was my idea—but we have a confession to make.”

  Beatrice held up her hand to stop me. “No, Keturah, you shall not take the blame for this. Haven’t I longed every day of my remembered life to sing in his choir?” She turned to Choirmaster. “Sir,” she said, “I am your Bill. I have been coming in disguise.”

  “Surely not!” he said with great surprise.

  “But it is true,” she replied.

  “I cannot believe it!” he said.

  And so Beatrice opened her mouth, and from it came music—oh, music that could break the heart of a dead man. When she stopped, Choirmaster said nothing for a long moment.

  “Did you think I didn’t know?” he said at last. “Would

  I not recognize the voice I have loved since the first time I heard you sing in the congregation?”

  Beatrice opened her mouth as if she would sing again, but no sound came out. Choirmaster smiled so broadly he was almost handsome. Then he became somber again. “But you must say not a word, or my choir—my choir would be nothing without you.”

  He took her hand and slowly, gently, folded it in his own as if it were a small bird.

  “I’ve had the strangest dream, Beatrice,” he said.

  “Tell it to me, Choirmaster,” Beatrice said in a softer voice. Neither of them seemed to remember that I was there.

  “First I must explain something. I thought, after my mother died, that I would abandon my music. But I did not. No, I loved it all the more, and I did not abandon it. Because of him—Death. Because I saw him come for her, and I saw that, after all, she was just a girl, weak and mortal. When I glimpsed—only glimpsed, mind you—his black cape, I saw that all her life she’d sought strength against the day when he must come, and that only then did she realize that there is no strength on that day. Submission is all there is. So I played... to submit my heart every day so that it would not be the struggle it was for her.” He sighed. “Now I will tell you the dream.”

  He paused for a moment and then began, “The one who came for her—he appeared to me last night. A ta
ll man, dressed in black, at my bedside, great and terrible. Choirmaster, he said, I am Lord Death. Your mother would speak with you.”

  Beatrice put her other hand to her mouth.

  “When he called her name, her spirit came scurrying, as if she had been called away from some pressing task. In her hand was her little gold whip.

  “I hid my head beneath my quilt, but the tall man pulled the quilt away from me. Choirmaster, he said, it is time to be a man.

  “I looked, and there was my mother standing at my bedside, holding the whip in her two hands as if she were offering it to me. I have come to ask your forgiveness, she said. She placed the whip on the bed beside me, and as she did she sighed. My torments are over, she said. Remember, son, that as much as music is a task of heaven, so is love. Be happy. She hurried away then, and I woke up.”

  Beatrice said tenderly, “It was only a dream, Choirmaster.”

  “Perhaps,” he said. Then he drew a little golden whip from his robe. “I buried this with her,” he said, “but it was on my bed when I awoke.”

  After a moment he said, “Beatrice, come with me into the chapel. I would speak to you alone.”

  I left them and returned home, smiling to myself.

  I picked up the lemons that were still on the table, almost forgotten. I cut one and tasted it. It was so sour it brought tears to my eyes.

  “Grandmother,” I said, “do you suppose that with a bitter fruit such as this I might make a pie?”

  “Of course,” she said, “if you sweeten it with sugar. Here, use it all, my Keturah, for I feel in my bones that after today we shall never have to worry about sugar again.”

  And so I cooked, while Grandmother went to see who would be showing what at the fair and to receive congratulations for having such a clever granddaughter.

  I cooked and tasted and cooked more and tasted more, and at last I had a filling that was not too sweet and not too tart. That was for the sun. For the topping, I whipped egg whites and sugar until they fluffed like summer-day clouds, and then I baked.