Keturah and Lord Death (13 page)

He paused for a moment and then began, “The one who came for her—he appeared to me last night. A tall 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.

Finally I had a pie that I knew would make every man in the village fond of me, and make Ben Marshall love me enough to propose.

While I cooked with a fury, a knock came at the door. It was Ben himself.

I smiled at him hopefully.

“Keturah,” he said, “the fair is tomorrow.”

“I am making a special pie, Ben,” I said. “It is a lemon pie.

“May I?” He held out his hand for the spoon, which was coated in the glistening filling.

He tasted. His eyes grew larger. He licked the spoon again.

“Keturah, it is delicious!”

He licked the spoon until he had cleaned every drop of filling off it. “It is unlike anything I have tasted before. It is wonderful! Surely you will win Best Cook at the fair.”

With that, he fell upon one knee. “Keturah, will you marry me?”

“Why, Ben, I—I don’t yet have the ribbon.”

“But you will. And if not, Father need only taste your pie to know that you should have won. Say you will marry me, Keturah.”

My heart fluttered once, like a dying butterfly, and then was still. Utterly still and silent. “One moment,” I said. I put my hand in my apron pocket and gripped the charm tightly. Yes, this was the man Soor Lily referred to when she said I was already in love. Surely he was.

No. The eye in the charm looked. Slowly it rolled in my hand, like a sad shaking of the head.

My heart was as mute as a stone within my bosom.

“No!” I said aloud to my heart.

Ben looked confused.

“I—I mean, no, I should win fairly, Ben,” I stammered. “What if the crust is tough?”

He stood up. “Do not concern yourself, Keturah.” And then he tried to kiss me.

I pushed him away. “Sir,” I said, “I beg you.”

Again he looked confused. “Very well. Of course I respect your maidenly modesty. We shall wait until your pie has won, fair and square, and I shall propose to you on the spot.”

He grabbed my hand, kissed it, and left. I stood still, spoon in hand, and watched him walk away. I squeezed the charm as if I would cease its rolling. I did not bother to close the door.

“Stupid girl,” I said to myself at last. I began scrubbing the kitchen, berating myself all the while. Did not every girl in Tide-by-Rood dream of this? But Ben was not my true love, and I needed no charm to tell me so.

I scrubbed so hard I almost knocked over the pie, and then in frustration I ran from the house. I ran and ran, searching, searching the eyes of every man I saw. Who was he, this man I wanted to love? It was not only to free myself from Death s bond that I searched. What good was my life if my heart would not love?

Soon I had followed all the village paths and looked at every man who smiled at me, and came at last to Hermit Gregor’s. His cottage had been cleaned and whitewashed by the women of the village, but already he was beginning to make new piles: a pile of bones, a pile of hair and threads and sheep wool, a pile of rocks, and a pile of refuse from around the village. I could see his dirty, hairy face just inside the window.

“Come out, Hermit Gregor,” I called sweetly.

“You aren’t here to clean, are you?” he whimpered.

“No, Hermit. I am here to see if I love you.”

I heard a terrified squeal, and his head disappeared. Boldly I entered his house. He was half-hidden beneath a pile of straw that served as his bed. I could see only the lower half of him, and it was trembling.

“Be a man, Hermit Gregor,” I demanded, “and look at me.”

“Why would you want to love me?” he cried from beneath the straw.

“So I might marry you, of course.”

“Marry!” He wiggled farther under the straw.

“Look at me,
^”
I said, “or I shall call my friend Lord Death to visit you.” Slowly he emerged from the straw and sullenly looked in my eyes. The eye rolled so hard it almost wrenched from my grasp.

I shuddered and ran thankfully away.

Evening had fallen and the lanterns had been lit and the music and the dancing begun when I returned slowly to the common. I hovered on the fringes of the crowd, hopeless, until Gretta and Beatrice found me and drew me into the thick of things. I was immediately asked to dance.

I tried to love every boy and bachelor who requested a dance, to no avail. A calmness had settled over me. Somewhere, as Soor Lily said, I already loved someone.

Everyone, married and unmarried, asked to dance with me, and all were kind and gracious. But it was hard to enjoy my honor when I was half in forever, and when the eye jittered and rolled in my hand for every man.

Grandmother and her old friends watched as I danced, and I saw her shine with pride for the gentle things they said of me. Sometimes the dancing stopped for acrobatics and singing, and there was even a play. It was a glorious night.

At the height of the festivities, I was asked to dance again, this time by John Temsland.

My friends, and indeed all the other villagers, stood agape as John led me onto the dance floor. Gradually, in an effort not to stare, some couples joined us in dancing, but

Gretta and Beatrice continued to stare at me and would not pay attention to anyone who asked for a dance.

John was wearing a tunic the color of pale straw and breeches the green of the forest. His hair was loose and long, his skin browned by the labor on the road, and his eyes were blue as the banners that hung from the manor.

“Sir,” I said.

He twirled me, then drew me in a little closer. “I want to extend my personal thanks, Keturah,” he said.

“That is unnecessary, sir,” I said. “You do me honor enough with this dance.”

“Please, Keturah, say my name.”

“John,” I said shyly, “do not thank me.”

“I do not understand everything that happened today,” John said, “but I saw with my own eyes the great swellings on Goody and the child. I saw him sicken, and then with my own eyes saw him heal as the rain came.”

I said nothing, thinking of the rain and of Lord Death.

“Tales of this day will be told for generations,” he said, “but I hope that sometime you will tell me the real story.”

“Of course—John,” I said. “But you must know that in me is no great courage, but only, perhaps, a great love for my people.”

“As befits a lady,” John said. He twirled me again and then stepped closer to me. “I asked my mother, Keturah,” he said, very low, “how a lord’s son might go about marrying a commoner.”

“What commoner?” I asked, astonished.

“I know you think it is impossible. Even Mother is doubtful. But listen—who is the one person with the power to turn a common woman into a lady? The king! His Majesty the king, the very king who is coming to Tide-by-Rood for the fair.”

“John,” I said, shaking my head, “the king does not raise up commoners except for war heroes or wealthy merchants.”

“Remember, Keturah, remember what the king promised to the one who wins top prize at the fair?”

“His shoe full of gold and a wish granted.”

“Yes. And I will win,” he said.

“Truly? And with what will you win?” I asked, smiling at his confidence.

He gestured sweepingly. “Tide-by-Rood is what I will contribute to the fair, Keturah.”

“Sir, it is a glorious contribution. But what common woman will receive this honor, if I may ask?”

“You, Keturah.”

I stopped still and began to dance again only when I saw people staring.

“You helped me see what Tide-by-Rood could be,” he said. “You inspired me, Keturah. For this you will be made a lady.
My
lady.”

A lady!

Suddenly all weariness left me. I found myself swirling to the music.

A lady!

The villagers honored me, and my friends were in love, and—and I was loved by a lord’s son!

I gazed in the direction of the forest and smiled. Could it be that John had been the one all along? I stopped dancing.

“Sir, you are a lord, and I a peasant. This will never be.” But even as I spoke, I put my hand slowly into my apron pocket.

The eye was not moving!

But wait... No, it did not move back and forth as if it were looking.

And yet it moved. It throbbed in my hand, and then I felt in horror that it squeezed out tears, so that in a moment my hand was wet with them.

I pulled my hand away and wiped it on my skirt, and I could not have been more repelled and appalled if it had been blood upon my hand.

John had been talking about his hopes for the king’s understanding, and now he watched me, curious, expectant, and... lovingly.

“Sir—John, I must go home, I—I must think.”

“Think and dream, Keturah, as I will,” he said.

I ran away, up the hill toward home, my mind still dancing with disbelief.