I don't know what it means. But I just wrote it, and I *like* it.
On the night in question, she had in her possession: one small dog, one pomegranate, three books by a dead German philosopher, and a grandmother. She lived in a cottage by the forest, with plenty of firewood in a shed nearby.
The woman was not prone to smiling, though she did enjoy several things. The school of thought invented by the German was one of them; knitting was another; the third was getting lost.
Her grandmother was a crabbed woman, bent double and triple and all number of other ways, She had been a good singer in her youth, and had won her husband’s love at a fair, her throat producing the finest tune of all the girls in the county. Long years of smoking pipes had eroded her inside and out, and now in her ninety-seventh year she had been worn down to the hardest parts, and so was not likely to die soon.
The dog was a leaper. In the spring and summer he liked to stalk frogs and then jump with them when they startled so he might catch them midair and crunch their bones on the landing. He was small and white, with bright black eyes and vaguely yellow teeth. In later times, he would acquire the power of speech, and travel the country to warn a boy of a great danger, but that was far in the future by his reckoning.
The pomegranate was from Iona. It had come the furthest of them all.
The night in question began with indecision. The sun lingered and lingered over the horizon, playing cat’s-cradle with the shadows of trees. It swung left and right across the sky, up and down as well, until even the badgers came up out of their holes to watch. All debated the meaning of the sun’s strange tango with the dark. The grandmother (who had only wooden teeth, which had grown in the night before her eighty-fifth birthday, pushing out all her others and filling her mouth with bones) merely spat. “There’s a Front coming,” she said dismissively. “Seen it before. You’ve seen it once, you stop staring.”
The woman did not reply. She was putting her hands to work with crochet, a relatively new area of study. An aged phonograph crackled in the corner of the room: that belonged to the grandmother. The dog snored in the opposite corner. The grandmother squinted at the wax paper window. She pulled a pipe out of her apron and lit it, clamping it between knotted jaws. “Mayhap not. But I still don’t like to look at it. I should have seen everything by my time, and I’ll not give this thing a chance t’make me doubt.”
“You are young yet, Grandmother,” the woman replied, concentrating on her needles. The grandmother snorted, which was what passed for a laugh these days.
“Young as the hour they made me, aye.” She fell quiet, watching unwritten shapes crawl over the murky paper. The phonograph sputtered, indignant not to have her attention. The dog groaned and rolled onto its back, still asleep. The world grew dark at last, and the cottage could finally glow orange with gas lamps and fire. No more cryptograms troubled them.
The woman put down her needles. “We need more wood. The heat will go hungry soon.” She stood up, and laid the project on her seat, crossed in the shape of a Greek letter. The grandmother said nothing, watching her collect her shawl (handmade) and slip into a pair of leather clogs. A wind barreled through the room when the woman opened the door, and the dog awoke, snapping at it.
Light from the inside rippled over the hard earth. The woman trudged indifferently over twigs and stones, the underbelly of a song brushing against her ears. The shed had been built by the grandmother’s son, but he was dead now, and had been for quite some time. At the very bottom of it was a bundle of wood that he himself at collected, and the grandmother, who was almost past being called a woman, insisted it never be removed. It was one of very few vestiges of sentimentality in her, coated with soot and almost unreadable now. The woman could see the shape of the fuel-wood with the fringe of the cottage glow. The space was brimming with dark, and she slipped one hand into it without a second thought.
Something in the dark took her hand. It was not a grab, or a caress, or even anything so formed as a shake. It simply took it, and held it. The woman did not resist. She knew if she did, her arm would come away without the hand, and the hand had always served her well. “Excuse me,” she said into the dark.
“My apologies,” answered a voice from inside the shed. “I thought you were someone else.” The owner of the voice did not release her hand.
“A simple enough mistake,” she admitted. “I have heard that I resemble a great many folk.”
“You resemble no one but yourself, if you are lucky,” the voice replied. It paused. “Unless it is Queen Victoria. Anyone should be lucky to resemble her.”
“That name has not come up, I’m afraid.” The woman flexed her thumb: the grasp on her hand tightened a little.
The voice sighed. “That is unfortunate.” Neither conversant made a move.
“Might I ask if you could return my hand to me?”
“You might. Assuming you don’t change your mind about it.”
“About the asking? I’m fairly certain I’d like my hand.”
“Who wouldn’t? It’s very soft.”
“Not so soft as some.”
“This is also true.”
“Is there a reason for all this?”
“Don’t you have books that tell you that?”
“I would seem to be reading the wrong books, then.”
“People usually are.”
The woman pursed her lips. “I came here for some wood.”
“For your fire, yes?”
“Aye.”
The pressure on her hand increased. She did not wince, though she did consider a grimace.
“What is your name?” the voice asked. She said the word aloud. The grip shifted position onto her wrist, which was more comfortable. “I need to ask you a question.”
“I will do my best to answer.”
“That is well.” The voice paused again. “How many stories does a pomegranate hold?”
The woman thought a moment. “That depends. It means first siphoning out the stories it copied from the roots, the rain, the wood and the wind.”
“Can it be done?”
“If you let me go, I can bring you one so you might learn for yourself.”
The owner of the voice consented. The woman straightened, pressed her hand to her stomach, and walked back the way she came. The grandmother questioned her when she did not return with the wood; the woman did not answer, but plucked the red fruit from the mantle and headed back to the shed again.
Ten minutes later, she returned with the wood. She fed the fire, whose stomach had been growling, crossed the room to her chair and took up her needles again. The grandmother eyed her, puffing her pipe, but did not ask anything more. The next morning, frost stiffened what bent and broke and was green once outside. The grandmother ventured toward the shed, and found what she was looking for: the rind of a pomegranate, and a faint scent of ashes. The woman smiled all that otherwise usual day; the grandmother spoke of it often for the rest of her life.
The woman was not prone to smiling, though she did enjoy several things. The school of thought invented by the German was one of them; knitting was another; the third was getting lost.
Her grandmother was a crabbed woman, bent double and triple and all number of other ways, She had been a good singer in her youth, and had won her husband’s love at a fair, her throat producing the finest tune of all the girls in the county. Long years of smoking pipes had eroded her inside and out, and now in her ninety-seventh year she had been worn down to the hardest parts, and so was not likely to die soon.
The dog was a leaper. In the spring and summer he liked to stalk frogs and then jump with them when they startled so he might catch them midair and crunch their bones on the landing. He was small and white, with bright black eyes and vaguely yellow teeth. In later times, he would acquire the power of speech, and travel the country to warn a boy of a great danger, but that was far in the future by his reckoning.
The pomegranate was from Iona. It had come the furthest of them all.
The night in question began with indecision. The sun lingered and lingered over the horizon, playing cat’s-cradle with the shadows of trees. It swung left and right across the sky, up and down as well, until even the badgers came up out of their holes to watch. All debated the meaning of the sun’s strange tango with the dark. The grandmother (who had only wooden teeth, which had grown in the night before her eighty-fifth birthday, pushing out all her others and filling her mouth with bones) merely spat. “There’s a Front coming,” she said dismissively. “Seen it before. You’ve seen it once, you stop staring.”
The woman did not reply. She was putting her hands to work with crochet, a relatively new area of study. An aged phonograph crackled in the corner of the room: that belonged to the grandmother. The dog snored in the opposite corner. The grandmother squinted at the wax paper window. She pulled a pipe out of her apron and lit it, clamping it between knotted jaws. “Mayhap not. But I still don’t like to look at it. I should have seen everything by my time, and I’ll not give this thing a chance t’make me doubt.”
“You are young yet, Grandmother,” the woman replied, concentrating on her needles. The grandmother snorted, which was what passed for a laugh these days.
“Young as the hour they made me, aye.” She fell quiet, watching unwritten shapes crawl over the murky paper. The phonograph sputtered, indignant not to have her attention. The dog groaned and rolled onto its back, still asleep. The world grew dark at last, and the cottage could finally glow orange with gas lamps and fire. No more cryptograms troubled them.
The woman put down her needles. “We need more wood. The heat will go hungry soon.” She stood up, and laid the project on her seat, crossed in the shape of a Greek letter. The grandmother said nothing, watching her collect her shawl (handmade) and slip into a pair of leather clogs. A wind barreled through the room when the woman opened the door, and the dog awoke, snapping at it.
Light from the inside rippled over the hard earth. The woman trudged indifferently over twigs and stones, the underbelly of a song brushing against her ears. The shed had been built by the grandmother’s son, but he was dead now, and had been for quite some time. At the very bottom of it was a bundle of wood that he himself at collected, and the grandmother, who was almost past being called a woman, insisted it never be removed. It was one of very few vestiges of sentimentality in her, coated with soot and almost unreadable now. The woman could see the shape of the fuel-wood with the fringe of the cottage glow. The space was brimming with dark, and she slipped one hand into it without a second thought.
Something in the dark took her hand. It was not a grab, or a caress, or even anything so formed as a shake. It simply took it, and held it. The woman did not resist. She knew if she did, her arm would come away without the hand, and the hand had always served her well. “Excuse me,” she said into the dark.
“My apologies,” answered a voice from inside the shed. “I thought you were someone else.” The owner of the voice did not release her hand.
“A simple enough mistake,” she admitted. “I have heard that I resemble a great many folk.”
“You resemble no one but yourself, if you are lucky,” the voice replied. It paused. “Unless it is Queen Victoria. Anyone should be lucky to resemble her.”
“That name has not come up, I’m afraid.” The woman flexed her thumb: the grasp on her hand tightened a little.
The voice sighed. “That is unfortunate.” Neither conversant made a move.
“Might I ask if you could return my hand to me?”
“You might. Assuming you don’t change your mind about it.”
“About the asking? I’m fairly certain I’d like my hand.”
“Who wouldn’t? It’s very soft.”
“Not so soft as some.”
“This is also true.”
“Is there a reason for all this?”
“Don’t you have books that tell you that?”
“I would seem to be reading the wrong books, then.”
“People usually are.”
The woman pursed her lips. “I came here for some wood.”
“For your fire, yes?”
“Aye.”
The pressure on her hand increased. She did not wince, though she did consider a grimace.
“What is your name?” the voice asked. She said the word aloud. The grip shifted position onto her wrist, which was more comfortable. “I need to ask you a question.”
“I will do my best to answer.”
“That is well.” The voice paused again. “How many stories does a pomegranate hold?”
The woman thought a moment. “That depends. It means first siphoning out the stories it copied from the roots, the rain, the wood and the wind.”
“Can it be done?”
“If you let me go, I can bring you one so you might learn for yourself.”
The owner of the voice consented. The woman straightened, pressed her hand to her stomach, and walked back the way she came. The grandmother questioned her when she did not return with the wood; the woman did not answer, but plucked the red fruit from the mantle and headed back to the shed again.
Ten minutes later, she returned with the wood. She fed the fire, whose stomach had been growling, crossed the room to her chair and took up her needles again. The grandmother eyed her, puffing her pipe, but did not ask anything more. The next morning, frost stiffened what bent and broke and was green once outside. The grandmother ventured toward the shed, and found what she was looking for: the rind of a pomegranate, and a faint scent of ashes. The woman smiled all that otherwise usual day; the grandmother spoke of it often for the rest of her life.