Trick of the Light

By Rachel Bey-Miller

Meet Berg – a rough, unlikely man who, suffering a forty-year-old state of unrest, a modicum of fame as a writer of children's books
and a marriage devoid of success or failure, suffered the world.

 

And meet Shakira – wise, magnetically attractive, ethereal yet contained. Sometimes she imagined that she could see creation – Light emanating from an immaculate heart, stepping down from the Causal Plane, on its way to the world of form, thickening until it reached touching point. And sometimes the room turned to gold, the dust motes coalescing in angelic forms as if to reverse the process and take her Home.

 

Their meeting triggers Berg's journey to Selfhood as he reluctantly leaves his prison of righteousness. But their meeting also has a deep and unexpected effect on Shakira as she finds she can no longer deny the unresolved parts of her ­consciousness. And we realise that even those we admire and look up to are human and fighting their own demons – they too cast a shadow. 

 

So Shakira retreats to a place of solitude. When finally she returns, their shared experiences expose the power of connection between people and our innate ability to transform ourselves, no matter where we come from or what we believe.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Quickfox Publishing
• Release date: Jan 26, 2021
• ISBN: 9781920526283

Rachel Bey-Miller

Rachel Bey-Miller is a long-standing member of the Quickfox Publishing team, having shared the Quickfox vision of empowering self-publishing authors since the company’s inception. Origin­ally qualifying as a Psych Nurse, Rachel went on to complete her BA (English). She has more than 30 years’ experience as a writer, editor and edit­orial project manager. She works for various clients, including South Africa’s largest educational/academic publishing houses, and an international online courseware developer as a technical writer and editor. She is the author of numerous computer and health-related textbooks for major publishing brands, a novel and a self-help book. Her enquiring mind draws her to a variety of subjects, however, she particularly enjoys working on computer, IT, self-help, empowerment, spiritual and health-related books.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Sometimes she imagined that she could see creation – light emanating from an immaculate heart, stepping down, down from the causal plane, on its way to the world of form, thickening until it reached touching point. And sometimes now the room turned to gold, the dust motes coalescing in angelic forms as if to reverse the process and take her Home.

But when the phone rang, the jarring did not extend through to her heart. She took the time it takes to reach a ringing phone at the other end of a high cool house in springtime. Soft white robes lifted, disturbed and settled over and over as she walked the passage that led to everywhere. After all the lessons, all the reasons, all the dramatic knowing and the infrequent epiphanies, she accepted entirely who she had come to be.

And in sustaining that, she sustained an entire universe.

* * *

He found the phone number referred by a friend of a friend of a friend. A scrubby piece of paper torn from an envelope, another unpaid bill. Swearing in small jutting pauses he took it to the window to decipher.

The number indicated the old part of town. Those cultured unmoneyed liberals who raved on about the Conservative Party and spiritual upliftment. Suffering a forty-year-old state of unrest, a creative streak he was convinced he himself created, a modicum of fame as a writer of Afrikaans children’s books and a marriage devoid of success or failure, he suffered the world.

Looking at the number from which he proudly drew a wealth of imagined information and prejudice, he hesitated. Possibly it would be better for all concerned, especially his waning bank balance, if he translated the stories himself. His English was adequate and besides, he doubted whether any third party would have the insight to translate the innuendo and powerful social comment, which lay concealed in clever wordplay and a simple style. No, most of the punch would be lost. The idiom would never stand the journey into another language. It would be an alien in a foreign land. There was no way that tales of a small Afrikaans boy growing up in an Afrikaans community could be translated into English without being tainted.

If he allowed his stories to be translated, they would have to be transposed rather than translated. He had been told of her skill, her talent and her creativity. He would have preferred a little less emphasis on the creative – just skilled would have done perfectly well. Maybe he would find someone else. Same degrees with a little less of the mystique. Berg, she might well refuse to do them at all. She’s odd that way. She could have no money and still refuse. She has a thing about integrity. Oh, and she won’t work for what she calls a ‘binding’ personality.

Who was she to dictate to him how his stories should be translated? They were fiercely his stories. They had taken discipline and pain, all the stuff creeping out of his history to feed into a world bound to misunderstand him. A little boy lonely, unfit for the crude pleasures of a drinking family, self-educated and hopeful. Now at forty much had remained unchanged.

Still, even now, he allowed only a universe that revolved around himself. All else was shut out. Except books.

He knew he needed influence, human sounding-boards, means of growth and mirrors. And he feared loss of control more than he feared mediocrity and sameness.

No, this mysterious lady was not going to be given the opportunity to get her hands on his work. The stories were his, he had thought them up, he and only he had sat for hours writing and rewriting against the sense of betrayal. Betrayal of his culture, his family, the Afrikaner character. The stories had won a long battle and he was not prepared to give them over to someone who would change and distort them just so that her race could read them.

Berg, the English market is asking where the translation is. We promised them a translation. We announced it. And when you protested, we allowed you to find your own translator. You’ve been through six interviews. You’ve contested all of them. If you don’t get someone by the end of the month, we’ll translate them ourselves and publish – remember your contract.

The voice of the almighty publisher in her penthouse suite looking out over the city. A small woman with horn-rimmed glasses and the power to release him on the world that waited for him.

* * *

He rang the number. The number with the old part of town imprinted in its prefix, the rest sevens. After a minute or two the phone was lifted from the cradle, but he heard no voice. He heard only listening.

Good afternoon. You don’t know me. A mutual friend put me onto you.

Then the voice.

Good day. How can I help?

The voice was soft, strong, it lilted away from South Africa to somewhere else. Something tugged at him, to remind him. Further things tugged, things from further away, back in the white tribal village.

And he liked this even less.

I have written and published children’s books in Afrikaans and I need them translated.

Yes?

Not the most overwhelming response he had every encountered.

What kind of businesswoman was this?

And I heard that you do translations. Andrea, the graphic artist recommended you.

Isn’t she a delightful soul, that Andrea? We did a Latin translation of Old English folk tales together. But no one would publish it.

Can I meet you to discuss translating my book, the fees you charge, the deadlines and so on? My publisher is in a bit of a hurry.

A long pause. A meditating pause. A pause that watched the street, the park, the garden and the passers-by. Then one sentence and the phone was returned gently to its cradle.

You don’t want to translate them.

He stared at the phone for a long time. It told him nothing. The line was dead. There were no more words. In the silence the urges asserted themselves – to reconstruct everything she had said, to relisten with another part of his brain, one of the few channels left into his being.

Then the ego shut the brain down and left him with her last words – you don’t want to translate them.

If she knew that, she could know everything. She could know that he was a huge man, unkempt and ugly. A Quasimodo of the suburbs. The Africans talked to him easily, too easily – the way they would take pity on the mentally retarded, the way they never laughed at him.

Then she must know his fraud, the man who had made himself slightly famous, but kept his old friends, the drinkers, the Saturday afternoon lounge squatters, the ex-girlfriends with their untidy husbands, their tattooed, jealous, untidy husbands who amused him.

Then she must know his wife and children. His wife of high school fame. His heroic, humanitarian act made flesh in three children. Marry the school whore and show the world that you care nothing for social ridicule. Marry the school whore and be forever in a lonely vacuum wondering whether she has truly changed her ways.

Then she must know that deep down he was nothing more than the best of the bad bunch he associated with, that he would not leave his kingdom, his perch in the unkempt cage.

The rest of the world would find him ugly. Anonymous fame was all he could hope for.

And yet he knew that his desperation to be known and understood by just one person on this godforsaken planet would carry him past his pride and bitterness. He knew in his most intimate moment that he would approach her again, driven by the motives of the moth in its destructive need for the flame.

He knew he would phone again the next day. He would ask her outright to help him overcome his horror of translations. He would ask for a meeting.

* * *

The phone was connected and silent, but for the listening.

I phoned you yesterday. I want to meet you. What did you mean when you said that I don’t want my stories translated?

She must have heard. He could almost hear her breathe while distant violins filled the spaces. A dog barked nearby and still she said nothing.

Did you hear me?

Why are you calling me?

Because I need a translator.

No you don’t. Not for your stories.

Again the silence. On his end of the line one of the children cried from the kitchen and a pot clattered to the floor. On her end of the line a soft-spoken violin filled in two spaces at a time and a quiet woman waited for answers he didn’t know how to give.

If that is the way you feel, forget I ever phoned you then.

I’ll be in the park at seven-thirty on Saturday morning.

Again the phone was disconnected before he could say goodbye or even consent.

* * *

Again the dream-cum-nightmare. The dominee in long black robes, more like a monk or executioner, walking drunkenly towards him. And as the black-robed dominee passed he spat like a primitive on his face.

After the death dreams, always the drunken dominee spitting on him.

After the dream, the relieved awakening only to find his tears on the pillow and his wife in curlers by his side. Rolled into the middle of the bed by their combined weights, this was how they spent their sleep every night of every year.

Always after the dream, in the deep black night, he wept for companionship, for comfort, for an authentic life. And now he wondered what the woman was doing. Floating happily around in her pseudo-yogic world filled with eastern symbols no doubt. Westerners should remain western. You can’t cross the barriers.

* * *

The bed was drawn down ready for her and there was one thing left to do before sleep took her down, along and through to another day.

Her black cat slipped out of the window. What a temptation, to be perfectly black in the black night. Every night, the little black she-cat cut into the night for a while, unable to resist her eternal temptation.

Walking the long quiet passage, holding the rooms that held the sleeping people, she passed without listening for sighs. Into the garden, slipping into the soft-light garden, faraway streetlamps doing their best, the old trees still, the grass damp and cold. White robes in a black night come to say thank you.

She faced west where the day departed. She stood tall, long dark hair to her waist, barefoot, older than anyone ever guessed, and stared at the blonde stars and the fraying horizon.

Slowly she dropped from the waist in a deep bow. And slowly she lifted and stretched and breathed and lifted and stretched as she thanked, smiling, grinning, almost weeping, she knew where she belonged and who she was. And as she knew, she thanked, and as she thanked, she knew.

Three deep bows and the magic was spent. Three deep bows and the concert in the night was over.

She slipped back into the house, moved quickly along the passage, into her room with the faded stained glass set in sepulchral stone window frames. Small scents of spent incense and roses and animals inhabited the room. The antique guitar in the corner vibrated to the tune of her undressing and moving and lying down.

Then it fell silent as she sank into a deep sleep beyond the house.

One hour later the little cat returned to take up guard on her mistress’s bed, in amongst the sleeping arms and legs. In amongst the dreams and sighs.

* * *

He found the park through the friend of a friend. Apparently close to where she lived, in the old money part of town. But what a park. A great expanse of paths cutting one another off, taking over from one another, intertwining outwards, away, fading off and returning to the main path, over and over.

Left to its own devices at six-thirty on a clear dawn Saturday, the park made him wonder. About how far he had moved from the centre.

How far he lived from the things he wrote about.

Lying on a slatted wooden bench, he heard the birds rousing and carousing, he heard the small stream, and he felt the first rays of the forgotten sun.

All alone and away from his kingdom he felt his world shift. He saw himself from the inside. He felt redemption walk past. And hesitate.

As usual he motioned it away. As usual, he settled for less.

* * *

She had seen him enter the park at the far eastern gate, the park with six gates, one in each corner, two at the sides. He had entered from the eastern gate, a mountain of a man, barrel-chested, glistening with sweat in the sweet morning. He had entered from the east and moved gracelessly along uneven paths until he found a bench.

Dropping an old nylon zipper bag and a black crash helmet at his feet, he had dug into pocket after pocket, suddenly producing cigarettes and matches in a squashed, fat person’s box, a crumpled handkerchief and a pen knife.

He had used the pen knife to pick at his nails while sweat poured down his face and smoke rose from his mouth to meet it.

She had made no judgements, but waited until the sun had spilled over the high acacias before moving off the stone bridge in his direction.

He saw her first. White robes, long dark hair, small face turned to the irises and arum lilies bordering the main path. She did not look up and she moved quietly.

He wiped sweat off his brow and shifted on the bench, the suddenly hard bench. Rise to meet her, greet her. Go on, you deal with women well.

I am pleased to meet you. His hand outstretched in usual greeting.

A smile on a small, full mouth, dark eyes from beyond here, possibly Indian, possibly not. A small physique with none of the usual noticeables. A cluster of brightly coloured ribbons in dark hair. A stream beside a mountain.

Her small hands rose to meet his outstretched palm. Something cool flowed across the palm of his hand just before they touched him. No, maybe it was an imagining. Maybe he wanted magic too much and was now contractually bound to find it anywhere and everywhere.

Come and see the ducks. They’ve been following the course of nature and have ducklings now. They felt the heave of spring and followed suit. Although I’m sure they don’t play bridge.

A small laugh as she wandered down the path, careless of whether he followed, careless of whether the small joke took, careless.

Sitting on a square rock, saying made for sitting on, this one she gestured towards a bench nearby.

He sat down and launched into controlling the situation. He knew that his voice was uncommonly loud, that his nervousness reached through the atmosphere and that she would have some slow, cool way to put him down. He knew that she would have answers he could not hear, that she spoke a special language outside the usual frameworks, that her symbols were private. He knew that she was another cosmic joke come to taunt him. He knew he hated her and was drawn to her. And he knew she didn’t care.

I have written very special stories and have looked everywhere for a translator. I have interviewed six already and none of them came up to scratch. She whispered something to a passing duck. I know you like to give the impression that you’re not interested and probably you aren’t, but I want to show you the stories and maybe you’ll like them.

He tried desperately to rest his case when she didn’t respond, but found the silence overbearing.

Listen, I’m prepared for you to translate the first one and we’ll see from there. What do you think? He paused. Naturally, I’ll pay you for it, whatever it’s like.

She looked at him then. In fact, she examined him minutely. Carefully running her eyes over his clothes, posture, his hands, his craggy ugly face, his old shoes, his sunken blue eyes, the old nylon zipper bag that held his entire existence. Finally, the eyes moved off.

Do you have trouble with drink?

What kind of a question is that? Incensed, irate, how could she know these things? He turned towards his bag and started stuffing his scattered belongings back in on top of old jazz tapes, a book of poetry written while still at school, a spare handkerchief, a bunch of keys, none of which fitted anything he owned anymore. In a flurry of nerves, he fumbled among his familiars and felt afraid. Anger faded and he looked up.

Still, she simply looked at him.

You will come to understand, that is, if you and I stay long enough, that I function very differently from anyone else. You probably think that your writing reflects my kind of being. You might be right. But then you are always right, aren’t you?

He sat in the half-position where her words had caught him. He sat stymied and alone. This person was not with him, she was hardly even there, yet she knew him. She got on where all the dominees and psychologists and philosophers got off. She started where the rest of the world left everything abandoned.

No I am not a psychic, or a clairvoyant or a witch or a devil-worshipper or a shaman or even a devout Catholic. I am a person without. That is all.

Without what? The question led him to the feet of the master, he forgot all, the purposes faded and the questing began in the moment that he asked a question, one spontaneous question.

The eyes looked at him and knew. The eyes looked at him and looked into him and circles widened behind his eyes, the world receded, the circle widened inside his vision and his hands shook. Sweat poured off the mountain and he thought of the Dravidian Indians who swore that mountains moved when they shimmered in the sun. Where the thought came from, he could not know. Then the thought left, and he was left with the eyes and the widening circle moving viscerally and beyond.

Without prescriptions, expectations, judgements. Without social pressure, oppression, righteousness. Without.

The words danced and in dancing took their preordained places on the circumference of the circle. Unconsciously he moved onto the ground, crossed his legs, stamped his cigarette out and watched, listened, hearing at once his own heartbeat and the levels of the sky.

Where you come from, the life you chose ... you fight for rights, reject all wrong, you wrap your creativity in a blanket and keep it close to home. You harbour a small, silent fear that your talent is not big enough to go around, so you keep it close and let it out bit by measured bit. As for your friends, you make sure they don’t come to know you by choosing friends who will support your fraud. They are unwitting collaborators and know no better.

She paused and opened a small pouch that he hadn’t noticed hanging from a belt around her waist. As she drew out a silver flask, he wondered how much else he hadn’t noticed and whether there was alcohol in the flask.

"When you saw me take out this flask you wondered why you hadn’t noticed the pouch before and whether there was alcohol in the flask.

You wondered that