Keturah and Lord Death

“They danced together at village dances; they prayed together at night before they slept, and then slept close. Often, for no reason, Grandfather would bring his wife a flower. Grandmother in her garden would bring the biggest, reddest strawberry for her husband, the darkest and sweetest raspberries, the newest carrots. She made rose-water from dying roses and splashed it on herself for the sake of Grandfather. They drew the girl into their circle of uncommon love and established in her forever a desire to have such a thing for herself someday.

“After this, the girl longed for a love that could not be ended by death. From the time she was young, she knew that her true love was there, somewhere, living a life that would one day intersect her own. Knowing this made every day full of sweet possibility. Knowing that her true love lived and breathed and went about his day under her same sun made her fears vanish, her sorrows small, and her hopes high. Though she did not yet know his face, the color of his eyes, still she knew him better than anyone else knew him, knew his hopes and dreams, what made him laugh and cry.”

I paused to look at Lord Death. He was regarding me with an unreadable look, a look of great concentration. Had I not seen this same look across the flames of the common fire when I told fairy tales to the villagers?

He leaned back as if to pull himself out of the web of my story. With a gesture of his hand he said, “Every girl dreams of such love. Then they marry and quarrel, and the cares of life drive love out.”

“The girl knew that quarrels would come because their lives were intertwined—how passionately one defends a heart that is vulnerable,” I said.

“The girl and her true love will get old and ugly.” Was his tone defiant? Or was it that he wished—demanded—that I persuade him?

“They will, and yet they will see past the scars of time to view the soul that first loved.”

“Could such a love be?” Lord Death asked, but his voice was not harsh.

“We will never know, for one day Death came for the girl. She knew that her soul’s heart would love as much as her living heart, and that she would long and ache and mourn for eternity for her true love. She tried to persuade Lord Death, tried to make him see how dark and lonely would be the life of her future love without her. She tried to tell Lord Death how even he would rejoice for the sweetness of that hoped-for love, if only he would let it be.” I was weeping now, for a truer story I had never told. “Death would not be persuaded, for he had found her first, and yet …”

“And yet?” Lord Death said quietly.

“The end of the story I cannot tell.”

“Cannot tell?”

“Will not tell—until tomorrow. Let me live, sir,” I begged, “and I will tell you the ending tomorrow.”

The leaves in the trees shushed me. A wind caught some dust and leaves and swirled them into the air. The horse shied and quivered. Lord Death was utterly still. His face went from disbelief to astonishment.

“Are you saying you will not tell me?”

“Take me home, and I swear that I will come to you in the wood and tell you the rest of the story. Only let me live another day.”

The wind blew his hair and his cloak, and even the shadows around him boiled. “You think too highly of love,” he said. “Love is no more than a story spun out of dust and dreams, having no substance. But I would know the end, and I confess I hope you can indeed show me a love that is greater than death. Return to me tomorrow, and you will come with me then.”

He smiled to himself, and the shadows of the forest clotted around him.

“And I grant you a further boon—find this love in the day I have given you, and you will live and not come with me at all. Now I will set you upon my horse and return you to your grandmother, but only until the morrow.”

“You are not angry with me for being more clever than you?”

“In fact—”

He stepped toward me, knelt again on one knee, and reached his ungloved hand as if to put his hand under my chin. I raised it away from his touch. He did not lift his hand to touch me, nor did he lower it. I could feel the cold emanating from his fingers, so cold it burned into my throat.

“—I have decided that when I take you tomorrow, I will indeed make you my bride. What do you say to that, Keturah Reeve?”

What would it be like, to be Lord Death’s consort? Not to rest in the world where the dead are, now and always without fear, but ever to cross from one world to another, always able to see the life that was left behind. Worse, to serve at his side in his office as the bearer of pain and tears and heartache. To see every day a man weep like a baby himself over his lost little one. To see a new widow stare at her living children with hollow eyes, her heart torn out of her. To stand at the bedside, invisible in the shadows, while great men rocked in their beds with pain. To be the bringer of plague. Ah, ’twas one thing to die, another to be Goodwife Death.

“No, sir, though I thank you. But as I said before, I will not be your bride.”