Keturah and Lord Death

But now, as I gazed upward, I hoped it was true—hoped that the cold, empty sky could be filled with such heat and light, that the universe could be something impossible, something beyond my eyes and imagination, something unholdable.

No, I could not leave these stars just yet. I entered the cottage.

The fire was low. “Grandmother?” I called. She was not in her bed. And then I saw that she was lying on the floor.

“Grandmother!” I went to her side. She was awake but pale as a candle, and there was a film of sweat on her forehead and upper lip. “Grandmother?”

“Keturah, I’m glad you’ve come,” she said quietly.

“You are ill!” I said.

“Help me to my bed.”

Slowly I helped her to her bed and covered her well.

She settled under the quilts, and I took her hand. It shook in mine like a captured bird. “I am afraid, Keturah.”

“Grandmother, I will protect you,” I said.

She glanced all about the room, fear in her eyes. “Do you see him, Keturah? Is he close?”

“No, Grandmother, he is not close.”

I gripped her hand with both of mine.

“Grandmother, wouldn’t I tell you if he were near?” I said gently. “All is well. Here, let me brush your hair.”

“Keturah,” she said with weary surprise. “I am dying.”

“No, Grandmother,” I said.

She looked at me long in silence.

“No,” I said again, more firmly.

“Will you let me die alone?” she asked.

Angrily I said, “Grandmother, it is only the ague, that which vexed you last winter.”

She frowned slightly and gazed out the window. “It is not truly death I fear. It is leaving you behind. As long as I am alive, the memory of your revered grandfather protects us. As long as I am alive, Lord Temsland remembers to give us a small pension. But when I am gone, you are alone. You will be vulnerable when the reputation of your grandfather dies with me.”

“Do not fear, Grandmother,” I said. “Sleep now.”

I unwound her braid that fell to the floor and brushed her hair, smooth as silver silk. Then I began to plait her hair again. It felt warm and comforting to have my hands in her hair, as when I was a little child. At last she fell asleep, but she seemed at times to forget to breathe, and she slept terrifyingly still.

I left her then and ran into the forest, black and dark as a nightmare. He was waiting for me, his horse, Night, beside him. “Do you think by flaunting your power you will make me love you?” I cried when I saw him, rage killing my fear.

He stood tall, composed, lordly. “Your grandmother is very ill, Keturah,” he said calmly. “I told you she would die soon. I told you in the forest when you were lost. It has begun.”

It was true that he’d told me this, but it made no difference. Warning made no difference. “Why must you hide in shadows? Why am I the only one who sees you? Are you a coward?” Oh, how good it felt to rail against him.

“I am here for all to see, Keturah, if they wish it,” he said, still calm. “I have touched them all in some way.” He stepped closer to me. His tone had an edge to it now. “They think my realm is far away. Would they sleep at night if they knew how close I was? Would they sing so roundly by the fire if they knew I was waiting in their cold beds? Would they be so glad of the harvest if they knew I rested in their root cellar? It is not I who am the coward.”

He stepped closer again to me. His limbs were powerful, graceful, his movements almost a dance.

“Not at all, sir,” I said, matching my tone to his. If I must lose Grandmother to him, I would not do so in silence. “They know what you are, and that you are near.

We all know you. When it is winter and we must walk in the blizzard snow, do not our fingers and toes whisper death? And when winter is at last over but the potatoes are gone and the bacon is moldy, can we not hear our bellies whisper death to us? In the dark, don’t we know? And when we are paralyzed by nightmares? We know what you are. With our first cries we rail against you. We see you in every drop of blood, in every tear. No wonder they hate me for communing with you.”

He took another step toward me. “The story,” he said. “That is all I care to hear from you. Now there are two stories, and two endings, and I shall have them both, Keturah. My patience is spent.”

Yes, the story, I thought. With the story I would take my revenge upon him.

“And then one day,” I said fiercely, “Death did find love.” Of course, I thought—there could be no other ending.

“But you said it was hopeless,” he protested.

“It was hopeless, but in story, all things can be.”

“I don’t believe it. This is a most unsatisfactory ending.”

“That’s because it is not the ending.”

“What? Another begi

“Death found his love, but the object of his undying love did not return his affections.”

“Astonishing,” he murmured wryly.

“He watched her all her life, watched her grow up, watched her become more beautiful by the day, and watched her become a woman. He listened by the common fire, in the deep of the shadows, as she told tales. And he loved her more every day. She paid him no attention, and lived her life as if he were invisible and not real at all. He sought a way to make his true love see that she was his lady, his queen, his consort. Desperately he examined every means—he could abduct her, but he wanted her willing. And so he lured her into the forest, and all but killed her, and then arranged to have her come to him each night to weave him a tale.”

I stopped, but he was utterly silent, utterly still.

And then he laughed—a great, deep, echoing laugh that made the branches lash as if startled and the black stallion shy and whi

And then the mirth left his face and he said, “I will not hear this tale anymore. I will hear the tale of the girl. What of her, Keturah?”

I hugged my arms. How foolish to think that anger and cruelty and revenge could hurt Death. I began to shiver. Please, I begged in my heart. Please...

“Once there was a girl—who guessed Death s secret... and she asked him—asked him for her grandmother’s life, knowing that he loved her.”

“And in this story,” Death asked, “what did he do?”

“He granted her this wish because—because she was the one he loved.”

The wind spun around me. Leaf dust stung my eyes and choked me. But Lord Death was not touched by the wind. All about him was still.

“And did she return his love?” he asked quietly.

“Ah, that,” I said most quietly, for the heart had gone out of me, “that is the ending, and I ca

After a long silence, he said, “Go. Your grandmother sleeps a healing sleep. In the morning, give her foxglove tea. I will see you tomorrow. Do not be late. And Keturah, I warn you—never ask again.”

It took me a moment to realize that he had given me hope. I looked up to thank him, but he had gone.

I ran through the black forest until I arrived home, where the candles guttered in the windowsills and the coals breathed in sleep.

I knelt by grandmother, vigilant until the sun paled the sky. By morning light I could see that the gray was gone from her face, and I left to go to Soor Lily’s.

When I opened my door, I saw that down in the village center below, the men and boys and women were already at work. The people sang and laughed as they worked on the road, and young John Temsland went from group to group upon his horse. Each group cheered him as he approached, and he encouraged them with words of praise, and dismounted to add his own strength to whatever task was at hand. Some of the cottages sparkled gaily with new whitewash, and the boats bobbed brightly with new coats of paint.

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