Keturah and Lord Death Page 4

  That command I wished with all my heart I could obey.

  I had two errands—to speak to John Temsland or his father, and to visit Soor Lily. While the latter was the easier to accomplish, it was the more dreaded.

  Soor Lily lived near the road to Marshall, a short way into the green gloom of the forest, with her seven great sons, each the size of two men, who loved her and obeyed her slavishly and would not leave her for a wife. Though the air was still as I entered the wood, leaves of the trees whispered and seemed to bend, as if they were a little more alive than other trees for living near Soor Lily.

  When I came to her house, I saw that the door was of oak and enormous, so that her boys, I supposed, might enter in without ducking, as they must do to enter any other house of the village. Not that they were often invited.

  As I stood nervously before the door, I saw two of her big boys peering from behind the outhouse, and two more in her huge and mysterious garden. I shouldn’t be here, I thought. I should speak to John Temsland first. But even as I turned to go, Soor Lily opened the door.

  “Come in, Keturah,” she said, half bowing. Her manner was unsurprised, as if she had been expecting me.

  “You know my name?” I asked. We had never spoken to each other before.

  “Everyone is speaking of you today, and not in quiet voices. But before, I knew you for your beauty.” She spoke in a soft, watery voice. “ ‘Twas no fairies you saw in the wood, Keturah,” she said, and I felt glad that she did not believe it.

  Soor Lily had been well named. Her walk was measured so that she seemed to float like an autumn lily in a pond. Her clothes she wore in layers like petals, and no one could tell if she was fat or thin. Her skin was pale and waxy, her expression unreadable.

  The furniture in her home was of large proportions. Great chairs made of rough-hewn logs and a table almost as big and heavy as Lord Temsland’s were set before a gigantic fireplace. Soor Lily’s pots, the size of cauldrons, hung from the ceiling, along with nets of bulbs and bunches of drying herbs. A great wooden closet stood against the wall opposite the fireplace, its carved doors discreetly closed. It was all very tidy and clean, and there was no evidence that Soor Lily was a witch.

  Though she was.

  She sat me in one of the great, solid chairs. In it, my feet did not quite touch the ground, though I was as tall as any woman. I listened for sounds of her big sons, but all was quiet.

  She curtseyed a little and then laid out two cups. She wore her hair unbound. “Have some tea. You must be tired from your long walk. So tired. Here is tea. Here, here, my beauty... So nice to know there is someone in the parish more vilified than I.”

  Her voice was a chant, soothing and gentle and throaty.

  “I don’t believe in love potions,” I said stoutly, refusing to touch the tea.

  “No, no, you don’t,” she said quietly, reassuringly. She put warm scones before me, each the size of a pie plate. She hovered around me, at once diffident and attentive, like a bird brooding over her chick, lightly touching my shoulder, my back, my arm. Finally she sat at the table beside me and looked at me as if she were hungry and my eyeballs were just what she had been craving.

  “I don’t believe in sorcery, and I don’t believe in love sorcery most of all,” I said, though the defiance in my voice had lost its edge.

  “No, not at all,” she said. She brushed all the words from the air with her long, spider-leg fingers. “Not at all, my dear, my heart.” Her words disappeared into breathy nothingness, as if from moment to moment she forgot what she was saying.

  I thought I would stand and leave, now, now, but I did not, for I could hear the wind in the forest around me.

  “Is it true?” I whispered at last. “Is it true that you can make a charm that would show me my true love?”

  “Oh yes, it is true,” she said with sad resignation. “True love. Mmm—the highest of magics.”

  “I will have it,” I said, sounding braver than I felt.

  “You will have it,” she said, nodding to herself.

  I waited some time, looking at her, but she did not look at me. She studied the fire as if waiting for a phoenix to rise out of the flames.

  “Well?” I said at last.

  She glanced at me, cleared her throat, and went back to studying the fire.

  “Soor Lily, I said I would have it.”

  She turned glittering eyes upon me, and I could have sworn they had become as hard as amber. “Yes. Yes, you would have it,” she said low, almost in a whisper. “But there is the small matter of the price.”

  Ah, the price. The price was why people feared Soor Lily, for it was not always money she asked for. “I am poor,” I said. “You know I am poor.”

  “Poor, poor,” she said sympathetically, but there was no sympathy in her face. She studied the fire again. At last she said, in a voice that was hypnotic in its quiet power, “But there is a price you can pay.”

  My skin prickled from my scalp to the soles of my feet. “Then name it,” I said.

  She slowly reached across the table and gripped my hand in hers. It was as strong as a man’s. “All the things I could ask of you, Keturah. Couldn’t I ask you to let me live forever? Mmm. I could ask to see my departed mother—oh, the questions I would have for her. What was that recipe against the toothache? She told me, of course she did, but I have forgotten. No, Keturah, my beauty, I want none of these things. But come.”

  She beckoned to me, and I followed her, wooden-legged, to the doorway of another room. There, on a massive bed, lay one of her sons, a boulder of a man. Fevered and distressed, he was not conscious that we were there.

  “He is sick,” I said.

  “So clever you are,” said Soor Lily with cloying sweetness. “Yes, he is very sick.”

  “Why don’t you cure him?”

  “Precisely,” she said. “Exactly. Just so. Why don’t I? Is that not what anyone would ask? Who would come to me for cures if they saw I could not cure one of my own sons? But my art, unlike yours, has no power over death.” Here she leaned forward very close to me and peered into my face.

  I leaned away from her. “How—how did you hear... ?”

  “Do I not know all things about the forest?” she whispered.

  “Then you know I have no power but have only made a bargain.”

  She shrugged slowly, but I knew she did not believe me.

  She shut the door, and silently we went back to the table before the fire. I was so angry and afraid that I could not speak. I thought to leave, but I could not leave empty-handed. I stared at the fire, and Soor Lily stared at me.

  At last she said, “You make me broody, you do, for a girl—a girl of my own. A man-child takes no interest in woman wisdom. Who will learn my recipes as I learned from my mother?”

  I glanced at the bulgy bags of roots and things that hung from her ceiling. I could think of no answer. Who would come here, day after day, into the deep, greeny gloom of the wood to learn her dark recipes?

  At last I said, half whispering, “Do you know him, too?”

  She nodded. “We all know Lord Death. Do I see him as you do? No. But it is closeness to him that imbues my stuffs with power. What is a love potion without the breath of him upon it? How can I make a healing draught without sensing from which direction he comes? One day you will understand, Keturah, that he infuses the very air we breathe with magic.”

  As she spoke, I thought I saw his face in the fire, his eyes hot as embers, losing all patience with me if I were to ask for the life of her baby giant.

  “I have no power over Lord Death,” I said weakly. “I see him, but he has no regard for my wishes.”

  “He will not live the night,” Soor Lily said, glancing toward the bedroom where her son lay.

  “Nor perhaps shall I,” I said. “But—but I will see what I can do.”

  She nodded. There were tears in her eyes.

  “So I will have my charm,” I said.

  She nodded again.
“For you,” she said, “my most powerful magic.”

  She stood up and stared into her kitchen, bracing herself on the back of the chair. She looked as if she were going to have to commit some foul deed against her will, so white was she, yet resolute.

  “First the distillate,” she said. She went to her cupboard and removed a small vial with only her thumb and forefinger. Her lip curled in distaste. Carefully she put three drops in a small bowl and stepped away from it. She said, “This will be a pure love, a pure and ...” She looked at me and stopped speaking.

  “It needn’t be fancy,” I said, glad now that she had begun. “One true love,” I said, “preferably one who will give me a little house of my own to clean, and a wee fine baby too.”

  “Yes, yes,” she said, “nothing fancy. It’s bad enough without making it fancy. Second, the infusion.”

  She took a small bottle from beneath a bag of cabbages. She poured the contents into the bowl with the other liquid and swirled it around and around, then gazed into the bowl as if she could see an unpleasant future at the bottom.

  “Ahh,” she said, almost sadly. “This will be a deep love, deep as ...” She glanced at me and fell silent.

  “Deep?” I said, almost smiling now. “Of course, deep— can you make a charm strong enough to find such a love?”

  “I am an artist,” she said firmly.

  She dug into an opened trunk and rummaged. She took out a half-filled jar.

  “Third, the decoction!” she said. Her head shook as if she regretted finding it. She struggled to her feet, grunting, and carefully poured a little in. A thread of smoke floated out of the bowl. “Oh,” she murmured. “Oh, lass, ‘tis a passionate love you will have.”

  “Aren’t you almost done?” I asked. My courage was beginning to fail me.

  “This will be the best love charm I have ever made,” she said.

  From her apron pocket she drew a small, glistening thing. She plopped it unceremoniously into the bowl.

  “What is that?” I asked in horror, though I suspected I knew the answer.

  “The charm,” she said, “so when you see your true love, you will know him.”

  “It—it is an eye,” I said.

  “Yes,” she said. “Put it in your apron pocket. Touch it and you will feel it looking. When it grows completely still, you will have found your true love. And let me assure you, Keturah, that there is one for you. I felt it powerfully.”

  I could not tell if it was gratitude or pity or the fumes of the potion on her fingers that made me love her at that moment. “Thank you, Soor Lily.”

  She folded a small cloth around the eyeball and tied it with a lace ribbon. “From my wedding veil,” she said, pointing to the lace. I reached for the charm, but she pulled it back. “Tonight—you must ask him tonight.”

  I nodded. “You can be sure I will see him tonight,” I said.

  She handed it to me at last, and I took it from her and left as quickly as I could, somewhat relieved but dreading the price.

  And now, having secured a way to find my true love, I determined to speak to John Temsland.

  IV

  What happens when I test the charm’s power;

  I ask Cook for a lemon; an unexpected visitor;

  John Temsland says, “We are doomed.”

  As I walked in the village I gripped the charm and looked deep into the eyes of every man I met upon the road, just in case.

  If any of them was my true love, I did not recognize him, nor did the eye. It flickered and shook in my hand like a trapped beetle. Most of the men would not look at me for long, fearful of one who had likely communed with fairies.

  I picked my way around muddy ruts in what passed for the road into Tide-by-Rood, and stopped at the outskirts to consider my village.

  Across the bay, the forest marched right to the banks, as if it would cross and wring our village away with its vast roots. Behind the village we kept the forest at a distance only by ax and saw. Nearest the water was the church with its blackened bell, then the half-fallen smithy and the infested mill, and then the cottages going up the hill, planted like wilting flowers in a tiered garden. At the top, where the rise leveled off and the forest began, was the manor, Lord Temsland’s great house. Once it had been grand, but now the roof needed repairing and the whole of it looked neglected. West of the manor was the apple orchard, and just beyond that, also at the edge of the forest, stood our worn little cottage, with nothing but the garden between us and the deep, wild wood.

  Still, the sun shone with familiar cheer.

  I could not imagine the plague on this sunny day. Hadn’t I heard how whole villages perished in a fortnight? How little ones wept in their own filth, wondering why their parents did not come to comfort or feed, not understanding that they were dead? How neighbors boarded up the homes of the stricken while those inside died of the plague or, worse, of starvation? How friend ran away from friend, lover from lover, mother from child?

  Surely not, I thought, shaking my head in disbelief and horror. Surely not Tide-by-Rood! And if so, what words could I use to persuade John Temsland to do something? I continued on my way, letting my scarf fall back a little and looking boldly about as I walked. I gazed at every man and squeezed the charm, but still the charm searched and searched.

  I headed toward the manor, but it seemed I was not the only one. The entire village, almost, was gathering at the manor. Gretta and Beatrice caught up with me and linked arms.

  “Are you coming to cheer on the men, Keturah?” Beatrice asked, flushed and panting for breath.

  “No, I am going to see John Temsland. I must speak with him.”

  “John Temsland? But he will not be seeing anyone,” Gretta said.

  “Today is the hunt—the hunt of the hart who lured you into the forest,” Beatrice said.

  “But I would not have him hunted!” I exclaimed, remembering his royal beauty.

  “You could not stop them,” Gretta said.

  “But I must try.” Now my errand was doubled—not only must I tell John Temsland what Lord Death had revealed to me, but I must beg him, or his father, to call offthe hunt. As I looked for the young lord, I also clutched the charm and plunged among the gathered men, seizing the opportunity to see which of them was my true love. The eye darted, flickering back and forth in my hand until I myself was jittery and the flesh of my arm crawled. The eye settled on no one.

  I looked at old and young, fair and plain, tall and small. I gazed at fat and thin, hairy and bald, rich and poor. Almost all the men of the village were there, though only those rich enough to own a horse would venture into the wood for the hunt. The rest cheered them on, made bets as to whose arrow would bring the stag down, and told my stories of the stag and how he had eluded hunters in the past. Seeing them so animated made me feel the importance of my original errand more acutely.

  Suddenly I saw Lord Temsland, though not his son, and I pushed through the crowd toward him. “My lord!” I called. “Please, my lord!”

  But before I could reach him, Lady Temsland came on a horse and spoke urgently to him.

  “A messenger!” I heard Lord Temsland exclaim. “But we’ve never had a messenger from the king, nor any visitor at all.”

  “Husband,” she said, “the hunt must wait. The king has sent his most trusted servant, Duke Morland, and I have persuaded him to take his midday meal with us. Come.” Without waiting, she spun her horse around, and Lord Temsland followed her.

  “Set traps for the hart!” Lord Temsland called as he rode away. Some men entered the wood to perform the task, but I sighed with relief as most of the men began to stream away toward the village, distracted from the hunt by a desire to see a messenger from the king. Somehow, in the press of people, I had missed John.

  I turned back to the wood, thinking that the young lord might yet be there, but instead Ben Marshall stood before me, tall and comely. “Keturah,” he said, “you are still pale. You have not fully recovered.”

&nbs
p; “I slept well,” I replied, and then realized the eye had stopped. No, not stopped, but slowed. It was rolling up and down in my hand as if it were taking Ben in, considering him from the top of his head down to his sod-stained boots.

  I felt myself blushing, as if it were I myself who was looking him up and down.

  “My, it is warm,” I said, though it was not. Stop, I told the eye in my mind. Stop. But it did not stop. It continued to slide in my hand, rolling up and down and side to side, as if it were trying to see around him, as if my true love might be standing behind Ben. It was all I could do not to squeeze the eye into stillness.

  “Are you planning what you will make for the cooking contest at the fair, Keturah?” he asked. He said it flirtatiously, as if those were courting words.

  “Oh, yes. Of course,” I said, and blushed again for my lie. Slow was good, I thought, thinking of the eye. Or at least hopeful. The eye needed only time, though time was, alas, in short supply.

  “Come to the manor with me, and let us see the messenger from the king,” Ben said.

  We walked, and he talked of everyday things, and speculated upon the marvel of a visit from the king’s messenger. I wondered at how mundane his concerns would seem to him if only he knew what I knew.

  Through it all, the eye kept rolling. Perhaps it was not working properly, and would not until Soor Lily’s price was paid. Or would it not stop for Ben because one had to be Best Cook to marry him? I scarcely heard a word Ben said after that, so busy was I with thoughts of finding a foolproof way to win Best Cook. If only I had more time!

  I looked up at the sky to see how much more day I had.

  How had the sun, which moved so slowly when I was doing chores or waiting for the common fire, become a swooping bird of prey? I shadowed my eyes with my hand to look at it, my enemy, and in that moment I knew how to secure the prize of Best Cook for myself.

  Ben was saying something about Farmer Dan and holy water, but I interrupted him.

  “I must go!” I said. “Goodbye!” And I gathered my skirts to run.