Fanny’s Surprise (# 8)

 Fanny looks up in shock. Take off her clothes? Sit here naked? She sees Vetfaan turning to go.

“Wait…”  She Holds up a restraining hand before turning to !Ka. “You have to help me here, !Ka. What is this all about? What does she want to do?”

!Ka confers with the old woman before answering.

“There must be a dance. A long dance, for as long as the full moon lasts. Round and round the fire, shuffling. She’ll teach you the words. After a while you’ll enter another world, a deep world, where you’ll see another Life. She calls it The Different Way. After that, your gift will develop. You’ll be able to see,” he taps his head, “up here.”

Fanny gets up and walks away from the circle of light around the fire. !Tung holds out an imploring hand as if wanting to stop her, but the younger woman ignores it. The events of the day are too surreal to digest in such a short period of time. To think the bones they buried here, were from  her own family? And that coincidence after coincidence eventually brought her back to this place, these people? That, without the Busmen’s help, that little boy would have died and she wouldn’t have been here? The story is so absurd, so fantastic…and yet it has a ring of truth to it.

And now, old !Tung wants to dance her into a trance to awaken something she inherited from her mother, who received it from her grandfather?

Vetfaan walks over to her to put a protective arm around her shoulders.

“If you’re confused, girl, so am I. This day rates as the strangest I’ve ever lived through. I can’t tell you much about anything right now, but I can try to help. If you don’t feel like doing this dance…well, then, don’t. You’ve got a wonderful life as it is, why meddle with things we don’t understand…?”

“I don’t want to do this, Fanie. It must b scary to know what’ll happen tomorrow or the next day.  What would I do if I knew you’d die next week? Or what’ll happen to you and me and Henry?  These are strange, spiritual gifts and talents and abilities I don’t want to meddle with. We weren’t created to know the future until we arrive there. That’s the secret of Life, isn’t it? To seek, to find and never, never give up?”

Vetfaan nods. “I agree. You have everything you need.” He wants to add ‘including me’, but doesn’t. “Let’s go talk with them.”

“I’m not sure about this, !Ka,” she tells the two Bushmen at the fire. “It may be different in your culture, and I respect that. But I don’t think I’m comfortable with awakening things I don’t understand. Can’t I think about it and meet here again next month? This is all too sudden, too much.”

Vetfaan clears his throat. “You see, !Tung, we have a great Book that warns us about such things. For you it may be something you grew up with and accepted as normal. But we believe the spiritual world is forbidden. We don’t understand such things, see? That’s why the Book says we may only pray to God, and Him alone. If we listen to Him, He will provide all we need. That’s why we don’t have shamans. We don’t need them.” Although his tone is kind, there is a firmness to his words that brooks no argument. Fanny’s hand find his in the dark to give it a little squeeze. Suddenly Vetfaan feels ten feet tall.

!Tung smiles sadly. “A part of me believed this would happen, but I had to try. This thing must happen with the full moon, and this is my last. Look.” She slides the skirt made of soft skin to one side, to reveal large irregularities in the region of her groin. She also shows several more glands under her arms. “This disease does not go away with plants.” She asks !Ka to translate again.

My mother had this. So did my grandmother. It is something that happens. First you get weak. Then these swellings come. Then you die. Her tone is matter-of-fact, as if the words have nothing to do with her. Next month I’ll be in the New World.

“It must be some form of cancer,” Fanny whispers. They all sit down around the fire, each with a muddle of  own thoughts.  !Ka slumps back, tired after the day’s exhaustion and fatigued by pain. Vetfaan fishes out the last beer and shares it with Fanny.

“I must tell one more thing, then.” !Tung glances at !Ka who is soundly asleep. “To see in the mind is good and bad. Easy and hard. It gives you the respect of people. “ She sighs. “But it also makes you lonely. People fear me.”

“I can understand that, !Tung.” Fanny moves over to sit next to the old woman. “You have been very good to me. You taught me a lot while I was here. But this thing…I can’t do this. You understand? You were born into a certain way of life.  With me, it is different. I don’t want to know…”

“You are wiser than I thought.”  There is a glint of light in the old woman’s eyes. “Wiser.” She works her lips around the word as if it is something exquisitely foreign. “Then it will be so. My work is finished.”

She gets up to walk over to !Ka, shaking his shoulder gently to waken him. Vetfaan and Fanny listen to the steady stream of clicks as they talk. Then she returns to the fire.

“Mister Vetfaan, tomorrow !Ka will be better. You’ll take him to the doctor who will help him. Thank you for being his friend – he will need your help in the future many times. And Miss Fanny, I see you growing old as a happy woman. You’ll have a good husband. I can tell you who, but it will take away all the adventure of discovering.

“Now I have to go.”

She bows down slightly before allowing Fanny and Vetfaan to give her a hug. The night’s darkness folds around her like a cloak as she walks out of the light, with small, purposeful steps carrying her to her destiny.

“Will she be back?”

!Ka looks at her incredulously. “ Of course not.”

Coming soon…

Weekly Photo Challenge: Home

Maybe we should distinguish between Home and House…

A house is a building, a place to accumulate stuff that’ll decay over time. It does, however, afford protection from the elements.

No matter how elaborate – or basic – the structure is, a house remains an empty shell, waiting to be transformed into a home.

.Home is where you hang your pictures to remind you of the fun you had so far.

Where you arrange the furniture to suit your taste..

Where you can swap tall stories and think out new ones…

Home doesn’t have to be an elaborate place..

Because:

Weekly Writing Challenge: A Picture worth a 1000 Words.

Since my escape from that cell last night, I’ve been extremely careful. If that man with the blue-striped T-shirt sees me, the game will be up. That’s the man next to the tram, scanning the faces around him.

He might not look dangerous, but let me assure you: he is one of the KGB’s best trained agents. That’s why I grabbed Maria, the girl who helped me escape, in a passionate embrace. Two young people in love in Naples – who’d give them a second glance? Pretty soon the tram will cut off his view, and we’ll disappear in the narrow alley behind us.

***

“That’s him! Be careful now – don’t let him see us. We have to surprise him!” His whisper is barely

audible as he unbuttons the tunic. This may get rough…

“How can you be sure? He seems such a nice guy?”

“Look: he’s standing like that again. He always does that when he tries to hide.”

“You think he’s paranoid?”

“Completely delusional. He’s got this imaginary character, Maria, who always helps him. I bet he’s trying to hide behind her right now.”

“Okay. We’ll grab him while he’s watching the other side of the road. Radio the others to bring the ambulance and the straight jacket.”

A Visit by Dee and Dum

Gertruida reckons they’re a man-and-wife team, although it is impossible to say which is which. Both are round, pony-tailed and dressed in khaki. The voices suggest they would make a good soprano duo. Their eyes are dusky-grey, filled with mirth and the bushy eyebrows tend to lift when they laugh. They don’t laugh a lot. And they talk in tandem. They arrived just after opening time.

“Hi, I’m Dee…”

“…and I’m Dum…”

“…like in Tweedle.”

Satisfied that they have introduced themselves properly, the two sat down to order Two glasses of milk… Cold… Thank you.

“We’re used to people staring at us…”

“…because we’re weird. That’s okay. We won’t stay long…”

“…they usually end up ingoring us, anyway.”

Of course Gertruida couldn’t help herself. She had to know.

“We travel a lot…”

“…and we make lists.”

It turned out that Dee wrote up all the positive things they meet along the journey, while Dum noted all the negative stuff.

“But Dum always wins…”

“…because my lists are longer.”

Oh yes, they’ve travelled extensively; here, there, everywhere. All over, in fact; except for the deserted places where no people live.

“There’s no point if there are no people around…”

“…because no people means no Evil…”

“…so there’s no point, is there?”

“So what are you going to do with your lists? Isn’t it a bit foolish to create a list of rights and wrongs?”

They laughed at that, the way you laugh at a joke you’ve heard too often before.  You have to have lists, they say. Without lists you can’t compare and have no way of knowing how things balance out.

“But we don’t just make lists…”

“…we also leave gifts…”

“…for you to use.”

***

“Do you think they made a list here, in Rolbos?” Kleinpiet says after they left. “They surely are the strangest people I’ve ever met.”

“You can bet your life they made lists. They’re professionals, those two. Did you notice how intensely they looked at everybody? It’s as if they mentally weigh up each person they meet. I’m sure they’re extremely serious about this list-business.”

“But why, Gertruida? Why would anybody travel the world to check out what people are? I mean: what do they want to do with those lists?”

“It’s not a new thing, Kleinpiet. Remember how children believed Father Christmas checked out each child – and then decided what present will wait below the tree? Or how the Tooth Fairy rewards well-cared for teeth? We grew up believing we are being watched and behaved ourselves even when our parents weren’t nearby.

“Then we started attending church and Sunday school – and suddenly we became aware of a Higher Presence that knew about everything we did. That was a frightening thought – the constant watch of our most secret thoughts and deeds. Only, the stakes were higher. It wasn’t about a Christmas present anymore, neither about some coins in the slipper before your bed – now it had serious, eternal implications.”

“Yes, Gertruida, but people don’t believe that anymore. They murder and steal and lie as if it doesn’t matter.” Vetfaan shakes his head – the world has gone crazy. “Some attend church and make all the right sounds; but come Monday morning, and you’ll find them scheming to get to the top of the heap. It’s all about Pride, Ego, and Greed – nothing else matters anymore.”

“Maybe that’s why their journey is so important, Vetfaan. I mean: somebody has to remind us about moral values – about Good and Evil – otherwise society will destroy itself eventually. If the church and the courts can’t do it, who will?”

***

“They  will tell the world, won’t they?” Dum is updating the Bad list.

“I hope so. In the other towns nobody believed us…”

“…and it’s a big mistake. That’s why everything …”

“…is such a mess…”

“…even so, we left the gifts, didn’t we?”

***

And so we leave the two intrepid travellers as they visit town after town and talk to person after person. Few recognise them for what they are and most are surprised to find that – in this day and age – Dee and Dum are alive and well, and still hoping to find enough to put onto the Good list to balance the Bad list.

Oh?

The gifts?

Well, it’s a bit of a misnomer, really. What Dee and Dum do, is to dust off a few thoughts and impressions in the minds of people they meet along the way. Sometimes it’s a personal encounter, but mostly people only read about them. (Like you, now.) They force people to take a good, hard look at themselves. Their gift is the reminder that honesty and kindness are the two virtues the world needs more than any other.

Sadly, most people laugh at this absurd idea.

That’s why the Bad list is so long…

Weekly Photo Challenge: Beyond

 

The view from my writing room is an ever-changing canvas Mother Nature works on constantly. Whenever the words stop coming, I can simply gaze out  over the vast ocean and wait. This week, some thunder clouds formed out at sea and while I watched, I was rewarded by a fleeting segment of rainbow – just a little display telling me to wait, the Muse is on her way…

Starting over? Definitely!!

“But we  can’t hold a concert here,” Servaas says earnestly, “who’d come?”

“Not that kind of concert, Servaas. If we asked Oudoom to use the church, then Ben can play there. And we don’t ask money – if somebody wants to donate something, that’s fine. We give whatever comes in to the orphanage in Grootdrink. We kill three flies with one stroke: Ben gets to play, the orphanage will get something and the church will be full, for a change.” Gertruida glances over to Vetfaan. “You’ll see to it, won’t you?”

When Gertruida uses that tone of voice, people pay more attention to what she’s saying. It’s a mixture of playful octaves, with a high ‘you’ll’ and a low ‘won’t’. It’s said in a joking manner, but the eyes are steely-grey and direct – there’s no mistaking that some parts of your anatomy may go missing if you ignored the remark. Sure, he’ll tell Oudoom…

Vetfaan can only smile sheepishly and flex his considerable biceps. Sure…he’d rather argue with a deranged Kalahari lion than cross swords with this woman.

Servaas is brave enough to ask if Ben knew about Gertruida’s plan. She gives him a withering look.

“Ben has been practicing for three months now. The driver of Kalahari Vervoer’s lorry told me so himself. Every time he drives past Bitterbrak, the sound of that violin makes him stop and listen. He says it’s improved a lot. And remember: that driver is a member of the Grootdrink Skoffelorkes – he knows his music.”

Ben, quite naturally, gets taken by surprise by Gertruida’s visit the next day. No, there’s no way. Definitely not. Impossible.

Gertruida ignores the man and walks through to the make-shift kitchen area. The old tin mug and a faded and chipped dinner plate glares back at her from the basin of soapy water. The shelf above the Primus is empty, except for three packets on instant soup (tomato) and a single tin of beans. Without a word, she chucks out the water, loads the mug, plate and food into the basin, and walks out to her car. Ben is so shocked, he can only stare.

Gertruida returns to the cottage, staggering with a big box. She starts unpacking the crockery: four new plates, mugs, a salt-and-pepper set (full), and a set of knives and forks. Next are the groceries: coffee, sugar, bully beef, tinned meat, long-life milk, sugar. By the time she’s finished, the shelf can barely hold everything.

“W-w-what’s this all about, Gertruida? I can’t pay…”

“Oh shush, you silly man. You haven’t been to town lately, so it was logical you had just about no food left here. We held a collection in Boggel’s Place.”

“But I don’t nderstand?”

“It’s not a gift, Ben. It’s your pay for the concert. One piece. You only have to play one piece. That’s all.”

The people of the Kalahari are a proud lot. They’re honest, too. (Most of the time.) Generally, they don’t accept charity. You grace a homestead on an isolated farm with a visit, and you’ll leave with a bag of biltong. Or maybe a leg of lamb. Or some eggs. People in these parts are so independent, that they never want to feel they owe you something. They pay their debts. Always. Gertruida knows this, and that’s why she has no doubt that Ben will reciprocate with a little performance in the church the next Saturday.

With a smile and a mock curtsey, she leaves Ben gaping as she drives off.

***

When the sun sets in its red throne of glory, the patrons in Boggel’s Place empty their glasses and amble over to the church. There’s a box at the door (marked: Orphanage), which fills up with home-made toys and teddybears. Gertruida has lit a row of candles down the small aisle and placed two lanterns on the lectern. The atmosphere is soft, inviting,  as the little congregation sits down in the silence only churches have. It’s different to the quiet outside, where one feels more in touch with the dust and the vast landscape around. Here, especially in the flickering glow of the candles, they become aware of a Bigger Presence – something holy and sacred.

Nobody wants to say anything – the mood is too fragile.

Oudoom and Gertruida exchange worried glances. She had told Ben the concert would be at sundown, and then left; certain he would have no choice. But…what if…

The drone of the old Land Rover lights up the faces with brilliant smiles. Ben is coming! Everybody tries hard to believe they never doubted that he would come; nevertheless, the relief is tangible. The old wooden benches creak and groan as they twist around to see Ben enter the church.

Ben obviously went to a lot of trouble to do this right. The long khaki pants were pressed to smooth the material under a mattress, while the white shirt really seems white in the golden candle-glow. His shoes – shined with sheep’s fat – are even made more impressive by the fact that he is wearing socks for a change.

Ben stops at the door, uncertainty overwhelming him. The fine sheen of sweat on his forehead is clear even in the twilight. Oudoom sees this, and extends both arms to him.

Without a word, Ben walks to the front of the congregation. As he unpacks the violin with tender hands, Gertruida notices he has brought no sheet music along. Then he closes his eyes; takes a deep, shuddering breath; and starts to play.

The music moves like a gentle wave through the audience. In the sad and forlorn melody, everyone is carried back to an age of innocence when it was so easy to believe everything would work out. It drenches the regrets of lost loves and shattered hopes. The notes eddy back and forth amongst the successes and failures that exist in everybody who has ever grabbed at life’s trapeze – missed – fell – and got hurt. It’s a melody of healing, one that touches everybody in that church; even Ben, who plays on with his eyes shut and the picture of a beaming Lori in his mind. She’s there, he is certain, smiling her approval as she dabs away a tear.

There is a hushed silence at the end of the piece as the shabby man packs away his cherished violin. There’s no applause. It isn’t necessary. The shining eyes and arms reaching out to comfort each other say it all..

Gertruida will join the others at the bar later on, after she has spent a few quiet minutes with Ben in the church. Starting over is so difficult – so painful. Its foundation is previous failure; its future is so uncertain.  Along Life’s way there are loved ones who find new, greener pastures; some find new partners; and some depart on the final journey. Whatever we aim for doesn’t always reward us with the expected bounty. And in the late-night hours, every soul on this planet will – on occasion – wrestle with the age-old question…what if…?

This is when Ben’s music will be the rising tide to float the floundering ship. It’s the wings that lift us above the storm. It’s there, in the happy smile of a child, receiving an unexpected gift. It is, in the end, the flickering glow of a candle in a small church, reminding us that starting over is the only way ahead…

In a Crisis

The Daily Prompt made me remember…

During my specialist training, I had to rotate through ICU. There the principles of taking care of the unconscious patient on a ventilator are learnt, and that experience is used for as long as you handle a scalpel. Some patients had metabolic problems, septicaemia or were recovering from major surgery; each of them posing situations a good surgeon must be able to manage. That initial rotation through ICU is extremely important to any doctor who treats critically ill patients.

It was during my stint in ICU that one of my patients had a particular problem with his heart rate and the consultant told me to do a cardioversion. I had never seen the procedure before but he explained that it was rather simple. As the patient was fully conscious, I was to give him a bit of Pentothal, and while he drifted off to sleep, an electric current is passed through his heart. Readers familiar with ER-TV shows know that’s when the doctor shouts “Clear!” and pushes the little red button on the paddles. Now in those days, things weren’t so sophisticated. The red button was grey. The dial on the defibrillator had to be set on a certain strength (no little LED lights), and the ECG machines were huge brutes with a mass of complicated connections.

I explained to the patient what was going to happen and gave him the Pentothal—just a little, as he was going to be asleep for just a minute or so. He smiled as he drifted off into sublime sleep. I set the machine, applied the paddles, and pushed the little grey button. The patient gave a little shudder. I glanced up at the console of the ECG machine. A straight line had replaced the wriggly squiggle of his abnormal rhythm. I felt ice water dripping down where my spine used to be. That straight line meant that I had, all by myself, officially killed my first patient!

I panicked. I had to do something, and quick! I replaced the paddles, and gave him another shock… straight line. Shock again… straight line. Another one… straight line. By now the patient’s chest was adorned by the red circles of my efforts, making him look like a pancake baker with Parkinson’s disease. Sweat was running down my nose as I frantically tried to think what to do next.

At this time the patient sat up and gave me an exasperated look. His Pentothal-induced sleep had long worn off.

“My G-d, Doctor, when are you going to stop?”

It took me what seemed a lifetime to figure it out. With my first shock, the ECG machine had blown a valve (yes, they still had those bulb-like stuff in there, in those days!) and of course, hence the straight line. When I connected him to the machine of the patient in the next bed, a completely normal ECG pattern rewarded me.

The patient left ICU a few days later, convinced that I may be a good doctor, but as a technician my future was in doubt.

(From: Facing Surgery with Christ, Tate Publishers)

Starting Over … Possible?

Two months later…

Ben sits down at the table to open the package he picked up in Upington. It took a lot of guts to go to the post office and present them with the slip of paper that released the package to his care. The large red stickers yelling Fragile! seemed to jump out  at him, reminders of the frail nature of the instrument as well as his resolve to  try again.

Getting rid of the bubble wrap and the Styrofoam, the violin and bow shines like new as he lifts them from the case. The luthier has done an excellent job. His violin. The precious instrument that shattered his dreams.

“They had great hopes for us,” he tells the violin, “but then Lori happened and the music stopped. I’m sorry.”

It sounds stupid to talk to a violin, even worse to apologise to it; and Ben has to smile quietly at himself.  It’s a habit he developed over the years. Living alone as he does, the sound of his own voice is often the only sound around – except for the creaking of the corrugated roof as it heats up or cools down.

““Now you’ve even been re-stringed for me and set up, the bow has new hair and you look as good as new.” He tests the strings by plucking them unstopped, and makes a few turns on the fine-tuners to compensate for the new-string stretch. Then he plucks them again and is amazed at the flood of emotion the sound releases. After all these years of studiously ignoring the violin in the cupboard, he feels a strange, sweet elation building as he cradles the chin rest in his neck. He’s suddenly young again, a student of music, with dreams of becoming one of the greats.

His fingers try to find the right spots on the fingerboard, but the years of farming has robbed them of the instinctive movements to create the right notes. The bow, too, moves uneasily across the strings. His elation fades away into despair – he had been so stupid to think he’ll pick up where he left off. Boggel was wrong: he’ll have to start all over again. There was no question of resuming his career as a musician – he’s lost it all.

Ben walks over to the shelf where he stores his old books and music scores. Even the notes are foreign now. He has to think, like a grade one scholar, what the symbols mean. Yes, he thinks, that’s how I started. Working out each note; until after years the notes and the music came together to become one with him and the violin. It was so easy then…

He blows out the candle after he packed everything up again. It was stupid…a folly…a mistake.

When he falls asleep at last, the dream comes back. The two chairs and the table, the wine and the bread, the little stream and the flowers. And then, by the magic only dreams possess, Lori appears from the shadows to sit down at the table. She’s older – he notices – and the once-beautiful hands seem gnarled and deformed.

“It’s the piano, Ben. The piano did this to me. The black-and-white keys took me all over the world – I played in every major concert hall in five continents.  People told me I was the best. Then they wanted more. And more. I played in cafes, hotels, casinos, opera houses, convention centres, churches. I played until the music died within me, Ben. Oh, I could still strike the keys at the right time with the right pressure – but it became a science, not an art. It was something I had to do, not wanted to do. An obligation, not a pleasure.”

The dream-Lori reaches over to the wine, and fills up her glass. An old lady, dressed in the finest of jewellery and dresses, but even these are unable to hide her misery.

“We have only so much within each of us, Ben. Talent. Joy. Grief. Laughter. When we are born, we are issued with so many days and so much ability. It’s a limited supply, Ben. When it’s finished, it’s gone. It happens to so many professional people – celebrities in entertainment and sport – and then people call it burn-out. Some try drugs, like Elvis or that Jackson kid. Others drop out. Some commit suicide because they cannot live without the adoration of an audience.” She smiles wryly. “That’s what I am now. Burnt out. Finished. I don’t want to go on any more.

“But you, Ben, you haven’t used even a bit of your talent. Your quota is still full. Use it, Ben, but use it wisely. Do that for me, Ben. Please?”

He wakes up with a start. Yes, the dreams are always very realistic and life-like, but this one was exceptionally vivid. He can remember the sun of the greying hair, the spilled drop on the table cloth. She seemed so terribly sad! And she didn’t touch the wine…

While he waits for the Primus stove to heat up water for coffee, Ben sits down to stare at the violin case. Inside the beautiful wooden box are the violin, the bow, and his dreams. He’s kept it closed for so long… When the coffee is ready, he pours the aromatic black liquid in his old tin mug and waits for it to cool down.

Then, with infinite care, he lifts the violin to his neck. His right hand folds comfortably around the bow. His fingers rediscover the fingerboard. When the first notes fill his cottage, the first rays of sunlight reach over the horison to announce the new day.

***

Far away, in the  Goldenes Kreuz Privatklinik in Vienna, Dr Grüber gratefully accepts a mug of coffee from the tired nurse.

“You tried everything, Doctor. Its was just too much for her.”

“Yes, I know. But she lingered on so long, I started to hope… It was almost as if she waited for something.”

“Now we’ll never know, will we? Even the note is strange. I will hear him play again. I wonder what that means.”

She watches the doctor walk down the long corridor, shoulders slumped in defeat. He’s so tired, she thinks. Fatigued. Burnt out.

“Get some rest,” she calls after him.

He doesn’t hear as the doors whoosh to close softly behind him. Death is such a sweet release from suffering – a new, clean beginning; the ultimate start-over. Life, he decides, is the playground we can mess up before the real game kicks off. His hand fumbles in the pocket of the white coat to find the reassuring coldness of the syringe. Yes, he thinks, sweet, sweet release. Bring it on…

Starting Over? Impossible…

“You want to start over?” Servaas stares at Ben Bitterbrak in disbelief. “Surely you’re not serious?”

Ben kicks at a loose stone in the road, shrugs and spreads his arms wide. They’re on their way to Boggel’s Place for a quick drink before Ben starts the journey back to his shack on the other side of Bitterwater.  What’s there to say, anyway? He’s lived in isolation for so long, who cares what he does?

“I shouldn’t have told you guys about Lori. It must have been the Cactus Jack. I mean, I never talk about her…”

“Yes, but that doesn’t stop you thinking about her, Ben.” Gertruida’s voice is kind and soothing – she can see he’s upset. “And I have this thing about unfinished business. If you want to make contact again, we would all like to support you. No man is an island, Ben, not even here in the desert.”

They move the chairs on the veranda to the shade as Boggel shuffles over with a tray full of beers. He knows they will be thirsty after last night’s partying.  He listened attentively to the story of Ben’s lost love – that’s what barmen do when it gets late and the regrets bubble to the surface of the one-too-many glass of beer. Boggel always says the combination of barley, hops and water is the oldest truth-serum known to man. Gertruida usually adds her own theory: regrets and manners have an inverse relationship when men drink too much.

“The other day I saw a striped mongoose,” Boggel tells them as he puts down the glasses, “a medium-sized one. He was with his family”

Gertruida allows a quizzical frown to develop on her forehead. She knows Boggel is famous for his animal stories and that he manages to twist them to fit in with the conversation – but this remark seems completely out of place.

“I was on my way back from Grootdrink, when I spotted a family of them in the veld, not far from the road. Now, you know we have lots of meerkat around; but the striped mongoose is a rarer animal in these parts. Well, of course I stopped.” Boggel sits down with them, apparently finished with the story.

“Ag, come on, Boggel! Where are you going with this story?”

“Well, as I sat there looking at the little family, a martial eagle swooped down and caught one of the teenagers. It was quite dramatic.  The poor animal had no idea what was going on, and his family looked on – perplexed – as the eagle soared high before landing in a tree nearby. I thought that was it. Exit one mongoose. I felt rather sad, you know?” Boggel pauses, with a small smile hovering at the corners of his lips. “Then the damnest thing happened. One of the males in the family – he must have been their leader – scooted off across the sand towards the tree. The eagle had been poised to start feeding when it noticed this, and sat up straight to keep an eye on the approaching mongoose. Maybe he thought he’d have a double helping or something, I don’t know. The teenager in his claw stopped wriggling around, apparently resigned to its fate.”

A good barman can stretch a story over several beers. It’s a talent they have. Boggel waits for the next prompt before going on.

“That mongoose hurried up the trunk of the tree and attacked the eagle. I’ve never seen anything like that before. It ran straight down that branch towards the predator, obviously intent on rescuing the hapless teenager in his grasp. The eagle backed off a bit, started flapping his wings … and dropped his prey. Then it flew off, clearly disgusted at the display of aggression.

“Within seconds the whole family gathered around the little figure on the ground; but soon it got up and they all scampered off across the veld. It was quite something…”

Servaas takes a long sip, sighs and watches Boggel through his bushy eyebrows.

“And why are you telling us this? Or are you just making polite conversation?”

“The point, you guys, is that it takes a certain amount of bravery to help somebody you love. You have to go against your instincts. You need to climb over the barrier of your comfort zone to storm that eagle in the tree. And it all depends on what and who the eagle is…”

“Oh, I get it!” Gertruida snaps her fingers. “Ben is caught up in regret, and you want us to untangle him from that? Set him free, as it were?”

“Yes – but you have to decide about the eagle: is it the past – or the future?”

“Geez, Boggel. Did you sleep with the light on, or what? You’re losing me completely here.”

 

It’ll take a few beers before they all understand. Sometimes the Past Eagle keeps on tugging us back to happier times. The eagle of regret swoops down and carries us off the feed on the thought: what if… It traps its prey in the claws of possibilities and opportunities that never realised – and never will.

Then there’s the Future Eagle that calls us along the road, wanting to hurry towards the end where everlasting joy awaits.  This, too, is a what-if eagle, and equally dangerous. As Gertruida says: there is no happy ending. Never. Either people change or they die. Somehow, the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow remains a myth.

“That’s why you have to wriggle out of those claws, Ben. You first have to make peace with yourself. Life happened. You made choices. She went her way and you, yours. That’s why you have to start with the present – accepting the past and knowing you can’t change it.

“Equally, you can’t go on imagining the future owes you something and that you’ll be able to start over where you left off. Too much water under the bridge, my friend. You’ve changed. She’s changed. Maybe you will find common ground, and that’s good. But first the both of you will have to accept who you are at this stage of your lives.

“Starting over is a misnomer, Ben. Nobody starts over on a clean slate. You are the sum of the experiences of your life – and you should use that to resume, not restart.”

Vetfaan shakes his head. When Boggel gets into this mood, nobody gets fresh beer.

“Okay Boggel. You put Socrates to shame. Now let’s start over and imagine you are here to serve beer. How about it.”

Boggel smiles shyly.

“Service will resume shortly, Vetfaan.”He turns to look Ben in the eye. “Let the past go, Ben. Be yourself. If you want to write Lori a letter, do so. But start with Now, and not with Then. Then may have been great, but Now is the mongoose running up the tree to release you from Then.”

Gertruida says Boggel should have studied something after school. He’s quite intelligent, according to her. The rest of the group on the stoep will agree if she says this; nodding enthusiastically as they wait for the next round. However, Boggel lost them in his convoluted argument about past, present and future.

“Starting over. Resume…” Kleinpiet whispers as he shakes his head. “Imagine making it so complicated.” He looks up as Boggel serves the next round. “The mongoose got away, didn’t he?”

That’s the problem with stories, Boggel thinks. People want happy endings. Starting over implies that something went wrong with the first try. It takes a lot of guts to stop harping about that, and taking a good hard look at where you are right now. Then, with hope and faith, resuming becomes a reality.

Starting over? It’s a myth…

Beware the Playful Jackal..

“You learn a lot by watching animals,” Vetfaan says, “especially the clever ones, like a jackal. They are so clever, they can be con-artists or politicians.”

“If you insist on making comparisons, try to use things that aren’t the same. It’s more convincing that way. Effective communication is a skill, you know?”  Gertriuda looks up from her knitting with a irritated frown. She gets like this every time she reads a newspaper. Boggel tried to hide the latest edition of the Upington Post – the one with the president on the front page – but she ferreted it out from under the counter.

“I watched one the other day. Just as the sun set, I was on my way to my house, when I spotted a movement in the veld.” Vetfaan ignores Gertruida completely. “I stopped the bakkie and tried to see what it was with my binoculars. He was so well camouflaged that it took ages to spot him, but he was stalking a rabbit and I eventually got them both in sight. First, he crawled nearer, like a dog does when it wants to impress you. On his belly, crawl, crawl.” Vetfaan tries to imitate the animal, but his paunch is too big; and he has to stop when everybody laughs. “The rabbit knew he was there, I’m sure. It was watching the jackal very carefully, lifting his front paw as if he was uncertain what to make of the situation. Now, I don’t care how stupid you are: when you’re a rabbit and a jackal comes crawling along, you have a pretty good idea what’s on the jackal’s menu for tonight. That rabbit just sat there, staring at the crawling beast.

“And you know what he did then? He started fooling around – playing the clown. The jackal rolled over, played dead, jumped up and ran a little circle before going down on his stomach once more. The rabbit looked at him, went hop-hop, and looked again. All the time, the jackal moved closer. And closer.” Vetfaan signals for another beer as he remembers the little game the two furry animals played. “All friendly-like; two old pals having a romp in the sand for the fun of it.”

“Tell me he didn’t kill the rabbit!” Precilla’s hands are over her mouth, her pretty eyes wide in horror.

“That jackal sneaked ever closer, and then started to make little fun-bites. You know? Teeny little snaps of the teeth, showing the rabbit he was just putting on a show. Nothing to be afraid of.”

“Come on, Vetfaan! Tell me he didn’t do it!” Her voice is strained. “That poor rabbit shouldn’t play  with…”

“You’re right. The last fun-bite was the killer. Chomp! Exit rabbit, stage left. Hero on stage, enjoying supper at his leisure. And he did take his time, too – as if the foreplay made him appreciate his meal even more. No running and skidding around rocks; just a meal delivered, easy as you please, right there where he wanted to enjoy it.”

“Ag no, Vetfaan! That’s a stupid story! How can you expect us to believe you?” Precilla desperately wants to believe it’s all a lie.

Ten minutes later, amid the hush on the stoep after Precilla’s angry departure, Gertruida gets up to fetch the newspaper.

“It’s true, isn’t it? The jackal and the rabbit and the game? I see it’s all over the front page as well. Zuma wants to speed up land reform – and abolish the principle of willing buyer, willing seller. He says the ANC will fix the economy. That; in the same week our credit rating has gone down again. And, he says here, businesses that backed the ANC, will prosper. What does that mean? It’s the most subtle, civilised form of bribery…

“No, that jackal played it perfectly. He got the rabbit.  If we don’t wake up, the same is going to happen with us. It is, my friends, inevitable…”

Vetfaan agrees. He says he knows Nature must take its course, and that certain events are predictable in the maintenance of the food-chain. The ecosystem is the ecosystem, nobody should tamper with it. But he drives around with his rifle on the passenger seat these days. Just in case. At the very least, he can scare the jackal off to go and do some proper hunting.