Keturah and Lord Death

“And what was it that Lord Death wanted and wept in his heart for?” I continued. “A love of his own, a consort to adorn his endless and hallowed halls, a companion who would comfort his heart when it broke from the sadness of his errands, who would weep with him when he carried home little ones in his arms, who would greet him with a joy equal to the terror with which mortals greeted him. Above all, he wished for a wife into whom he might pour his passion—”

“Hush. You try my patience,” he said coldly.

But I did not, could not, stop. “But who would love such a one? What maid wished for gold coins to shut her eyes, or a satin-lined coffin for her marriage bed? What maid would come willingly? For he would have it be willingly.”

The shadows that unfurled from his cloak had vanished, and his face caught the first light of the coming dawn, and he appeared no more than a man, no less than a great and warlike lord. I looked away, fearful that it might anger him that I saw him so vulnerable, so entranced by my story.

“And so he did his endless work,” I continued quietly, “without feeling, without pity, without rest, for to open his heart to these would be to open his heart to his loneliness and longing, and that was beyond bearing.”

“There are some who come willingly,” he said quietly, as if he were afraid his own voice would break the spell of the story.

“There were some who came willingly,” I said, as if I had not heard him, “not out of love, but out of sickness and sadness and a lack of understanding. He wanted none of them. And so he waited without waiting, and dreamed of what he could not imagine, and performed his terrible work and lived only in the moments out of which eternity is spun, knowing it was hopeless.”

I stopped. The sun was almost up now, but Death had never been afraid of day.

“And then?” he asked.

I said nothing.

“And then!” he demanded.

“And because the girl knew his secret, she asked, ‘Give me this day, and I will tell you the ending tomorrow.’”

I finished with closed eyes, for I felt his angry gaze as a cold in my bones, and I heard his icy breath come more quickly. I waited to feel his impatient touch, and to be swept into the heart of the still and ever-dark forest, never to return.

But the touch did not come.

I opened my eyes.

“For an ending to this story, I can pay a day,” he said. “Come at day’s end. And do not be late.”

I stumbled home to my bed and, fearing the dark behind my eyes, fell asleep with my eyes open. 

VII

An account of an invitation to the chamber

of John Temsland, which chapter is highly recommended

to the learning and edification of the

aforementioned blushing young maidens.

Plague. It was my first thought upon waking. My second thought was of the touch of Lord Death last night. I could still feel his fingers under my chin, so close to my lips, where my breath was frozen.

I leapt from my bed and then sank back again, catching my breath. I remembered, then, my promise to come to Lord Death again tonight.

I held my hands before me. They trembled like an old woman’s.

“You slept late, Keturah,” Grandmother said tenderly. “Come, eat.”

I willed myself to the breakfast table and ate what I could. I realized I had lost my sense of smell, and with it, my sense of taste. The porridge tasted like paste; the fruit was not what it had been the day before.

“Do they work on the road, Grandmother? I hear nothing.”

“They began work on the road yesterday, Keturah,” Grandmother said, patting my shaking hand. “They will surely begin again after chores.” She made no reference to what had happened at Goody’s in the night, but she was gentle with me.

“But the mill, Grandmother? Do they rid the mill of rats?”

Grandmother gazed out the window. “I see nothing from here.”

I set down my spoon. “Tell me, Grandmother, do you see Soor Lily’s baby son in the town?”

I closed my eyes and waited for her answer that seemed to come so slowly.

“Yes—yes, there he is, all brawny and fine. Why do you ask?”

“I—I heard he was unwell,” I said, and I smiled. “Thank you for breakfast, Grandmother, and for letting me sleep.”

She clucked and fussed with the dishes. “We must get you strong again in time for the fair.”

Grandmother left to visit Goody Thompson and be sure that she and the baby were well, and I sat by the window gathering strength from the sunshine. A nightmare clung to me like cobwebs. I brushed at the place where Lord Death had touched me, where it tingled still. I wondered that he had given me another day. It made me not glad. Somehow I felt myself even more bound to him by it.