The Sai Prophecy

658 Pages·1999·1.53 MB·English

by  Barbara Gardner

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.