Keturah and Lord Death

by Martine Leavitt

  Then came the judging of fruits and vegetables. Ben Marshall won, of course, for melons and pumpkins and cabbages and turnips and leeks. The other fruit and vegetable ribbons were shared, one per person, and there was some debate over whether the winners’ produce was truly better than Ben Marshall’s. Biddy Sodwell’s strawberries were bigger, but weren’t Ben’s sweeter? Sam Baxter’s lettuces were larger, but weren’t Ben’s greener and crisper? Still, Ben was happy, and announced over raised mugs that he would marry Best Cook that very night while still in the glow of his triumph.

  Soor Lily’s great baby son won the wrestling contest and gave the ribbon to his mother. Soor Lily herself did not enter any contest but sold many bottles of her “tonic,” which cured everything from warts to melancholy. A man who had several warts on his nose drank an entire bottle, and within minutes every wart fell off. He was so happy he proposed to Soor Lily, and was immediately chased out of town by three of her sons.

  Goody Thompson won a contest by guessing the correct number of beans in ajar and got a beautiful new teapot for her prize. She carried her baby as she walked about the fair; his cheeks were growing fat and rosy.

  Gretta won a blue ribbon for some exquisite embroidery, but it was well known that her most important contribution was being worn by Lady Temsland, who was every bit as gorgeously arrayed as the queen.

  There was one surprise in the textiles category. Master Tailor displayed a beautiful gown of lavender silk and won hands down, of course. As soon as he had been presented the ribbon, he gave the gown to Gretta. “ ‘Tis a wedding gown,” he said. “And if I have any eye at all, it will fit you perfectly.”

  She held it up in a rapture, then looked at him sternly. “You must promise never to boss me.”

  Tailor smiled. “And if I tried?”

  “Why, I would love you anyway,” she said, smiling.

  They embraced, and we all clapped to see it, none more loudly than Tailor’s children.

  Choirmaster’s choir sang for the king and queen while they ate a dinner that sampled all the finest foods of the fair, including Cook’s blue-ribbon loaves. The great lords who had accompanied the king now were friendly to Lord Temsland and cold to Duke Morland, who sat alone and glum, apart from the others. Apparently they had decided it was the duke who had exaggerated.

  Now all that was left was the judging of Best Cook. I had entered my pie for the sake of Tobias, who had boasted that the queen would eat a dish made of his lemons. There seemed no need now to see the judging, but my friends took me by the hands and pulled me to the cookery tent. Along the way, we skipped and sang, bartered with the merchants, and cooed over babies.

  Under the tent, the dignified panel of judges still tasted and conferred. They had placed a blue ribbon on Padmoh s teacake and a red on her bean soup. And so it was in every category except pies—the judges had yet to decide that category. My heart lifted at the sight of all Padmoh s ribbons. Of course she would win. Ben Marshall had eyes only for the judges.

  Finally, one judge tasted my lemon pie. He moaned and sighed with pleasure.

  Then the other judges tasted, and kept tasting more and more until the pie was half gone.

  And then they placed a blue ribbon on the plate.

  The head judge announced, “This one pie is so exquisite, so unusual, that we must declare Miss Keturah Reeve the Best Cook of the fair!”

  My friends cheered and laughed, and the crowd gathered round to congratulate me. “It seems unfair that one pie should win me Best Cook when Padmoh won so many ribbons,” I said. But my protest was taken for false modesty, and the judges begged for my lemon pie recipe.

  Though Ben Marshall could not get close to me, he smiled and tried to catch my eye. “There is my bride,” he said to some of those around him, and they raised a glass to his good fortune. I felt sick inside that I had given him false hope, and I took no joy in Padmoh s sad countenance.

  Just as Ben was about to leap toward me out of the crowd, a horn sounded. Its call was long and sweet, a call to come to the square. The crowd moved as one in that direction, I in the middle. I saw that Ben fell farther back.

  Again the horn sounded. Musicians began to play as we gathered in the square, and even the merchants and entertainers came away from their booths and stages and gathered to listen.

  John Temsland caught me away from the crowd. “We have both won,” he said.

  “As well you should,” I said. “You have done well. It made me glad to witness Duke Morland’s unhappiness at not seeing your father humiliated.”

  “The king said I should have my wish granted,” John said. “All is going as I planned.”

  “And what will you ask?”

  “I asked him to give you whatever you would ask,” said John. “It is for you to decide, Keturah. Father knows my heart. Ask to be made Lady Keturah Reeve, and before the hour is up, I will marry you.”

  And then he slipped away, and though the crowd closed in around me, I was alone with secret wonder.

  The king was in full regalia and wore a crown of gold and rubies. The queen also was dressed in purple velvets and ermine, and wore a coronet of silver and diamonds. She was the only one not looking upon us. She was eating something, and only after several bites did I see it was a piece of my lemon pie.

  “Come with us, closer to the king,” Beatrice said, taking my hand. She was still dressed as a boy from singing in the choir. We pushed through the people to the front of the gathering.

  There was a call of trumpets, and the musicians ceased to play and the people listened.

  “I thank the people of Tide-by-Rood and Marshall for welcoming me to their beautiful lands,” said the king.

  The people cheered and whistled and threw their hats into the air.

  “I have promised a shoe full of gold to the one who most delighted me at the fair. In the end, Lord Temsland had his choice, and his lady hers. I have my choice, and my queen hers. And so we will divide the gold four ways.

  “First, Lord Temsland’s choice. To the lead soprano of the choir, a quarter of a shoe of gold. Come forward, soprano.”

  Beatrice as Bill glanced nervously at us and then stepped forward.

  I could not hear what she said, but Gretta and Choirmaster gasped when she did not bow but instead curtseyed. The king, however, only laughed, and Bill was invited to remove his cap and let his long braids fall. The crowd murmured and one could hear stifled laughter. At first Lord Temsland seemed somewhat flustered, but his wife’s gentle amusement calmed him, and he was further calmed to see that the king was not disturbed by the disguise.

  “Well, the bishop of Great Town has women in his choir,” the king said. Turning then to Lord Temsland, he added, “And if you wish to be in style, you must not put your women in disguise.”

  “Your Majesty,” Beatrice said, “if I may, it was my own deception. I beg your forgiveness.”

  Gently the king said, “How can I give you that? It would be like offering forgiveness to an angel. But I can give you this.” He handed her a small velvet purse that jangled with gold. “And what would you have for your wish granted?” he asked.

  “Your Majesty, only that I might share your gift with someone,” she said.

  “And who would that be?”

  Beatrice fetched Choirmaster by the hand and led him before the king. “Your Majesty, here is the man who makes me sing, for his music is the music of angels. And—and we are to be married.”

  The crowd murmured, oohed, and tittered with surprise.

  Choirmaster dabbed his nose with a sparkling white handkerchief.

  “I assume this match is also according to your wishes, Choirmaster?” the king said.

  “Your Majesty, it is,” he said, bowing deeply before the king. He did not let go of Beatrice’s hand.

  “You must write an Easter mass for me next year,” the king said, “for which I will pay you in gold.”

  “It has always been my deepest desire,” Choirmaster said, smiling—
the broadest smile I had ever seen upon him.

  The couple backed away, and the king called, “Now the Tailor.” Tailor came forward and I saw that he was wearing not even one item of orange clothing.

  “You have done as fine a work as any of the royal tailors. You are Lady Temsland’s choice,” said the king. “Besides your gold, what is the reward that you would wish for?”

  “To marry the woman who sewed most of the finery you speak of, Your Majesty,” he said.

  “Ah. And who would that be?”

  Tailor gestured to Gretta, who came forward boldly and curtseyed.

  “Is this your wish, young maid?” the king asked.

  “Your Majesty,” she said, “here is an imperfect man, the only one in the world perfect enough for me.”

  “Then it will be. And each year you will both come to my palace and sew my daughter a new Easter gown. For that I will pay you in gold.”

  “It has been my greatest wish,” said Tailor, bowing with great dignity.

  The villagers cheered, for there was nothing they liked more than weddings. The king raised his hand for silence.

  “Keturah Reeve,” he called. “Come forward.”

  I came forward and curtseyed.

  “The queen has chosen your pie as the most wondrous thing of the fair,” said the king. “You too will have a quarter of the shoe of gold.”

  He held it up to drop it into my hand, but I curtseyed again. “Please, I would ask that my share be divided among the poor of the village, Your Majesty,” I said, for I knew that tomorrow I would not need money, that tomorrow I would not be what I was today.

  The king turned and said a few words to Lord Temsland and John, and I turned to join the crowd.

  “Wait, Keturah Reeve,” said the king. “The gold will be distributed as you requested. But there is the matter of your wish granted.”

  I returned to my place before him.

  John Temsland, beside the king, smiled and nodded at me, encouraging me. There he stood, so young and beautiful and strong, and he loved me. His mother and father, too, smiled gently, even lovingly, upon me.

  I could ask now to be made a lady, and John would marry me. Oh, the good I could do for my people as the future Lady Temsland!

  I realized that the crowd had been waiting for my answer. I waited too—waited for the words that would come to me as they always did around the common fire, waited for the words that would begin this new story of me... The villagers seemed puzzled by my silence, as if they all knew precisely what they would ask for me if it were up to them to choose. No one appeared more puzzled than John.

  I knew I must speak, and I must speak now.

  “Your Majesty,” I said. He was a dear lad, John Temsland, so handsome, with hair the color of ripe wheat and eyes clear as a baby’s, who loved me...

  “Speak, Keturah,” John said.

  I felt the evening sunshine upon me—but what was the joy of sunshine if there were no night? Wasn’t the sunset the sweetest time of day? Could I ask for only day and never dark?

  And what of my friends? Could I ask for them ever to be at my side? Already I felt them moving past me, faster and faster, while I stayed still. And oh, the peace in that stillness.

  What of riches and gold? What of lands and honors? But when I thought of these things there was a silence inside me—a hollowness. It fit ill, like the wrong ending to a good story.

  Everyone was happy—old and young, rich and poor, male and female. But I could not touch their happiness, could not hold it. It was a dream and not real. What was real was the sense that in this life I had never quite been satisfied, had never long been at peace, had never loved or been fully loved as I longed to be. I could not name what was in me then, but I knew that the cure was not anywhere around me—not in Grandmother’s and my friends’ smiling faces, not in our shining little village, nor yet in any of the booths of the fair.

  No, all I could think to ask for was my one true love, and this not even a king could give me. It was in that moment that everything became clear. “Your Majesty, I ask”—there was an audible intake of breath from the crowd—”I ask that the great hart and his mate no longer be hunted.”

  The king looked at me, astonished, and then at John. I did not look at John. I would not. I could not. Behind me the people were murmuring among themselves.

  “Very well,” the king said at last. “It is a strange thing you have asked, but you shall have it. Lord Temsland, John, do you swear?”

  “We swear,” John said after a brief silence, and in his voice was an accusation, and great pain.

  “It is done,” said Lord Temsland, and surely there was a hint of relief in his voice.

  The king motioned for me to come closer and, when I did, said quietly so that few else could hear, “It is an unusual request, Keturah, from an unusual subject. Tell me what you say of this. As I traveled past Great Town, I saw villages emptied, fields unharvested, the grain stalks bent and rotting. I saw people hiding in holes like animals, and cattle dead by the roadside, and everywhere the smell of plague. But here, in Tide-by-Rood and Marshall, is health and marrow and wholesomeness. It is my understanding that it is because of you that this is so.”

  “No, Your Majesty, but because of one greater than I, and, forgive me, greater even than you.”

  He studied me then, a long moment, and nodded solemnly. “Tell him—tell him I have learned something. And thank him—or I suppose I shall myself one day.”

  The music began again at a nod from the king, and the villagers dispersed to their fairing. And I—I guessed that the shadows of the forest were beginning to touch my cottage, and I walked toward it.

  Gretta and Beatrice saw me leaving and broke away from their men and the friends and family who had gathered to congratulate them. Gretta grabbed my shoulders.

  “Keturah!” she said. “Where are you going?”

  “Home. I am tired.”

  Beatrice leaned her head against my shoulder. “Please don’t leave, Keturah. You are so pale, you frighten me.”

  “Do not fret,” I said, stroking Beatrice’s hair. “Not today.”

  “Keturah,” Gretta said, “promise us that you won’t go into the forest.”

  “You have weddings to plan,” I said. “Come, I will not be gone so long.”

  Then their families and lovers came laughing to steal them away, not understanding why Gretta had begun to weep, and I continued on.

  XIV

  A conclusion of sorts.

  I entered the cottage as the last rays of sunshine fell on swirling dust motes. I straightened Grandmother’s bed, put away the bowls that had been left on the table, and went to Grandmother’s chest and unwrapped my cornstalk doll. Gently I cradled her in my arms, remembering now that she had never had a name. After a time I put her carefully away, then walked through the garden to the forest.

  How thin the air felt at the forest’s edge, how ghostly the trees that guarded their realm. I looked around me. The whole world seemed as delicate as a dandelion seed, and as fleeting. Though the sun had not set, the moon had risen, and the village had never looked so beautiful. How sad to know that the figment village of my imagination would not vanish when I ended, to understand that it was not I who had invented the moon the first time I realized how lovely it was. To admit that it was not my breath that made the winds blow. It was not only my own life I mourned. Wouldn’t all life end with mine? Reason told me it was not so, but my heart, my heart knew that when I closed my eyes I invented the night sky and the stars too. Wasn’t the whole dome of the sky the same shape as the inside of my skull? Didn’t I create the sun and the day when I raised my eyelids every morning?

  No. As if I had suddenly grown up, my heart was schooled. My friends, my village, and Angleland would all go on. They had already left me behind.

  I turned away from the village and stepped into the forest.

  In a little while I could no longer hear the familiar sounds of the village—the laughter
of children, the squawks of geese, the lowing of cattle. All I could hear was the shushing of the green sea of leaves, silencing me.

  I thought I understood the forest from the days when I was lost in it. Oh, proud trees, so tall and hard, I thought. You would not bend to make me feel less small. You would stand still and watch me die.

  The forest was rampant, pathless, and full of shadows. The forest was death, and yet as I walked I began to see the secret life beneath every leaf. I heard eyes blinking, heard small hearts beating. I put one hand upon a tree. Even in the cool shadows, it was warm. I stood still, and as I stood I saw birds flit from branch to branch, squirrels run from their holes, and a rabbit lope around a tree. A butterfly lit on a bush, and a graceful doe stepped briefly into my vision in the deep of the forest. The wood leapt and swayed.

  Then I saw the hart standing still as a tree trunk nearby in the shadows. He looked at me. Silently he turned, and just as silently I followed.

  I followed the hart until I thought I had lost him. Then I found him, then lost him again. Soon I knew I was lost in the wood, and I sat against a tree. I daydreamed that my whole life until then was a story I had made up and now had forgotten, all but the end. It was a lovely gown I had tried on for a time, a gown whose color I could not now recall. It was a delicious meal that had not filled me.

  The sound of a horse brought me to my feet. When I saw the black stallion approaching, I put my hand in my apron pocket. The eye was still as death, but I did not need the charm to understand the magic that was in my own heart.

  Lord Death came close to me. I could feel no heat from him, hear no breath in his lungs. He was utterly still beside me, but there was a strange comfort in that stillness. It was as if he had eternity to stand beside me, and forever to listen. There was no time or motion to disturb us.

  “And so there was no love for you?” he asked gently.