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“At the market, Auntie.”
The woman held out a hennaed hand. “Come my child, we
will visit someone and return before your mother comes
back.”
The children of this poor, parched town weren’t used to
unexpected invitations. Exhilarated, Maral took her aunt’s
hand and together they ran back to the psychic’s house.
He was still on the same divan when they arrived, his back
against the wall and a fresh glass of tea next to him. The
room was dim and comfortably cool after the heat outside.
The old man kept squinting at Maral without saying a
word. The girl tried to hide behind her aunt’s legs. Like any
other child in town, she was terrified of this ancient man
with half-blind eyes and craters in his old face. The man
gestured at a silver bowl full of water on the floor. The
young woman pushed Maral forwards and told her to sit.
The wood creaked as she did so.
“We were all born from water,” the psychic’s ancient voice
rang in the room. “You have the
Cup of Jamshid
in front of
you, child. If you have a pure heart, the water spirit will
speak to you. She will honor you with the truth.” The words
fell on Maral like little loose rocks from a hill. She tore her
eyes away from the bowl and looked up. An old blanket was
descending over her.