Heart of Stone—Maggie Reid

If you stepped through the gate at 14 Proca Drive, two things were certain:

First, you would enter the most beautiful orchard you had ever laid eyes on. Passers-by could see the tops of trees peeking over the high stone wall, but that was only a small glimpse of the countless rows that stood on the other side, bursting with fruit of all kinds. Entering the orchard was like entering a fairy tale — and indeed, there were some who thought it must be magic. Land was plentiful here, but the poor soil made it impossible to grow anything more than a daisy. Surely there was no amount of water, fertilizer, and sunlight that would allow the trees at 14 Proca Drive to grow so tall and bear such sweet fruit, and yet there they were. The neighbors said the caretaker could grow a garden from a sidewalk crack if she so chose.

Second, Pomona would tase you the minute she saw you. 

The magic of Pomona’s orchard was pure speculation, but the neighbors knew for certain that the place was strictly off-limits to uninvited guests, especially men. Yet every so often, someone new would stroll down the gravel road and catch a glimpse of Pomona picking peaches from her trees, her dark hair shining in the sunlight, and they would be enraptured. They would ignore the “DO NOT ENTER” signs posted at the gate and approach her, only to be met with a painful electric shock moments later. 

Pomona heard the whispers from her neighbors, of course, and felt their eyes on her when she biked the two miles to the farmer’s market every weekend. She knew what they called her — unfriendly, misanthropic, and worse — but she let it roll off of her like a raindrop from a leaf. As long as it kept her orchard free of unwanted visitors, then she was content. 

On one early autumn afternoon, Pomona was tending to her orchard. The heat hadn’t quite died down yet, and her trees needed water. As Pomona carried a bucket from the spigot to the orchard for the seventh time, she heard a voice call, “Excuse me miss, could you please help me?”

Pomona froze. Water sloshed over the lip of the bucket and splashed onto her sandaled feet. She’d received several callers at her gates over the past few weeks — all of them male, of course. There was the landscaper who’d offered to mow her grass for free, the policeman who claimed to be patrolling the area for break-ins, and the gardener who’d gifted her a cutting from his vineyard. Pomona hadn’t let any of them in, but she’d taken the grapevine cutting anyway and eventually coaxed it into growing around one of the elm trees near her house. 

The voice at the gate now was unlike any of those, though Pomona still made sure her taser was in the pocket of her overalls before going to the gate.

On the path outside was an elderly woman, hunched over a wooden cane that she gripped with both hands. Her gray hair was tied back with a purple headscarf, and she wore a white knit shawl over her dress despite the warm day. She lifted one trembling hand from her cane to wave at Pomona. 

“I’m so sorry to bother you,” she said, “But it appears I may have gotten lost.”

Pomona frowned. The closest neighbor was a quarter mile up the road; there was nothing else around aside from empty fields. Her visitors didn’t usually come on foot unless they were hikers passing through on one of the local trails.

“Are you new to the area?” Pomona asked.

The woman offered a tired smile. “Just visiting family, actually. I thought I’d go for a short walk — it’s such a lovely day, you know — but I can’t remember how to get home!” She chuckled to herself. “I suppose that’s what happens when you grow old.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Pomona said.

“Could I bother you for some directions, and perhaps a place to rest awhile? My body isn’t what it used to be.”

Pomona rested her hand on her pocket as she listened to the woman’s words. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt,” she said finally, unlatching the gate and letting it swing open. “Come in. You can have a seat on the patio.”

“Oh, thank you, my dear,” the woman replied as she hobbled through the gate. She reached up and patted Pomona’s cheek as she passed her. Pomona shivered.

After latching the gate closed, Pomona led the old woman to her back patio, where she had two rattan armchairs facing the orchard. Her guest sat down in one, and Pomona took the other, though she ached to return to the orchard. The trees seemed to be leaning towards her, begging for more water. Pomona felt their pain in her soul. Still, caring for a guest came first, even if that guest was an eccentric stranger. 

“Thank you again.” The old woman set her cane down and leaned back in the chair. “What did you say your name was?”

I didn’t give it. 

“Pomona,” she replied.

“Ah.” The woman smiled. “A lovely name for a lovely young lady.”

Pomona smiled through clenched teeth. “And you are?”

“You can just call me Mrs. Thomas.” The old woman’s gaze fell on the orchard then. “I must say that is a beautiful orchard! My grandson told me stories about it, but it truly defies description. You must have a green thumb.”

“I suppose you could say that.”

Mrs. Thomas prattled on. “Of course, not even such a magnificent orchard can exceed the beauty of its caretaker.” She beamed at Pomona. “It would seem as though I’ve been rescued by a goddess today.”

“You’re very kind,” Pomona replied, focusing her attention on scraping the dirt out from under her fingernails. She’s a harmless old woman, she told herself. Nothing to be scared of.

“Now tell me, Pomona dear, do you take care of this all by yourself?”

Nothing to be scared of.

Pomona cleared her throat. “Yes ma’am, it’s just me and my trees.”

“Hm.” Mrs. Thomas was quiet for a moment. When she spoke again, she gestured to the elm tree and the grapevine at the edge of the yard. “Have those two always been intertwined like that?” she asked.

“The elm has always been here,” Pomona explained, grateful for the change in subject. “The grapevine is a recent addition.”

“I see. Very impressive.” Mrs. Thomas turned to look at her. “The elm doesn’t produce fruit on its own, but the vine could not grow upright without the tree’s support.” She paused to let the words sink in. “People are the same way. Perhaps we ought to learn from them.”

Pomona frowned. “I have friends,” she snapped. She was used to the assumptions others made about her, but to hear this stranger make such comments — after she’d been invited inside the garden, no less — was a step too far. “Just because I enjoy solitude does not mean —”

Mrs. Thomas dismissed her with a wave of her hand. “Yes, yes, I’m sure you do, but that isn’t the same as having a partner.”

Here we go.

“I just think it’s a shame you’re here all alone!” Mrs. Thomas continued. “This is a lot for one girl to handle on her own.”

“I’m handling it just fine, as you can see, but I appreciate the concern,” said Pomona.

The old woman seemed to not hear her. “And you’ll have to pardon my frankness, but you’re quite the catch, dear. Not everyone can boast of such beauty and skill as you have. I’m sure the men around here would simply throw themselves at your feet!”

All the better to crush them, Pomona wanted to say, but kept it to herself. 

“I don’t have any need for a spouse,” she said instead. “Besides, the men around here are horrible. Ask any woman in the area and they will agree.”

“Well now, don’t be so quick to judge!” Mrs. Thomas exclaimed, a gleam in her eyes. “There are plenty of suitable young men around. Why, take my grandson, Victor —”

Pomona tilted her head. “Your grandson is Victor Thomas?”

Mrs. Thomas beamed. “Ah, so you’ve met him already!”

“Only briefly.” The details of their encounter were best left undiscussed. It had begun with Victor leaning over the gate and asking for her phone number and ended with Pomona sending him off with a rude gesture.

“Then you haven’t even had the chance to get to know him!” Mrs. Thomas clucked her tongue and reached into her purse. For a terrifying moment, Pomona thought the woman was going to pull out a miniature photo album and subject her to hours of childhood photos of Victor. Fortunately, Mrs. Thomas only brought out a tissue, which she used to dab at the sweat on her forehead. 

“Victor is such a wonderful gentleman,” Mrs. Thomas began. “He’s my only grandchild, but even if he weren’t, he would still be my favorite…”

“That doesn’t even make sense,” Pomona muttered under her breath. She was about to tell Mrs. Thomas that she had to return to her work — let her think she was rude, Pomona didn’t care — but the old woman wouldn’t let her get a word in. 

“Victor traveled a lot in his youth, but he’s much more of a homebody these days. And he’s always been a reliable boy, not… ah, ‘running around,’ as they say. He prefers to spend his time at home, caring for his own little garden. And he’s quite good at it!”

Pomona had to resist the urge to roll her eyes.

“Victor’s the one who told me I should come to see your beautiful orchard,” Mrs. Thomas continued. “I’m sure he would care for your trees just as you do, and he would savor all of the fruit that you harvest.”

Pomona considered this for all of three seconds before turning to her guest. “I’m starting to think your grandson sent you here to harass me on his behalf.”

Mrs. Thomas’s hand flew to her chest. “Oh no, certainly not!” She reached out and clasped Pomona’s hand in hers. Her hands were rough like those of a laborer, not frail like one might expect from an elderly lady. 

“I came of my own volition, I swear it,” Mrs. Thomas added. “But that said, I do think my grandson is quite taken with you. And if I may be so bold, I think you two would make an excellent match.”

Pomona extracted her hand out of the old woman’s grip and stood up. “I believe it is time for you to be on your way, Mrs. Thomas. It’s getting late.”

Mrs. Thomas pursed her lips. “Yes. I suppose so. But won’t you entertain an old woman just a few minutes longer? I promise to be out of your hair soon.”

Pomona hesitated, then sat back down. 

“There’s a good girl.” Mrs. Thomas smiled, but something about it sent a chill down Pomona’s spine. “The benefit of being old is the wisdom that comes with it. You remind me of a girl I knew when I was young. One of our classmates had fallen head over heels for her, absolutely smitten…”

The old woman droned on for several minutes, but Pomona was only half listening. The story was awful from the outset — Mrs. Thomas’s friend was harassed for days on end by this boy, and she turned him down every time. Finally, he got so angry that he stormed off in a rage and died in a horrible car accident.

“My friend was never the same after that.” Mrs. Thomas sighed. “She would always say to me, perhaps that boy would still be alive if she had just given him a chance, if he hadn’t been distracted by his anger with her.”

“Hm,” Pomona mumbled in response. In the time Mrs. Thomas had been regaling her with the wretched tale, Pomona had been reflecting on the last few weeks. There was no doubt in Pomona’s mind that her guest was truly related to Victor — both of them had the same off-putting manner about them, though she’d been later to notice it in Mrs. Thomas. She’d gotten the same feeling from the landscaper, policeman, and gardener as well, though surely none of them could be connected to each other. And yet, her encounter with Victor, then her unusual number of visitors, and now this strange old woman, she had to wonder…

“All this to say, you would do well not to be so hard-hearted, young lady,” Mrs. Thomas said. “You and Victor would get along nicely. It would be a shame to see what happens if you continue to turn him away.”

Pomona arched an eyebrow. “That sounds like a threat, Mrs. Thomas.”

She chuckled and held up her hands in mock surrender. “Not a threat! Just a warning from a wise old woman.”

“I appreciate your concern for my well being.” It was the most generous thing Pomona could think to say. “However, as I’ve stated already, I’m doing just fine on my own. You can see so yourself.”

Mrs. Thomas’s eyes flashed. “You ought not to be so prideful, dear.”

“It isn’t pride. I’m simply uninterested.” Pomona stood before the old woman could argue any further. “You’d better leave before sundown. Let me get you that drink I promised before you’re on your way.”

The old woman seemed to get the message. “You’re a gem. Thank you.”

Pomona nodded and disappeared inside the house, returning a moment later with a glass of lemonade.

“I’ve been experimenting with different flavors,” Pomona said as she handed the glass to Mrs. Thomas. “You’ll have to tell me what you think of it.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s just as wonderful as you.” Mrs. Thomas winked and lifted the glass to her lips. After taking a sip, she beamed. “It’s marvelous! And you made it yourself?”

Pomona nodded. “With ingredients from my own garden.”

“But of course. I would expect nothing less from someone with your talents.” She took another drink. 

“You flatter me.” Pomona smiled. “Drink up. I have plenty more inside if you’re still thirsty.”

“Thank you.”

They sat in silence for a moment before Pomona finally said, “You know. Mrs. Thomas, you said you’re old, but you don’t look a day over thirty. Hardly a wrinkle on your face! I’m impressed!”

Mrs. Thomas sputtered and set the glass down with a clatter. “Sorry,” she said, her voice strained. “Went down the wrong pipe.”

“Take your time,” said Pomona. “I was just wondering what your secret was, that’s all.”

Mrs. Thomas coughed violently again. “Modern skincare,” she said once the fit had subsided. 

“I see.”

The old woman cleared her throat. When she spoke again, her voice sounded like stones scraping against each other. “What did you say was in that lemonade?”

“Just the fruits from my orchard. Nothing fancy.”

“Yes, but —” another cough. “What specifically? It would seem — seem I’m having a reaction —”

Pomona shook her head. “You can’t possibly expect me to just go about revealing all of my secrets.”

“What was in the drink?” the old woman snapped.

“Are you feeling all right, Mrs. Thomas?” Pomona asked.

“I —” Mrs. Thomas was suddenly on her feet, both hands clutching her chest. Her cane clattered onto the patio, and her shawl slipped from her shoulders. She still wore a gown underneath, but her agility and stature made it clear she was neither old nor a woman.

Pomona did not even blink. “There, now that’s out of the way. Doesn’t it feel nice to be truthful for once, Victor?”

Victor scowled, even as his body shuddered violently. His headscarf and wig shook free, giving way to golden curls. Pomona supposed he might be handsome at some level — Victor had the sharp jawline and strong physique she knew other people considered admirable. But Pomona hadn’t been interested before, and she certainly wasn’t interested now that his face was twisted with rage.

“I’ll still have you,” Victor growled, lurching forward.

“No, I don’t think you will,” Pomona replied, nodding at Victor’s feet. 

He glanced down. “What did you do to me?”

“Oh, you’re clever, Victor. I’m sure you can figure it out.” Pomona crossed her arms and watched as the man tried in vain to move his body. “It’s like I said, that lemonade was made with ingredients I grew all on my own.” She waved a hand at the half-empty glass. “You’ve heard what they say about my garden, haven’t you? The rumors are true.”

“You cold-hearted bitch,” Victor seethed.

“Witch, actually. Try and keep up.” Pomona circled around the spot where Victor stood rooted to the ground, like a vulture coming in for the kill. The potion had already worked its way up to Victor’s torso, and still he struggled in vain. 

“You thought you could fool me with all of your silly disguises.” Pomona snorted. “You may alter your appearance, Victor, but there’s no disguising the rot in your soul. It bleeds into every role you play.”

“Please,” Victor pleaded. “We would be great together, Pomona.”

Pomona laughed. “Oh, we still will be. Except I’ll be working in the garden and you’ll make a lovely ornament. How does a spot by the front gate sound?”

But Victor did not respond, because his mouth, like the rest of his body, had been turned to stone.

Today, if you step through the gate at 14 Proca Drive, three things are certain: 

First, you will see Pomona’s beautiful garden, her trees stretching their branches towards the sun. Second, you will see the stone statue that stands at the entrance like a sentry, its face frozen in anger and fear.

Third, Pomona will look up from whatever she is doing. You will see darkness in her eyes, but then she will smile and disarm all of your fears. She will wave her hand towards the stone statue. “You don’t want to end up like him, do you?”

If you’re smart, you’ll shake your head and leave the garden, careful to latch the gate behind you. 

photo by Anne Nygård (via unplash)