Keturah and Lord Death

X Of Tailor and Choirmaster and what I decide; of good lemons and bad news.

Gretta and Beatrice had let themselves in and had done all my chores. Now they were stitching, and their faces were filled with worry. Grandmother was sleeping still.

“I have been to see Soor Lily,” I said quietly, and I began steeping foxglove tea.

“The charm is not working, is it?” Gretta said flatly.

“She says it is because I am in love already.”

“It must be Ben.”

“It must be, but the eye does not stop for Ben—it only slows.”

“It is waiting for your pie,” Beatrice said hopefully.

“Perhaps,” I said. I sat on the edge of Grandmother’s bed with the foxglove tea and stroked her hair until she woke with a smile.

While I helped her sip the tea, Gretta and Beatrice whispered together. Before Grandmother had finished the tea, the color had come back to her face and I had persuaded her to have breakfast.

“You were right, Keturah,” she said. “Death is not as near as I had thought, perhaps.”

After she had eaten, she took up her spindle and assured me that she might feel well enough to make supper also.

“If you are well enough, Grandmother Reeve,” Gretta said, “might we borrow Keturah for a time?”

“Of course, dears, run and play. Ah, youth is so carefree and innocent.”

My friends escorted me outside and pounced upon me immediately. “You have not looked at every man while you held the charm,” Gretta said accusingly. “Have you?”

“Indeed I have,” I said. “At the hunt, at the gatherings, among the work crew …”

“Tailor?” Gretta demanded.

“Tailor—no …”

“Choirmaster?” Beatrice asked.

“Choirmaster—no …”

“Just as we thought,” Gretta said, her hands on her hips.

“But they are for you!” I said. “Gretta, confess that you love Tailor yourself.”

“It is true that I admire him, Keturah. He is kind to his children, and he mends Hermit Gregor’s trousers for free. But a man who does good of his own free will is a man who cannot be bossed—and that, Keturah, can be a dangerous thing. Besides, I saw dirt in the corners of his house.”

“Not everyone, perhaps, can be as perfect as you, Gretta,” I said.

“Sister, friend,” she said sternly to me, “we show ourselves in everything we do. Dirty floors, dirty soul; unmade bed, unkempt soul. Perfection in cleanliness demonstrates perfection of being. Every perfect stitch is a glory to God. Now that man, he lives in—”

“Comfort,” I said.

“Sloth,” said Gretta. “His garden has nine weeds. I counted them myself.”

“Then it must please you that he demands perfection in stitches,” I said.

“See the way his poor children are forced to dress—in rags and patches,” she continued.

“I have seen them,” I said. “They are no worse off than the poor shepherds down the way.”

“Master Tailor is not poor,” Gretta snapped.

“He is thrifty, perhaps,” I said.

“He has such dear children. Perfect, in fact. But he and his orange hose!” Then she said, lost in reverie, “So hairy and muscled is he, he seems more suited to smithing than sewing.”

Beatrice said to me, “And if the eye cannot bear to gaze upon Tailor’s orange hose, surely it will cease to look when you hear the music Choirmaster has written for the king.”

“Beatrice, you know you love him yourself!” I declared.

“I shall have no husband but shall go to heaven pure,” she said with a grand turn of her head.

“And what, my friend, can be more purifying than to give your whole self and heart to another?” I countered. “Of course I could never love Choirmaster, nor Tailor.”

“Did not Soor Lily say that you already loved?”

“She did, but …”

“Then you must try everyone. Come!” Gretta insisted. And they locked their arms in mine and walked me down to Tailor’s cottage. I confess I was too tired to argue with them, let alone tear myself away. I even leaned upon them as I walked, so weary was I.

Tailor was gracious when we arrived at his door. It was a solid, simple home, well-built and warm, but plain. The furniture was made to withstand the use and abuse of children, and the whole room smelled of an abundance of good things to eat. There was not a flower or a curtain to be seen, but it was a house full of enough.

“Come in, Keturah, Gretta, Beatrice,” he said, gesturing for us to enter his comfortable home. Gretta looked at me hopefully and nodded to my apron.

“Thank you, Keturah,” Tailor said, “for helping with Lady Temsland’s gown.”

“Gown?”

Gretta laid some stitchery on the solid table. “The gown you have been working on, Keturah,” she said encouragingly. Then to Tailor she said, “She wishes that you would wait no longer to see her stitches.”

“Of course,” said Tailor. He picked up the gown and turned it so that he could see the seams Gretta had sewn on the skirt. At first his look was stern, as if he were summoning the strength to tell me to begin again. But as he examined the stitches, looking more and more closely, his expression softened and then became one of admiration.

“This is very good work, Keturah,” he said at last.

I blushed to hear him praise me for work I had not done, but he took my blushes for modesty.

“You need not be shy about these seams, Keturah,” he said. “I see only five stitches that are not perfection.”

“Five!” burst out Gretta.

He nodded to her briefly, then turned his eyes upon me again as if he were wondering how my art had escaped his notice so far.

“Five bad stitches? Where? You must be mistaken,” Gretta spluttered.

“Here,” he said. “And here, and these two, and this one.”

Gretta and I both peered at the stitches he pointed out. Then she straightened and said very stiffly, “They are not as exact as the others.”

“Why, sir,” I said, “the hand that sewed these stitches has not made five wrong ones since it was as many years old,” I said.

“But he is right, Keturah,” Gretta said with injured pride. “They are not perfect.” She looked meaningfully at my apron pocket where the charm lay.

Gretta looked so fierce that I touched the charm in my pocket. Yes—yes, I admired him, but … no, I did not love him. The eye twitched and quivered as rapidly as ever.

I shook my head slightly at Gretta. She sighed and then regarded Tailor as if it were all his fault. “Master Tailor, you have beautiful children. But why, Master Tailor,” Gretta asked, “do your children run in rags when all the other children have new clothes?”

“They shall have new clothes when they learn to sew them themselves,” he said. “I will teach them, but I will not sew for them.”

Gretta scowled at him, but he seemed not to notice. “So you will only let them wear clothes given to them by other people?” she asked brusquely.

“Just so,” Tailor said.

The eye flickered wildly in my hand until I could not stand to hold it anymore, and I took my hand out of my apron pocket. Behind us, Beatrice sighed.

“Good day, Tailor,” Gretta said.

“Good day, Gretta,” Tailor said mildly. “And thank you again, Keturah.”

“Insufferable man,” Gretta murmured as we walked out. “To let his children dress so. Of course you could not fall in love with such a man, Keturah.”

“Gretta, it is not his fault that I cannot love him.”

“It is just as well,” she said. “I do not think I could bear to look at his orange hose when I came to visit you.”

“Come, then,” Beatrice said. “We are to church.”

“No, no, I am so tired,” I complained.

“Then the sooner you take a good look at Choirmaster with the charm, the sooner you can go home to rest,” she said. I was so unused to Beatrice being firm that I resisted no more.

We entered the little chapel. Choirmaster was bent over his music, making notes. When he looked up, his sad expression softened a bit.

“Keturah!” he said, glad to see me. He was almost smiling—I scarcely recognized him with that hint of a smile. “Your cousin Bill is everything you promised. Thank you for sending him to me. Our choir will be fit for a king after all.”

Beatrice, turning pink, made a small gesture toward my apron pocket while Choirmaster extolled the virtues of my cousin’s voice and noted, becoming sad again, how remarkable it was that, though in the same family, I had not been given the smallest portion of this gift.

All this he said while I steeled myself and reached into my apron pocket. The eye was looking so fast and hard that it nearly jumped out of my grasp.

I shook my head a little at Beatrice, and she turned a sour eye to Choirmaster, as if he had failed her in the gravest of ways.

“Choirmaster,” she said, “Bill tells me that he believes he knows the reason you are so sad all the time. It is because you are lonely. It is because you are in want of a wife.”

I gasped a little, surprised that my timid friend would speak so boldly, and Gretta hid a smile.

“So he is as perceptive as he is talented,” Choirmaster replied. “He has guessed my secret. I am lonely indeed, but there must be no marriage for me.”

“But why?” Beatrice asked.

“If I waste my love on women there will be none left for music. Mother taught me that.”

“But you are a grown man,” she said.

“I hear her voice,” Choirmaster said, “even over the music. I hear it. Remember, son, she would say. Remember that music alone will get you to heaven.”

His eyes searched the empty air above him, perhaps looking for her ghost. He rubbed his knuckles as if they smarted. “She taught me every day to give up the things of the world. All of it was wickedness, she told me. Music, she said, was the language of heaven. I must give myself to music.”

“Is she nearby, Choirmaster? I thought you came from a far distance.”

“Oh, yes, she is nearby, though not in a place you can reach by foot or by carriage. But she is nearby. I can feel it. She would whip my fingers, Mother would, every time I made a mistake in my music. It was a dainty golden whip she used. I feel it, I feel it every time I wish to love another.”

Beatrice said gently, “Come, it cannot be so bad.”

“My mother wanted to be God’s bride, but her father would not have it. He feared what God would do to him when He discovered what kind of a wife he’d raised his daughter to be. So he married my mother to an organ builder who drank too much. She raised me on music. Before I could say ‘Mama,’ I could play a sonata. Every waking moment I practiced. I gave her little whip the name Tooth, for it bit.”

“For this I am sorry,” I said. Beatrice made small sympathy sounds, and Gretta covered her mouth.

“Are you sorry, Beatrice?” Choirmaster asked with much feeling.

“Choirmaster, your music reminds me of every sad thought I ever had,” she said. “Your music would wrench the heart of the devil himself. Perhaps if you made your music … happier, you would hear your mother’s voice less, and someone could comfort your heart.”

“There can be no comfort for me but from my music,” he said dolefully. And he sat down at the organ to play so sad a tune that I had to hurry away.

Gretta and Beatrice soon caught up with me.

“Well, you tried,” Gretta said.

“It must be Ben,” I said. “The eye only waits to see if I can make a pie tasty enough to win Best Cook. I’m sure of it.”

Beatrice patted my arm. “Rest. Later we will think about pies.”

I shook my head, and though my whole body was weary, I did not slow my pace.

“There is no time. Tomorrow is the fair, and if there is any possibility I will live to see it, today I must make pies.”

Grandmother was in the garden when we arrived home, and looking so well that it cheered my heart and gave me renewed strength. I started on squash pie.

Just as I was finishing, someone knocked at the door. Gretta rose to answer it. When she opened the door, there stood Ben Marshall with another baby-sized squash in his arms. With a wooden spoon in one hand and a whisk in the other, I beamed at him. Behind him was Padmoh, and in her arms were several bunches of lettuce.

“Come in, Ben,” Grandmother said, “and you, Padmoh. We are just about to feast upon a pie Keturah made from your delicious squash, Ben. Sit, sit, both of you. How fortunate we are that you grow such big squashes, Ben, for then you have much to share.”

“I’ve brought another. Keturah, you are dusted all over with flour. You look so … pretty.”

Oh, handsome Ben, I thought. Good, solid Ben—but would I always have to be covered in flour and sugar to be beautiful to him? It made me more tired to think of it. Still, he was very handsome.

“I thought what a generous thing it was of Ben to bring squashes to the poor,” Padmoh said, “so I offered to carry lettuces. And besides, Mother Marshall bade me come.”

Ben looked at her as if she were a stray cat that had followed him home. Grandmother served them portions of the pie I had made, and Ben set right to eating.

“I am practicing for the cooking contest tomorrow,” I said, dearly wishing there would be a tomorrow.

Padmoh sat down, too, and gingerly took a taste.

“It’s delicious,” Ben said after a mouthful.

“There is a certain aftertaste,” Padmoh said delicately, “but it is quite good.”

Grandmother turned the talk to the beautification of the village, and Ben and even Padmoh and my friends talked about the wonders of it.

“Mistress Smith and some other women went to Hermit Gregor’s house,” Ben said. “They scrubbed and tossed and folded and washed and swept and gardened until he wept and promised to be a better man.”

Everyone laughed.

Padmoh said genteelly, “Widow Harker, who beds her cow in her house for want of a shed, came home today to find a sweet, clean shed for her cow.”

Ben noticed I was quiet and said, “With pie like this, Keturah, you could win Best Cook at fair time.”

“I am glad you like it,” I said.

Padmoh scowled at him and then at me. “It is hard to tell such a thing from pies,” she said. “Besides, didn’t he say that very thing to me the other day. Fickle Ben.”

“But I do believe this pie makes Keturah a fraction better,” Ben said.

Gretta and Beatrice smiled, and Padmoh stabbed violently at the pie with her fork. I felt sorry that she was unhappy, but I was relieved that Ben had loosened his tongue in favor of my chances.

Just then there was a weak knock at the door, and I opened it to see Tobias standing with lemons in his hands.

I threw my arms around him, then took the lemons. “Why, they are beautiful, Tobias! So plump, so fresh. Did they cost very much?”

Slowly he held out the second set of coins John Temsland had given him. “Not a penny, Keturah, and yet they were very dear.”

Only then did I notice that he was most pale, whiter than the gray dust around his mouth and eyes.

“How did you get them, then?”

“It is a strange tale I have to tell, Keturah.”

“Sit, and tell it,” I said. He sat down slowly, feeling for the chair as if he were blind. Gretta put her hand on her brother’s shoulder.

“I looked and looked, Keturah,” he began. “No one had lemons. At last I thought to go to the road that heads to Great Town, only to the crossroads, in hopes of seeing a merchant who might tell me where to find them. And sure enough, Keturah, I met there a man who had many wondrous wares in his cart. I told him my errand, that the best cook of Tide-by-Rood needed lemons. Lemons, says he, why I have lemons here, all the way from Spain. I would have them, sir, I said. But when I held out the coins Lord Temsland gave me, he shook his head. Not enough, said he. Take it, sir, I said, and tell what I can do to make up the difference. Whatever it is, I said, I will do it. He snatched the coins, and said that if I would serve him for one round year, I should have paid the price in full.

“But I need the lemons now, for Keturah Reeve must cook a dish for the king, I said. Very well, said he, then I must get a year’s work out of you in a single month. No, sir, I said, the lemons must be delivered now. Then you have no bargain, said he. Give me back my coins, I said. No, I shall not—good day, he said.

“Mistress Keturah, you know I am not good at wrestling, but I knew you and the young lord and the queen must have lemons. So I tackled him. He was a tall man, and much fatter than me, but it was for the lemons, you see. He beat me soundly, and then picked up his donkey prod with which to finish the fight. I thought I was going to lose my life, as well as the coins, for which I was most sorry on account of your needing lemons.

“The merchant raised the prod, and as he was about to bring it down upon my head, he stopped cold and stared into nothingness. Pale he went, gray as the underbelly of a fish. He shook his head once, and nodded once, as if he were having a conversation with a ghost. I shivered in fear to see his countenance, so full of terror it was. The prod dropped, forgotten.

“At last he turned his eyes to me. Blank with horror, they were, but utterly resigned. Death has come for me, he said. I have cheated him many times, and now he comes to collect his debt. He gives me one last chance, before I go with him, to atone for the suffering I have brought to others through my cheating ways. Lad, the merchant says to me, there are coins sewn into my coat. They are all yours if you will forgive me.

“May I have the lemons, sir? asks I. He nodded once. Then I forgive you, I said. And he crumpled and dropped dead.

“His eyes were still open in death, and they seemed to look at me with gratitude. I waited beside him a long time, until it rained into his open eyes and the mule bawled for hunger. And I came home.”

Tobias stared at the table, his lips parted as if he had not the strength to clamp his jaws together.

I raised the lemons to my nose. Did they not smell of the sun? My pie would bring sunshine and cloud to the palate. My pie would win Best Cook at the fair. My pie would win me Ben Marshall—

Tobias began to weep. “Keturah—he died of the plague.”