The world is shrinking. Everywhere; new ideas bursting in on the blissful isolation of traditional cultures; modern thinking driving wedges between the generations; doubt creeping into long-cherished religious dogmas of small communities. In the 1990's, an Afrikaaner, South Africa's President, FW De Klerk brokered the end of apartheid. On paper, all citizens and their ideas became equal. But culture is no slave to politics, and hardened stalwarts in forgotten corners continue to march to the beat of an older drum, holding out against outsiders and their detestable new ideas. This is one of those stories. It is tale of Zealots, Scientists and Scoundrels. It is set in Africa but echoed in small towns all around the world. http: //www.ska-at-carnarvon.com/ ********* Michael Smorenburg takes you on a vividly realistic ride of conflict, passion, ambition and lust for power as you watch the world reflected in a village struggling through a revolution of spirit. > Download a FREE sample ********* When it came he didn't feel the punch - it detonated solidly at the base of his skull with a thunderclap of sound. He collapsed like an imploded smokestack. Looking up, blinking, his vision reverberated as a sea of faces leered back. An acrid smell from the impact stung his olfactory. The ring of faces looking down on him jabbered excitedly, jostling and shoving over him lying prostate, the din in his ears from the impact of the blow obliterated all hope of comprehending a word or gist. Through the fog he realized two camps; some trying to move others away from him, the others trying to get past them to land new blows. There was a timid and testing kick in his ribs and someone stamped hard on his ankle, but he hardly registered these as pain, he only felt the nausea. Something wet, a glob of thick liquid smacked him in the face. Instinctively he wiped at it with the back of his hand and a roar of laughter went up as it clung to his wrist; the unmistakable opaque muck of spat mucus. Looking past it through the strobe and swirl of vision he saw the girl with the hair from the playground. She was fighting mightily, wrestling to push someone back, giving it her all to stop the figure reaching Dara. He felt revolted to see the ferocity she endured for him, ashamed to be lying so helpless while she fought. Then she was gone, flung aside; and through the haze, surging into view where she'd been a moment before appeared the smirking culprit - as ugly as a fortress with close-cropped hair squaring off a head like a block of granite, his nose crooked across his face. His name was Vermaak, Neels Vermaak - the ringleader from the playground ball game, the bad-news Dawie had just moments ago warned him about. "Mister Prrrrretty boy..." said the piece of granite with a drum-roll to his 'rrr's, "Jou klein swart moffie duiwelaanbidder. Kom... staan... ek klap jou weer." The challenge to stand up for another smack needed no interpretation - and Dara had already picked up enough of the local language to know he was being goaded with accusations of homosexuality and devil worship. The words washed over him in a dream state, all in slow motion as the boy deliberately wiped his own mouth to emphasize who owned the gob. Suddenly, the crowd evaporated and a lone adult was looking down on Dara. Lying in the sick bay the kindly old secretary in a hideous blue floral dress acted as nurse. She had an icepack to his neck. "Now you jus' lie still, you hear?" She was plump and genial and thick of accent; "Poor boy. I'm sorry for you but it's your own fault... this is why you're forbidden to horseplay in the corridors." Principal Louw, judge, jury and executioner, had quickly convened an impromptu hearing; the girl with the blond hair was among them, the block of granite was absent. The principal wagged his finger sternly at the girl's bowed face severely admonishing her; "What will your father say? Don't you stand for your ow