THE PRINCESS & THE POMEGRANATE

There once was a beautiful, light-filled flower princess. She loved many things, including throwing parties at her magnificent castle, in which her esteemed guests, friends and family would be entertained and delighted by her joy and warmth. The parties were small, medium and grand affairs. Sometimes it was a simple party of marmalade toast by the fire with a dear friend; sometimes they were champagne affairs in the great hall.

The only place that was out of bounds within the castle grounds was the secret garden in which grew a single, luscious pomegranate. The fruit was said to be magical. Holding all the power of the garden and the girl in its juicy flesh. Only the perfect guest, at the right time, under the right circumstances, under the right moon, could enter the garden with the princess’s key. Together they would pluck the magical pomegranate and share the fruit with one another. If the pomegranate was plucked by the wrong guest—that is to say, an unworthy guest—then the garden would rot, and with it, the princess.

When the flower princess reaches her fifteenth year, she is known by all as a curious creature. She thirsts for knowledge, truth and adventure as most princesses are wont to do. She of course has her usual guests to entertain and be entertained by, but she has grown weary of the same parlour games, the same jives and foxtrots. And so, when the princess spies a man standing outside her castle gates one day, she does not immediately close the curtains as she has been told to do, but stands there watching as the man stares back at her. He waves and, not wishing to be rude, the princess opens the window, and waves back in return.

Hello there! he shouts. I don’t wish to be bold,

But I’ve ridden for hours, and I’m sodden and cold!

I heard in the town you’ve a roaring fire,

Where I could get warm and a good deal drier?

Yes, I do, says the princess, that is true, that is true.

Then you won’t let a man catch his death, will you?

Not wanting to be rude, not wanting to say no,

The princess nods her head and lets her good sense go.

She hurries downstairs and opens the gate

And the man walks into her stately estate.

He follows her in and sits with a smile,

As he talks of weather and wealth for a while.

The princess is quiet, a good little host.

She offers him tea and marmalade toast.

Marmalade toast! That will not do!

We must have champagne. And strawberries too!

But there’s no celebration, it’s only us here.

Even more of a reason to drink up, my dear!

But I can’t really do that, it’s just not allowed.

What is it, dear princess? Too royal, too proud?

With booze in your belly there’s so much to know.

Have a drink with me, child, go on, have a go.

So the princess sips slow—she can’t lose her head

(Or anything else ), as her mother once said.

The champagne is poured. The glasses are sunk.

He tops up their flutes and soon she is drunk.

It feels like that time she went riding a horse.

A galloping ride of lilting discourse.

Now, where are your strawberries? I’d love something sweet!

I’m a little light-headed—

Perhaps it’s the heat?

Let’s go to the garden and get some fresh air,

You must have some sweet juicy fruit for me there.

Well, she says blushing, it’s getting quite late.

If it’s cold air you want, try the front, through the gate.

Nonsense! He says. The night is still young!

Why would I leave when we’re having such fun?

I must see your garden! I simply must!

Don’t worry, dear girl, in me you can trust.

But the princess, she frowns, she tarries, then stops.

She looks to the man, all niceties drop.

A peculiar rhyme we find ourselves in.

It’s a little uncouth. When did it begin?

The man takes her hand and says in her ear,

We sing the same song, do we not, my sweet dear?

When they enter the garden, he gasps at the sight.

A thriving display of earthly delight!

Of flowers and buds and birds and trees.

He cannot believe the beauty he sees.

And right at the centre, a locked garden gate.

He tiptoes towards it. Sealing her fate.

What’s through here? he enquires. I’d so love a peep!

Nothing! she says. Time to go, time for sleep!

But I’m sure I can smell something juicy and sweet.

I can smell a ripe fruit. I can smell it. Smells a treat.

Oh no, she says, blushing, and turning in haste.

Don’t be bashful, dear princess, I just want a taste.

That thing should be picked and plucked and juiced,

Pulverised, strained and then reduced!

I can show you how, I have done it before.

I’m good with my hands. Now, open the door!

But remember how warm it was by the fire?

Oh, let us return. Better yet, I’ll retire!

I must not keep you, you’re tired, no doubt.

Good evening, dear man! You know your way out!

Here, he says softly, with his arm around her.

That’s warmer already, not as cold as you were?

Oh, she says. Thank you. That’s awfully kind . . .

Better now, princess?

Ye—

Then, do you mind?

I cannot resist that smell on the air,

And that key round your neck must be heavy to wear!

Well, it is rather heavy and burdensome too.

But it’s precious to me, and what’s it to you?

I wear it right next to my heart every day—

Be quiet, young princess. I’ll show you the way.

Then the man takes the key from the princess’s chest.

And he shoves it in the hole. An uninvited guest.

I don’t want to do this, she whispers, she cries.

As her soul mutters to her, (he’s a thief in disguise.)

He pushes and pulls and yanks at the key,

And what she sees next, she can never unsee.

The door swings open as the world turns cold and in the centre is the pomegranate, which he takes in his hands and tears in two, rips, devouring hungrily, the red juice dripping down his chin, tearing the untouched flesh, teeth flashing, drinking, pushing fruit meat wherever it may fit until he is sated and spent. The princess stands there frozen. The garden around her recedes and rots. The purple orchids wilt, the knotweed creeps, the grass infests with worms.

My pomegranate , she whispers. My beautiful pomegranate.

It’s mine now, princess, and I’ll keep what I found,

Just a game that we played, like the fox and the hound.

The thrill of the chase, the joy of the hunt.

And all for a taste of your sweet little—

Cut it out!

And the princess turns and walks back to the castle, back to the fire. Where she stays indoors for many years, too afraid to let anyone in, too afraid to speak of him who, through many days spent thawing by the fire, she learns was a thief and never a friend.

A thief in disguise.

A thief in the night.

A thief of beauty and all things bright.