Rip’s right palm rolls expertly under the glass ball that’s spinning so fast it looks like it’s not moving at all. He flips it high into the air and it lands in the nook of his left elbow. Yes! he exclaims, repeating the action so the ball lands on his right arm, runs down his forearm, balances on the back of his hand then he runs it back into his palm.
Asha and Dream clap from a blanket spread out under a flowering jacaranda; the grass is carpeted in brilliant purple blooms. Rip takes a bow and tosses the ball to Dream.
She catches it. No way honey, you come and take this back. This is yours now. I’ve done my time with that thing.
That ball really helped you, Rip. Asha says. It’s become your way. Don’t lose focus and don’t get distracted, you’re really mastering it now.
Rip saunters over to the blanket and picks up the ball.
Dream turns to Asha. I disagree. I say lose focus and wander off the path. Some of the greatest revelations came to me when I was doing precisely that, not when I was strictly adhering to a regime that I thought was the way to enlightenment.
But when you allow the distraction, then you fall. When you give up your practice it’s that much harder to get back on track, don’t you think? Asha scratches her head. Why cause yourself all the grief in the first place, why not just stay on track and save yourself the hardship?
Rip listens intently, but can’t catch the meaning of the conversation. What are we talking about here exactly?
Oh, Asha is saying that everyone has to be perfect all the time, basically. And I am suggesting that deviating away from that leads to self-discovery. Even if it’s through pain or darkness, you realise something about yourself. Dream points to Rip’s ball. She’s using that as a metaphor and saying you have to persist with it forever.
No, I’m just saying that discipline and commitment to a path are important. Asha lies down on the blanket. I know I’m older than you, but meditating for an hour every day is my path and I will never give that up.
You’re such a stiff! Dream laughs. It’s good to do things that are good for you, sure, but you have to live a little also. You have to go with the flow and be flexible and not be hard on yourself. You have to explode like fireworks sometimes and hurt so much you think you’ll break. And then you do, and some junk falls out and you put yourself back together, better than before. You have to step out of your comfort zone, be with people, interact in the world. Sometimes confusion and uncertainty are illuminating. They’re spiritual fire that turns a crisis into an opportunity for growth.
Rip steps between them. Can’t we just hang out and forget about all this stuff? You two are doing my head in today.
Okay, Dream says. It’s both, Asha. It’s what you said plus what I said. That’s the answer, you got that, Rip?
You’re both mental, he says. I’m going to find Yiska.
The old man is hunched over in the vegetable garden, tending to a freshly dug bed. Rip joins him silently, grateful for the sound of birds in place of the women’s voices that have rattled on like white noise for hours. This new garden that Rip and Yiska have planned together is away from the house and more secluded. Bare beds of rich volcanic soil are dotted with identical holes, there are jars of seeds on the grass nearby and Yiska takes the watering can and wanders off up the hill. Out here the Wilderness is lusher, less tamed, and when he’s here Rip feels like the details of his life—all that brought him here—are far behind. The bush is tangled and thick along the perimeter, this patch of grass crowned by banksias and native roses. Rip begins to plant a seed in each hole. The seeds are the size of his thumbnail and brown. He drops the seeds, one by one, listening to King parrots, crimson and lustrous green, chattering away in the boughs of a poinciana; their call is sweet and lyrical, no screeching like the bigger parrots. He stops after a while and cuts a hand of fruit from the banana palms with his machete; he strips off the skins and devours the ripe flesh.
He notices a tangle of pumpkins growing wild; he searches the leaves and finds two pumpkins—gorgeously textured like marmalade cats—amidst the primrose yellow tubular flowers just opening. He twists them from the vine and carries them to sit next to the jars of seeds.
Yiska returns with a wheelbarrow of straw and the watering can balanced on top. He inspects the bed Rip has just sown. His face breaks into an amused smile.
Just tell me, Rip says.
Yiska tips two seeds into his hand and gives one to Rip. You do it.
Rip plops it into an empty hole and dusts his hands off.
Yiska holds his seed out at eye-level. He holds it and watches. It cracks through the brown covering and splits out a sturdy green shoot that grows a few centimetres high in an instant and sprouts two tiny perfectly symmetrical green leaves. He looks to Rip. See?
Rip takes another seed from the jar. He can feel a leech inching up his calf, but he’s determined to learn from the old man. He holds out his seed, stares at it. Nothing. It’s not working.
What you saying to the seed? Yiska asks.
I’m asking it to grow.
No. You ask, you get more asking. You get nothing. You must see what you want happening. Look to the seed, see it open, so it will. Yiska stares at Rip’s seed and it breaks beautifully through its thin cellulose shell. He takes the seedling, plants it in a hole and gives Rip another seed.
Rip stares at the seed, struggling to grasp the meaning of Yiska’s words. He scrunches up his eyes, tries to imagine it popping open and all he can visualise is the hard brown seed. Then he imagines the sprouts Asha puts in almost everything they eat, as soon as the image enters his mind, the seed begins to open. That’s awesome, he says, as the little seedling grows.
He works alongside Yiska, sprouting seeds and planting seedlings until every hole is filled. He gently presses loose soil in from the sides and covers the base of each delicate plant. That’s so amazing, thank you. Hey, look what I see. Rip spots a forest of sugarcane growing unobstructed in the distance. He pulls the leech off his skin, picks up his machete and sets off.
The cane is ready to harvest, fibrous like bamboo on the outside, but when he cuts into it, the inside is crunchy and thick with juice. He cuts off two pieces, pulls the leaves and slices into them so he only has the middle part, which he takes down to Yiska. He passes a piece into Yiska’s ringed-hand and they chew on the sweet ambrosial nectar.
Thank you, friend, Yiska says, cracking into the stringy cane with his molars.
Rip pats him on the back, feeling a flood of affection for the man who has become a friend. There is so much he wants to absorb now, so many ways just being around Yiska has changed him.
Yiska cups his ear; the forest behind them is shrill with the rasping call of black cockatoos. Someone leaving soon, he says.
Rip spits the woody cane out of his mouth. Who? Is it me?
Yiska is already on his way, each deliberate step firmly planted in the earth as he goes, leaving Rip in the succulent wilds of the forest and the garden they are creating. His hands are filthy and black, there’s a trickle of blood from the leech down his leg, and his mouth is sweet with cane sugar. An unexpected thought crosses his mind: ‘I hope it’s not me who’s going.’