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Water

Posted in Lucerne Village, Mystical Experience, Sacred Geometry, World Myths with tags , , on January 20, 2012 by javedbabar

Valley water was crappy, filled with tannins and iron; it stank bright orange. And Village water was so heavily chlorinated that it tasted like laundry detergent. That’s why Jane went into the bush twice a month to get fresh water. There was a natural spring there, just off the forestry road beside the Syon River. A rutted hundred metre spur took you there.

Jane would fill two 18.9-litre water bottles on every visit. A refill from the gas station was $10 including tax, so she was saving $40 a month, almost $500 a year. Not bad. She also filled some 4-litre milk jugs for convenience.

She was usually alone during her ten-minute turn around. This was good, as she wasn’t entirely sure if this was Crown Land or private land. The occasional entrance of another vehicle created a logistical issue – she couldn’t back out – but these situations were resolved with her water brothers and sisters in a friendly manner. They would assist each other filling up, and then back out together through bushes.

One day Jane found a naked, dreadlocked hobo floating in the spring. Her immediate reaction was shock – was he dead? This changed to fear – would he attack her? Then anger – he was polluting the spring! Then helpless laughter – what on earth was he doing?

Her laughter took a while to reach him, as he was muttering to himself. When he sensed it through the ripples, he blinked his eyes rapidly, covered his genitals with both hands, lost his balance, and sank promptly. His arms and dreadlocks flailed around. The water was chest-high and he settled in the gravel. He sat there with his mouth open, looking fishy.

“Excuse me,” said Jane, suppressing giggles, “I didn’t know you were there.”

“Oh, I was,” he said, looking into the ripples, rather than at her. “Just topping up my seventy percent.” Then he smiled up at her. “They must have taught you at school that the human body is seventy percent water? And that seventy percent of the earth’s surface is covered by water? And that seventy percent of fresh water usage is for agriculture? And that the search for life in space is seventy percent about locating water?”

Jane nodded along, not sure if she was agreeing with or humouring him. She said, “Yesss…”

“Do you know the expression, ‘As above, so below’?”

“I recall it from science class, or was it religion?”

“They’re much the same. It’s a reminder that everything on earth is yoked to the heavens. The moon affects the tides. The sun makes rain. Other planets and stars have subtle gravitational effects. And thus we accomplish the miracles of the One thing.”

Jane was about to say that the “one thing” people used this spring for was drinking water, so would he please get out. But it somehow seemed right that he was there. He was so unexpected that context was impossible. She learned his name was Michel, said goodbye and left.

The next time she came, Michel was floating upside down. This time he’s dead for sure, she thought; he’s taken “As above, so below” too far. But then she heard a sort of gargling, and saw bubbles emerging. He turned around, saw her, waved, lost his balance, and sank. When she asked what he had been doing, he said, “Wu wei. Doing without doing.”

Next month she couldn’t get into the spur road. There was a sign saying, “Do not drink,” and tape saying, “Do not cross”. The Health Police had poked their nose in. She parked her truck and walked in with the 4-litre bottles. When she mentioned the new signage to Michel, he promptly destroyed the sign and tore off the tape. “A just war,” he said.

One day he was coughing. “Just getting used to the water again,” he said.

“But you’ve been in water every time I’ve come,” said Jane.

“Yes, but it’s going to take a while to adjust again.”

“How so?” said Jane, filling her 18.9-litre bottle.

“It took us billions of years to leave the oceans, so it may take a while to get back.” Who were we, Jane wondered – bacteria? algae? – and why would we want to “go back”? Something broke the surface. It was a large red carp. Michel stroked its head, and the fish submerged. “Just getting reacquainted,” he said.

The next time she saw him, Jane gasped and dropped her bottles. They rolled into ruts. She ran to Michel who was sitting beside the spring, tending wounds. “What happened to you?” she said.

“Not everyone feels the same as you do about me being here, Jane. I guess it’s time to move on.”

“What!” she shouted. “Someone did this to you?” Tears started down her cheeks, racing to the spring.

“Yes, but don’t worry. They’re superficial wounds.” He refused to be taken to the medical centre, or to the cops. He said, “It is other people’s water too.” She tried to talk him into coming to her house, at least for a hot meal. He thanked her for her kind offer, but said he was fine.

The next time Jane went to the spring, Michel wasn’t there. She ran back down the spur road towards the river. Far away she saw him – she thought – waving at her, losing his balance, and sinking. She could only smile.

Jane was happy that Michel had blessed the spring with his presence. She knew that pure water was tasteless, colourless, and odourless; but his muttering and strange behaviour had affected the spring somehow. She had heard about the Japanese Professor who said that human consciousness affected water’s molecular structure. Had its negatively and positively charged particles been reconfigured, and its attractive and repulsive forces rebalanced, by a quiet reverse baptism? Water is called the universal solvent for a reason. Whenever Jane took a sip of spring water after that, she felt peace, joy, and love, and all her worries disappear.

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Teacup

Posted in Mystical Experience, Unknown, World Myths with tags , , , on January 19, 2012 by javedbabar

Raj sat cross-legged in bed and drank his tea. This was how he started his day always: slow and civilized. Then it was off to work at the popular tea, coffee, and whisky merchants, Brown Stuff. He was going nowhere there, but it was a steady job.

Raj couldn’t handle coffee in the mornings – it was way too harsh. He would lose his sleep immediately, and with that the crazy wonderland between sleeping and waking that produced his best ideas. He rationalized this as unstructured thought – a Rubik’s cube of possibilities that you solved in reverse. You started with the colours aligned, and twisted them into any arrangement that pleased you. That, rather than uniform colour blocks, was somehow always the answer.

“Good morning!” said a cheery British voice. “May I help you?”

“Huh?” said Raj. He wondered if he was still dreaming, or sick, or hung over. His “whisky tasting” had gotten a little out of hand last night.

“Hey! I said good morning!”

Raj had been sipping his tea with eyes shut, and now opened them wide. Had he left the radio on? Maybe the television? Or Skype?

“What’s wrong with you man! Did nobody teach you manners?”

Raj shook his head and blinked hard. The sound was very near. It seemed to be coming from his teacup. “Getting warmer!” said the voice. “By the way, I must commend you on that. You warm the cup first. I know it’s not quite a pot, but it makes such a difference. These North Americans murder tea. They have no idea.”

Raj peered into the cup, almost expecting to see a little person in there. A sort of lep-tea-chaun. But there was nothing there, just a few drops remaining, and a shiny bottom.

The voice continued. “Let’s get this awkwardness over with. Come on, look deeply into the cup. That’s it. Don’t be shy, put your nose in. Don’t breathe so hard, you’ll fog things up. Now can you see me?” Raj mumbled something, peering into the black shiny teacup. “I’ll take that as a yes. I know that I may look like a creepy reflection to you. Believe me, I’m not too happy about it either. But that’s the best I can do right now. People have been doing this for hundreds of years – looking into tea leaves – and sorry about the C-word – coffee grounds. And studying goat shit and cattle guts – you have to admit I’m better than that.”

Raj was speechless. He could see something moving at the bottom of the cup. But it held only his distorted features.

“Look, I know that you could throw a dice, flip a coin, open a book to any page, or see who comes along next. But stick to the old ways, my friend. They’re tried and tested. The Way of Tea has been with us from the beginning. Think of India and China. And look at the nations promoting it in recent times – Britain and Japan. Both world leaders! Now who pushes – sorry again about the C-word – coffee? Italians, Indonesians, and Ethiopians. All disasters! Need I say more?

Raj nodded his head, forgetting it was still in the cup. He banged the bridge of his nose and top front teeth. He pulled away and put down the cup. He held his nose and teeth.

“You have been initiated my friend. Let’s get to work.”

Raj thought of taking the day off – he was clearly unwell. But he couldn’t stay here either. He needed to get out. So he showered, dressed, and left.

He was drawn to the office kettle. It was in an offset kitchenette, where two was a crowd. A foxy brunette from Sales almost came in, but saw him and retreated. He returned to his desk with his first cup of tea. He was somewhat fearful, and nervously gulped it down.

With his last mouthful, he heard a kind of throat-clearing. “About time too!” said the voice. “What kept you? Anyway, I’m here for you my friend. That sweet lady back there – your heart jumped. You like her, don’t you? Well that’s hardly a challenge, but we should start slowly, so you can build confidence in your new buddy. So look, here’s what I want you to do. Next time she comes in, offer to make her some tea. In fact, insist on it. Say it’s a new blend that she just has to try; her customers will love it. Leave the rest to me.”

Raj made the foxy brunette some tea. By the weekend she was in his bed.

“Next up, my friend, is to strengthen your position here. I’ve noticed that new guy makes you uncomfortable. Why do they keep bringing in consultants? Overpaid buffoons. I know he’s examining your department, looking for cuts. Make him a cup of tea.”

The consultant realized that Raj’s team were the key drivers of profitability within the business. He recommended cuts in the coffee team.

“You are going places, my friend. But your boss has been in that big corner office for far too long. Wouldn’t you say it’s time for him to move on? Let’s give him a good brew.”

The boss announced that he was taking early retirement. He would sail to Kenya with his wife on a tea clipper.

“Sorry for the C-word – coffee is not good for you; it’s got thrice the caffeine of tea. And when you ask for a double-double grande soya mocha frappuccino, who knows what other junk? And whisky is a toxin. It’s not even brown! Just caramel colour. Call a board meeting, and let’s serve them a cuppa.”

The board agreed with Raj’s mantra that there was “No C in Strategy – No W in Future – But both contain T”. Brown Stuff sold their coffee and whisky businesses, and used the funds to buy other tea companies. They became North America’s biggest tea merchants.

Sitting cross-legged in bed one morning, Raj looked into the bottom of his teacup. For a moment he saw his own clear reflection. Almost immediately it was replaced by the distorted version. “You have a meeting today with a scientist who says that tea increases the chances of throat cancer. Make him some tea. Then in your desk drawer, you will find a handgun…”

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Spacebook

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Mystical Experience, Organic Farming with tags , , on January 12, 2012 by javedbabar

“Now, don’t you go readin’ too many books,” said Joseph’s father. “And get too smart. Then you won’t wanna work on the farm no more.”

Joseph’s father was the smartest person he knew, with the exception of his Grandpa, but he never saw either of them read any books. After a hard day’s work, their only entertainment was watching the stars. Joseph wondered how they knew so much when they hardly ever left the farm? “Well someone’s gotta do some work around here,” his father said. “And seeing as you’re a little professor, I may as well carry on.”

Joseph helped him often, but without joy. Why would anyone choose this life of endless dirty drudgery outdoors, when they could be sitting in a smart office in the City having video conferences? Wasn’t that the blessing provided by this advanced economy? The ability to rise above the muck? And the need not to get up at 5am?

Joseph loved reading. And despite his father’s admonitions, there were, strangely, plenty of good books scattered around the house. There were ancient classics – The Iliad, The Odyssey, Gilgamesh, and Beowulf; holy texts – Bhagavad Gita, Tao Te Ching, The Bible and Quran; classic literature – War and Peace, Crime and Punishment, and The Magic Mountain; and modern classics such as Midnight’s Children and The Alchemist.

But the books that Joseph loved most were science-fiction classics. Where regular novelists created new characters and new stories, writers such as Clarke, Asimov, Dick, and Heinlein (or Art, Iz, Phil, and Rob, as he called them),  also created new technologies, new societies, new life forms, new dimensions, and new worlds! He just couldn’t get enough of them. He resented having to sort potatoes, fuel tractors, feed cows, harvest tomatoes, dry chillies, and water, and weed, and plough, and harrow, and cultivate, before and after school. If only he could sit in bed reading sci-fi books.

Mr. Cox was a dealer in all manner of machinery. He visited them yearly, usually in spring, around Joseph’s birthday. He stayed for a few days, setting up and testing new equipment. He was like a distant Uncle to Joseph, and always brought him presents – usually model spaceships. They were really, really good ones – incredibly detailed, and with working lights and lasers and drives.

After dinner, Joseph blew out the candles on his mother’s quadruple-chocolate cake. She said, “Joseph, there’s one for each dimension.”

Then Mr. Cox said, “There you go, son,” and gave him a gift. His eyes were twinkling. The cover said Spacebook. “I checked with your father. He said that you were ready to read this. We both read it when we were your age, and it changed our lives. Your grandpa read it too. It’s a full moon and it’s your birthday. That’s all I’m saying. Happy birthday, Joseph.”

Joseph was disappointed to not receive a spaceship, though he was intrigued by the book. He ran a burst of his electric toothbrush, put on his silver pyjamas, and switched on his tall adjustable reading light that looked like a Martian, before settling into bed. The book was filled with diagrams. There were moons and stars; nebulae and supernovae, local galaxies and globular clusters and superclusters; spiral galaxies and quasars; black holes and white holes – both spinning and non-spinning; and red giants and supergiants.

Joseph fell asleep, amazed by the interconnections and hyperdimensions of space. He saw that Mr. Cox wanted to show him the unlimited possibilities of the universe. He didn’t want him to get stuck on the farm, like his father and grandpa. He wanted him to leave – like a rocket reaching escape velocity. But Joseph wondered why his father would approve of this gift. Surely it went against his beliefs? He didn’t think about this too long though, for he was soon asleep, dreaming.

Or was he?

He awoke on the Moon. A greyish glow infused the layer of dust around him. The temperature was cool, but not chilly, with pockets of heat rising from the scattered ruts. What was that – a Subway wrapper? And a Starbucks cup? And a McBox? Trash from earth had collected in the ruts! Had it floated here by itself, he wondered? Or was it left by astronauts? He had never expected lunar landfill.

His eye caught a red flash above. Immediately he was on Mars. Its surface was the colour of a bloody scab. Thick gases floating made it feel like going into the bathroom after someone had just taken a shower – or worse. He saw straight lines heading in many directions. Were they roads? Boundary markings? Canals? They were abandoned and crumbling. It was a civilization that had perished.

A polished stone glint took him into the heart of the sun. Boiling plasma burst out all around him, as fusion reactions forged hydrogen into helium atoms, producing colossal amounts of light and heat. Magnetic fields reversed constantly, and photons poured out of the suns’ centre. But he knew that this awesome inferno would one day expand, and then fall into itself.

Joseph skipped across red dwarf stars, mid-mass stars, and large stars, as they fizzled into black dwarfs and white dwarfs, and exploded into supernovae. He watched a pulsar collapse into its own centre, leaving a dense core of neutrons, which produced intense beams of radio and light waves, which seemed like cosmic distress signals.

Joseph was at the edge of a massive black hole. But its contents were hidden forever – for even light cannot return from beyond the event horizon. This was all that could ever be seen and known. This death-space anchored our galaxy, and was the unknown centre around which it revolves.

Little prickles bombarded Joseph’s body. He was hit from every direction, everywhere. This Cosmic Background Radiation is formed of the ripples of the early universe, forever flowing. He realized that the nature of our universe is cyclical; it is growth and decay. And we have only the present moment – the now in which we exist – to do what we must.

Then Joseph was in all of these places at once – he was on the moon, on mars, in the sun, on stars, in pulsars, skirting black holes, bathed in radiation, and also back on earth. He was in a multiverse, where all possibilities existed at once. But the earth he was on was not the one he knew. It was now a wasteland, like the moon, or mars. Had there been drought and famine? Resource depletion and climate change? Over population and water wars? Technological chaos and nuclear battles?

Joseph returned with a jolt. Is this how the earth would be? Spoiled and wasted? Was there anything that could be done to save the world? To save this precious earth, his home?

He knew immediately the answer. It was 5am. He got out of bed, washed, and put on his clothes. He waved at Mr. Cox, who was drinking tea and watching sunrise. Then he joined his father in the fields to do his duty. He too would be a nourisher of soils and steward of the earth.

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Golden Apple

Posted in Lucerne Village, Mystical Experience, Organic Farming, Unknown, World Myths with tags , , on January 10, 2012 by javedbabar

Helen hated fruit. You had to wash it and peel it, and check it wasn’t mushy or spoiled, and even then, it was full of pips and junky bits, and maybe worms. You couldn’t just open and eat it like you could with chocolate or a bag of chips. And the taste wasn’t always the same. You could have an orange that was sweet and juicy, and the next one would be hard and sour. If it wanted to get eaten, it should be the same each time, then you knew what you were getting. Fruit was stupid.

However, fruit could not be avoided. Her mother often let it slide, but after conversations with her healthy friend Shannon – went on a fruit frenzy, and this was one of those times. Helen had been told to get some fruit. “Ten-a-day they say, sweetness.”

“That includes veggies too though, mom.”

“Ok, how many fruit and veggies have you had today?”

“I’ve had tomato ketchup and onion rings. That’s two. And potato chips. Three. There were berries in my ice cream. Four. Sprite has limes and lemons. So six so far.”

“I’m not sure all of those count, sugar. I’m afraid my order still stands. Go and buy some fruit.”

Helen biked down to the store – that was healthy! – and went inside. Why do they put all the fresh stuff near the entrance? Then you can’t say you didn’t see it. She began to browse.

Fresh fruit definitely looked good – all those colours: red, yellow, green, purple, orange; and those shapes – long, shiny, round, lumpy, and prickly; but it was those very things that disguised its dark side – the mushiness, spoilage, pips, junky bits, and worms. She looked at their labels. They came from all kinds of places: California, Florida, and Mexico, and further afield: Brazil, Iraq, and New Zealand. She imagined people in those countries sitting in the sunshine with rolls of stickers , putting one on each fruit.

In the corner was a display of golden apples, whose scent intensified as she approached. More like melons than apples, they drew you in. She picked one up. It’s label said, “Do Not Eat”. WTF! What was that supposed to mean?

The new Produce Manager was misting the greens. Helen called him over.

“These apples are the most real thing in the store,” he said with a faint accent. “They are grown in the Valley, in a hundred-year-old orchard, by refugees from Russia. I know them well. They use an ancient way of farming, unchanged for two-thousand years, called Deo-Dynamik. Deo means God, and Dynamik means Alive. They say that they bring forth divine spirit.”

This was way more information than Helen wanted. “But why do they say ‘Do Not Eat’?”

“Each fruit is completely different. Look.” One small and pale yellow, another was large and almost orange, and a third was misshapen like a potato. “People are used to fruits looking alike. But none of these golden apples have the same appearance. And their tastes are even more unpredictable. Their appearance is a warning to everyday shoppers – you may get more than you bargained for.”

“If they are so special, then why aren’t they more expensive?” said Helen. These apples were cheaper than chocolates and chips.

“They cost more to grow, but they are not transported thousands of miles, so the price works out about the same. Look, why don’t you try a golden apple? A free sample. Pick one.”

Helen pointed to the small, pale yellow one. The Produce Manger polished it on his apron and handed it to her. Up close its scent was like her dead grandma’s dizzying perfume, and its skin was sagging, like that on her shrunken skull before burial. She had a moment of revulsion, but her action was already in progress, and ended in a crunchy bite. It sent juice down her chin.

As Helen’s teeth sank into the apple, the apple seemed to bite her back. Her teeth closed upon it, but the apple enclosed her too. She was captured by the life within it. What had the Manager said – Deo-Dynamik? She remembered her mom’s friend Shannon saying that, “Those Russian scientists are clever.” Maybe their farmers too.

Helen felt that she had been given this apple because she was the most beautiful girl in the world. There would be a fight about it, for sure. Other girls would object and create discord. It may even lead to a great war. But she had been led to the apple, and the apple to her. Her beauty was hers, as theirs’ was theirs’. She was its rightful owner.

Helen changed her mind about fruit instantly. This apple would bring her everlasting youth and health. She would retain her natural glow forever, infused with earth magic. If one day she were captured by a liar and deceiver, the earth magic would protect her, and surely force her release.

Within the apple seed, Helen saw mighty trees of the future. The branches of each were heavy with glowing fruits. Each apple ripened in sunshine, and was washed by rain; it was caressed by winds, and sent to earth by thunder. People would try to own these seeds, to change them, to fill them with death. But many would swear to protect these seeds forever.    Helen realized that this apple contained all the world. Its roundness was wholeness. Its shine was illumination. Its body was flesh. Its seed were immortality. By tasting this fruit, she had known this world. She was this world.

Helen’s arm was hurting. Really hurting. She realized it had been twisted around her back. Someone was talking harshly. What was happening?

“Eating our apples without paying, eh? Well, let’s see if you try that again. Bloody kids always stealing fruit. Some excuse or another.” The person put on a series of silly voices. First, high-pitched: “I wanted to be healthy”; then whining: “I was seeing if it was sweet”; then chirping: “I was testing its ripeness”. He returned to his normal, harsh voice. “Bah! Fruit is standardized these days. It’s all the same. It’s all ripe and good for you. Now get out of here, kid. And don’t come back for a month – you’re banned!”

Helen was marched out of the store, quite confused. If this was the Produce Manager, she wondered, then who was the other guy? She never got the chance to find out. He had taken off his apron and badge and slipped out earlier. He had to tend his hundred-year-old orchard, as his people had done in Russia for two-thousand years before coming here.

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Eve

Posted in Lucerne Village, Mystical Experience, World Myths with tags , , on January 5, 2012 by javedbabar

Foolish kids, thought Dave. What were they doing out on Christmas Eve? They must feel like iceblocks, standing there at the side of the road with their thumbs up. At least he had a reason to be out – he was a washed up guy going home from his shift. He passed the kids without really looking.

But then in his mirror, he saw how their shoulders fell as he passed them, and how they hugged closely. Goddam it! Something about those gestures touched him. He turned the truck and went back for them, and told them to jump in the back seat.

“Oy, tank you,” said the boy. “Ve ver cold dere.” The boy’s accent was unfamiliar, maybe Eastern European?

“Yoy, tank you, Sir,” said the girl. Was she Middle Eastern?

“No problem,” said Dave. “Are you heading to Lucerne?”

Neither of them spoke immediately. In his mirror, he saw them exchange quizzical looks, and then the boy said, “Oy, tat’s great. Lucerne.”

“How long you been on the road there?” said Dave.

Again the silence and quizzical looks. “Oy, ve say half-hour.”

“Well, it looks like there’s a blizzard coming. Let’s see if we can get you safely home before that.” Dave threw on a dance playlist from his glory days: Heaven 17, The Orb, Faithless. The blizzard hit hard, as if summoned by these rousing tunes. They pushed on through swirls of snowflakes.

When they reached Lucerne, Dave said, “Ok, where shall I drop you off?”

There was hesitation, before the boy said, “Oy, just here is fines.”

As the girl got out, Dave noticed her heavy shape beneath the layers. She was pregnant! That explained their strange behaviour. But it wasn’t for him to pry. He wished them well and drove off. But in the mirror, he saw it again. Their forlorn postures, and close hug. Goddam it! He turned and went back. He said, “You haven’t got anywhere to stay, have you?”

“Ve vill find where,” said the boy. “Tank you.”

“Look, with her condition, I’m not leaving you out in the cold. It isn’t much, but why don’t you stay at my place? There’s just me there.”

The boy hesitated, but the girl spoke up. “Yoy, tank you, Sir.”

They only made it half way up the Meadows. Dave had never seen snow come down so hard and fast. There was no way the ploughs could keep up. Rather than getting stuck further up, he stopped at Martin’s farm. Even there, the driveway was impassable. He tried to call Martin, but service was down. He pulled up at a barn. “Look, I’ll walk up to the farmhouse. You two stay in the truck. I’ll be back soon.”

Dave returned with Martin. But as they approached the truck, Dave exclaimed, “Goddam it! They’ve gone!”

Martin saw the barn door was ajar. “Ah, there they are.”

They went inside. The girl was lying on hay bales, panting.

“My God!” said Martin. “The baby’s coming. Look, you keep an eye on them here. I’ll call for help on the landline.”

Dave watched as the girl gave birth naturally, assisted by the boy. It was intense. He’d never seen a newborn before. Golden and shining. Maybe every birth was holy like this. It was just the labels we put on it that made it seem foolish, unwanted, or a burden somehow.

But he also knew that this birth was special. There was sudden flashing everywhere – like a rave in his glory days – as three huge snowploughs appeared. All the cows in the field gathered around the barn. The horses snorted and donkey brayed. Mt. Negra rumbled.

What all of this meant, Dave didn’t know. Nothing was certain in his life these days – he had recently lost his wife, his health, and his home. He was living on the edge of the world. But of one thing he was sure. That this morning, he had witnessed the birth of someone he had long been waiting for.

“Can I hold the baby?” he said.

“Yoy, of course, Sir,” said the glowing mother.

It was impossible, he knew, but it felt like the child spoke to him somehow. She said, “I am here for you.”

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White Rock

Posted in Mystical Experience, World Myths with tags , , on January 1, 2012 by javedbabar

Zanu fell into the forest clearing. At its centre was a giant white rock, which glowed in the sunshine, like a turnip at night. It didn’t seem real for a moment – more a ghost stone, or a movie prop, but as he drew closer, he saw crags and shadows. When he touched the rock, his hand went straight through the surface, and he was unable to pull it back. His groping fingers felt nothing. He tried for an hour to extract himself, and screamed and shouted, but no one came. Eventually he fell forward in exhaustion, and was enclosed by the rock.

Everything was white within. There was no ground or sky, or trees around him, just blankness. His body adjusted to the cool, but his legs began trembling, unsure what they were standing on. It wasn’t a surface. It was like a thickness, somehow heavy enough to support him. But where did it stop?

There was a flash of golden. Where had it come from? Maybe he wasn’t inside a rock after all. It could be a thick mist, with yellow leaves falling around him. There were balls and fragments of lustrous light. Brightness in this blankness made him cheerful.

But immediately he felt a sharp blow to his ribs, and was shoved from the back. He fell forward, but onto what? Zanu’s smile became a grimace. People kicked him, and he heard their muffled voices, but couldn’t make out any words. He rolled into a ball, and stayed there, floating in nothing. More than anything he needed to be brave right now. But there was nothing he could do. His bawling filled the blankness and hurt his own ears. Maybe he passed out.

Then a person appeared – literally appeared – as if the mist changed form into a golden being. And this was no ordinary person. Zanu knew an angel when he saw one. She was twelve feet tall with golden skin and hair, and transparent wings. She said something unintelligible, then lifted him, held him close for a moment, kissed his forehead, and placed him back in the blankness, except this time on his feet.

His eyes adjusted. There was a mango tree with one ripe mango dangling high up. This was the source of the golden light, as if that mango were reflected in misty mirrors all around. And then he saw translucent forms of people crowding around the tree, grasping for its fruit. Some people fell and got trampled, like Zanu had earlier.

“What are they doing?” he said to himself, but his voice was transformed and boomed out everywhere. People stopped and stared at him. Uh-oh.

A fat boy said, “We’re trying to get the mango. Can’t you see?”

“Well why are you all jostling each other?” said Zanu. “Why don’t you try together?”

“You must be joking! With them? I don’t trust them.”

“How do you know they won’t help you?”

The fat boy stopped to consider this, as if he had never thought of it before. He said, “They won’t. We all want the same thing. There’s only one mango. And I’m called Adam, I was the first one here. I deserve it.” He looked smug, but then worried. “Look, if you help me get it, I’ll give you half. How about that?”

Zanu agreed, but said that they would need to include the other people too. The more players on their team, the better. And that’s how Adam, Brent, Christi, Deva, Ethella, Fong, Giovanni, Harriet, Indi, Javek, Klim, Luqman, Moldy, Nilesh, Ooty, Patsy, Quru, Rachel, Selim, Tanya, Uriko, Victor, Wilhelmina, Xipe, Yosy and Zanu each got a slice of golden mango. They swore that it was the sweetest thing they had ever eaten. Each slice was a smile. And the next thing they knew, they were all lying in the forest clearing beside the giant white rock.

For thirty years, Zanu dreamed constantly of his experience in the White Rock. He had turned it round and around in his head, but it was still mindboggling. How had it happened to him? And why?

One day, he woke a little later than usual, brushed his teeth, had a glass of water, and opened the door to get some air. As he stepped outside, everything disappeared. He turned back but the door, and the whole house, was gone. He was floating in blankness. He had the feeling of being in the White Rock once again, but this time there was total darkness. The words of the angel came back to him now, intelligibly: “Next time, you’re on your own.”

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