Keturah and Lord Death

“I tell you, your courage is to no avail. Many of them will die anyway, much sooner than you think.”

“Sir, what do you mean?”

“Plague comes,” he said.

Plague!

“And those who live,” he continued, “will wish they had died, so great will be their sorrows.”

Plague. Plague! The word clanged in my brain like a bell.

“I—I will tell them to flee,” I gasped. Around the common fire I had heard tales of the plague, so horrible I scarce believed them.

“The swiftest horse cannot outrun the plague,” Lord Death said, and though he said it without pity, he also said it without joy.

“When does it come? And whence?” I pressed.

Lord Death did not answer.

“Tell me—tell me how to stop it!”

“Even if you lived, it is not in your power to stop it. Your manored lord, perhaps—but it may be too late even for his efforts. Lord Temsland has allowed his lands to fall to dire ruin.”

I did not know how that had anything to do with the plague, but I could not ask him. A sob must escape my mouth if I spoke.

“But you could be spared,” he said.

It was as if I had awakened from a three-day sleep. My mind was a whirlwind, and at its center was a single word, black and quiet: plague. I knew I must live a little while, if only to warn my village.

Then he removed his black gloves without taking his shadowed eyes from me. “You don’t mind if you die.”

“Oh, yes, sir, I do!”

“Of course you do. What is it, then, that you want to live for, Keturah Reeve?”

My heart nearly broke with sadness, for I realized I had lost feeling in my arms and legs and that the life was indeed going out of me.

“My desire was that I might have my own little cottage to clean, and my own wee baby to hold, and most of all, one true love to be my husband.”

He was unmoved. “That is not too much to ask of life,” he said, “but you must have none of them, since you will not choose someone else to die in your place.” He put his cold hand on my head. It felt heavy, as if it were made of lead instead of flesh. I felt lighter after he released his touch.

“Have you killed me?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “You are still alive. For now.”

“Why did you touch me?”

“It is not for you to question me,” he said.

He had spoken truly—I was very much alive. I heard the birds of the forest singing more clearly than I ever had. Had I never before noticed the pepper-musk scent of fallen leaves and bracken? No, I was not ready to die.

Nor could I bear to think of plague in my village. If only I could speak for but a little time with Lord Temsland, to warn him.

“Sir, please let me say goodbye to my grandmother.”

“To say goodbye is everyone’s wish at the end,” he said, “but never granted. It is time, Keturah.”

He held out his hand. My mind whirled, desperate for a way to live, knowing I could not run away. I could see myself reflected in his shiny black boots, my face pale and bug-bitten.

And then into my mind came a memory of Hatti Pennyworth’s son, who was dragged by a horse and should have died, but lived. And Jershun South, who went to sleep for two weeks and awoke one day as if he’d slept but a night. And what about my own cousin, who once ate a mushroom that killed big men? Though he was young, he survived. Death often sadly surprised us, but sometimes he gladly surprised us, too.

“Sir, you are not easy to entreat.”

“I am not entreated at all.”

“But I hear you are sometimes cheated.”

He laughed then, and I saw that he was perilously beautiful, at once terrifying and irresistible.

“Good Sir Death,” I said too loudly, “I would tell you a story—a story of love, a love that could not be conquered even by you.”

“Truly?” he asked. “I have seen many loves, and none were so great I could not divide them.”

“This is a story of a beautiful young maiden, who, though she was a peasant, fell in love with the lord of the manor.”

“I have heard this tale before, in a thousand different ways,” he said.

“But my tale, Lord Death, is one that will make even you love, that will heat even your frozen heart.” My boldness astonished me, but I stood to lose nothing.

“Indeed,” said he in disbelief. “Then say on.”

“Once there was a girl—”

“An auspicious beginning.”

“—who loved … no one.”

“A love story in which there is no love—you have caught my attention now,” said Lord Death.

“Though her mother died giving birth to her, and though her father followed his wife to the grave soon after, the girl had been raised on love.”

“I see you have given me a part in the story,” said Lord Death, and if I could trust myself, I might have thought that he said it with a hint of sadness.

“The girl grew with love in the very air she breathed,” I continued. “When her grandparents sat together and Grandmother was not spinning, the couple held hands. They talked together of all the big and small things of life and rarely disagreed. When they did, it became a thing of laughter. Sometimes they shared sadness, especially when they thought of their daughter, who had not lived to hold her own child.