Fragment of Truth

epoch.

TZIMTZUM

0

is a number 100 - 100 that comes from the Sanskrit word śūnya, meaning empty or void. Zero defines the lack of a positional value and in ancient times was shown as a space between numerals.

Tzimtzum is the notion that there is a contradiction between the infinite and the finite. If the Creator is everywhere, how can anything else exist? The very act of creation involved a self-limitation on the part of the Creator, whose presence contracted so that finitude - space and time and the things that occupy them, could emerge.

Were it not so, we would not be!

SUNSET

When the community of Israel was exiled from its home, the letters of the Divine name flew apart. But in the sixth millennium the letter V will resurrect the letter H. In the sixth part of the sixth millennium, the gates of supernal knowledge will open above along with the wellsprings of secular wisdom below. This will begin the process whereby the world will prepare to enter the seventh, Sabbath, millennium, as man makes preparations on the sixth day of the week to enter the Day of Rest, when the sun is about to set.

The Zohar.

El – Hakkari Road, Old City Jerusalem, Israel Palestine

1200 hours Sunday April 19th 1998 CE (5758 HC)

Sharon Abendstern, face haggard and drawn from several days of stress and lack of sleep, sat on the edge of her husband’s bed gently stroking the back of his wizened hand. Aaron’s eyes opened but were glazed over, causing an icy horripilation on her skin. Recovering quickly she asked in a soft voice how he was feeling.

‘The… the… frr… ’ he tried to say, his voice hoarse, faltering.

‘No Arly, it is all right… please try to be quiet,’ she said, stifling her desire to cry out and engulf him in her arms.

Thin traces of salt marked her cheeks, each one a sign of the torment raging within her small frame as she watched her husband dying slowly before her, in incremental, inexorable, tortured steps. A tear fell from her soft brown eyes and onto his hand. She felt she was at the lowest ebb of her life.

The room they were in was set high above the ancient, narrow, cobbled street of El - Hakkari. A muezzin calling the faithful to prayer in the Arab quarter reminded her of Aaron’s fondness for the sound. Three days before, Aaron had collapsed towards the end of an International statistics conference in Jerusalem and had been rushed to a nearby hospital for emergency treatment. After heated argument the doctors eventually agreed to Sharon’s wish for him to be able to die in peace within his home surrounds.

A dog barked in the street just below them and she stood up to look outside. A figure in a black burqa shuffled across her view and disappeared around the corner opposite their apartment. Something in the way the person moved heightened her sense of awareness. She waited, keeping half an eye out for Aaron.

The person reappeared and walked slowly towards them. Her body tensed as the dark eyes behind the burqa glanced up and fixed on her. The person hesitated, and then continued walking towards their building. There was a light knock on the door. Sharon turned towards Aaron, unsure as to what to do.

Aaron cried out in a soft but firm voice ‘Sharon, let her in! It’s all right, let her in… please.’

Sharon was amazed on hearing Aaron speak coherently for the first time since his collapse.

‘What are you saying Aaron? Who is it?’ she asked, perplexed as to how Aaron could know that the stranger was a woman. ‘Do you know who it is at the door?’

Aaron smiled and tried to speak, but no words came out at first.

‘Arly… how do you know who it is?’ she persisted, holding his hand and squeezing it, delighted that her husband was again communicating.

‘I… know… I jus… just… know. Let her in please,’ Aaron rasped.

Sharon crossed the room and opened the door. The person was a woman as Aaron had said. She was clearly Asian. She indicated for the woman to enter and motioned for her to take a seat, then went back to Aaron.

‘Arly… Arly, wake up… !’ Sharon held his head to her chest and rocked back and forth, crying.

Aaron opened his eyes and tried to focus on Sharon. Smiling, he parted his dry parched lips just enough to whisper.

‘Hazael… Hazael… where is he?’ he rasped.

‘Shhh…Arly. He isn’t here,’ Sharon replied, tears pouring down her cheeks. Aaron was asking after their beloved grandson, the love of their lives and son of their only son, Les, now deceased.

Aaron squeezed Sharon’s hand, but could not speak. He turned his head towards the strange woman and managed a thin smile as she came into focus. He tried to say something but gave up, breathing heavily, trying to muster enough energy to talk. The woman stood patiently watching, her arms folded within her tunic. Then walking slowly across to Aaron, removing her burqa, she placed her hand on Aaron’s. The effect on him was electric. He looked up into the exquisite face before him, and gave her a look of instant recognition. He reached out and pulled her gently towards him. There was a pervasive atmosphere in the room, which Sharon was later to describe as the most extraordinary experience of her life.

The woman bent forward to listen to what the Rabbi was saying, her ear close up to his mouth. She saw the stranger’s face vary from deep concentration to amazement as her dying husband spoke in painfully slow sentences. When he had finished speaking he reached to the table next to his bed and retrieved a notebook that he gave to the woman. She whispered some words into Aaron’s ear and settled back into a lotus sitting position, resting her delicate hand on Aaron’s. She was serene, calm and composed.

Aaron continued to stare at the woman, then became agitated and Sharon could see that he was trying to muster the last iota of his strength.

‘Hazael… Hazael… where is he?’ he rasped.

‘He’s not here Arly… ’ replied Sharon.

‘Tell him… the… look to th… th… the position, the two four two… the frag… ment of truth… the fragment … is… is… the… ’ He breathed his last and became still. His eyes were wide open, an enigmatic smile on his face. He was gone.

The stranger took hold of Aaron’s thin wrist between her thumb and index finger, and seeing the deep sadness reflecting in Sharon’s eyes, shook her head. She brushed his eyes closed with her delicate fingers and raised herself to her feet, placing the burqa over her head once again.

‘The fragment… what was he trying to say?’ Sharon asked, her voice sounding to her as if it were not hers. ‘What does it mean?’

The stranger did not answer and put her hand gently on Sharon’s shoulder for a moment before leaving the room without a sound. Sharon, oblivious to the stranger’s departure, began to shake with huge racking sobs, emotion overcoming her.

*

Later that afternoon at the Rabban Yochanan Ben Zakai synagogue on Mishmeret Kehuna Street, Rabbi Aaron Abendstern’s funeral was attended by close on 150 people. The short service in the ancient synagogue was led by one of Aaron’s oldest friends, Rabbi Benjamin Ben Tal, who with great dignity gave his eulogy:

‘Shalom Friends. The passing today of our dear and most revered friend Rabbi Aaron Abendstern is, for all of us, indeed a great sadness. Our love and condolences go to his family and in particular Sharon, his wonderful wife of almost eighty years. He was a man of massive intellect, which he applied diligently in his lifelong work studying the Torah and also in his work within the Aish HaTorah outreach programme, Discovery. He was adept in converting many a sceptic to his beliefs, which may have been due in part to his innovative, fecund imagination. Throughout his long and productive life he put his heart and soul into his devotion to the Torah and therefore the well-being and continuity of the Jewish people as a whole. The pinnacle of his academic career was holding the chair at the Einstein Institute of Mathematics here in Jerusalem, a position he held for almost two decades until his retirement ten years ago. Right to the end his eidetic memory was still as effective as it ever was and he was always ready to share with anyone who was interested in the wealth of his experience. Most of you who knew him well will be aware that he was able to recite the whole of the Torah, word for word, without a single error. This gift stood him in good stead in his mathematical studies of the Torah codes and he genuinely believed that the Torah was of Divine origin, given to humanity as a road map into the future while at the same time being a blueprint for creation itself. He devoted his life to trying to prove this theory, using his encyclopedic knowledge of the ancient sages’ interpretations of the Torah, and his legendary skills as a statistical mathematician of world renown. He rarely divulged to anyone outside of his specialised academic circle his findings, in the belief that the codes should never be used to bring into doubt, in any way whatsoever, peoples’ own belief systems. Such was his integrity. His passing is indeed a tragic loss to his colleagues and friends in the faculty. It may even be a tragic loss to the world. Few had his intellect and desire for the unknown. Even fewer had his ability to see what cannot be seen. On several occasions I had personal experience of his amazing psychic power. We shall all miss him so much. Rabbi Abendstern was sui generis, one of a kind. Shalom.’

Sharon held onto Rabbi Benjamin’s arm as they walked to the grave, her black shawl partly covering her face. Several men carried the simple pine coffin to the gravesite where a respectful silence fell over the assembly. It was cold and blustery, the wind gusting amongst the tall trees lining the graveyard. She thought that the Rabbi’s eulogy was a fine tribute to her husband. Her mind wandered to the arcane subject of his research. She knew so little of what he did and now it was too late to find out. Her mind wandered to Hazael, Aaron’s favorite grandchild. He was the one person she knew who had the intellect to follow through with Aaron’s thoughts and concepts, remembering Aaron’s request for him in his dying moments. She shivered as a sudden chill wind blew past and swept her shawl to one side. She thought she saw a dark shadow passing the grave up ahead. Had she seen it or sensed it? Shaking her head and drawing her shawl back across her face, Sharon watched the men lower the coffin into the grave, the prayers and responses echoing in her mind as she tried to manage the sadness of that moment. Some of the mourners were crying, trying to hold back their tears and remain stoic, others were silently weeping. The men took turns to shovel earth into the grave to cover the coffin. The sun disappeared below the horizon with the last shovelful of earth and the wind abated, the stillness and deep orange glow of the cloud cover echoing the finality of Aaron’s burial.

MOONRISE

Three things cannot be long hidden: the sun, the moon, and the truth.

Gautama Siddhartha

Paro - Bhutan

1630 hours Sunday April 19th 1998

At precisely the same time as Aaron passed away in Jerusalem, Chamba was sitting absolutely still in the lotus position having abruptly stopped his mantra in mid sentence. He had been meditating and chanting the mantra since dawn in the Taktsang hermitage perched 3,000 feet above the Parochu River. The longer than usual meditation was a result of his having sensed a faint vibration from a distant land as soon as he had woken up and there was something wrong with its frequency. In addition to this, in the last hour he had picked up another much stronger vibration and he knew without doubt that his guru would be arriving soon. He felt a surge of apprehension and tried to maintain his composure knowing full well that they were both connected in some way. An hour later his guru Vajrayogini arrived.

‘Namaste Chamba,’ she said, her palms together in the traditional pose.

‘Namaste Swamiji! Welcome. What brings you here with such haste?’

Swami Vajrayogini smiled. She knew that Chamba would have detected Aaron’s life force earlier on and the sense of urgency of her own.

‘He is no more,’ stated Vajrayogini.

‘Yes, but I did not understand at first… ’ replied Chamba, his pulse rising rapidly from the low sixties into the nineties as he noticed in Swamiji’s eyes a deep sadness. Chamba knew now that his time had come.

He frowned and tilted his head to the side in intense concentration. A multitude of vibrations flowed into his subconscious. He studied Swamiji, questioning her without words.

‘There are eight monks coming across the mountains from different parts of the country, all converging on this monastery and should be here within the next hour. They will collect ninety-six manuscripts and remove them immediately to a safer location. I will leave just now as I have further to go.’

Vajrayogini followed Chamba to the library, which was covered from floor to ceiling with several thousand ancient Sanskrit manuscripts, neatly packed one on top of the other. In a cool, dark corner of the library was a group of 108 manuscripts that had been set apart from the others. She carefully selected twelve of the oldest looking ones. All had gold-embossed double-concentric mandala adorning the front cover in exquisite and intricate detail and she appraised their extraordinary beauty for several minutes before inserting them into her shoulder bag. Then she rearranged the balance of ninety-six manuscripts in two groups, one of forty-two and one of fifty-four.

‘Chamba, please make sure that these groupings remain as I have set them apart. The monks must carry approximately twelve each.’

‘And all the remaining manuscripts are to be destroyed?’ Chamba asked, his voice trembling.

‘Yes, unfortunately,’ she replied looking into Chamba’s face, seeking the slightest trace of doubt about their shared but unspoken knowledge of what had to happen next. The sadness in Swamiji’s eyes had dissipated and he could only see a quiet calm. Chamba inhaled deeply trying to remove all self-doubt.

Swamiji smiled at her friend, joined her hands, bowed in respect, and then turned to leave the room. Chamba watched her go, feeling a sense of overwhelming love for the guru he had come to know so well during their long friendship.

Chamba closed the large wooden door after her, giving the huge expanse of the mighty Himalaya before him a last glance. He then settled back on the floor, facing the window, looking up the evergreen valley as the massive silver orb of the moon rose slowly above the peaks, silhouetting their sharpness against the darkening sky. The mantra rhythm of Om arose from deep within his torso and resonated off the walls, amplifying through the hermitage until it reached its zenith, and then stabilised:

‘"Shaanta-Aakaaram Bhujaga-Shayanam Padma-Naabham Sura-Iisham Vishva-Aadhaaram Gagana-Sadrsham Megha-Varnna Shubha-Anggam"

(I bow to Lord Vishnu the One Master of the Universe, who is ever peaceful, who reclines on the great serpent bed, from whose navel springs the Lotus of the Creative Power, who is the Supreme Being, who supports the entire universe, who is all-pervading as the sky, who is dark like the clouds and has a beautiful form)

"Lakssmii-Kaantam Kamala-Nayanam Yogibhir-Dhyaana-Gamyam Vande Vissnnum Bhava-Bhaya-Haram Sarva-Loka-Eka-Naatham".’

(The Lord of Lakshmi, the lotus-eyed One, whom the yogis are able to perceive through meditation. Salutations to That Vishnu Who Removes the Fear of Worldly Existence and Who is the Lord of All the Worlds)

Vajrayogini listened to the deep, almost inaudible hum of Chamba’s mantra vibrating through the membranes of the crisp mountain air as she walked rapidly across the open valley away from the hermitage and upwards into the mountains. Before crossing a precipitous edge into the next valley, she glanced back to see the monks arriving at the monastery, their orange robes reflecting in the bright glow of the moon, a week past its fullness.

An hour later Vajrayogini turned back towards the direction from which she had come and saw thick black smoke billowing from the Taktsang monastery. She knew flames would be leaping from the roof even as Chamba’s mantra continued unabated. The soft, canorous resonance would soon lapse into silence. The hermitage and all its remaining manuscripts would burn to ashes, as would Chamba with them. Chamba was the sole inhabitant at the time and people in the future would only surmise as to what had caused the fire. Only Vajrayogini knew why the manuscripts had to be destroyed - the knowledge they contained would have been distorted and manipulated by unscrupulous forces in the decades to follow. She was certain that the ones she had selected were the only ones that had to be preserved in their original form.

Vajrayogini raised her eyes to take in the beauty of the brilliant coruscating stars, not a trace of pollution to dull their sparkle or the deep blue of infinity between them; noticing the waning orb of the moon, giant in its proportion, hanging, its imperfect surface shining silver just above the jagged peaks. For Swamiji, the moon reflected the reality and powerful energy of its dominant central companion, the sun; like a celestial mother, and a fitting minder for the long and difficult journey ahead. Hefting the sack over her shoulder containing a few provisions for the journey, packed carefully around the manuscripts, and with a joyous energy that gave a spring to each step, she set out for a new and safer place to keep them.

I exist in every story ever written and have many names that have no real substance in the esoteric sense. You, the reader of whatever persuasion, or maybe no persuasion at all, may need a name to refer to me by. I am Aether and essentially mysterium tremendum et fascinans; a catalyst for change residing in the innermost core between the finite and infinite, wherein lies transparency; I can be a shadow or a wind if I will.

BEGINNING

N

is a number 1 x 1036 that measures the strength of the electrical forces that hold atoms together divided by the force of gravity between them.

Anything slightly less would mean a short-lived universe and no expansion.

(Martin Rees - Just Six Numbers)

NSO NSO

1919 -1948

"All the world’s a stage and all the men and women merely players.

They have their exits and their entrances and one man in his time plays many parts."

William Shakespeare

Mr Julian was an English gentleman who had left England through the dreary port of Southampton on a wet, wintery day, heading for Durban in South Africa. His objective was to escape the depression of post-World War I England. Soon after arriving in Bulawayo, Southern Rhodesia, he took a job in the government department of Native Affairs and after seven years in the civil service as a junior working in various parts of the vast country, he was promoted to the senior position of Native Commissioner in the Selukwe area of Southern Rhodesia. There he met and married Jafaru Bollo, a local Matabele woman of considerable standing in the community; a unique event in as much as at that time mixed marriage was not a common occurrence. The locals called Mr Julian by the nickname ‘Nso Nso’ because he could never remember anybody’s name and always referred to this or that person as ‘so and so’. Just after the birth of their first daughter, Jendaya, Nso Nso succumbed to a severe bout of malaria. Jafaru had tried in vain to get the doctor in the closest town to visit them and dose him up with quinine, but as he was on a long trip in the bush collecting statistics for a World Health study, he could not be reached in time. Nso Nso was buried with full honours according to the African tradition, which included the slaughter of several goats and much dancing and beer drinking.

Jafaru was left on her own to bring up Jendaya, moving to Que Que for a change of scenery. There was little known of Mr Julian’s relations back in England, and several people wondered if he had any at all. He had never talked about them.

Around the time Jendaya took her first tentative steps, Jafaru caught the eye of another immigrant, a Scottish gold-miner and cattle-rancher called Robert McAllister Meikle, a colourful character whose nickname was ‘Chirikuri’ meaning ‘a man chewing tobacco inside the earth’. They married within six months of meeting and he became an excellent husband and stepfather to Jendaya, instilling in her a strong ethic in how to live a decent life. The combination of influences from her African mother and Scottish stepfather created her uniqueness amongst her peers.

Years later Les Abendstern saw Jendaya for the first time during his mid-twenties at a dance hall in the tiny town of Que Que in the midlands. It was love at first sight for both of them and they were married within three months. It would have been sooner but there were several hurdles to negotiate beforehand. Les’s father Aaron was born in Lithuania before the turn of the century, in 1898, and then he emigrated to Rhodesia before the start of World War I. After several years of training he became a Rabbi and earned his living serving the Jewish community in his neighbourhood, as well as doing statistical research work for various large institutions in the country to supplement his meager income.

The idea of a Rabbi’s son marrying out of the Jewish faith, and to a lady of colour, was a matter of considerable difficulty within his tightly knit community. Therefore it took some time to persuade them to accept such a possibility. Aaron’s stature as a man of immense knowledge and understanding of the Torah, Mishnah and Talmud, and his brilliant mathematical mind, enabled him to formulate a formidable argument that supported his point of view for Les’s choice of wife. After much debate the community eventually accepted his position, thus enabling the marriage to take place. Aaron then urged Les to marry Jendaya as soon as possible, concerned that the community might change their mind.

In this and all matters relating to the community, Aaron’s wife Sharon supported her husband and son in the best way she knew how, by going about her business in a dedicated manner, working tirelessly for charities and assisting the families with their myriad problems. She also took every opportunity amongst the community to make known her feelings of love and support for her daughter-in-law.

The wedding was a grand occasion attended by the whole Jewish community and by Jendaya’s widespread and varied extended family, all looking to take maximum advantage of the sumptuous feast laid out on the long tables covered in crisp white tablecloths. Rabbi Abendstern officiated, with help from the local Catholic priest, as Jendaya herself was a staunch Catholic. After a short but romantic honeymoon in a small and well-appointed cabin on the banks of the Zambezi River near Victoria Falls, they returned home. Shortly thereafter their son Hazael Abendstern came into the world. The year was 1948.

UNHU

1966

Hazael, who had spent his early years exploring the bush around his parent’s home, sped across the veld on his Raleigh bicycle, dodging the exposed roots of the massive Msasa trees lining the bush track. Just ahead a bush buck was running full tilt and prancing from left to right trying to see its way forward over the tall dry grass, eyes wide with fear. It did not know that his pursuit was for the sake of the chase only. He had no intention of hurting the buck. He loved animals and had a special affinity for them, and birds too. Seeing a patch of wetland up ahead the buck veered left and plunged into the thick green reeds and dropped to the ground, immobile. He sped past, oblivious to the buck’s feint, and carried on for another few hundred metres before realizing the buck had outsmarted him. As he was slowing down, and out of the corner of his eye, he detected what seemed to be a moving shadow in the thick grass to the left of him. The momentary loss of concentration caused him to lose control of his bike and before he knew it his front wheel nicked the side of a larger than normal tree root. His bike careered into the tree and he went over the handlebars, his head slamming hard into the ground. He lost consciousness immediately.

Hazael opened his eyes and saw thick white clouds above him against a darkening sky. His head was pounding with a severe headache and he felt completely disorientated. Turning his head to the side he saw his bike several metres away, the front wheel buckled. He tried to remember what had happened but his mind was in a daze. His collarbone was sore, and he noticed a small cut in his forearm, which was covered in earth and what looked like a sticky gum substance. He left it intact to stem any possible bleeding and raised himself to a sitting position. After a while his headache began to abate slightly and he looked around. The time was 6.30pm and he realised that he had been unconscious for quite some time. It would be pitch dark in half an hour. Darkness in Africa descends rapidly once the sun dips below the horizon when daylife is replaced by nightlife, in all its abundance. He staggered to his feet and lifting the bike onto his other shoulder he took one last look around before walking back the way from which he had come. This took half an hour.

Hazael arrived at the rickety chicken-wire gate of their home where he encountered a barrage of queries from his anxious mother.

‘Where have you been?’ Jendaya asked. ‘Everyone is looking for you. I have been beside myself with worry. You look awful! What happened?’

He let the bike fall to the ground and collapsed at his mother’s feet.

‘Dayo! Quick, come and help me,’ screamed Jendaya looking over her shoulder at their house servant who was staring at them from the lounge window. Dayo ran out and helped Jendaya carry him into the house, then fetched the bicycle and closed the gate. On his return Jendaya noticed that Dayo was acting strangely after seeing the gum-covered cut on Hazael’s arm.

‘What’s the problem, Dayo?’ she asked irritated. ‘Pull yourself together and help me, please.’

‘Nothing wrong, Madam. Nothing. What can I do?’ he asked in a plaintive voice, continuing to stare blankly at Hazael’s arm.

‘It’s nothing to worry about, Dayo. He’s concussed and exhausted, and judging from the condition of his bike, it looks as if he had an accident of some sort. Please help me get his shoes off and lift him onto the bed.’

Hazael lay on his bed without moving, his breathing regular.

‘Fetch some water, please,’ Jendaya said, undoing his belt and loosening his shirt buttons. She uttered an involuntary gasp on seeing his bruise. Dayo returned with a large jug of iced water and a glass.

‘Thank you. Now please wait here with him and don’t move an inch,’ Jendaya said, leaving the room to call the doctor while her servant sat hunched in the corner on a stool, sullen and brooding, staring at the wound on Hazael’s arm.

Dayo could just hear Jendaya in the next room negotiating with the doctor to come to the house straight away. Good, he thought to himself. As soon as the doctor arrived he would be able to leave the room and keep a safe distance from Hazael. Jendaya returned just as Hazael stirred. Dayo rose to leave the room and Jendaya nodded her approval for him to leave.

‘Thank you. Be ready in case I need you later, please,’ she stated firmly. Dayo backed out of the room, hoping against hope that the doctor would clean and dress the wound properly.

Hazael tried to move his lips, which were dry and sticky from dehydration. He gazed into his mother’s eyes unseeingly. Jendaya swallowed hard. She glanced at her watch and estimated that the doctor would arrive in the next ten minutes. She let go of Hazael’s hand and lifted his head to give him some water. He took a sip and smacked his lips together savoring the moisture. He closed his eyes and relaxed and she rested his head back on the pillow.

Dayo stationed himself at the front gate, waiting for the doctor. The cicadas were in full song as were the frogs and a host of other night creatures, all scurrying about, free from the predators of the daytime. An owl flew past his head, he ducked, and seconds later it fell upon an unsuspecting cane rat that had run out of the cover of the hedge to the drain. Dayo viewed this as a good omen. He relaxed a little from his initial forebodings about Hazael’s arm. Just then an approaching car’s headlights lit up the owl clamping its prey to the ground and with an effortless beat of its wings the owl lifted the dead rat into the air and disappeared. The car accelerated up the road and then braked hard in front of the driveway. Dayo opened the gate and the doctor swung into the driveway and then walked up to the front door where Jendaya was waiting.

‘Thank you, Dayo. You can go now. I’ll call if I need anything,’ Jendaya said. Then smiling at the doctor she asked him to follow her to Hazael’s room.

After examining Hazael, the doctor administered a shot of adrenalin followed by a temporary drip for rehydration. He then looked at Hazael’s shoulder and felt the bruise gently. Hazael winced a little with pain. He then examined the cut, cleaned and redressed it.

‘He is slightly shocked and dehydrated. But nothing a good night’s sleep won’t fix. Don’t worry, he will be as right as rain tomorrow,’ the doctor added hastily, trying to calm his anxious mother.

Hazael opened his mouth as if to say something but thought better of it.

‘What do you want to say?’ the doctor asked.

‘Is my shoulder all right, Doctor?’

‘Nothing is broken or out of place so be happy.’

Hazael laughed.

‘Thank you for taking the time and effort to get here so soon, Doctor,’ Jendaya said.‘Please call me if there are any complications.’

As the doctor left the premises and Jendaya had closed the front door she heard Hazael calling for her.

He summoned a wan smile as she entered the room. ‘I want to get up, Mum,’ he said. ‘I’m fine now. I need to call Aoefe.’

Jendaya looked at his pale face and laughed. ‘No! No girlfriends tonight, young man. I’ll call her and tell her you have fallen off your bike and you are fine. You must rest. Doctor’s orders. By the way, what happened?’

‘I think I lost control of the bike, and it was very strange but while unconscious I experienced vivid dreams and then I came to and found myself lying flat on the ground next to a tree.’

‘What did you dream?’ Jendaya asked, her interest aroused.

‘I dreamt that a strange man came to my side and