A few years later, to return himself to full health my father, a born salesman, struck a deal with a demon. In exchange for sex. And today, Aunt Eva reminded me, was the day of collection.
We walked out of the village, hand in hand. Aunt Eva’s hair as red as fire, my own pale, and in comparison, uninteresting. Through the fields, lush with wildflowers, bordered with ancient woodlands. It was sizzling hot, scissor hot. As hot as Eva’s hair. The weather for devils to play in. The sky was heart pink, the air smelt of cinnamon cakes, so sweet and hot. It was as though I was falling under a spell.
“Tell me about this man who is coming to collect me, Auntie,” I said. And she turned to me and replied, “He is the Lord of the Underworld. He lives in a palace of clocks. He has an obsession with time and with ladybirds.”
“How do you know all this?”
“The gods talk to me in dreams. Tell me things I shouldn’t know.”
“Why does he like ladybirds?”
“I was told by my mother when I was a little girl that ladybirds are little witches. Maybe that’s why he likes to collect them.”
And we walked into the field where the lightning tree stood amidst an ocean of bursting poppies, little flames burning through the grasses, thousands and thousands of them. We walked through them, as though we were walking through fire, our hands brushing their soft heads, all that red and black, like ladybirds. The colour of the underworld. The tree had a door on it. It was a portal. We sat and waited by the roots in the field of fire flowers. Flowers like bloodstains on a bedsheet.
“Will it hurt?” I said.
“Only the first time,” Aunt Eva replied.
The door opened and out he stepped. A small man, dark haired, black spectacles with a waistcoat covered in tiny ladybirds. He was ugly to me and I was much taller than him. I felt repulsion. He reminded me of dead things: rotten fungi, withered nettles and tripe. He was sticking in my throat and he was enjoying seeing me sickened. He approached us, soft footed, admiring the view of poppies.
“Pomegranate. How lovely to meet you at last. You are not beautiful, but that really doesn’t matter,” and he smiled, sourly.
Aunt Eva spoke. “Will you make a deal with me to save her from this?”
The Lord of the Underworld examined her carefully. “You are a ladybird,” and he circled her excitedly. I did not excite him at all. “I am afraid there are no deals to be struck. A deal was made with her father. I cannot break such a contract.”
“I will go in her place,” Aunt Eva replied.
“So tempting an offer. I would love to have you in my kingdom. In my bedchamber, ladybird. But I cannot.”
Aunt Eva approached him and placed her hand on his heart and he started to scream. She was speaking magic words. The sky broke into lightning flashes, dozens of them, electrical frenzy. I hunched by the roots of the tree, crying, terrified as my Aunt held the Lord Of the Underworld. Her hand gripping his hair in her hands. It was killing her. The gods watched on, and they didn’t know who would win.
And then he grabbed her and kissed her deeply, sucking the life from her. And she fell to the ground in the field of poppies, as though a sleeping princess. I thought, what passion he has for her. No one will ever feel like that for me. And she turned into poppies.
“Don’t worry, Pomegranate. I have put her under an enchantment, turned her into flowers. She is not dead. I could not kill something that wonderful.”
Then he took me by the hand and led me through the doorway into his world.
A Room Full of Pomegranates
The bedchamber of the Lord of the Underworld had ladybirds on everything. Embroidered on the pillowcases, crawling up the curtains, dancing over the mirror.
He takes me to bed. I can hear all those clocks ticking. He hurts me and then he does it again and again. Locks me in the room. He had no other use for me.
I am told I am his wife. I am the wife of the Lord of the Underworld.
The room has little paintings, which hang on the wall – each created in dark oils and each one a picture of a pomegranate. Each one a picture of me, I suppose. There must be a hundred of them. Each one beautiful and sinister. The seeds of the pomegranates are eyes; I am watched from every corner of the bedroom by his spies.
I open a little jewelled box and inside it rest a sharp letter opener, encrusted with ruby jewels.
I stab myself in the heart.
I am floating on the boat of Mr Wishbone, the boat with the little red sail. It is the red of a pomegranate. It is so peaceful, the waters gentle, the air smells of milk, such wonderful softness.
We are sailing away, we are sailing into space.
III: Mr Fingers Attempts to Retrieve his Wife