Pomegranates, page 7
“Wait there.”
I tend the fire, suddenly a serving girl in my own palace. I return to bed with bread and olives. The tension of our last conversation has gone
“Were you frightened when you first got here?”
“Yes. I wish I could say I’d been brave, Bear.”
“Was Hades kind to you?”
The word kind is loaded with concern.
*
As I flew down in Hades’ chariot, the Underworld was laid out like a map. It was a downcast land to my eyes, its rivers etched deep into the landscape. Hades released me when we landed. He stepped down and unharnessed his horses. They stamped their hooves and nudged him for his attention. He stroked their necks in turn and sent them off to graze with a pat on the rump. It was odd to see my abductor at the work of a stable boy.
Only then did he hold out a hand to me. He shrugged when I didn’t take it and climbed down from the chariot myself. There was nowhere to run so I followed him. His palace was a pantheon to moonlight. The silver beams illuminated the dead as we approached it. They greeted Hades with love, not fear. He spoke to one and they laughed, he stopped to enquire after another. When he finished they parted to let us through, whispering.
The palace was as you see it now, except for one thing. There was a building, right here, where you’re standing now. It was squat and simple, the dimensions of a byre, but the walls were made of opals that shed a milky glow.
Hades gestured to me to enter and stood on the threshold, watching me.
The room defied its own dimension. Fires burnt in the braziers. All the furniture was made from gold. Midas would’ve wept for it. The bed was laid with linen and furs. I had an array of silk gowns in a variety of colours. There were potions, pots of kohl, and lip stains on the dressing table. Jewellery to eclipse any woman’s beauty, immortal or not, fashioned from rubies, emeralds and diamonds.
“Do you like it?” He seemed anxious to please me.
“It’s exquisite for a cage.”
“It’s not a cage. I want you to have a private place. Somewhere that’s yours alone. I’ll not enter here, ever—”
I slammed the door in his face.
*
“You need to stop skulking in there.”
I threw a jar at Hades. It missed and shattered on the floor.
“That’s the spirit. Can we talk?”
“Is that an order?”
“No, it’s a polite request.”
There were always platters of water and jugs of wine outside my door. He’d never tried to starve me out. I looked at him properly for the first time. He had a long, equine face. Sensitive when his expression softened. Lank, black hair pulled back.
“Come. Please.”
I was wary. My mother had warned me about the trap of men’s civility. Politeness has been the downfall of so many women.
“If I was going to hurt you I would’ve done it by now.”
I joined him at his table, perched on the edge of the chair, ready for flight. To where I didn’t know.
We ate in silence: saffron scented rice, chicken roasted with herbs. Glistening pink salmon with sea salt flakes. Purple grapes and slices of watermelon. He was giving me time to think.
“What am I? A concubine? A forfeit? A prisoner?”
“None of those things. You’re here because of Demeter. This is her will.”
“She wouldn’t give me away like this.” I jutted out my chin, even though I wasn’t certain of that.
He looked sad at this. “I made a promise to Demeter. She’s my sister.”
“You’re my uncle? She never told me about you.”
“I love your mother. She cared for me and loved me when no other ever did. She always had her own ideas about things. I don’t always agree with her but it’s not for me to fathom her.”
“What promise?”
“To shelter you from those who’d harm you.”
“Who?”
“You really know nothing about our family, do you?”
I reached out for the bowl of pomegranates.
“No.” He stopped me. “Not yet.”
*
“Hades was mother and father to me.”
We lie with our heads close together but not touching.
“You had a mother.”
Mothers. A touchy subject. I bristle.
“She abandoned me.”
“Did she?”
“She did.”
“She left you with someone charged with protecting you, who loved you like his own daughter. Yes, it sounds like she didn’t care for you at all.”
Your last sentence is so sardonic that it drips with it.
“Are you daring to question me?”
“I am. You said up until then she loved you. She doted on you. Can you imagine how scared she must have been to send you away? Parents do all kinds of things to save their children. Parents will take their children on boats across dangerous waters to escape genocide and famine. Can you imagine how afraid they must have been of what was behind them to do that?”
“You have no idea what I’m talking about.”
You roll onto your side and look at me.
“You’re so angry. All the time. It’s always just under the surface. You’re clever enough to know it’s not at your mother. So who are you really angry at? At some point, whatever you believe about the past, you have to make some kind of peace with it. Otherwise all these people,” you pause, “these other Gods, will control you forever. You have a choice. You.” Each you is punctuated with a jab to my chest with your forefinger.
I know you’re right because I want to kill you for that.
You press on, despite the narrowing of my gaze.
“Who are you angry at?”
I know the truth as soon as you say it. I know because I’ve always known. Underneath it all, I’m not angry at Demeter. I’m not angry at mankind. I’m not angry at Hades for dying. I’m angry at myself. Pigheaded. Stupid. And sorely ashamed.
*
“You need to let the dead in. You’re responsible for them. They’re suffering out there. Death’s not a punishment.”
“Somebody has to stay here in my stead and rule, as I did when Hades died.” A thought occurred to me. “What will you do? Will you come with me?”
“I’d not thought about it. Would you come back here if you left?
“I always have to return.”
“Why?”
“Pomegranates.”
“I don’t understand.”
After that first meal with Hades we left the palace and went out across the plains to the Styx. The jaundiced reeds trembled on the bank, then parted. Something raced towards us. A symphony of growls came from the three heads. The hound was as big as a donkey. Its hackles were up, all six ears pointed. It bared all its teeth at me.
“Cerberus. Sit.”
Chastened, it came to heel.
“Go on, Persephone. It’s safe.”
I patted one of Cerberus’ heads. Hades’ guardian half-stood, half-sat, tail wagging. Another head licked my hand, while another head nosed at my thighs. Then he bounded around us in circles before he settled to a trot alongside us.
We reached the water’s edge.
“This is the river of oaths. It’s where the Gods make promises they can never break.”
He turned to me.
“I promise you, on the Styx, to love you as my own daughter.”
“So many bad things are done in the name of love. I’ll not be abused with that as an excuse.”
“There’s so much I can’t tell you, but I swear to protect you.” His black eyes softened.
“Can I leave here?”
“Yes, I told you you’re not a prisoner. There’s only one way I can protect you out there, though. The only thing is that it will tether you to the Underworld. You’ll always have to come back here in the end. You’ll be compelled to. It’ll be a part of you and you a part if it. You’ll be the Underworld’s subject and royalty.”
“Royalty?”
“Make no mistake, a good monarch is a servant to their throne.”
“So how do I make this happen?”
“Pomegranates.”
*
The way you touch my forearm is a question. The answer is yes, yes, please Bear, yes. My willingness is unseemly. When we kiss it’s like neither of us have kissed before. Warm, fumbling. When I hold you I can feel your mortality. The thrum of life stretches out around you. Not just ahead and behind you, as if you were a linear creature, but all around you, like you’re a sun shedding its rays.
You’re unfolding in a series of revelations. Softness. Hardness. The contours of one body yielding to another. Physical pleasures rise and fall. You bud and bloom. I could crush you like a delicate flower. You’re only human but this feels divine.
I’ve always thought of sex as a way of leaving our sadness inside one another. It’s not. It’s the opposite of death.
*
A beam of light falls from the oculus. It creates a bright spot on the feasting table. I pull on my gown and tie up my hair.
You’ve laid out a repast of curds, honey, almonds, and dried figs. Your head is bowed. When you hear the muted click of sandals on stone, you look up. Your lips are stained by pomegranates.
Chorus
Voice One:
There’s no more. That’s the end of the script.
Voice Two:
There’s an end to everything. What do you think happened here?
Voice One:
There was a woman who dreamt she was a butterfly.
Voice Two:
That’s not right.
Voice One:
There was a butterfly who dreamt she was a woman?
Voice Two:
You’re muddling this all up.
Voice One:
There was a woman who dreamt she was a seed?
Voice Two:
Nearly.
Voice One:
There was a seed who dreamt she was a God.
Voice Two:
Yes.
Exodus
Persephone
The waters of the Styx are flat and still. Charon ties up his boat. I hold up a silver obol but he shakes his head. He, who has never touched another in all his time as ferryman, offers me his hand. It’s surprisingly warm, despite being as hard as polished bone. I don’t know if it’s a sign of approval, thanks or a blessing, but I’m grateful. He gets in and pushes off without a word.
I sit so that I can see you standing on the bank. You get smaller and smaller with each stroke of Charon’s oar. Cerberus whines and half-sits, half-stands, his tail moving uncertainly. You rub his back to calm him.
I won’t cry. I swore I wouldn’t cry. Panic is a fluttering moth in my chest. It’s the realisation that I don’t know your real name. I must ask you what it is when I see you again.
I get off at the far bank. You’re a speck in the distance now but you’re large in my mind’s eye. As I set off into the trees ahead, I look back. I hope you can see me trying to get a final glimpse of you.
The poplar grove is the beginning and the end of the Underworld. As I walk between the trunks the light changes. There’s a different quality to the brightness. The air is colder.
When I come out on the other side it’s just as you said. The ice cavern is huge. Ice shatters the light and dazzles me in blue and turquoise. One corridor leads to another. Staircases and balconies. All imagined from water. I put out my hand to touch a bank of ice spikes. They’re so delicate that they drop at my touch, shattering on the floor with a tinkling sound. Stalactites start to drip, coming faster and faster in a softer symphony. The world is crying to be alive. I’m wading through water now.
Then I’m suddenly outside. The cold hurts my face but it’s good. It stings me into life. Behind me the ice palace is losing its definition. Turrets collapse in on themselves. Arches crack and collapse. It’s all water. It’ll end up in the Styx eventually. It’ll flow back to you Bear, as will I.
The dead are coming across the fields of snow, from all directions, heading towards the poplar grove. Charon will be busy.
When I look up the moon is there—white in the pale blue sky. Hecate is up there. And beyond that the stars, where Hades resides.
As I walk across the meadow of snow, it starts to melt beneath my feet. The radius of green grows, spreading out into the white. I shed seeds with each step. Narcissi spring up in my footsteps. They bloom in my wake. Hades’ favourite. That makes me smile.
I go on, Spring in my step.
Chorus
Voice One:
Look, there’s Bear.
Voice Two:
A bear, where?
Voice One:
Not a bear. Bear. Lying dead on the floor, between the shelves in the vault.
Voice Two:
That’s so sad. What’s in their hand?
Voice One:
A pomegranate seed.
Acknowledgements
I’ve been very fortunate in the editors I’ve worked with, all of whom have been fostering and insightful. I am grateful to you all. A special thanks to Marie O’Regan for her input into Pomegranates. Also Ellen Datlow, Paula Guran, Andy Cox, Mark Morris, Jonathan Maberry, and last but never least, Mike Kelly of Undertow Publications.
Thanks to Peter and Nicky Crowther of PS Publishing. I used to look at your website and dream that one day I might get something published by you.
Bear owes a debt to the Svalbard Global Seed Vault’s founder Dr Cary Fowler. He has an orchard with over 100 varieties of apples.
The last few years have been tough on everyone. I am fortunate to have family and friends. I have treasured their support. The text or letter you sent. The call you made. You know who you are. Thank you.
Thanks to my parents, my brother Ravi, and always my partner Mark.
Reading is an investment of time and money, so a big thanks to you, the reader. I hope you found something in here to like.
POMEGRANATES
Copyright Priya Sharma © 2022
Cover Art
Copyright Jeffrey Alan Love © 2022
Introduction
Copyright Marie O’Regan © 2022
This eBook edition is published in December 2022 by Absinthe Books, an imprint of PS Publishing Ltd, by arrangement with the author. All rights reserved by the author.
The right of Priya Sharma to be identified as Author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN
978-1-78636-969-7
Absinthe Books
PS Publishing | Grosvenor House
1 New Road Hornsea, HU18 1PG | United Kingdom
editor@pspublishing.co.uk | www.pspublishing.co.uk
Priya Sharma, Pomegranates
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I tend the fire, suddenly a serving girl in my own palace. I return to bed with bread and olives. The tension of our last conversation has gone
“Were you frightened when you first got here?”
“Yes. I wish I could say I’d been brave, Bear.”
“Was Hades kind to you?”
The word kind is loaded with concern.
*
As I flew down in Hades’ chariot, the Underworld was laid out like a map. It was a downcast land to my eyes, its rivers etched deep into the landscape. Hades released me when we landed. He stepped down and unharnessed his horses. They stamped their hooves and nudged him for his attention. He stroked their necks in turn and sent them off to graze with a pat on the rump. It was odd to see my abductor at the work of a stable boy.
Only then did he hold out a hand to me. He shrugged when I didn’t take it and climbed down from the chariot myself. There was nowhere to run so I followed him. His palace was a pantheon to moonlight. The silver beams illuminated the dead as we approached it. They greeted Hades with love, not fear. He spoke to one and they laughed, he stopped to enquire after another. When he finished they parted to let us through, whispering.
The palace was as you see it now, except for one thing. There was a building, right here, where you’re standing now. It was squat and simple, the dimensions of a byre, but the walls were made of opals that shed a milky glow.
Hades gestured to me to enter and stood on the threshold, watching me.
The room defied its own dimension. Fires burnt in the braziers. All the furniture was made from gold. Midas would’ve wept for it. The bed was laid with linen and furs. I had an array of silk gowns in a variety of colours. There were potions, pots of kohl, and lip stains on the dressing table. Jewellery to eclipse any woman’s beauty, immortal or not, fashioned from rubies, emeralds and diamonds.
“Do you like it?” He seemed anxious to please me.
“It’s exquisite for a cage.”
“It’s not a cage. I want you to have a private place. Somewhere that’s yours alone. I’ll not enter here, ever—”
I slammed the door in his face.
*
“You need to stop skulking in there.”
I threw a jar at Hades. It missed and shattered on the floor.
“That’s the spirit. Can we talk?”
“Is that an order?”
“No, it’s a polite request.”
There were always platters of water and jugs of wine outside my door. He’d never tried to starve me out. I looked at him properly for the first time. He had a long, equine face. Sensitive when his expression softened. Lank, black hair pulled back.
“Come. Please.”
I was wary. My mother had warned me about the trap of men’s civility. Politeness has been the downfall of so many women.
“If I was going to hurt you I would’ve done it by now.”
I joined him at his table, perched on the edge of the chair, ready for flight. To where I didn’t know.
We ate in silence: saffron scented rice, chicken roasted with herbs. Glistening pink salmon with sea salt flakes. Purple grapes and slices of watermelon. He was giving me time to think.
“What am I? A concubine? A forfeit? A prisoner?”
“None of those things. You’re here because of Demeter. This is her will.”
“She wouldn’t give me away like this.” I jutted out my chin, even though I wasn’t certain of that.
He looked sad at this. “I made a promise to Demeter. She’s my sister.”
“You’re my uncle? She never told me about you.”
“I love your mother. She cared for me and loved me when no other ever did. She always had her own ideas about things. I don’t always agree with her but it’s not for me to fathom her.”
“What promise?”
“To shelter you from those who’d harm you.”
“Who?”
“You really know nothing about our family, do you?”
I reached out for the bowl of pomegranates.
“No.” He stopped me. “Not yet.”
*
“Hades was mother and father to me.”
We lie with our heads close together but not touching.
“You had a mother.”
Mothers. A touchy subject. I bristle.
“She abandoned me.”
“Did she?”
“She did.”
“She left you with someone charged with protecting you, who loved you like his own daughter. Yes, it sounds like she didn’t care for you at all.”
Your last sentence is so sardonic that it drips with it.
“Are you daring to question me?”
“I am. You said up until then she loved you. She doted on you. Can you imagine how scared she must have been to send you away? Parents do all kinds of things to save their children. Parents will take their children on boats across dangerous waters to escape genocide and famine. Can you imagine how afraid they must have been of what was behind them to do that?”
“You have no idea what I’m talking about.”
You roll onto your side and look at me.
“You’re so angry. All the time. It’s always just under the surface. You’re clever enough to know it’s not at your mother. So who are you really angry at? At some point, whatever you believe about the past, you have to make some kind of peace with it. Otherwise all these people,” you pause, “these other Gods, will control you forever. You have a choice. You.” Each you is punctuated with a jab to my chest with your forefinger.
I know you’re right because I want to kill you for that.
You press on, despite the narrowing of my gaze.
“Who are you angry at?”
I know the truth as soon as you say it. I know because I’ve always known. Underneath it all, I’m not angry at Demeter. I’m not angry at mankind. I’m not angry at Hades for dying. I’m angry at myself. Pigheaded. Stupid. And sorely ashamed.
*
“You need to let the dead in. You’re responsible for them. They’re suffering out there. Death’s not a punishment.”
“Somebody has to stay here in my stead and rule, as I did when Hades died.” A thought occurred to me. “What will you do? Will you come with me?”
“I’d not thought about it. Would you come back here if you left?
“I always have to return.”
“Why?”
“Pomegranates.”
“I don’t understand.”
After that first meal with Hades we left the palace and went out across the plains to the Styx. The jaundiced reeds trembled on the bank, then parted. Something raced towards us. A symphony of growls came from the three heads. The hound was as big as a donkey. Its hackles were up, all six ears pointed. It bared all its teeth at me.
“Cerberus. Sit.”
Chastened, it came to heel.
“Go on, Persephone. It’s safe.”
I patted one of Cerberus’ heads. Hades’ guardian half-stood, half-sat, tail wagging. Another head licked my hand, while another head nosed at my thighs. Then he bounded around us in circles before he settled to a trot alongside us.
We reached the water’s edge.
“This is the river of oaths. It’s where the Gods make promises they can never break.”
He turned to me.
“I promise you, on the Styx, to love you as my own daughter.”
“So many bad things are done in the name of love. I’ll not be abused with that as an excuse.”
“There’s so much I can’t tell you, but I swear to protect you.” His black eyes softened.
“Can I leave here?”
“Yes, I told you you’re not a prisoner. There’s only one way I can protect you out there, though. The only thing is that it will tether you to the Underworld. You’ll always have to come back here in the end. You’ll be compelled to. It’ll be a part of you and you a part if it. You’ll be the Underworld’s subject and royalty.”
“Royalty?”
“Make no mistake, a good monarch is a servant to their throne.”
“So how do I make this happen?”
“Pomegranates.”
*
The way you touch my forearm is a question. The answer is yes, yes, please Bear, yes. My willingness is unseemly. When we kiss it’s like neither of us have kissed before. Warm, fumbling. When I hold you I can feel your mortality. The thrum of life stretches out around you. Not just ahead and behind you, as if you were a linear creature, but all around you, like you’re a sun shedding its rays.
You’re unfolding in a series of revelations. Softness. Hardness. The contours of one body yielding to another. Physical pleasures rise and fall. You bud and bloom. I could crush you like a delicate flower. You’re only human but this feels divine.
I’ve always thought of sex as a way of leaving our sadness inside one another. It’s not. It’s the opposite of death.
*
A beam of light falls from the oculus. It creates a bright spot on the feasting table. I pull on my gown and tie up my hair.
You’ve laid out a repast of curds, honey, almonds, and dried figs. Your head is bowed. When you hear the muted click of sandals on stone, you look up. Your lips are stained by pomegranates.
Chorus
Voice One:
There’s no more. That’s the end of the script.
Voice Two:
There’s an end to everything. What do you think happened here?
Voice One:
There was a woman who dreamt she was a butterfly.
Voice Two:
That’s not right.
Voice One:
There was a butterfly who dreamt she was a woman?
Voice Two:
You’re muddling this all up.
Voice One:
There was a woman who dreamt she was a seed?
Voice Two:
Nearly.
Voice One:
There was a seed who dreamt she was a God.
Voice Two:
Yes.
Exodus
Persephone
The waters of the Styx are flat and still. Charon ties up his boat. I hold up a silver obol but he shakes his head. He, who has never touched another in all his time as ferryman, offers me his hand. It’s surprisingly warm, despite being as hard as polished bone. I don’t know if it’s a sign of approval, thanks or a blessing, but I’m grateful. He gets in and pushes off without a word.
I sit so that I can see you standing on the bank. You get smaller and smaller with each stroke of Charon’s oar. Cerberus whines and half-sits, half-stands, his tail moving uncertainly. You rub his back to calm him.
I won’t cry. I swore I wouldn’t cry. Panic is a fluttering moth in my chest. It’s the realisation that I don’t know your real name. I must ask you what it is when I see you again.
I get off at the far bank. You’re a speck in the distance now but you’re large in my mind’s eye. As I set off into the trees ahead, I look back. I hope you can see me trying to get a final glimpse of you.
The poplar grove is the beginning and the end of the Underworld. As I walk between the trunks the light changes. There’s a different quality to the brightness. The air is colder.
When I come out on the other side it’s just as you said. The ice cavern is huge. Ice shatters the light and dazzles me in blue and turquoise. One corridor leads to another. Staircases and balconies. All imagined from water. I put out my hand to touch a bank of ice spikes. They’re so delicate that they drop at my touch, shattering on the floor with a tinkling sound. Stalactites start to drip, coming faster and faster in a softer symphony. The world is crying to be alive. I’m wading through water now.
Then I’m suddenly outside. The cold hurts my face but it’s good. It stings me into life. Behind me the ice palace is losing its definition. Turrets collapse in on themselves. Arches crack and collapse. It’s all water. It’ll end up in the Styx eventually. It’ll flow back to you Bear, as will I.
The dead are coming across the fields of snow, from all directions, heading towards the poplar grove. Charon will be busy.
When I look up the moon is there—white in the pale blue sky. Hecate is up there. And beyond that the stars, where Hades resides.
As I walk across the meadow of snow, it starts to melt beneath my feet. The radius of green grows, spreading out into the white. I shed seeds with each step. Narcissi spring up in my footsteps. They bloom in my wake. Hades’ favourite. That makes me smile.
I go on, Spring in my step.
Chorus
Voice One:
Look, there’s Bear.
Voice Two:
A bear, where?
Voice One:
Not a bear. Bear. Lying dead on the floor, between the shelves in the vault.
Voice Two:
That’s so sad. What’s in their hand?
Voice One:
A pomegranate seed.
Acknowledgements
I’ve been very fortunate in the editors I’ve worked with, all of whom have been fostering and insightful. I am grateful to you all. A special thanks to Marie O’Regan for her input into Pomegranates. Also Ellen Datlow, Paula Guran, Andy Cox, Mark Morris, Jonathan Maberry, and last but never least, Mike Kelly of Undertow Publications.
Thanks to Peter and Nicky Crowther of PS Publishing. I used to look at your website and dream that one day I might get something published by you.
Bear owes a debt to the Svalbard Global Seed Vault’s founder Dr Cary Fowler. He has an orchard with over 100 varieties of apples.
The last few years have been tough on everyone. I am fortunate to have family and friends. I have treasured their support. The text or letter you sent. The call you made. You know who you are. Thank you.
Thanks to my parents, my brother Ravi, and always my partner Mark.
Reading is an investment of time and money, so a big thanks to you, the reader. I hope you found something in here to like.
POMEGRANATES
Copyright Priya Sharma © 2022
Cover Art
Copyright Jeffrey Alan Love © 2022
Introduction
Copyright Marie O’Regan © 2022
This eBook edition is published in December 2022 by Absinthe Books, an imprint of PS Publishing Ltd, by arrangement with the author. All rights reserved by the author.
The right of Priya Sharma to be identified as Author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN
978-1-78636-969-7
Absinthe Books
PS Publishing | Grosvenor House
1 New Road Hornsea, HU18 1PG | United Kingdom
editor@pspublishing.co.uk | www.pspublishing.co.uk
Priya Sharma, Pomegranates
