Clarity in Time: A Philosophical and Psychological Journey

By Margaret Hepworth

If your life story was re-told would you be able to piece together the meaning that had always been there?

Rosie ODea, 31, was born to make a difference. She knows it; she feels it. Yet now on a country road, her life hovers in an ethereal dimension between life and death.

We all know the saying your life fl ashes before your eyes. Well it happenedto me. I watched myself relive my life. But something strange was also happening. Mandela, Einstein, a Captain, a Surgeon? Inexplicably, moments in other peoples lives were flashing amidst my own.

And over and over I heard a voice, If only they had listened.

Rosie finds wisdoms embodied in the most unexpected places: Her best friend Holloway; a phrase wafting across a holy mountain peak; in ancient flowers and spiraling shells; Grandmas journal; an Egyptian mosque; a bustling market place; the quiet vibrance of Lake Mungo; a boy with aspergers; a Cambodian temple; deep within; and in the secret experiences of others. Yet amongst the revelations theres confusion. Rosie has fallen in love with a man who cannot return her love and it is tearing her apart. A young woman with an emerging psychic talent, Rosie will find herself having to make a heart-wrenching decision no-one could have predicted.

We all have moments of clarity; Rosies are extraordinary.

Clarity in Time shines with quirky humor, tender sadness, sexuality, spirituality, a social conscience and profound insights into the human psyche. It speaks of taking action, enacting solutions and finding your own freedom and clarity in time.

Right here and now we have the ability to become the most co-operative and connected of all the generations of humanity over time.

Those of the past and of the present have always spoken of future possibilities.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press AU
• Release date: Sep 20, 2012
• ISBN: 9781452505473

Margaret Hepworth

Margaret Hepworth of Australia teaches English and history and is a passionate educator of social justice. Two “nearly grown-up” children and a loving, grounded partner keep her busy and happy. An avid traveller, she gains experience and inspiration from all corners of the planet. This is her first novel.

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Copyright © 2012 Margaret Hepworth

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4525-0546-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4525-0548-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4525-0547-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012913128

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

Front cover photograph, Mungo Angel, reproduced with permission from the photographer, Margaret Hepworth

Balboa Press rev. date: 09/10/2012

Contents

About The Author

Preface

Prologue

Fortitude

Part One

Revelation

The Ethereal

Rosie’s Journey

Thou Shalt Love

Grandma

Jimmy

The Teaching

Monogamy

Women Wade Through Wells Of Underground Sadness

The Girls’ Road Trip

Crunched

Addiction

Evasion

Emergency

Experiential Learning

Protection

Gumnut Café

Therapy

The Creator

Yesterday’s Mum

Hawaii

Part Two

Existence

An Awakening

Post Hawaii Meditation Class

Construction

Disambiguation

I Am

Institute For Advanced Study

Shut Down

The Socio-Emotional Cartographer

The Meeting

The Entwining

Bright

Umbrella Moments

The Unmasking

Mungo

Lake Mungo

A Passing Kiss

The Chaddyshack

Snakes ‘N’ Sockses

The Rose Cottage Effect

Mt Buffalo

The Well

Cambodia

Whale Of An Idea

Necromancer

The Emotional / Spiritual Plane

Propounders Of The Peace

The Book Of Contraindications

Whale Of A Dinner Party

Evolution

The Knowing

The Forest Walk

The Journey

Epilogue

Thoughts In A Park

Permissions And References

To my two children, the stars of my universe

and

To my loving partner, the socio-emotional cartographer.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

When a fellow student in a writing class fired a playful shot, You’re such a teacher, Margaret took this as a grand compliment. Margaret holds a Master of Educational Studies, has been a Head of Campus and a teacher of English and History for over twenty-five years. She has channeled much of her energy into being a passionate educator of social justice. Two ‘nearly-grown-up’ children and a loving, grounded partner keep her busy and very happy. An avid traveler, she gains experience and inspiration from all corners of the planet. Her travels have taken her to Egypt, USA, Canada, China, South Africa, across Europe, to the mountains of Tibet, Thailand, Vietnam, Cambodia, Borneo and around her home country, Australia. Where to next?

Clarity in Time is Margaret Hepworth’s inaugural novel.

It took me decades to learn the wisdom of listening, she said with a wry grin. I just wish I’d learnt it sooner. P.V.

PREFACE

It’s time to speak loudly. We need positive voices in this world. Action! Solutions! Satyagraha!

It’s also time to acknowledge the marvelous people who have helped me through my writing journey. On the third day of sitting in a heart-felt reconciliation conference I returned home and said to my partner, It’s time to write that novel which I always said I would write. His response: Then do it! Andrew, your reflective thoughts, your enthusiastic and considered voice have continued with me through this journey with unwavering support.

My brother Michael and his wife Trish were the first to read my completed manuscript. They revitalized my spirit with their repeated affirmations. My children James and Darcy, have been a source of inspiration for me all their lives. To my patient and caring parents who are so completely unlike the parents in this novel!

To my family, my long standing and new found friends, I thank you all for your words of advice and encouragement. To Elise, for chasing away my fears. To the hard working people of Balboa Press who have tirelessly responded to my most pedantic queries.

Finally, to Gandhi, Mandela, Aung San Suu Kyi and others of their ilk, I thank you for consistently and unashamedly stirring us toward action. It’s time for us all to step up to your plates.

In humanity our thoughts, words and actions are entwined. Let’s put that to good use and find our own clarity.

PROLOGUE

FORTITUDE

South Africa, Robben Island

1972

I t’s all about language! Mandela stated firmly. His jailer regarded him inquiringly. Take yourself for instance, Dirk. Some would call you my captor. The hapless Dirk began a feeble interjection but Mandela had not finished. I’m not calling you my captor, Dirk. I am calling you a victim of circumstance. And you know, my friend, I forgave you a long time ago. Mandela spoke consolingly, patting the gun laden Dirk on the shoulder.

Dirk Kortella had found himself in the most remarkable of circumstances. As a young nineteen year old, loyal to his President and country, Dirk had joined South African Internal Security with the surety and certainty of youth, knowing that truth was on his side. When the African National Congress had declared they would bring the system down he understood this to be treason. When Nelson Mandela, enigmatic leader of the ANC had been captured, Dirk had celebrated, toasting with his colleagues; the bastard’s finally gone under!

So to find himself nine long years later in full-fledged daily discussion with the man himself, sharing thoughts and philosophies in a lonely cell the size of a boot box, was what Dirk had jokingly pointed out to Mandela, an Almost Impossible Thought.

Nelson, if anyone had said to me only twelve months ago, next year you will be sitting with Mandela chewing over life and liberty, I would have seriously punched his lights out. Yet look at us now.

Dirk, if anyone said it to you today, you would still deny it!

It was true and for that Dirk was ashamed; the fact that he could not tell the truth to his friends, family, even his own wife, was Dirk’s greatest source of humiliation and cause for repentance. But he found himself captive within his own dilemma. In apartheid-ridden South Africa, even going to the confessional at his local Dutch Reformist Church could lay Dirk wide open to charges of an unfathomable nature.

For now, both he and Nelson chose to keep their conversations between themselves.

Pray continue, Nelson. Tell me about language as the be all and end all, as you say! His Afrikaner accent rang around the hollow cell.

It is through our thoughts that we create our reality. It is through our language, the way we choose to express those thoughts, that we most greatly influence others in society.

Yes, well that’s obvious, Nelson. A great orator has the power of enormous persuasion and influence.

True, agreed his friend. But I am talking about something far more insidious and pervasive. It is the everyday language of the layman that constructs our reality.

Mandela paused to think for a moment, rubbing at his neatly cropped dark beard as he was want to do when deep in reflective thought.

"Take for example the language surrounding the ‘Conflict in Vietnam.’ A ‘conflict’, Dirk, really?! An undeclared invasion of another country labeled a ‘conflict’. Government rhetoric at its best! But it’s when the public choose to accept it, to take it on, to own it. That’s when it becomes problematic. A ‘conflict’, he repeated indignantly. See how it diminishes the severity of what is going on over there. The Americans are involved in a ‘conflict,’ with Ho Chi Minh, a conflict that just happens to involve the killing of thousands of innocents.

And again, my young friend, stop and think. Let’s bring this conversation closer to home. You are now speaking with, perhaps colluding with, a terrorist. He paused, a cheeky look in his eyes, taunting the younger man now, playing to his fears. His face turned suddenly serious. Dirk, to many I am a freedom fighter.

Dirk sighed. Initially he had hated Mandela. How could he not? Dirk was born and bred Afrikaner; born into and a proud product of the apartheid system. When he first laid eyes on Mandela, shackled, shuffling, adorned in the same kaki, shabby uniform of all the Robben Island prisoners, Dirk could have spat on him and everything he represented. Mandela didn’t look so tough. The African National Congress had sworn to sabotage; Mandela himself had admitted to such plans. But over time, as Dirk had observed Mandela, something served to change him. And he began to understand just who Mandela was and the unconventional power he wielded. For no matter how much hatred was thrown his way, literally taunted in his face, Mandela never failed to maintain his composure and his dignity. Fortitude in the face of inhumanity. Dirk had been close by when his colleague had accosted Mandela. A freshly cut key plunged and held deep in the folds of Mandela’s throat. The pulsating vein only millimeters below the skin. Mandela had spoken quietly, confronting the jailer’s blue eyes with his own deep brown. If you tear open my throat with that key you will effectively unlock every door on every jail cell in this barren, forsaken prison. I’m not so sure that you want that to happen. The jailer’s face had contorted into a palette of immeasurable hate. He hawked loudly and spat in Mandela’s face before straightening and moving on.

Slowly, Dirk’s eyes had been awakened to the brutality that existed within the system. His system! It was he who ventured the first move towards friendship, offering Mandela a stick of gum.

Now they sat yet again together, hidden by the solitary nature of Mandela’s cell. And Mandela continued with this, his latest theorizing.

I come to my main lesson for the day, young Dirk, so listen carefully. We are talking about the common use of language and its influence on our thinking. When we use the word ‘man’ we speak of one man, one person of the male persuasion, such as yourself. When we replace the lower case m with a capital, we are now speaking of . . .

Man, as in all men, ventured Dirk, hesitantly. He was never quite sure where Mandela was headed in these conversations and he didn’t like to appear foolish.

Mandela raised one eyebrow.

Oh and all women too, of course!

Yes, quite right, Dirk, Mandela praised his young companion. The word Man has been used in all manner of texts, including religious dissertations, political documents, scientific journals and so on. For me there are several problems with the connotations of such a word. The fact that it precludes women, for a start. Yes, I know the capital supposedly allows for all people to be taken into account, but let’s face it Dirk, by its very sound in common speech it still flavors our brains with a distinctly male taste. The other reason I object to its use is this. Listen carefully to the word. ‘Man.’ Although plural, again a consequence of its capitalization, it strikes us singular. It sounds as though we stand alone. In isolation. Even collectively as a group, it allows us no connectivity with other groups upon this earth.

Dirk could see Mandela’s point. When he played with the word in his head it was precisely as Mandela pointed out. How about ‘Mankind’ then?

Yes, I had thought of that too. The connotations are certainly better. Myself, I am hoping we can replace the noun by using the word ‘Humanity.’ Think about it Dirk. If every political document referred to Humanity. Instead of ‘All Men are created equal’ we would read ‘All Humanity is equal.’ Where would we find ourselves now if we discussed ‘The evolution of Humanity’? If the Bible stated ‘And God made Humanity,’ we’d be forced by the very way our brains accept language, to think as a collective. To think beyond ourselves, hopefully even beyond the group. Dirk, this is thought in extension!

Suddenly, Mandela’s demeanor changed, his voice lowered and sorrow laced the older man’s tone. I’m fearful, Dirk. The young officer looked up quickly. Fear was a word he rarely if ever heard Mandela use. I look around me at my fellow inmates. I watch their suffering as they are isolated from family, friends, loved ones. Feeling so forsaken, wretched. I fear they are losing their belief, their faith in the existence of God.

Perhaps, Nelson, said Dirk, contemplatively eyeing the barren cell, the cold iron barring Mandela’s physical freedom, his own blood stained truncheon such as was cheerfully carried by all security guards, perhaps instead of pondering the existence of God, we should be questioning the existence of Humanity.

The key snapped in the lock and Dirk, head down, turned slowly away. It was difficult to face his life now. He despised the system that held men like Mandela captive; the very system in which he continued to play a key role. Maybe one day, things will change; An Almost Impossible Thought. Still pondering Mandela’s words, he headed on to the officers’ apartments, back to his wife and young child.

PART ONE

REVELATION

Melbourne, Australia

November 2010

The morning had begun simply enough. Yet unbeknownst to me, I would soon be facing the most complex situation of my life. I leaned back against the kitchen counter, cereal box in hand, casually picking the best bits out of the muesli: the scrunched berries, flaky dried coconut and sweet-sour apricots. Barefoot and sleepy-headed, the coolness of the burnt orange floor tiles was helping me awaken from yet another over-heated sleep. A seventeen year old voice lilted its way down the hallway.

Fuck, fuck, fuckity, fuck, fuck!

Maisy!

What? the cursing Maisy grinned as she appeared around the corner. It’s from a movie. It’s what you say when you are late for a wedding.

For starters, I replied, warily glancing at the fickle kitchen clock, we’re not late . . .

Yet!

"Yeah, alright, we’re not late yet. And secondly, I don’t exactly object to swearing but surely one ‘fuck’ is enough?"

That’s not what Will says!

Oi! I piffed a dried cranberry across the room, hitting my younger sister fair and square in the middle of her forehead. You can’t talk about my boyfriend like that! Anyway, I calmed, you look nice. I’m glad you chose the blue, it highlights your eyes. Maisy had grandma’s eyes, smoky blue and they shone now as they were want to do when she was pursuing me with relentless sassiness.

Thanks. You look good too—pink, stripy jammie pants. Goes well with that ancient white singlet top. Uncle Keith will definitely get a kick out of that outfit.

Ugh! I screwed up my face at the mention of the pawing and insipid Uncle Keith. Checked the clock again and made a mental calculation. Shit!

Shoving the muesli packet into Maisy’s hand, I ran yelling behind me, Do me a favor and feed Orlando. The big, shaggy, white dog pricked up his ears and came padding into the kitchen.

Racing for the bathroom, I banged on Raf’s door on the way past. C’mon, let’s go. Alighting in the shower I spotted the near full bucket of water, collected from showers previous. Bugger. I could just ignore it like everyone else in this house does. But my social-guilt always got the better of me. Deftly wrapping a towel around my naked bod, I grabbed the bucket, lunged through the front door, emptied the contents onto a thirsty rose, noted its instant appreciation and that of its weedy neighbors and headed to the bathroom to start again. Rafael shuffled past me in the hallway; all 185 cm of him. He grunted in my general direction—his early morning salutation—and plonked onto the couch.

Just quite how we all managed to be in the car, seat belted and ready in our wedding best I had no idea. Oh, hang on, one last thing. I darted back in, kissed Buddha on the forehead and ran back out the door. A ‘leaving’ ritual, the leaving being a pink lipstick smudge left in the middle of Buddha’s statuesque rose-stained brow. Once back in the car, engine on, I smiled quietly to myself. I had fortuitously told my predictably late younger brother and sister that the wedding was a full hour earlier than it actually was. And, yes, I admit, more than anyone it was best that I had also fooled myself. I awarded myself a virtual high-five.

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Are we nearly there yet?

Yeah, Rosie, how much further now?

Raf and Maisy were laughing, teasing me, mimicking two year old voices. Our parents were away, off on another of their seemingly endless crazed gallivants across the globe, on yet another ‘extravaganza’. Me being a good twelve and thirteen years older than my brother and sister, I often felt more like a third parent than an older sibling. A ‘siblent’ perhaps. I had baby-sat Raf and Maisy from the days they were born. I didn’t choose to have these babies, my mother would say, applying her red lipstick, straightening her lush red frock, placing the babes firmly into my fourteen year old arms and heading out the door. What? She would look back at my forlorn face and intentionally misread it. Oh, it’s okay, sweetie. I wanted to have Adam and you.

For the last two years or more Raf and Maisy half lived at my place, our place. Our parents’ weekend trips had morphed into interstate and overseas jaunts. You’ll look after the children, won’t you dear? You can take them to your cousin’s wedding. That will be fun for you all. It was alright really. I love my brother and sister dearly and in actuality life was more settled for all of us when they were at mine. My oldest brother Adam would drop by and life as a family of two older and two younger siblings was a lot less complicated without our high-maintenance parents. It was just that every now and then, well, it would be nice to have my own uninterrupted space. And it was expensive too, constantly forking out for two teenagers. Ha, I laughed. I should divorce my parents. Then they would have to pay me child-support!

Catching my brother’s expectant face in the rear vision mirror, his question still hanging on his lips, I let out a sigh.

Not much longer, I said off-handedly. Only about another four hours.

What?! You said . . .

Ha! Gotcha! Geez Louise! Do you guys ever listen to me? We’re only going to Kyneton. I’d say . . . I glanced at the digital clock blinking away the minutes in the central panel of my little blue Mazda’s dashboard, another half hour.

Time for a nap, said Raf from the back seat. You know Rosie, you got us up way too early. Sunday mornings are supposed to be about sleeping in. Plugging himself back into his Red Hot Chili Peppers, he shut his eyes and drifted to wherever it is a teenage boy brain drifts.

Maisy on the other hand, having deliberately situated herself in the front passenger seat for the journey, was on for a chat.

Rosie, she asked with seventeen year old authority, how long have Kate and Danno known each other?

The three of us were off to the charming heritage town of Kyneton. Danno, our cousin, had only just turned twenty-three, in my book far too young to be making such an enormous commitment: marriage. I peered at my lumbering brother in the rear view mirror and smiled. At nineteen years of age Raf was ‘moving’ towards adulthood. But he was so very definitely still ‘moving’; nowhere near ‘there’ yet. And twenty-three? That was only a handful of years past nineteen. Where was the life experience, the knowledge you needed to share a life with someone else? The cropping of the ego required to allow a partnership to flourish on equal terms? Maisy knew my opinions about marriage having been privy to similar discussions on many an occasion.

They’ve been together for three years, I think. Why?

Well boy would mum be mad if I was pregnant when I got married!

I glanced across at her. I didn’t think you knew!

As if . . .

Yeah, I’m sorry Maise. I should have told you. I promised Aunty Kim I would keep it a secret. They want to announce it after the wedding. Don’t ask me why; it’s probably her Catholic upbringing. I really don’t see the problem. Their choice. I suppose we have to respect that.

We chatted on about life and teenage angst at some length until the rhythm of traveling at one hundred kilometers per hour and the early start to the morning found its way to Maisy as well. The gum trees whizzing past her window—one, two, three—having the same soporific effect as the counting of sheep, shutting her eyes, turning up the volume on her iPod, she too entered her own subterranean world.

This left me with my own thoughts, back to my own thinking devices. Let the truth be known, I felt great! Something astounding had happened and if I had to name the feeling it would be . . . well . . . possibly . . . elation. And that was pretty damn good! I had emailed Will that morning, the connection over the airways being a ‘have-to’ even in the melee to be ready to leave on time.

Hey my man! Hope things are going great in Mumbai. I don’t have time to calculate the exact time difference right now but I’m pretty sure you will be sound asleep. So suffice it to say I’m sending you all my love and good luck for the big conference tomorrow/today. I know you will learn lots and be able to share lots because you are so passionate about those new renewable energy systems. I have a great story to share on your return. It worked! You will be mighty impressed with me! Miss you and love you heaps. R xxx PS Buddha sends his luck too.

I had dropped around at H’s the day before and he knew something was going on. Holloway and I had been best mates for years. Now so adept at noticing my slightest physiological change, he began to wheedle it out of me. C’mon Rosie. You’re hiding something. What is it?

Can’t tell you H. Can’t tell you before Will comes home. But you’re right—it’s big!

I had left him on tenterhooks, throwing him a life-line as I walked out his front door, Will’s back soon enough. I’ll spill all next week.

But I was left with a pay-back. Yeah, well I’ve got a secret too! You would die if you heard it!

I had laughed openly. Yeah, yeah H. Whatever you say.

A roadside petrol station came into view. Thankfully! I sidled up to a petrol pump, stopped the car and clambered out, pausing quickly to clutch at my dress. Agh! Strapless dresses! It was Maisy’s doing, she had insisted I wear this dress. Shows off your hips, Rose! Right now it’s showing off more than my hips, I winced. Strapless dresses contain their own myriad of dilemmas. The chief one being they made you stupid. You spend half your mental capacity worrying about ‘things’ popping out and pulling the bloody dress up! Like now, I thought, tugging at the top of my dress, putting those ‘things’ back in their rightful place. And I knew that the tugging and accompanied wiggling itself attracted unwarranted eyes and thoughts. I spotted a middle-aged truck driver climbing down from his lofty perch and quickly turned away.

I also knew how incongruous I appeared right now, pumping petrol in a flowing silky pale yellow strapless dress.

You look like an art form. Maisy had awoken and was peering through the open car window. You know, transcendent beauty in an unsustainable world. Hold still, I’m gonna take a photo! Wow. Those horrendous private school fees that mum and dad forked out to keep their guilt at bay were actually paying off! I grinned and posed flamboyantly for the budding photographer, throwing back my head and mane of dark hair.

I peered through the window into the back seat. Nothing would wake that sleeping giant. Not even the loud lowing of the cattle over there. I clicked the petrol pump back into its holder, spun the cap back in place and walked in to pay, passing by the cattle-filled semi-trailer. Poor bloody cattle, I thought. Two layers of anguished beasts, shifting and calling mournfully in that enormous metallic red carrier. A pre-coffin really. Poor bloody things. Did they know they were so close to death? Could they sense their journey’s end? I moved on to pay for my ‘unsustainable’ purchase.

Throwing the Mazda back into second gear, we chugged up a long, slow rise. Having recalled my emailed hint to Will, my verbal taunts to H and the experience that was the secret itself, it sat now in the very forefront of my mind. I couldn’t contain my vow of silence any longer.

Maise, if I tell you a secret will you keep it to yourself? Gears shifted as we entered an endless, straight section of road, passing brown paddock after drought-stricken dry, brown paddock. I hit the ton.

I’m good at secrets, Rose. Obviously better than you if you are about to tell me one!

Hey, I did well with Kate’s pregnancy, didn’t I? Anyway, remember the dinner party? I continued. Remember I said I was going to make a ginormous effort to put more time into my meditating and see what comes of it?

Yeah, of course I remember. You made us all commit to something.

Well, I said, feeling myself almost glowing. I think it worked. I think I’ve had a revelation. An epiphany of sorts.

An epiphany, eh? Sounds very biblical!

No! I exclaimed, quick to make the distinction. Not biblical. Yet perhaps transformational all the same. Maise, I think I’m really onto something. It really worked! I stated with a shiningly serious enthusiasm that stayed my sister’s sarcasm. The kind of something you want to tell people about. Only thing is, I’m worried they might laugh at me.

Why would they? Maisy was now genuinely intrigued. She sensed I was on my own mission and she’d been privy to some pretty remarkable experiences I’d had in the past. She could tell this was shaping up to be a big one.

I dunno. Put it this way, it’s a sort of discovery. And in the past people have been seriously undermined for saying things which everyone else thinks is rubbish—‘How dare you claim the world is round and we are not the center of the universe!’—and then turns out to be true.

Undermined? Try jailed, beheaded! Burnt at the stake!

I looked across at my sister and shuddered. "Okay, that may be a little dramatic. Look, my discovery—no, I don’t like the word discovery—I think it holds an entire history of falsehoods. Captain Cook discovered Australia. The French discovered Angkor Wat. Seriously? Because the people already living there didn’t know they were there? No, like these, I think mine is not a discovery. I’d rather call it an uncovery. It’s empowering, it’s . . ."

What on earth are you two on about? A sleep-filled voice floated in from the back seat. I dunno if I’m asleep or awake. Must be somewhere in between cos it all sounds a bit surreal to me.

No, it’s real alright. Ground-breakingly real. It feels like knowledge owned and sanctified by the ancients. Maybe it had been forgotten. Maybe it’s been deliberately hidden for eons! Maybe other people know it but it just hasn’t hit our corner of the world. And now I’ve uncovered it!

Cool. C’mon, tell then.

Well, I began, spurred on by their interest. Three days ago I drove down to Chesterfield Park. You know it? Big bushland area. ‘Bout an hour from home. It’s beautiful there, astoundingly peaceful. Kangaroos, kookaburras. So natural! I strolled on my own for a long while. No-one else out walking. I found a long ravine, crossed it carefully over a log bridge and then came across this partially open area. I was completely alone, in the middle of the bush. Isolation! It felt like the place to stop. So I did. I stopped to meditate. And the most remarkable thing happened.

Yeah, go on, prompted Maisy. And . . .

But suddenly I stopped talking. A niggling was stirring in the base of my brain. Having formed in the amygdala, the primeval organ of raw emotion, it was pushing its way stridently forward, into my conscious headspace. I paused to pay it some attention now. Truth be known, I had a spider-sense; that I knew, although I couldn’t really explain it to myself, let alone the skeptics of this world. All I knew was that over the years I had learnt to trust my intuition. I’d heard it said that Man was the only animal on earth who would step through a door, sense fear and yet keep walking right on into it. The more intuitive species, being every other animal on the planet, would sniff danger and retreat. I sniffed danger now.

A shadow, a looming, rumbling shadow cast itself over our car. An enormous ‘bang’! We all leapt in our seats. An explosion? A gun shot? Smell of burning rubber. Jack-knife! I turned. My vision obliterated by fiery metallic red paint, emblazoned gold-leafed swirls. It’s all I could see! It’s all I could see! Swerving directly into our path, loaded to the hilt with two layers of cattle destined for the slaughter house, the semi-trailer’s cabin hit obliquely. A split second of an incredible force driving us sideways, away from our destination, away from our lives. No time for human screaming. Instead a clashing and tearing of metal; two vehicles dueling in a fight to the death. But although battling hard, the smaller vehicle never really stood a chance. It flew into the air, a full meter skywards. Thumped to the ground. Shook. Buckled. Crumpled. The car gave up on itself and all its precious cargo.

The truck driver struggled to push open his door. Moving clumsily yet purposefully he half jumped, half fell out of the cabin onto the road. Shocked and dazed, he sat slumped on the bitumen, the mid-morning sun doing nothing to calm his stinging nerves. Distressed cattle moaned and stamped loudly, demanding release. He glanced their way, then looked towards the smaller