Текст книги "Keturah and Lord Death"

Автор книги: Martine Leavitt

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 11 страниц)

XIV

A conclusion of sorts.

I entered the cottage as the last rays of sunshine fell on swirling dust motes. I straightened Grandmother’s bed, put away the bowls that had been left on the table, and went to Grandmother’s chest and unwrapped my cornstalk doll. Gently I cradled her in my arms, remembering now that she had never had a name. After a time I put her carefully away, then walked through the garden to the forest.

How thin the air felt at the forest’s edge, how ghostly the trees that guarded their realm. I looked around me. The whole world seemed as delicate as a dandelion seed, and as fleeting. Though the sun had not set, the moon had risen, and the village had never looked so beautiful. How sad to know that the figment village of my imagination would not vanish when I ended, to understand that it was not I who had invented the moon the first time I realized how lovely it was. To admit that it was not my breath that made the winds blow. It was not only my own life I mourned. Wouldn’t all life end with mine? Reason told me it was not so, but my heart, my heart knew that when I closed my eyes I invented the night sky and the stars too. Wasn’t the whole dome of the sky the same shape as the inside of my skull? Didn’t I create the sun and the day when I raised my eyelids every morning?

No. As if I had suddenly grown up, my heart was schooled. My friends, my village, and Angleland would all go on. They had already left me behind.

I turned away from the village and stepped into the forest.

In a little while I could no longer hear the familiar sounds of the village—the laughter of children, the squawks of geese, the lowing of cattle. All I could hear was the shushing of the green sea of leaves, silencing me.

I thought I understood the forest from the days when I was lost in it. Oh, proud trees, so tall and hard, I thought. You would not bend to make me feel less small. You would stand still and watch me die.

The forest was rampant, pathless, and full of shadows. The forest was death, and yet as I walked I began to see the secret life beneath every leaf. I heard eyes blinking, heard small hearts beating. I put one hand upon a tree. Even in the cool shadows, it was warm. I stood still, and as I stood I saw birds flit from branch to branch, squirrels run from their holes, and a rabbit lope around a tree. A butterfly lit on a bush, and a graceful doe stepped briefly into my vision in the deep of the forest. The wood leapt and swayed.

Then I saw the hart standing still as a tree trunk nearby in the shadows. He looked at me. Silently he turned, and just as silently I followed.

I followed the hart until I thought I had lost him. Then I found him, then lost him again. Soon I knew I was lost in the wood, and I sat against a tree. I daydreamed that my whole life until then was a story I had made up and now had forgotten, all but the end. It was a lovely gown I had tried on for a time, a gown whose color I could not now recall. It was a delicious meal that had not filled me.

The sound of a horse brought me to my feet. When I saw the black stallion approaching, I put my hand in my apron pocket. The eye was still as death, but I did not need the charm to understand the magic that was in my own heart.

Lord Death came close to me. I could feel no heat from him, hear no breath in his lungs. He was utterly still beside me, but there was a strange comfort in that stillness. It was as if he had eternity to stand beside me, and forever to listen. There was no time or motion to disturb us.

“And so there was no love for you?” he asked gently.

“Tell me what it is like to die,” I answered.

He dismounted from his horse, looking at me strangely the whole while. “You experience something similar every day,” he said softly. “It is as familiar to you as bread and butter.”

“Yes,” I said. “It is like every night when I fall asleep.”

“No. It is like every morning when you wake up.” He searched my face, touched it gently with fingers so cold they burned along my jaw, my temple, my lips, burned me to the very core. “But to know that is never enough. Keturah, I have abdicated my claim upon your soul. Come, I must take you home. Do you not know you have defeated me? That you have tricked my heart into loving you? Do what you will, marry whom you will, go where you will. You shall live to be a great age, and you shall not see me again until life has pressed its hand so heavily upon you that you wish to see it lift.” He stepped away from me and offered me his hand to lift me to the saddle.

I realized that I held my life in my own arms, then. I cradled it, felt its warm weight and the breath of it. But I had come too far. I saw that the forest was more beautiful than the village even with its bright paint, that the forest’s silence rang more lovely than Beatrice’s singing.

I felt my life grow heavier in my arms until I could not hold it anymore.

I stood very tall. “Sir, here is my wish: that you take me to wife.”

The breeze stilled, the birds stopped their song, and the trees seemed to bend and listen.

“You have determined you would marry for love,” he said.

“I love you,” I replied.

The trees breathed around us, sighing and singing and whispering. “Can I believe what you say?” Lord Death asked.

“I will tell you the end of the story,” I said. “The very end, the truest end there ever was. Once there was a girl—”

“And such a girl,” he murmured.

“—who, long before she was lost in the wood, loved Lord Death. Last year it snowed until June. She did not care, for love of him.

“When the hungry deer and their cold babies came wandering into the town that blackthorn winter, she did not begrudge them her tulips, which they ate stem, stalk, and bud. She did not begrudge them all the yellow of her stolen spring. The hope of yellow must be nothing to the taste of it, she thought.

“In fall, she knew it was Death who sweetened the apples. He made her see the sun in a blue sky and hear the trees in a spring wind. He made her see how much she loved her friends, for all their trouble, and how much her grandmother loved her, and oh, he made her love the breath in her lungs.

“She knew she had never been truly alive until she met him, and never so happy and content with her lot until she was touched by the sorrow of him.”

He lifted his hand as if he would take mine, and then he did not. “Keturah ...” He dropped his arm.

“You, my lord, are the ending of all true stories.”

I moved to touch him.

“I will not let you go with him,” said a voice behind me.

“John!” I cried.

He burst from the bushes, vibrant life shaking the very air around him. His face was pale, his jaw set.

“I thought it was a fairy prince after all you were running away to, Keturah. I never thought—but it does not matter.” John faced Lord Death. “Let her stay, sir. If you love her, you will let her stay, for I will make her a manored lady.”

“John.” I held up my hand. “John, stay back.”

“In my realm, John Temsland, she would have the powers of a queen,” Lord Death said.

John took a step toward him. His hands fisted up, then opened, then fisted again, as if they did not know how to fight such a foe. “I heard that you have a pirate heart, but I did not know until now how black it is,” he said, his voice low and shaking.

“I love her,” Lord Death said, and his endless eyes turned to me.

“If you love her, why would you take her to your dark dwelling? To your hell?”

Lord Death looked at John now, and there was pity in his eyes. “There is no hell, John Temsland. Each man, when he dies, sees the landscape of his own soul.”

“I am not afraid of hell or of you!” John cried, taking another step closer.

And truly, Lord Death, in that moment, seemed to be nothing to fear, a dark and beautiful man only. The lightning went out of his eyes, and one shoulder shrugged. “Of course you are afraid of me,” he said. “I can take the two things you value most—your life and your love.”

John took another stride toward him, and I could hear the rage in that one step. He drew his hunting knife from its sheath. The wind lifted dust from the forest floor, filling my eyes with tears.

Lord Death raised one eyebrow. He drew his cloak aside a little, and the gloam multiplied out its folds. Night shied and whinnied.

“John,” I said, my voice shaking, “will you kill Death?”

“No,” John said to me, though his eyes remained upon Lord Death, “but if he takes you, I will follow.” He turned his hunting knife backward, to point at his own heart.

I put my hand out to steady him, just as he had steadied the hart’s mate that day in the woods that seemed so long ago. I felt my hand tremble, and with all the effort of my will I stilled it. “Don’t you see, John, I must go with him.”

The knife did not waver.

“John, I will try to tell you—” I kept my voice as even as I could, to calm him. “Doesn’t Lord Death own my every breath? Doesn’t thinking of him make me glad of a single day? John, I—I love him.”

“How can you love Death?”

How could I explain that many times in my life Lord Death had walked with me, that he was inevitably a part of my life, my intimate, bargain or no, and that he had always been and must always be my companion, my soul-and-heart love. He had steadied me before—how many times? How many times had I thought I had escaped him, when truly it was that he had not yet claimed me? How often had I felt the power in his arms, power enough to change the course of a river, to bring down a mountain, to spin or stop the world?

At last I said, “His voice is cold at first, John. It seems unfeeling. But if you listen without fear, you find that when he speaks, the most ordinary words become poetry. When he stands close to you, your life becomes a song, a praise. When he touches you, your smallest talents become gold; the most ordinary loves break your heart with their beauty.”

John turned his eyes away from Lord Death then, and looked at me as if he had never known me. He blinked his eyes as if he were awakening from a bad dream. The knife point touched his heart.

“Stop him!” I commanded Lord Death.

“I cannot stop him. If he wants to follow you, he will. But—”

And then, though we did not hear him, we saw the hart step from the trees and into our small clearing.

He was so close we could see ourselves reflected in his great round eye. The muscles in his chest quivered to be so close to humans. John looked at him, his mouth agape. None of us moved for fear that he would bolt. It seemed that he looked at John as much as John looked at him.

“He makes you want to live,” Lord Death said quietly to John.

John looked hatefully at Lord Death for the briefest of moments, and then at the knife he held in his hand.

Surely all the angels of heaven smiled when John’s eye was drawn again to the hart. The hart took a step closer to him, and then slowly lowered his stately head to the ground as if he were bowing. When his head was completely lowered, he began to nibble at mushrooms.

John reached to touch the stag’s antlers. His face forgot Lord Death, forgot me as well, and soon his right hand forgot to hold the knife and dropped it to the forest floor. Then Lord Death touched him, and John fell unconscious into his arms. Together we laid John comfortably on the ground. Lord Death nodded to the hart, who turned and stepped silently into the trees.

“He sleeps only,” Lord Death said to me. “His father will find him soon, for the hart will lead him here. They will find you, too, and take you home.”

“They will find my body,” I said, “for I will go with you.”

“You have no dower,” he said. “Live, Keturah. Go home.”

“But I do have a dower,” I said plainly. “This is my dower, Lord Death: the crown of flowers I will never wear at my wedding.” I could not stop the tears that filled my eyes.

He knelt on one knee before me.

“The little house I would have had of my own, to furnish and clean. That, too, is part of my dower.”

“I will give you the world for your footstool,” he said.

“And most precious of all, I give you the baby I will never hold in my arms.”

Then he folded me in his arms and wept with me. At last I laid down my sadness, laid it on the forest floor, never to have it again. Together we mounted his tall black horse and rode into the endless forest.

CODA

Being a collection of endings, every one happy.

Was it true, Naomi? Was it the end that must be?

But I am sure there are other endings that you would like to know.

Beatrice, for example. Beatrice sang in Choirmaster’s choir, and in his heart, for many a long year. And though her voice was that of an angel, it was said by many that it was love of her husband that gave her wings. She bore many children, all of whom had her small nose and who became musicians in their own right. She died before her husband, who promptly went back to making the saddest of music and joined her in death not a long time later.

Gretta and Tailor moved to be near the king’s court, where they bought a big house with a great door that Tailor painted blue. Gretta quickly forgot which were her children and which were Tailor’s. Living to an extraordinary age, she mourned them all equally as she buried her husband and, one by one, her children. In this suffering she found the best sort of perfection—the kind that never demands it of others.

Ben married Padmoh after all, and while it cannot be said that they were happy together, it can be said that they both lived comfortably and fatly, and died just the way they wanted—of food. Every one of their four sons broke with Marshall tradition and married for love.

As for young John Temsland, he grew to be a great and beloved lord, and the king held him up to others as an example. John married the king’s niece and loved her sweetly, and it is said he denied her nothing save her ongoing wish to hunt in the Temsland forest. That he was so adamant about this was a source of curiosity to her all their days, as was his wont to dream of a night and call out the name Keturah. But there were no other puzzles to him, and they were happy, as were their people.

As for Grandmother, when the fair was over, and when she came to know what I had done, she went into the garden and picked a large ripe strawberry, and then walked into the forest a long way.

“Oliver Howard Reeve,” she called, standing there in the cool of the forest. “Oliver Howard Reeve!” she demanded again.

And soon, because I asked, Lord Death allowed her husband to come to her.

“Sybil,” he said gently from the bending willows.

“You have all left me behind,” Grandmother said, with the slightest hint of a sob in her voice.

“Ah,” he said, “but someone has to be last.”

And so they talked together of all the big and small things of life, and soon Grandmother’s complaint became a thing of laughter, and she gave him the bright red strawberry and he gave her a lily-of-the-valley, and he took her hand and brought her through the woods to the meadows and the mountains. And oh, how we rejoiced over mountains together.

As for the hart—he lives to this day, as does the story of Keturah and Lord Death as it is told around the common fires of the great city of Tide-by-Rood.

THE END

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Some books come quietly—they are intimately the writer’s own, and even the editor need only touch it lightly before it is ready to be shared with readers.

Some, like this one, come with much help from others, and thanks are necessary. I wrote the first few pages of this book in a desperate attempt to fulfill a page quota while in my MFA program. My advisor at the time, Brock Cole, said, “There’s a book in there. You should write it.” When a writer of Mr. Cole’s stature says you should do something, you are wise to comply. I’m glad I did.

I wish to thank M. T. Anderson and Jane Resh Thomas, who nursed along subsequent pages and encouraged me to see it through to the end.

I am very grateful to my typist and dear friend Valerie Battrum, without whom this book would still be sitting on my desk, a stack of hand-scribbled pages. She is always among my first and most valued readers. I am indebted also to Stephen Roxburgh, Katya Rice, and my daughter Sarah for their editorial expertise.

Thanks go to the Canada Council for the Arts and the Alberta Foundation for the Arts for their timely financial assistance.

Finally, I express my love to my youngest sister, Lorraine, who died many years ago of cystic fibrosis at the age of