Garden of Eden
My mother can see the past and the future in the surface of still water. She sits beside me, a copper bowl of water on her knees. Her green eyes turn the metallic gray of the ocean reflecting a storm. She describes the splintered images she receives: a princess, kohl-rimmed eyes above a brocade silk veil, sits breathless under a tree, a unicorn's head on her lap. A ship hurtles towards the moon instead of slicing though waves; figures in bulky armor float inside. A bazaar of heaped spices and cashmere rugs, where customers sip mint tea from painted glasses. But she does not tell me all she sees, visions which bloodshot her eyes and whiten her hair.
Those visions are told only to the men who come to our door. My mother's services do not come cheap; they pay with silver and gold coins embossed with fierce leaders. Sometimes the men come alone, pulling down the hoods of their cloaks, seeking love and fortune. And sometimes they head a small army of men with plumed helmets, emissaries from kings seeking fame and war. They leave gaunt and haunted.
My mother has power over these men, a power I yearn for. But after these readings, pale bruises surround my mother's eyes and the wind seems to whistle through her. Everything has its price.
Once, I fill the bowl from the spring behind our house and stare so long and deep into the water that my eyes burn. I can see only myself, a broken reflection as ripples jostle the surface. An eye, a lock of dark hair. Mother comes in and sweeps the bowl off the table. Rivulets of water soak into the carpet and drip down my legs. She says, You'll see when you become a woman. My mother, and her mother before her, could see into water. In our family, the men make history, but only the women can see it. Her voice is brittle like a cracked pane of glass; one tap can break it into shards.
On my thirteenth birthday, she says, It's time. My breath catches in my chest, and I sit on my hands to keep them from trembling. She places the bowl between us. Liquid splashes over the rim as red as menstrual blood. The water's surface mirrors the long oblong of the window's light and the distorted shadow of a tree outside.
My mother closes her eyes, immerses her hand in the water. She pulls out a pomegranate from another time. Water pearls on its rough skin. She shows me how to crack the fruit open, suck the garnet meat from the seeds. It tastes bitter. She tells me it's from the Garden of Eden.
Deep at the bottom of the bowl I see: a man seizes the unicorn's mane, slits the beast's white throat; blood pools on the maiden's lap. The sky ship explodes into metal shards and fire. Strange machines splinter the bazaar's stalls, spitting smoke as the customers run and fall and bleed.
Now that I can see, I wish only to close my eyes.
LORI SAMBOL