“Keturah—no!” Beatrice said.
After hesitating a moment, Choirmaster said, “I fear only a little what you could say, for I am happy today—not only for the tale I heard of you, Keturah, but in a personal matter as well. Singers, you are dismissed. But rest your voices!” They scattered like a flock of gulls, and soon we three were alone in the church.
“Choirmaster,” I began, “it is not her fault—it was my idea—but we have a confession to make.”
Beatrice held up her hand to stop me. “No, Keturah, you shall not take the blame for this. Haven’t I longed every day of my remembered life to sing in his choir?” She turned to Choirmaster. “Sir,” she said, “I am your Bill. I have been coming in disguise.”
“Surely not!” he said with great surprise.
“But it is true,” she replied.
“I cannot believe it!” he said.
And so Beatrice opened her mouth, and from it came music—oh, music that could break the heart of a dead man. When she stopped, Choirmaster said nothing for a long moment.
“Did you think I didn’t know?” he said at last. “Would
I not recognize the voice I have loved since the first time I heard you sing in the congregation?”
Beatrice opened her mouth as if she would sing again, but no sound came out. Choirmaster smiled so broadly he was almost handsome. Then he became somber again. “But you must say not a word, or my choir—my choir would be nothing without you.”
He took her hand and slowly, gently, folded it in his own as if it were a small bird.
“I’ve had the strangest dream, Beatrice,” he said.
“Tell it to me, Choirmaster,” Beatrice said in a softer voice. Neither of them seemed to remember that I was there.
“First I must explain something. I thought, after my mother died, that I would abandon my music. But I did not. No, I loved it all the more, and I did not abandon it. Because of him—Death. Because I saw him come for her, and I saw that, after all, she was just a girl, weak and mortal. When I glimpsed—only glimpsed, mind you—his black cape, I saw that all her life she’d sought strength against the day when he must come, and that only then did she realize that there is no strength on that day. Submission is all there is. So I played... to submit my heart every day so that it would not be the struggle it was for her.” He sighed. “Now I will tell you the dream.”
He paused for a moment and then began, “The one who came for her—he appeared to me last night. A tall man, dressed in black, at my bedside, great and terrible. Choirmaster, he said, I am Lord Death. Your mother would speak with you.”
Beatrice put her other hand to her mouth.
“When he called her name, her spirit came scurrying, as if she had been called away from some pressing task. In her hand was her little gold whip.
“I hid my head beneath my quilt, but the tall man pulled the quilt away from me. Choirmaster, he said, it is time to be a man.
“I looked, and there was my mother standing at my bedside, holding the whip in her two hands as if she were offering it to me. I have come to ask your forgiveness, she said. She placed the whip on the bed beside me, and as she did she sighed. My torments are over, she said. Remember, son, that as much as music is a task of heaven, so is love. Be happy. She hurried away then, and I woke up.”
Beatrice said tenderly, “It was only a dream, Choirmaster.”
“Perhaps,” he said. Then he drew a little golden whip from his robe. “I buried this with her,” he said, “but it was on my bed when I awoke.”
After a moment he said, “Beatrice, come with me into the chapel. I would speak to you alone.”
I left them and returned home, smiling to myself.
I picked up the lemons that were still on the table, almost forgotten. I cut one and tasted it. It was so sour it brought tears to my eyes.
“Grandmother,” I said, “do you suppose that with a bitter fruit such as this I might make a pie?”
“Of course,” she said, “if you sweeten it with sugar. Here, use it all, my Keturah, for I feel in my bones that after today we shall never have to worry about sugar again.”
And so I cooked, while Grandmother went to see who would be showing what at the fair and to receive congratulations for having such a clever granddaughter.
I cooked and tasted and cooked more and tasted more, and at last I had a filling that was not too sweet and not too tart. That was for the sun. For the topping, I whipped egg whites and sugar until they fluffed like summer-day clouds, and then I baked.
Finally I had a pie that I knew would make every man in the village fond of me, and make Ben Marshall love me enough to propose.
While I cooked with a fury, a knock came at the door. It was Ben himself.
I smiled at him hopefully.
“Keturah,” he said, “the fair is tomorrow.”
“I am making a special pie, Ben,” I said. “It is a lemon pie.
“May I?” He held out his hand for the spoon, which was coated in the glistening filling.
He tasted. His eyes grew larger. He licked the spoon again.
“Keturah, it is delicious!”
He licked the spoon until he had cleaned every drop of filling off it. “It is unlike anything I have tasted before. It is wonderful! Surely you will win Best Cook at the fair.”
With that, he fell upon one knee. “Keturah, will you marry me?”
“Why, Ben, I—I don’t yet have the ribbon.”
“But you will. And if not, Father need only taste your pie to know that you should have won. Say you will marry me, Keturah.”
My heart fluttered once, like a dying butterfly, and then was still. Utterly still and silent. “One moment,” I said. I put my hand in my apron pocket and gripped the charm tightly. Yes, this was the man Soor Lily referred to when she said I was already in love. Surely he was.
No. The eye in the charm looked. Slowly it rolled in my hand, like a sad shaking of the head.
My heart was as mute as a stone within my bosom.
“No!” I said aloud to my heart.
Ben looked confused.
“I—I mean, no, I should win fairly, Ben,” I stammered. “What if the crust is tough?”
He stood up. “Do not concern yourself, Keturah.” And then he tried to kiss me.
I pushed him away. “Sir,” I said, “I beg you.”
Again he looked confused. “Very well. Of course I respect your maidenly modesty. We shall wait until your pie has won, fair and square, and I shall propose to you on the spot.”
He grabbed my hand, kissed it, and left. I stood still, spoon in hand, and watched him walk away. I squeezed the charm as if I would cease its rolling. I did not bother to close the door.
“Stupid girl,” I said to myself at last. I began scrubbing the kitchen, berating myself all the while. Did not every girl in Tide-by-Rood dream of this? But Ben was not my true love, and I needed no charm to tell me so.
I scrubbed so hard I almost knocked over the pie, and then in frustration I ran from the house. I ran and ran, searching, searching the eyes of every man I saw. Who was he, this man I wanted to love? It was not only to free myself from Death s bond that I searched. What good was my life if my heart would not love?
Soon I had followed all the village paths and looked at every man who smiled at me, and came at last to Hermit Gregor’s. His cottage had been cleaned and whitewashed by the women of the village, but already he was beginning to make new piles: a pile of bones, a pile of hair and threads and sheep wool, a pile of rocks, and a pile of refuse from around the village. I could see his dirty, hairy face just inside the window.
“Come out, Hermit Gregor,” I called sweetly.