Mother Pomegranate and the Orphan Child - Short Story By Kelly Moyer

 

Mother Pomegranate and the Orphan Child

 

Short Story

By Kelly Moyer

 

On a Tuesday morning, just like any other day of the week, a little orphan girl stumbled through the cobbled streets of our city, hoping for a sip of tea or a crust of day-old bread. No one paid her any mind. In fact, one right after another, the townsfolk jostled her. Buggies nearly ran her over, time and again. As she turned into the square, she noticed a thief in the midst of robbing the woman selling pomegranates. He knocked her to the ground and promptly ran off with the wooden box in which she kept her money. In spite of the commotion, no one offered assistance.

The little girl ran over to help the woman up. She was badly bruised and covered with scratches. The girl, without a thought, tore a swath of cloth from her skirt and wet it in the fountain so that she might clean the woman’s wounds. Touched by the demonstration of the girl’s care, the woman handed the girl a pomegranate, telling her in hushed tones that it holds both the bitter pith and the sweet syrup of every woman’s life. If the little orphan girl were to accept this truth and use her understanding wisely, she could heal the world as well as her own heart.

The little girl thanked the woman and ran off to find an old box to sit upon in an out-of-the-way alley. There she used a shard of glass to carefully open the fruit. Juice leaked from her hands onto her clothes. She lapped it up hungrily; yet, it was slowly that she began to pluck the seeds from the pith, savouring the flavour as each crimson jewel released its juice. Once her hunger had been satiated, she chose to save the rest of the seeds for the sullen beggar boy, known for rattling his cup before the cobbler’s storefront. She then, out of curiosity, brought her nose to the pith, taking in its astringent aroma–and had an idea. She ran toward the boy and handed him the seeds, then back to the woman selling pomegranates and asked to see the scrapes from her fall. With the peel in hand, she rubbed the pith against the woman’s skin and thanked her once more for the tasty fruit.

The next morning, she waved as she passed the beggar boy, as she had every day since her parents died, and nodded toward the woman selling pomegranates. Before she had gotten too far, the woman called out to her, and she made her way back toward the cart.

“You are a very wise little girl with impeccable instincts. Thanks to your quick work, my scrapes are healing nicely,” the woman told her.

“I’m glad to hear that, Ma’am.”

“You know, I could use some help minding the cart,” the woman said thoughtfully. “How would you like to work with me?”

“I would be extremely grateful,” the little orphan girl admitted.

“Good,” the woman said. “I will pay you one pomegranate each day.”

“There is no need for you to pay me,” the girl explained. “I would very much enjoy your company and the opportunity to feel useful.”

And so it was that, every day of the week, the little orphan girl helped the woman selling pomegranates. And, over time, the two grew close. The woman came to pack a little extra lunch each day so as to share it with the girl. The little girl ate until she’d had enough and made a habit of wrapping what remained of her portion to give to the beggar boy once the day was done.

Over the months and years that followed, the children grew quite fond of one another and considered themselves fast friends, rifling through the late-day bins together and laughing at the antics of the most respected members of the citizenry. Indeed, they made many memories together.

There was one day when, beneath the warmth of the afternoon sun, a young wife full with child went into labour while choosing a pomegranate. The little orphan girl lowered the wife into a spot in the shade. The woman pulled rags from a cabinet built into her cart and sent the girl to fetch some water. By the time she returned, the newborn was suckling at his mother’s breast.

Another time, a lady approached the cart in grief, telling the woman that her mother was on the cusp of leaving this world and would be so very grateful were she to come to the family home to pray over her mother in her final moments. The woman nodded to the little orphan girl, who understood that she was to mind the cart until she returned.

One fateful day (though she didn’t realize it at the time), when the little girl arrived at the cart, the woman told her she wasn’t feeling well and asked if she could tend the cart on her own. The next day, the woman was nowhere within sight, so the girl opened the cart for business, knowing well all that she needed to do.

A full week passed in this manner until a messenger arrived to let the little girl know that the woman had died in the night.

“She left this letter for you,” the messenger said as he handed her an envelope, sealed with wax.

My Dearest Amara,

You are a wise girl with a very generous spirit. Had I been blessed with the ability to bear a child, I would have wanted her to be you. You healed my heart with your very presence and have, through your actions, given me every assurance that the work which means so much to me will continue to be carried out by your capable hands.

Thus, I would like for you to continue to tend the pomegranate cart and, if you would be willing, move into my house so as to be a helpmeet to my nephew, who aspires to the spiritual life. You know of him, as you have shared your rations since the day we first met.

May God watch over you,

Mother Pomegranate

 

Together, Amara and the beggar boy built a life in that little cottage in the countryside. While the beggar boy spent his early mornings in meditation and the rest of the day in the streets, practicing humility, Amara sold pomegranates, treated the townsfolk’s wounds, delivered babies and prayed over the dead.

Yet, there came a day, shortly after the first of the new year, that Amara began to wonder what it was all for. Without her mother, she had no past; and, with no one to make her a mother, what future could she–or her commitment to service–possibly know? On whichever day her life might come to an end, there would be no one to continue the work.

The beggar boy saw the depth of her sadness and held Amara tenderly as her tears soaked into the saffron of his newly-acquired robes.

“Please. Look at me, Amara.”

She raised her gaze to meet his, and he placed a chaste kiss upon her lips.

“Had I not chosen a celibate life, I most certainly would have married you, my friend.”

Amara smiled a sad smile and returned his kiss.

In the quiet of winter’s chill, an unanticipated passion began to emerge between them. Forgetting completely the circumstances that forbid their union, Amara and the beggar boy laid together as lovers.

The next morning, Amara awoke to find the beggar boy urgently packing his small bag.

“I made a grievous error by breaking my vow of chastity, Amara. I must leave as soon as I am able and make amends with God.”

Amara remembered what Mother Pomegranate had taught her. Thus, she sat for some time, breathing into her pain. Then, she dressed for the day and made her way into town.

Over the coming months, Amara’s belly swelled with the fullness of new life; and, on a brisk day in the heart of autumn, she gave birth to a baby girl, who she aptly named Chanda.

As Chanda grew from an infant into an intuitive young girl, Amara witnessed within her daughter the same generous spirit that Mother Pomegranate saw within her not so many years ago. At last, there came a day when she sat Chanda down and explained to her how a woman’s life is like a pomegranate, composed of bitter pith and a sweet syrup, forever waiting to burst forth from the seed.

Kelly Moyer is an award-winning poet and textile artist, who often pursues her muse through the cobbled streets of New Orleans’s French Quarter. When not writing, stitching or weaving, she is likely to be found wandering the mountains of North Carolina, where she resides with her partner and two philosopher kittens, Simone and Jean-Paul.