As the Lightning Comesby

Svensk Öob

Copyright 2012 Svensk Öob,All rights reserved.

Published in eBook format by eBookIt.comhttp://www.eBookIt.com

ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-0767-8

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONSABOUT THE AUTHORChapter 1Chapter 2Chapter 3Chapter 4Chapter 5Chapter 6Chapter 7Chapter 8Chapter 9Chapter 10Chapter 11Chapter 12Chapter 13Chapter 14Chapter 15Chapter 16Chapter 17Chapter 18Chapter 19Chapter 20Chapter 21Chapter 22Chapter 23Chapter 24Chapter 25Chapter 26Chapter 27Chapter 28Chapter 29Chapter 30Chapter 31Chapter 32Chapter 33Chapter 34Chapter 35Chapter 36Chapter 37Chapter 38Chapter 39Chapter 40Chapter 41

Chapter 42Chapter 43Chapter 44Chapter 45Chapter 46Chapter 47Chapter 48Chapter 49Chapter 50Chapter 51Chapter 52Chapter 53Chapter 54Chapter 55Chapter 56Chapter 57Chapter 58Chapter 59Author’s noteFULL TEXT OF EMAILS AND SPEECHNUMERIC ENGLISH ALPHABETGLOSSARY

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONSFRONT OF LOCKETBACK OF LOCKETSKETCH MAP OF NEPALANNAPURNA CIRCUIT MAPLAYOUT OF ANNAPURNA BASE

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

FRONT OF LOCKETBACK OF LOCKETSKETCH MAP OF NEPALANNAPURNA CIRCUIT MAPLAYOUT OF ANNAPURNA BASE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Svensk Öob

Svensk was born in Sweden in 1967 but, at the age of seven, moved to Kenya with his parents when they assumed duties at a mission post on the outskirts of Nairobi. This was literally down the road from the house in which Baroness Karen von Blixen-Finecke, of Out of Africa fame, lived. His early schooling took place at the St. Aloysius Jesuit School in Nairobi. Thereafter he was a border at the High School in what was then Umtali, Rhodesia.

After completing a degree in Political Science at the University of Göteborg, and a Master‘s degree at Harvard University, Massachusetts, Svensk joined Amnesty International. He has travelled worldwide monitoring human rights abuses. Much of his time is spent in Africa, especially Southern Africa. As a consequence, he suffers from recurring bouts of malaria, which he contracted on his travels.

Ironically, his only real brush with authorities was when he was researching for this, his first novel, in Nepal. He was interred by the Nepalese Government on suspicion that he was involved in subversive activities.

The novel represents an attempt by Svensk to reconcile the belief system he inherited from his parents with the UFO sighting that he experienced in Central Africa and a strange dream that he had.[read more]

The author is reluctant to disclose his present whereabouts or family details as he fears he will meet a similar fate to that suffered by Alberto Rivera, mentioned in the book.

Chapter 1

For as the lightning comes from the east and shines as far as the west, so will be the coming of the Son of Man.

Matthew 24:27

Stepping out into the street was like entering the furnaces of hell, compared to the air-conditioned coolness of the foyer of the Hilton Hotel in downtown Durban from which the tall white man in his mid-thirties had just emerged. He stopped momentarily to take off his tracksuit top, revealing a white T-shirt embossed with the words "I qualified for the Boston Marathon and you didn’t!" His sinewy build and the way he carried himself revealed that he had earned the right to wear the shirt.

The middle-aged, black doorman, in his inappropriate-for-this-current-climate regal maroon uniform and peaked cap, watched the man in envy and used his forefinger to pull his collar away from his neck. "It’s the berg wind that is making it so hot. It always comes before the summer rains."

A boyish grin spread across John Marshall’s face, momentarily counterbalancing its slenderness and causing his hazel brown eyes to glint. He nodded in acknowledgement to the doorman, the side-swept fringe of his sandy hair waving slightly as the breeze caught it. "If I were you, I’d go back inside."

The doorman ignored the comment. “You need a taxi to take you somewhere?"

"No, thanks. I’m going to be speaking at the conference after lunch and a walk will help release some tension. I would have preferred a run, but it’s out of the question in this heat," replied John. "Which way is the Indian Market?"

The doorman pointed straight ahead. "You be careful now. It can be dangerous in town."

"Right, that’s what the folks back in the States warned me about before I came to South Africa."

Within minutes of setting off from the safe confines of the hotel, John came to regret not having heeded the combined wisdom of two continents. A drama that would impact on his life like a meteorite strike, forever changing its course, unfolded

before his eyes. Three black youths, street kids by the looks of them, were jostling a frail old Asian man. There was something about the man that reminded John of Gandhi. Not his appearance– unlike Gandhi, he was clean shaven, wore a threadbare robe with loose white trousers underneath, wore no glasses and had a full head of gray hair– but there was something about his manner. John was not the first to have picked up on the old man’s aura of piety and wisdom: the people who frequented that part of town and were accustomed to seeing him wandering around the streets had come to call him the Maharishi.

Situated on the eastern coast of South Africa, with the Indian Ocean lapping on its shores, Durban was a melting pot of the West, the East, and Africa. It was home to the largest concentration of people of Indian extraction outside of India.

At the Indian Market, the fabrics and piles of spices displayed on the stalls formed a kaleidoscope of vibrant colors. The humid coastal air was heavy with the pungent aromas of ginger, turmeric, cumin, and curry. A Babel of conversation hummed through the passageways as Indians, Blacks, and conspicuously few Whites went purposefully about their business. A few paces east of the entrance of the market, in the street leading up to it, the flow of pedestrians was hardly disrupted by the disturbance taking place. Everyone simply kept their distances as they skirted past the milieu.

Don’t get involved. It is not your problem, John kept reminding himself. He had lived in New York long enough to know not to intervene when there was a mugging. But in New York, muggings didn't usually take place in the middle of the day on a busy street, and there was never a cop too far away if something did happen. It had always been John’s policy not to meddle in other people’s business, unless, of course, he was paid to do so. But he felt remiss simply standing by and watching.

The disturbance suddenly became a commotion. The Maharishi started shouting for help and kept repeating "Leave it!" He was referring to an outsized locket hanging from a chain around his neck. The largest of the three street urchins had thrust his hand down the front of the Maharishi’s robe and grabbed the locket from its place of concealment. The youth tugged mightily at it as his two companions restrained the Maharishi’s frail arms.

The Maharishi resisted with unexpected vigor, shouting out and looking beseechingly at the gawkers in the crowd who began to gather around the spectacle. John was nudged towards the front of the circle of onlookers by curious spectators who had arrived behind him. He stood only a pace or two to the side of the struggling quartet. As he turned to move backwards, he was blocked by a wall of jostling oglers, who watched the incident playing out before them with zombie-like fixed stares.

The scene reminded John of something from the National Geographic channel: the herd of powerful, horned buffalo grazing on while one of their own was brought to ground by a trio of scruffy lionesses.

Suddenly, the largest of the three attackers thrust his free hand towards the Maharishi’s stomach in a stabbing motion. The Maharishi cried out as he was struck. Just as quickly, the youth drew back his arm as if preparing to thrust at the Maharishi again. A crimson patch of blood had already formed on the Maharishi’s robe at the point of contact. John now saw the blade that had been concealed in the youth’s hand.

"Stop it," shouted John, to his own amazement and that of the mesmerized zombies, who turned their gaze to him in unison. Once segregated by the South African government’s policy of Apartheid, the onlookers, no matter what their races or origins, had merged into a single, fungal life form.

The three attackers were just as surprised that something had broken the rhythm and dared to breach the unspoken rules. The two younger boys had no appetite for a fight and both found gaps in the wall of onlookers behind them through which they disappeared. No one tried to stop them from fleeing.

The larger boy, no more than fourteen, was not as easily thrown. He spun around to face John, his knife now openly displayed in a threatening manner, looking to see who dared challenge him. The adrenalin raging through John’s system gave him enough false bravado to lunge forward, as if to attack. His sinewy frame did nothing to suggest he was a force to be reckoned with. Only his height of six foot one placed him at an advantage over the knifeman. The boy, obviously a hardened street fighter, stood his ground momentarily and then capitulated. He turned and sped off in the direction his companions had taken.

The crowd parted readily to let him through and then closed up like the Red Sea after the flight of the Israelites. The onlookers’ attention focused once again on the Maharishi, who had staggered backwards, one hand still clasping the locket and the other now at his wound. After covering a few paces, he collapsed to the pavement. The section of the crowd behind him ebbed backward to make space for him.

John managed to escape from the gravitational pull of the throng and now stood at the side of the Maharishi, who moaned in agony, blood oozing out around his fingers. Not even his obvious discomfort made the Maharishi ease his grasp on the locket.

Committed to action, John knelt next to the Maharishi. "You’ll be alright now– they’ve gone." The Maharishi’s face distorted with pain and distress. He had a look of terror and desperation in his eyes as he turned to face John. John gently lifted the Maharishi’s blood-soaked hand and placed his own folded handkerchief over the pumping wound, applying pressure on it.

The Maharishi’s brow creased as he peered up at John. John had the strange sensation that he was being read, as if by a supermarket barcode scanner. The expression on the Maharishi’s face turned to one of realization. The grimace of agony momentarily relaxed into an expression of relief. "You are the one," he murmured gently. "Oh, thank goodness, it is you." English was clearly not the Maharishi’s first language, however, John could not place the accent.

Before John could ask him what he meant, the Maharishi went on. "I didn’t know how I would find you."

Just then, two Durban Metro Police officers, one a Black man and the other Indian, forced their way through the crowd.

"What happened here?" asked the Indian officer.

"Call an ambulance!" shouted John back at him.

"There’s one on the way–we were dispatched by control," the officer replied. His colleague was busy moving spectators out of the way to make space for the ambulance.

John explained what had happened and then looked back towards the Maharishi. He saw the Maharishi’s hand still clenched around the locket. "Don’t worry, no one’s going to take it now," John assured. He touched the Maharishi’s hand in a gesture of comfort.

"You must have it." The Maharishi opened his hand to reveal a tarnished locket. He was trying to pull its chain over his head.

John assumed the Maharishi was either delirious or trying to repay him for having intervened. "No, no, you keep it," said John.

The Maharishi became insistent. "You must take it. My time as its custodian is over." He spoke with great difficulty between gasps and groans. "You are the chosen one–it will take you to the Tree. It is the Key."

Even as the Maharishi’s strength drained from him, he struggled to get the locket’s chain over his head. With a mighty groan, he succeeded and held out the locket towards John. "Take it, take it," he insisted.

John took the locket from him, to prevent any further distress. He had no sooner done so when the medics joined them at the scene, lifted the Maharishi on to a gurney, and wheeled him towards the waiting ambulance.

The Maharishi looked back beseechingly towards John. "Don’t let the police have it." It took a massive effort to get out the words. "You must get it to Him…promise me."

John went towards him and stooped so as to be able to hear him better. "Give it to whom?"

"The Holy One. The Son of Man. You will do it?"

John nodded. "Take it easy. I’ll sort it out."

A pool of blood the size of a dinner plate stained the pavement where the Maharishi had been lying. John stood staring down at it, conscious of the crimson stains on his hand. The adrenalin had worn off and he started to tremble.

"Did you see what happened and all?" enquired the Indian officer.

John realized it was by no means over. He really wished he had not gotten involved. "Listen, I’m sorry. I haven’t got time for this now. I’ve got to deliver a paper at a conference in an hour’s time," John explained.

"You American?" asked the officer.

"Yes, I’ll be here a few more days, so can we sort this out later?"

"No problem. Is your conference at the International Convention Center?"

John nodded.

"I tell you what, you just write your details here. I’ll get the South African Police detectives to come get your statement." The officer held out the pad and a pen to John.

"Can I wash my hands first?"

"Oh, sorry, rather you give me the details," replied the officer.

As the officer took down John’s particulars, another group of officers arrived at the scene. Their uniforms were different. "Here are the South African police now," the Indian officer explained to John. "I’m surprised they got here so quickly. They’ll do the crime scene."

The officer turned to the new arrivals, a black police officer and his white colleague, and started explaining to them what had happened. Sensing that the action was over, the crowd began to disperse.

The white officer was talking on his radio. His face turned solemn. "That was control," he announced in a thick Afrikaans accent. "The victim was DOA at the hospital." The implication sunk in. "Jis, now it’s a murder investigation."

The Metro Police officer motioned to John. "He’s got the evidence."

John realized he meant the locket, which John had forgotten he still had in his hand. He showed it to the white officer who seemed to be in charge. The officer reached for it. "We will need that for evidence."

Before he was able to grasp it, one of the onlookers, a slightly portly Indian male in his late forties stepped forward. He wore a black blazer and gray trousers with a black gown draped over his left shoulder and he carried a dilapidated pilot’s bag in his right hand. "That’s not evidence."

"What do you mean, Mr. Moodley?" asked the white officer, recognizing him. "They were trying to steal it."

"You didn’t find it in anyone’s possession," insisted Moodley. "It proves nothing."

"Pardon me, but this isn’t your case."

"No," admitted Moodley, "but I saw how this man tried to help." Moodley pointed to John. "It was the Maharishi’s wish for him to have it. I just want to see what’s right gets done."

John raised his arms in mock surrender. "They can have it– I have no use for it."

"Look, I know it’s none of my business," Moodley said, as he turned to John, "but the Maharishi really wanted you to have that, whatever it is. It ended up costing him his life, so it must have been important to him. You should honor him."

John was overwhelmed by everything that happened. He just wanted to get away from there and return to the sanity of his hotel. That thought reminded him: "I’m sorry, I’ve got to get to my conference. Can we sort this out later?"

Moodley motioned John aside. "Listen, it’s not my style to meddle, but I feel responsible. I used to see the Maharishi here in the street most days, and he was always very respectful to me. This locket thing was probably all he had in the world, and he wanted you to have it." Moodley paused to compose himself. "I didn’t do anything for him when he was alive, so the least I can do is see his wishes are carried out. Let me help you–no charge."

In the hope of making the whole thing go away, John agreed. Moodley turned back to the officer in charge of the scene. "Wait, I tell you what. Sign it over to me officially and I’ll produce it for you if you need it in court."

"You acting for him?" The officer pointed to John.

"Yes." Moodley looked to John for confirmation. John gave a slight nod.

"But what about the deceased's estate?" asked the other officer. "Doesn’t it go to that?"

"No, the Maharishi donated it to my client when he was still alive."

The officer said nothing, realizing he was out of his depth.

"Just fill in the form," instructed Moodley.

"I’ll get one from the van." The officer turned to do so.

John handed the locket to Moodley. Once the form had been completed, signed, and a copy handed over to Moodley, the officer told him to call the police station the following morning for the case number.

Moodley turned to John. "Sorry, I didn’t introduce myself. I’m Krish Moodley. I’m an attorney."

"I’d figured that–John Marshall. I was in the law game myself back in the States."

"Come up to my offices and wash off." Krish pointed to a faded signboard with Krishnambal Moodley & Associates: Attorneys at Law painted on it that hung in front of offices above the street level men’s outfitters.

John read the sign. "Oh, I thought you said your name was Chris. I wondered how an Asian guy got a name like that. I suppose people of other cultures found your first name a bit of a mouthful."

"For sure. In the old days, when all the prosecutors were white, one of them gave me the nickname Chris, so I go by either."

The two of them went down a narrow lane to the side of the outfitters and climbed the stairs to Krish’s offices. A queue of people of all descriptions spilled out from the entrance of the office onto the landing and upper stairs. The small, sparsely furnished reception room was crammed with people, including two uniformed police officers who stood waiting at the receptionist’s desk. Krish whisked John through the room and showed him to the restroom. After cleaning himself up, John joined Krish in his cramped office. He found Krish seated behind his Lilliputian desk packed with open books and files, studying the locket.

Krish motioned to him to sit in a chair in front of the desk. "We run a bit of a bucket shop here, I’m afraid, operating on a first come, first served basis and try not to turn anyone away. I suppose it’s a bit different than your law practice."

"What you’re doing is very noble, so no need for the apology," said John, sliding down into the chair. "Was that your motivation for going into law?"

"To be honest, there is great prestige in our community for anyone in the traditional professions of law, medicine, and accounting. I am really only responding to the tremendous need of the people."

"I’m afraid I was a lot more mercenary when I was in practice," John confessed.

"So, if you’re not in practice now, what do you do?" asked Krish, loosening his tie and undoing his top button. The antiquated window-fitted air conditioner was barely coping against the oppressive heat.

"I’m Director of the International Institute for Justice in New York-"

Krish didn’t give him time to finish. "Wow. That sounds impressive. Was it a big step up?"

John smiled. He got this a lot when he told people about his career move. They always assumed he had been motivated by money. If only that had been the truth.

"On the contrary, I took a big drop in income." John preempted the question that invariably followed. "And no, I was not motivated by any altruistic intention. I had a run-in with the Bar Association and came off second best." To John’s surprise, Krish leaned forward and extended his hand across the narrow desk to give John’s arm a comforting pat.

"Sorry to hear that. It’s a tough game, I know, with rules set to trip you up whichever way you turn."

John smiled broadly. "Thanks, I appreciate that."

"And what got you into law then?" Krish delved further.

John shuffled uncomfortably in his chair before replying. Unlike Lot’s wife, he preferred not to look backwards. "To escape from poverty and to seek some excitement, I suppose. My father was a groundsman at the baseball stadium in Boston. We lived in a two-bedroom timber framed house two blocks from the Harvard Business School campus. I was a great day dreamer as a kid. I fancied that one day I too could be like all the students at Harvard who seemed to come from different worlds than mine."

In spite of John pronouncing Boston as Bawston and Harvard as Hahvuhd, Krish was able to follow what he was saying. "Hats off for making it, but I suppose we can’t spend the whole day chatting." He handed the locket to John. "You want to have a look at what all the fuss was about?"

John took the locket. Upon closer examination he found it to be thicker than a locket–more like an old-fashioned fob watch. It was made up of three sections and had engraved on its front a stylized tree, with a thick trunk at its base and seven branches radiating up from it.

Front of Locket

Turning it over, John saw a spiral on its back that radiated outwards in a counterclockwise direction. The spiral was segmented into small squares, each of which had an inscription of sorts in it. The inscriptions were all in different styles.

Turning the locket on its side, John discovered that in its center it had a disk that pivoted out like a geologist’s magnifying lens. The crystalline disk was contained within a rim of yellow metal that had embedded around it a circle of small orange gemlike studs.

At first, John thought it a trick of the light when one of the gems appeared to light up. He rotated the object and showed Krish. "Look at this. The little orange things light up."

Krish took the object and tried pointing it in different directions. "It’s amazing. No matter which way you turn it, the one that’s lit points in the same direction."

"Like a compass?"

Krish thought about what John had said. "Not a very good compass." He stood up to point. "The beach is east, that way, so north is here."

John aligned the object with the direction where Krish pointed. "So this would be pointing sort of north-northeast. That’s a bit strange."

John looked at his watch. "I’d better hurry! I’ll miss my conference." He stood to leave.

Krish came around to his side of the desk to see him off. "Good luck. I’ll let you know what happens. You got a card?" John took one out of his wallet and handed it to Krish, who gave him one of his own.

"So, what’s likely to happen?" asked John. "Will I have to come back to testify?"

"I’ll tell you the truth–it might happen but the cops are useless these days. There's not much of a chance. Most dockets are closed unresolved. A magistrate will hold an informal inquest in his office and that will be the end of it."

"Look, I obviously don’t want to have to come back for a trial, but I would hate for those boys to get away with it," said John as they walked through the reception room.

"These youngsters normally work for a larney," said Krish.

"A what?"

"Larney–big shot, mastermind," continued Krish. "They steal gold jewelry and melt it down and ship it to India."

John tutted in disapproval. They reached the door and shook hands. As they did so, the two police officers John had seen on his arrival at the offices squeezed past them. Once John was satisfied the officers were out of earshot, he asked without thinking, "What’s up with them?"

"There are more cops here sometimes than you’ll find in the cop shop. If they’re not here to arrange to take a statement from an accused client who’s out on bail or drop off some document, they’re here to get someone to defend them on an assault charge or something."

They had reached the top of the stairs. "Take care," said John.

"You too," said Krish, shaking his hand.

John arrived back at the Hilton ten minutes later. He greeted the doorman.

"Hello, bossie," the doorman replied, opening the door for him. "You look bad, what happened?"

John told him.

"Eish!" exclaimed the doorman. "So terrible! But I tell my master it was dangerous."

"Yes, you did. I wish I had listened to you." John motioned for him to come to the side. He continued the conversation in a hushed voice. "Listen, my nerves are shot. Can you arrange some more of that stuff for me?"

"Tsss," the doorman whistled through his teeth. "You will get me in trouble."

John slipped him the R100 note he had concealed in his hand.

"I’ll fix it with someone. It will be behind that small wall there at seven o’clock tonight." The doorman looked concerned for the welfare of his newfound friend. "But you be careful. Don’t smoke it in your room; it will make too much smell."

"Thanks, pal. I’ll be careful."