For my dear girlfriends,
who have blessed and enriched my life
Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.
—from “The Chariot” by Emily Dickinson (1830–1886)
“Keturah, tell us a story,” said Naomi, “one of your tales of faërie or magic.”
“Yes, Keturah, do,” said Beatrice, “but I would have a tale of love.”
The boys around the common fire groaned. “A story, yes,” said Tobias, “but a hunting tale, please, one of daring and death.”
The men murmured in agreement. One, whose face I could not see, said, “Tell a tale of the great hart of the lord’s forest.”
Choirmaster sighed. “I would prefer a godly story,” he said, “one to comfort your heart on a gloomy day.”
The fire crackled and leapt for a time, and then I said, “I will tell you a story that is all of those things, a story of magic and love, of daring and death, and one to comfort your heart. It will be the truest story I have ever told. Now listen, and tell me if it is not so.”