“Welcome, wife of Lukaya,” said the voice. “Please, come in.”

Nonzame entered the small home, taking care to leave her shoes outside, face down, so the snakes and scorpions would not hide in them. The light was dim in the small enclosure and it reeked of burning imphepho. She inhaled deeply, hoping the herb would bring her calm, and banish her strange visions.

“Please, sit,” said the voice.

Nonzame took a place at small round table where two empty teacups sat. Shuffling into the room came an old woman, hair short and white. Despite her obvious age, her posture was perfectly erect. The women exchanged customary greetings before the wise-woman poured the redbush tea.

“Please,” she said, setting down the teapot, “tell me, child, the troubles that bring you here.”

Nonzame explained the baby’s passing, the lack of blood or mass in the sheets. She spoke of the student’s faces, how they blurred and morphed and remained undefined. She told her how a baby’s face appeared in all water, all liquids, from stews to a bath. “I cannot even bear to do the washing-up. I know it attracts cockroaches and disease, but I simply cannot. The dishes must wait until morning when one of the worker’s wives can tend to them.”

The wise-woman nodded. “Tell me, child, can you see the face in your tea?”

Nonzame shook her head. “No, please no. I cannot bear to look.”

“Shhh, child, do not cry. Have your tea and when you have reached the leaves, hand the cup to me.”

The two women proceeded to drink in silence. Noises from outside filtered in: passing footsteps, a bark of a dog, the song of a neighbour. These sounds collected into a basket and fell into Nonzame’s empty womb.

My baby will never have these moments, she thought.

“Child, give me your cup,” the wise-woman said.

Her gnarled hand was heavily adorned with wooden rings. It waited, open and patient. When at last it received the tea’s remains, the wise-woman blew into the cup, before holding it up. A tendril of smoke from the burning imphepho twisted around the old porcelain before dipping over the rim.

A flash of blue!

The wise-woman released a cry.

The cup smashed onto the table.

The two women watched as the remains of the broken porcelain and the dregs of the tea leaves formed a baby’s face upon the scarred wood. Slowly, the pieces lifted, altered, bit by bit, until the face had become the shape of an infant’s head.

“Oh, my child,” moaned the wise-woman. “Your baby is lost but not dead.”

Nonzame stopped breathing.

“When the suns appear as one, they create a powerful force, not to be underestimated. Sometimes it brings unimaginable joy, other times it produces great misery and death. But sometimes, it sucks a body into the land-of-in-between.”

She rose from her seat and walked over to a box sitting beside her tin of tea leaves. She withdrew a purple crystal hanging from a leather thong. “Traveller’s Stone,” she said, handing it to the stunned woman. “It will guide you when you feel ready.”

 ***

Tell us: Some people believe crystals have powers or healing properties. What do you think?