planting and harvest instead of joining our feasts. When the other boys played, John learned to read and do sums. While the other boys fished, John learned archery and hunting. He must always have been lonely, it occurred to me now, and I could well imagine him listening to our stories but never coming into the circle.
“You should have come and warmed yourself. We would have made you welcome,” I said.
He bent his head thoughtfully. “Keturah, you see for yourself how difficult it can be to be accepted into a circle of people who consider you to be different.”
“Yes,” I said.
He waited silently while I tried to gather my thoughts. I would be telling a story more far-fetched than any I had told before, and yet it would be true.
“I followed the hart into the wood that day I was lost,” I began. “How many tales had I spun of the hart, and here he was before my eyes, as if my words had summoned him. Like the truth in a story, he eluded me until he nearly destroyed me, and then when there was no going back, he left me in the dark of the wood.
“The fairies that I never saw nor heard must have laughed me to scorn. I wandered and wandered, and the bugs bit and the underbrush tripped my feet and the night winds froze me. Then Death himself came to collect me.
“I used the only means I could think of to postpone the inevitable—I told him a story. A love story. And I agreed to tell him the rest of the story the next night, if only he would let me live another day.
“And so he did. I told him that the love story was true, that it was my story.”
I stopped. John hunkered down beside my chair. His eyes were on the same level as mine, and they mirrored the images in my mind. I thought I had never seen such a beautiful young man. My hand crept to my apron pocket, and then stopped. It was absurd—I was a commoner, and he a lord’s son. I forced my thoughts back to my errand.
“While we were talking, he offered to let another die in my place. He said it would scarcely matter whom I chose. Many will die of the plague, he said, and when I pleaded with him to tell me how to stop it, he said, ‘It is not in your power—your manored lord has allowed his lands to fall to dire ruin.’
“So you see, sir, John, why I spoke up after the king’s messenger left. I saw the king’s visit as an opportunity to waylay the plague. We must have the road, and the rats in the mill must go. And there must be no traffic with Great Town.”
After a long moment, John nodded. I could see that his horror at the threat of plague was equal to my own.
“You must speak to the villagers, tell them about the coming plague, Keturah,” John said after some thought. “Perhaps then they will resume work on the road.”
“Do you think they will believe me?”
“Oh, they will believe you,” he said with conviction. “Haven’t they always believed your fairy tales? Didn’t all your stories of the great hart produce a real hart, Keturah? They will believe you.”
I stood up. “Then I must try.”
VIII
Soor Lily and I concur; Ben brings a squash;
the arrival of Tobias with lemons that disappoint;
and I cook pies.
Henry quickly spread the word that John Temsland would address his people in the village square, and just as quickly the people began to gather.
The sun was hot, and no breeze blew in from the bay, and soon people were grumbling and miserable. How had half the day gone by, I wondered. I willed time to slow. John led me to the square and climbed to the top of a pile of cobblestones.
“My people,” he said, his arms toward them. “I stand on these stones that should by now be laid over the square. But no one came to the work today. Would you not have the king come and see that our village is everything my father said it was?”
“There is still much left to harvest, young John,” said George Puddington. “We have our own work to do.”
“Will the leavings of the harvest not wait until after the fair,
“You should have come and warmed yourself. We would have made you welcome,” I said.
He bent his head thoughtfully. “Keturah, you see for yourself how difficult it can be to be accepted into a circle of people who consider you to be different.”
“Yes,” I said.
He waited silently while I tried to gather my thoughts. I would be telling a story more far-fetched than any I had told before, and yet it would be true.
“I followed the hart into the wood that day I was lost,” I began. “How many tales had I spun of the hart, and here he was before my eyes, as if my words had summoned him. Like the truth in a story, he eluded me until he nearly destroyed me, and then when there was no going back, he left me in the dark of the wood.
“The fairies that I never saw nor heard must have laughed me to scorn. I wandered and wandered, and the bugs bit and the underbrush tripped my feet and the night winds froze me. Then Death himself came to collect me.
“I used the only means I could think of to postpone the inevitable—I told him a story. A love story. And I agreed to tell him the rest of the story the next night, if only he would let me live another day.
“And so he did. I told him that the love story was true, that it was my story.”
I stopped. John hunkered down beside my chair. His eyes were on the same level as mine, and they mirrored the images in my mind. I thought I had never seen such a beautiful young man. My hand crept to my apron pocket, and then stopped. It was absurd—I was a commoner, and he a lord’s son. I forced my thoughts back to my errand.
“While we were talking, he offered to let another die in my place. He said it would scarcely matter whom I chose. Many will die of the plague, he said, and when I pleaded with him to tell me how to stop it, he said, ‘It is not in your power—your manored lord has allowed his lands to fall to dire ruin.’
“So you see, sir, John, why I spoke up after the king’s messenger left. I saw the king’s visit as an opportunity to waylay the plague. We must have the road, and the rats in the mill must go. And there must be no traffic with Great Town.”
After a long moment, John nodded. I could see that his horror at the threat of plague was equal to my own.
“You must speak to the villagers, tell them about the coming plague, Keturah,” John said after some thought. “Perhaps then they will resume work on the road.”
“Do you think they will believe me?”
“Oh, they will believe you,” he said with conviction. “Haven’t they always believed your fairy tales? Didn’t all your stories of the great hart produce a real hart, Keturah? They will believe you.”
I stood up. “Then I must try.”
VIII
Soor Lily and I concur; Ben brings a squash;
the arrival of Tobias with lemons that disappoint;
and I cook pies.
Henry quickly spread the word that John Temsland would address his people in the village square, and just as quickly the people began to gather.
The sun was hot, and no breeze blew in from the bay, and soon people were grumbling and miserable. How had half the day gone by, I wondered. I willed time to slow. John led me to the square and climbed to the top of a pile of cobblestones.
“My people,” he said, his arms toward them. “I stand on these stones that should by now be laid over the square. But no one came to the work today. Would you not have the king come and see that our village is everything my father said it was?”
“There is still much left to harvest, young John,” said George Puddington. “We have our own work to do.”
“Will the leavings of the harvest not wait until after the fair,
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