Keturah and Lord Death by Martine Leavitt Page A

to my heart, he said, “Yes, Keturah, will you stay?”
    “I will stay,” I said to Goody. I sat in the willow rocker in the farthest corner of the cottage. I resolved that here I would sit, and I would not remove myself until the babe was born or the woman gone.
    Goody’s face crumpled into glad tears. “God bless you, Keturah,” she said. Then the pains overtook her again.
    Lord Death approached me, and as he did I could feel the heat of the fire less. I stopped rocking. His gleaming black boots reflected the dying coals of the fire.
    “You are yet more beautiful by firelight,” he said.
    “It is only that I am not half-dead this time. Death is uglifying,” I said pointedly.
    “You were supposed to come,” he said icily. “Did you not fear to incur my anger?”
    “Why should I fear you now?” I said to him in a low voice, and yet fear filled my throat and my words quavered. The others, who had crowded around Goody’s bed, could not hear me over the woman’s moans. “I am not lost in your wood today.”
    “Yet now you see that you are safe nowhere,” he said.
    I said nothing.
    After a time he said, “I did not know until now that you have always been able to see me, since you were a little child.”
    It angered me that he knew, and then I felt a certain relief, the kind that comes when a secret has been shared.
    “Were you afraid, Keturah? When you were so young?”
    “I thought you were a wealthy relative who never spoke, a high-born uncle, at first. Then came a day when I knew that to see you would mean someone would soon weep.”
    Goody Thompson thrashed in her bed and cried out. Grandmother commanded her in a sure and calming voice, and only I could detect the note of fear in it. Goody was drenched in sweat. Her lips were stretched white over her teeth. Her sister and her mother prayed aloud, and the tears rolled down Master Thompson’s cheeks.
    “How can you let her die?” I whispered.
    He ran his hand through his hair. “Keturah, I would have you know I take no pleasure in this. At least not this part of it.”
    Goody cried out again, and her boy in his father’s arms began to sob. I was cold in spite of my wrap, but my heart was colder. “Then stop it,” I said.
    I realized that my words had fallen into a sudden quiet.
    I saw that Goody’s eyes were upon me in fear and crushed hope. “Death is here for me,” she gasped. “You are speaking to him!” The pains overtook her again, and her little son cried out, “Mama!”
    I pressed my hands together, but I could not keep them from shaking. “Can you hear her boy’s pitiful cry? Can’t you see she is needed?”
    He looked at me sorrowfully. “She knows your secret certainly now. If she lives, they will tell it. It will not go well for you in the village.”

    The little boy’s wails were more than I could bear. I stood. “For pity’s sake, take the child to his aunt,” I cried.
    “Don’t leave, Keturah!” Goody screamed.
    “I won’t,” I said. “I won’t!”
    Goody’s husband left as his son’s wail freshened. He glanced pleadingly at me before the door closed on him. Goody screamed again. This time the fight had gone out of her pain, and there was nothing but the raw cries of one who works toward death.
    “Please,” I begged.
    “It is better,” he said.
    “How could this be better?”
    He was very still. Then he put his hand under my chin and lifted my face to his. I could not tell if the heat I felt was in my own face or from the burning cold in his fingers. At last he said, “Keturah, for your compassion, you shall have Goody’s life. But you must come to me this night.”
    Over Goody’s screams I could scarcely make out his words. “Her life,” I said, “and—and the life of Soor Lily’s baby son—and I will come.”
    He frowned and withdrew his hand. “He is no baby but a giant of a man. And he is destined for death. It is too late for him.”
    “Nevertheless,” I said. I might have screamed it—I