Keturah and Lord Death

“Nonsense,” John said, “but she shall be if she doesn’t eat that pie immediately.” He helped me to the bench at the table, and Grandmother pushed past Mother By-the-Way and placed the pie before me. Before she had time to cut it, I dug into it with a spoon and ate as fast as I could.

“No ghost eats like that,” Grandmother said happily. She kissed the top of my head and sat across the table from me, beaming with relief and concern.

“Where did you find her?” Gossip asked.

“Where we’d searched a dozen times—near the edge of the forest, behind her own house,” John answered.

“Leave it to young John to find the girl,” said one of the men.

“That’s our John,” agreed another, and others joined in and added their own praises.

John seemed uncomfortable with the praise and excused himself. “I will come again to assure myself that you are well,” he said to me.

“Thank you, sir,” I said, swallowing my mouthful of pie. “I am well enough, I think, but I would be grateful for the chance to speak with you on the other matter as soon as possible.”

He inclined his head in assent and left.

How handsome he had grown to be, I reflected, with his hair the color of harvest-time wheat and his eyes green as bay water. All the villagers loved him and were proud that he could kick a ball farther than any of the other boys, and drag a boulder farther in the harness, too.

When he was gone, the guests whispered together and stared at me with long faces. They were disappointed, of course, having come for a funeral gathering. Some of the men, who’d been good friends with Grandfather when he was alive, had told stories of the forest and of all the people they’d known who had been killed by its treachery. Now, at intervals, one or another would look up at me and shake his head in wonderment, as if I had defied all the wisdom of great age.

Gossip was obviously disappointed when I appeared whole and alive, but when others began to look sidelong at me and whisper of fairies, she cheered up.

Grandmother’s gaggle of friends, who had been there to cluck and clean and comfort, had brought bread and meats to make a funeral meal, even if there was no body to mourn over. Now they grudgingly turned the food into a celebratory meal.

Relatives were there, too, and more came as the news spread of my return—cousins and second cousins and great-aunts and a step-uncle. I wondered where my friends Gretta and Beatrice were. Most of all, I wondered where my true love was, whoever he might be, and if he was among my mourners.

Ben Marshall, a man of marriageable age who had of late made an effort to speak to me at doings, smiled at me. Though I had at times ventured to return his attentions, I had had reservations. He was tall and toothsome, but he had a great love of food, and already one could see signs of future portliness in him.

My deepest reservations had to do, however, with a long Marshall tradition.

Marshalls were known for their prizewinning gardens. Generations ago, a Marshall had decided that he would marry the woman who was chosen Best Cook of the village, regardless of his feelings for her, and vowed that his sons would do the same. His sons obeyed, and theirs, and now it was a long tradition of which they were inordinately proud.

The best gardens and the Best Cook in one household meant that their tables were the envy of Lord Temsland’s lands, but it was well known that Marshall children were nursed on business, not love, and I, I would have love. Still, I encouraged my hopes that I could have both Ben’s garden and his heart for my very own, and that he might be my true love. Perhaps my new reputation as the one who had been stolen by fairies would be overshadowed by my reputation as the one who cooked the best pies in Tide-by-Rood.

Also in the house was Tailor. I thought of what Lord Death had said about him half sorrowing unto death, and my heart went out to him. He was a bonny man, a well-off widower something older than me, close-mouthed and pragmatic. I did not know him, really, but I knew his beautiful children. I knew that Gretta admired him for his famed and perfect stitches, and I determined then and there that Gretta was the one who could cheer his heart and make it live.

There was Choirmaster, too, perhaps the richest bachelor in the village, but God had given him so many gifts in music that there had been none left for his face. Worse, he played only gloomy music and seemed afraid of girls. Still, I had never seen him be unkind, and I wished that Death knew him not so well. I knew that Beatrice admired him; perhaps I could persuade her to comfort his heart.

There was Tobias, Gretta’s brother, but he was a year younger than I, and still a dog boy who cared more about horses than about girls. There was Locky Jones, who was hopelessly cystic in the face, and one of Soor Lily’s great sons, who loved only their mother. And …

“Keturah, are you missing the fairies?” It was Tailor’s little daughter. The crowded room fell suddenly silent.