I had been afraid of Soor Lily all my life, and I was not alone. Her seven enormous sons protected her from those who would drive her away. Still, many of her worst critics in their time of need had gone to her for medicines and potions, and for a price Soor Lily had helped them. Now my fears had been adjusted, too, and I would go to her.
No sooner had I done that than I would go to John Temsland and seek his help against the plague, though by what means I knew not.
The rain stopped and the sun burned away the moisture in the mud and mire. A white haze settled knee deep over the village. Two children ran laughing through it, and the cows dipped their heads in it to graze.
I lay back on my pillow to see the stone hearth, the trestle table, the benches painted with flowers and birds, the thatch ceiling above, hard as oak. In the corner was Grandmother’s chest, which stored my old cornstalk doll and linens for my someday wedding. Everything was the same, yet everything was different. Last Sabbath, the cottage in which I had been reared seemed tiresomely small and drafty. Today, it seemed the dearest cottage in Angleland. Bunches of herbs hung from the ceiling: wormwood, feverfew, lungwort, and marjoram. Last Sabbath I barely noticed them; today they were the sweetest scents in God’s kingdom. Strange, thought I, that only yesterday I had been about to die, and here I was today for the first time alive.
I thought of my friends Gretta and Beatrice, and remembered wistfully how, as children, we would whisper together as we imagined our true loves. Would mine be someone from the town of Marshall? Or maybe someone who had come a great distance to live in Tide-by-Rood? Even as a young girl, Gretta would say scornfully that no one of any worth would come to our ragged little village. I had agreed heartily, but Beatrice dreamed of a traveling musician who would come to take her away.
Perhaps our true loves would be found among those we knew already—but there we would pause and shake our heads. Gretta would list the qualities she would insist upon in a husband, and Beatrice and I would roll our eyes. “There is no man that perfect, except my father,” said Beatrice. “And he is taken.”
“And you, Keturah—what of you?” Gretta would ask.
“I? I will marry my own true love, and I care not who he is, how old or young, how poor, how fat or thin,” I would reply.
“Ah, Keturah, you are as beautiful as the women who populate your tales,” Beatrice would say. “You shall perhaps marry a knight or a duke.”
“Only if he is good enough for her,” Gretta would say.
“I would marry Hermit Gregor if he was my true love,” I would answer stoutly, and we would dissolve into giggles.
Though I was very young, I meant what I said, and it was as true today as it had been then.
Yes, we had all then dreamed of true love. Repenting of traveling musicians—perhaps because none came to Tide-by-Rood—Beatrice had determined to marry a man of God. She would sing in heaven’s choir, she vowed, and she embroidered crosses on all her underthings. Gretta, finding fault with the most faultless of men, declared there was no man fit to be her husband. Still, she had always admired Tailor, and in her effort to emulate him she had obtained a certain fame in Tide-by-Rood. In a day she could stitch a cap, in two days a dress. Everyone said a stitch sewn by Gretta did not loosen, and a gown stitched by her felt like heaven’s robes. Gretta was not beautiful, but she was perfect in her plainness as she was perfect in everything. Her teeth were perfectly whole and white, her hair curled perfectly around her face, and she had a perfectly trim figure. God had probably feared to make her any other way.
Grandmother awoke, but I stayed still, in my bed, pondering my faceless true love. She added kindling to the banked embers and knelt to pray.
“God, I thank thee for the trial of the lass, and pray for strength to live to see her wed. And if it be not greedy to ask, I pray she be happily wed. Thy will. Further, watch over the old parson, and tell him that Dan Fieldbottom is stealing the holy water to sprinkle his cows. Thy will. And wilt thou thicken the frumenty, that I may lay more by for the winter. Thy will. Amen.” I added my own silent amen, and my own prayer for my village, my friends, and my dear grandmother.
If my first breaths were of mourning, it was tempered by the blessing of being weaned on love. Grandfather and Grandmother Reeve raised me with all the tenderness of true parents and all the patience of grandparents. It was not just their kindness to me that I remarked, even at a young age—for I compared my own upbringing with that of others—but also their love for each other.
When Grandfather died, Lord Temsland, who was known for his frugality, gave Grandmother a small pension for the remainder of her days. I would be left alone, without protection, after she died. She wished to see me wed so she could die in peace, she said, knowing that then I would not have to hire myself out a spinster for my share of flour and pork.
We were not starving on Lord Temsland’s pension, but neither was there any danger of our ever being fat. Grandfather had died without leaving a dowry for me, but Grandmother expressed great hopes that my beauty might dazzle a man enough to take me as I was.
I had no desire to marry a man who wanted me only for my beauty, if it was true I had it, and so I had not cooperated with my grandmother’s aspirations. I covered my hair with a brown scarf, spent little attention on my dress, and refused to learn the subtle feminine arts. My stubbornness served me well. So far no one had declared any love for me. Today, I decided, I would not wear a scarf.
The wheat berries that had been soaking in the pot all night began to simmer over the small fire. Grandmother gave it a quick stir, and came to rouse me. When she bent over my bed to prod me, I clasped her round the neck, drew her to me, and kissed her hard and full upon the cheek.
She smiled at me. “Up, then, Keturah,” she said tenderly.
“Yes, Grandmother.” I leapt from my bed.
Grandmother milked and I made biscuits, though I was slow with fatigue, and so there was hot bread and butter with our porridge, and warm milk and stewed plums also.
When we had finished, Grandmother reached out and stroked my hair. “Keturah, you must have no more adventures. It is unseemly for a girl of marriageable age. Eat—come, you must have more! Surely you have a high appetite after starving for three days.”
But my appetite was satisfied, and I laid down my spoon.
“Grandmother,” I asked after a time, “who commands Death? Is anyone greater than he?”
She looked at me, puzzled, and then shook her head. “What thoughts you get, child!”
“Tell me, Grandmother. If we do not speak of him, how will I know how to greet him, or what manner of address I should give him, and what my conversation should be when he comes to me?”
She thought a moment, perhaps thinking of her daughter, her son-in-law, and her husband. “One is greater than death,” Grandmother said, “and that is life. For life will be, and work as he may, death must bow in the end to life. When death came for my daughter, life gave me you to comfort my heart. But hear me, child. People don’t like to hear death’ s name. If you are in polite company, he is not spoken of.”
“But he has touched every one of us, Grandmother,” I said. “Who does not have a loved one that he has not robbed away? We should speak of him. He is to everyone familiar.”
“Nevertheless.”
I knew that word meant that she would speak no more about it. But I was not ready to end our talk. “Grandmother,” I said shyly, “what is love?”
She looked steadily at me, as if trying to determine whether I was being impertinent. My question, however, was sincere, for though I knew what marriage was and how some loves looked and how babies came, still I did not know how love was supposed to feel.