Keturah and Lord Death

How had I never noticed before how dear she was? How dear, in fact, was everyone in my village, and every house and tree and garden. How comforting the whisper of the wheel of the mill, the clanging of the smith’s hammer, the lowing of cattle, the laughter of women. Were there any jewels so beautiful as the apples in the orchard, any decoration more lovely than the flowers that grew around every cottage and sprouted in the thatch of their roofs and tumbled over arbors?

Jenny saw me then, and curtseyed.

“Jenny,” I said, “why do you curtsey when I am in no station above you?”

“I thought to cry out, and then curtseyed instead,” Jenny said. “They say you are a witch who covens with Death.”

“You must not believe everything that is said, Jenny. The poor fortunes that brought me close to Death have made me love life no less. Come now, tell me, is that not a new frock you are wearing, Jenny? It is the same green as your eyes.”

“Yes, and I have another that makes my eyes blue,” she said, “but I may not wear it until fair time.”

“How do you come to have two new frocks?” I asked. Jenny’s was one of the poorer families in Tide-by-Road.

“Lady Temsland has given cloth stuff to every family in the village. She says if a clean and pretty village will keep death away a time, as you say, perhaps clean and pretty people will keep him away longer still.”

Surprised as I was, there was no time to think of a reply, for I felt an urgency to get to Soor Lily’s for foxglove for Grandmother.

“Goodbye, then, Jenny of the changeable eyes,” I said.

“Goodbye, beautiful witch Keturah,” she said ever so politely.

As I walked down toward the village square, I saw that fresh-washed linens hung on the lines. Honey Bilford was firing her pothook, and her neighbor was sweeping out her root cellar. Young men polished their spades, sharpened their axes, and oiled the yokes. Young women scoured crock and kettle until they could see their pretty faces in them. Down by the water, some of the men were repairing the pier, and Andy Mersey was carving a beautiful sign that said “Welcome to Tide-by-Rood.” The church bell shone like gold.

I met the cobbling crew along the way, and in the middle of them was John Temsland. Someone told him of my approach, and he straightened. The men drew away, scowling and muttering, but at a word from John they all doffed their hats.

“Keturah, what think you?” John said. “By tomorrow, one will be able to walk to every house in the village without muddying his feet. The women have been just as busy as the men. There isn’t an untidy cupboard or a dirty corner in any cottage of the village. Mother has got the manor fitted as royally as she can, too.”

“You have all done well,” I said.

“It was your counsel that inspired us, Keturah Reeve,” John said.

I blushed and said, “I must be on my way. Grandmother is poorly.”

He stepped aside with a slight bow, and I hurried up the path.

“If I may, I will pay my respects to your grandmother later,” he called after me. I nodded my head in quick assent, and continued on.

The thatch was being freshened on every cottage roof, and girls were lining the pathways with whitewashed stones. The door and shutters of one cottage had been painted an apple green, and those of other cottages were yellow, a bright blue, and lavender. Rosebushes had been pruned and barrel irons polished. People worked and laughed, but when I walked by they looked away, and no one spoke to me.

I could not guess what price Soor Lily would ask for foxglove, but whatever it was, I set my mind to pay it. Walking on the cobblestones eased the fatigue in my bones.

The wise woman was standing at the door when I arrived, as if she had been apprised of my coming. I could see two of her sons hiding in the bushes to the side of the house.

Soor Lily seemed more solicitous than before, more hoveringly nervous. She set tea before me so carefully the bowl made no sound as it touched the table.

“Keturah,” she said, “it is not enough, is it? The road, the mill—they will not be enough, perhaps.”

“I don’t know … Yes, of course they will …”

“You are not well. See how pale you are, and how your hands tremble, and you are wasting. So thin.”

“I am fine. I didn’t sleep well. I—I have come for Grandmother, Soor Lily. Please, I need foxglove.”

“Foxglove, yes. I have foxglove for those who fear to find it for themselves.”

“Please,” I said. “I will have some. For Grandmother.”

“For your dear grandmother. She has always been kind to me.”

Soor Lily arose and fetched foxglove, bringing me a folded paper of crushed leaves.

I went to take it, but she snatched it back so quickly and so deftly that it vanished, leaving me wondering if she had really held it out to me at all.

“Please, Soor Lily. I have no money,” I said, my voice trembling in spite of my intention to be firm. “I’ve nothing more to give you. If I ask even the smallest favor of Lord Death again, I will most certainly die.”