title: The Sai Prophecy : A Novel author: Gardner, Barbara. publisher: Health Communications, Inc. isbn10 | asin: print isbn13: 9781558746794 ebook isbn13: 9780585102580 language: English Family--Massachusetts--Boston--Fiction, Spiritual life--Hinduism--Fiction, Boston subject (Mass.)--Fiction, Religious fiction, Domestic fiction. publication date: 1997 lcc: PS3568.O39S24 1997eb ddc: 813/.54 Family--Massachusetts--Boston--Fiction, Spiritual life--Hinduism--Fiction, Boston subject: (Mass.)--Fiction, Religious fiction, Domestic fiction. Page i The Sai Prophecy Barbara Gardner, Ph.D. Health Communications, Inc. Deerfield Beach, Florida www.hci-online.com Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Gardner, Barbara The Sai prophecy: a novel/by Barbara Gardner. p. cm. ISBN 1-55874-679-X I. Title [PS3568.039S24 1999] 99-12401 813'.54dc21 CIP Publisher's Note The future conditions depicted in The Sai Prophecy are not based on statements by Shirdi Sai Baba or Sathya Sai Baba. However, the "miracles" in the novel are typical of those performed on a daily basis by Sathya Sai Baba, who has predicted the future appearance of Prema Sai Baba and has materialized several photographic images of the future avatar. © 1997 Barbara Gardner. © renewed 1999 by Barbara Gardner. ISBN 1-55874-679-X All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher. Publisher: Health Communications, Inc. 3201 S.W 15th Street Deerfield Beach, Florida 33442-8190 First hardcover edition published by Illumination Arts Publishing Company, Inc., Bellevue, WA Hardcover ISBN 0- 935699-12-0 Book design: Dawn Grove Cover painting "Eternal Places" by Rob Schouten © 1985 Cover design: Peter Quintal Page iii For my grandchildren, Joey and Jennifer Rogers, and all of the children of the twenty-first century Page v To clarify any unfamiliar terminology readers can refer to the glossary at the end of the book. Page vii PART I STIRRINGS Page 1 Prologue Late nineteenth century, TasmaniaThree rapid rifle shots cracked the calm of the mountainside, and a gathering of yellow-eyed currawong birds flew into the nearest gum tree, their black wings shining in the spring mist. They were escape artists, thought Philo Hoffman, like all the native fauna since the British conquerors had invaded Tasmania. He pushed back his visored safari helmet and peered through his binoculars at the trail below. Probably a hunter, he shrugged, then let his binoculars fall on their strap while he recorded the number of currawongs in the gum tree. He preferred to call it a moonah tree, liking the flavor of the native name. Considered a moonstruck dreamer by his proper Boston family, Philo had been tracing the path of primitive man throughout Asia for the past twenty years. He was looking for the key to human origins, what made man human, what could be called his soul. Here in Tasmania, soul was in short supply. It was a cruel country, Philo said to himself, as a cold gust of damp wind chilled the sweat on his neck. All mountains, impassable rapids, and fierce storms, not to speak of the convicts and ex-convicts that littered Hobart, the shabby little capital. Philo's fine dark brows came together as he heard another shot. A solitary man, he had hoped to find ultimate solitude in these mountains at the tip of southern Tasmania. Now he could see first one hunter, then Page 2 two others running along the path fifty feet below the ridge on which he stood. Yapping dogs, mangy as their masters, ran ahead, their noses near the ground. No doubt chasing a lenah, a bush kangaroo. The Brits were always chasing some animal, either to catch or to kill. They couldn't leave the landscape alone but were always worrying at it, building roads, monuments and their infernal prisons. At the hellhole he had visited in Hobart yesterday, any prisoner who complained was forced to wear a leather snout strapped to his head. Poor devils. Almost as bad off as the handful of natives still hiding in the hills. Philo was about to turn the page of his notebook when he heard a long, haunting cry that dropped off suddenly, as if the one who uttered it had suddenly fallen from a cliff. Adjusting his binoculars, he saw the thin, naked body of a native, a Parlevar, as they called themselves, bent over and stumbling as he struggled up the side of the mountain, trying to elude the hunters. The man's skin was black, with a faint violet sheen, except near the left shoulder, where it was bright red with blood. "Damn," Philo muttered under his breath, pulling out his pistol. "They're tracking him like a dingo." He fired into the air and called to the hunters when they looked up, "Let the poor fellow go, mates. He's done you no harm." "Bug off, Yank!" one of the hunters shouted, "or we'll send you to Tassie hell along with him." They fired again, this time in Philo's direction, and a handful of fractured sandstone fell from the rocks overhead. Out of sight from below, he pressed his back against the cliff, deciding it was useless to argue about civilized rules with men who had none. With luck, though, he might save the wounded Parlevar.