A Sacred Storm Read online

  Praise for Dominic C. James

  “I don’t normally recommend novels on my website, but I’m making an exception for The Reiki Man by Dominic C. James. It’s an action packed thriller with lots of spiritual information woven through it, and as the title suggests, lots of Reiki too – I couldn’t put it down!”

  Penelope Quest, Best-selling Reiki author

  “The Reiki Man combines the spiritual world with the physical and tests both to the limit. James creates a believable narrative and I felt totally drawn into the mystery of Reiki. However, what is clever about this story is that it is a murder mystery with more to it than the usual ‘whodunnit’. The ending made me desperate to read the second part of the trilogy! Fans of Dan Brown will love this book.”

  Victoria Watson, Young Reviewer of the Year

  “All in all a good fun read – and first in a trilogy. With its surprise ending, The Reiki Man will leave you ready for more.”

  Beth Lowell, Reiki Digest

  “I really enjoyed it. And perhaps enjoyed it all the more as it is not normally the genre of book that I would read. So, it started out as a duty and definitely ended up a pleasure. I enjoyed learning about Reiki and fell totally in love with Titan. It’s a fascinating book, and holds the attention throughout, which is no mean feat. An unusual subject that’s written about in a fascinating way...well done!”

  Laura Lockington, Author Cupboard Love and Stargazy Pie

  “It’s about time there was a novel about Reiki. And as an added bonus it is a suspense/mystery story. This is a great read and I recommend the book to all.”

  Steve Murray, Best-selling author of Reiki: The Ultimate Guide

  “The book is fantastic and a service to mankind I think as it’s so accessible for ‘non-spiritual’ folk.”

  Heather Mackenzie, UK Reiki Federation

  “WOW! A fantastic paranormal thriller that left me stuck for words (and there’s not much that can do that, I can tell you!). If you like a book that’s full of thrills, mystery and excitement with a plot that is forever twisting and turning, then go and buy this book – NOW!”

  Kim the Bookworm

  A

  SACRED

  STORM

  Part III of The Reiki Man Trilogy

  A

  SACRED

  STORM

  Part III of The Reiki Man Trilogy

  Dominic C. James

  Winchester, UK

  Washington, USA

  First published by Roundfire Books, 2012

  Roundfire Books is an imprint of John Hunt Publishing Ltd., Laurel House, Station Approach,

  Alresford, Hants, SO24 9JH, UK

  [email protected]

  www.johnhuntpublishing.com

  www.roundfire-books.com

  For distributor details and how to order please visit the ‘Ordering’ section on our website.

  Text copyright: Dominic C. James 2011

  ISBN: 978 1 78099 580 9

  All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publishers.

  The rights of Dominic C. James as author have been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Design: Stuart Davies

  Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

  We operate a distinctive and ethical publishing philosophy in all areas of our business, from our global network of authors to production and worldwide distribution.

  For Angela

  Acknowledgements

  Once again, thanks to all my friends and family for their support over the three books; everyone at John Hunt Publishing for making the trilogy possible; Jim, Karen, Peter, Amelia and especially Angela for bringing me back to the light; everyone at JT’s.

  Prologue

  Ali Hussein hobbled out of his mother’s house and began the agonizing walk towards the marketplace. Fortunately, the sun was only just climbing, and the dusty streets and alleys were still cool. With his weight on his battered old crutch he limped slowly through the outskirts of the city, stopping frequently either to rest his leg or converse with friends on the familiar route. Ali’s easy going nature, and resolute determination in the face of disability, had earned him many allies and admirers, and it was difficult to go more than a hundred yards without at least one person stopping him for a chat. His popularity sustained his will and served as a palliative for his pain.

  Halfway between his home and the bazaar, a low wall broke the stream of buildings. From here Ali could see right the way down into the heart of Mecca. Every morning he would lift himself up and sit with his legs dangling over the side, at once overawed and inspired by the breathtaking expanse. At the centre of this magnificent vista was the Masjid al-Haram, the Grand Mosque, built around the Kaaba – the cuboid structure that was the most sacred site in Islam. Ali knew that whatever life had thrown at him, and it had thrown a lot, he was more than fortunate to live in such a wondrous city; the place that Allah himself had singled out as the centre of the earth.

  Invigorated by his five-minute break he continued the laborious journey to work, hobbling as quickly as he could so as not to be late. His boss, Farouk, was a kindly man, and had employed Ali when no-one else would give him a second thought, so Ali was loathe to let him down with tardiness. He was lucky to have a job and did everything in his power to keep it.

  When he eventually reached the square he was surprised to find it already heaving with activity. In the centre of the market- place a large group of people had formed a circle, and were clamouring around an unseen trader. On the outskirts of the throng he could see Farouk jumping up and down to get a good view.

  He hopped over and tugged at his employer’s shirt. “Farouk!” he shouted. “What is going on?”

  “Ali! You are here at last!” he yelled, ecstatically. “I have been waiting for you. Come, we must cut through the crowd and bring you to him.”

  “Bring me to who?”

  “You will see!” Farouk grabbed his arm and pulled him through the melee, shovelling bodies out of the way like a human snowplough.

  “Over here, Master!” Farouk shouted as they reached the middle, waving his hands furiously to attract attention. “Over here!”

  The man at the centre of the furore heard Farouk’s pleas and walked over to them. He was tall and bearded and dressed in a white robe. “What would you ask of me, friend?” he said kindly.

  “This boy is crippled, oh Master,” said Farouk excitedly. “Please, show him some mercy and heal his leg!”

  The man they called Master knelt down before Ali and took his leg in his hands. Ali felt a brief chill in his limb, followed by a soothing warmth like the desert wind. There was an audible crack as his mangled muscles and bones started to reform into their intended shape. The sound made him wince, but he felt no pain. It was over in less than ten seconds.

  The Master stood up and smiled. “Throw away your crutch my child,” he said. “You need it no longer.”

  Ali did as he was told, casting his prop aside and tentatively allowing some weight onto his leg. His confidence growing, he began to jump lightly from foot to foot, until eventually he was leaping up and down in a full-blown dance. The crowd whooped and cheered working themselves into a febrile frenzy.

  “Who are you, Master?!” Ali shouted in the middle of the tumult.

  The Master placed his palm on Ali’s head. “I am the Mahdi. I am the Hand of Allah,” he said. “I have been sent to carry out his bidding. Come with me, young Ali. Come with me to the Kaaba where I shall reveal myself.”

  And s
o they walked, side by side through the streets, down into the heart of Mecca, followed by an ever-increasing multitude. Euphoric cries echoed round the city walls, bringing happiness and hope to all that heard them. It was time for great rejoicing; it was time to rise up and display devotion; it was time to show the world the true meaning of faith. They were strong; they were invincible. The Hand of Allah was among them.

  Chapter 1

  It was nearing midday in the far reaches of the jungle, and a lone kite hovered above the trees searching for prey. The air was still and throttling, and the sun crackled in the heavens, piercing the canopy with acute shards of brilliant yellow radiation. In a hidden clearing surrounded by banyan trees stood a large wooden hut. Inside, an old Indian monk sat beside the sick man’s bed and tended to his fever. For over two weeks the virus had raged on unabated, but now, on the sixteenth day, it looked as though it might finally be breaking. The monk recited a small prayer and forced the man’s head up to take on more water.

  Majami, as the monk was known, had never encountered such an illness in his long life. He was well-practised in all aspects of healing: from a small cut to a broken limb; and from a mild cold to malaria, cholera, typhoid, and even cancer. But this latest malady was beyond his wisdom. He had tried everything from basic herbal remedies to complex elixirs, and drawn inordinate power from the cosmos, yet he had still failed to lower the man’s temperature by so much as a degree. Whatever was afflicting him it was something that humankind had never previously been exposed to.

  The man briefly opened his sweaty eyes, uttered something unintelligible, then closed them again. These fits had been a sustained punctuation of his incapacity, causing Majami to jump each time one occurred. They were becoming less frequent, but continued to hold their power of surprise. If the man was speaking an accepted language, then it was not one that the multilingual monk recognized.

  The afternoon drew on without remorse, bringing with it a swathe of insects. Majami ignored the persistent barrage and continued to administer waves of pure energy into his patient. He was tired and hungry, his white robes drenched in sweat, but his will refused to give up lest his charge relapse into the darkness once more.

  And then, just before sundown, it happened. Majami’s hands, hovering two inches above the man’s head, were suddenly overcome by a searing cold; followed rapidly by a blinding heat that shot through his body and knocked him backwards to the ground. A mighty wind blew through the room, shaking the walls and sending the primitive furniture flying up and around in a mini cyclone. For an instant Majami thought he was going to be swept away; but then the gale died, the furniture clattered to the floor, and stone quiet enveloped the room.

  For a while Majami lay still, regulating his breath to expel the excess energy and return to an earthly plane. Only when he was fully grounded once more did he lift his head and clamber to his feet. He looked down at the man and found that he was conscious and pulling himself up to a sitting position. They stared at each other passively and then smiled simultaneously, each registering the wonder of their shared experience.

  Eventually the man spoke: “Thank you,” he said, clasping his hands and bowing his head. “Namaste.”

  “Namaste,” said Majami, returning the gesture. “I am glad to see you well. I feared you may not return to us.”

  “How long have I been here?”

  “Just over two weeks…Sixteen days to be precise.”

  The man shook his head. “Bloody hell! The last thing I remember is lying in the brush.” He thought for a moment. “I’m Stratton by the way.” He held out his hand in Western fashion.

  Majami took his hand and introduced himself.

  “Well then, Majami, perhaps you can shed some light on exactly how I got here?”

  “Perhaps you should eat first, and then rest,” said Majami.

  “I feel fine.”

  “I am the healer. You are the patient. Clear your mind.”

  “Fair enough,” Stratton conceded. “But can you at least tell me if…”

  “The panther is fine,” Majami interrupted. “He has been waiting for you.”

  Majami left without another word, and a few seconds later the familiar sleek black figure of Titan trotted in and padded up to the bed, nuzzling at Stratton’s outstretched palm.

  “Hello boy,” said Stratton. “It’s good to see you.”

  Titan gave a friendly growl and laid a soft paw on his friend’s chest. Stratton began to relax and took in his plain surroundings. He was in a room no more than eight feet square with rough log walls and a small glassless window looking out into the jungle. On the floor, in disarray, lay: a small table; a chair; a water bowl; and the remains of a spent candle next to a pool of wax. The doorway led into a narrow passage that bore left and out of sight.

  Sixteen days! he thought, running his hands through the thickening growth on his face. Where had they gone? One minute he was fading to nothing on the jungle floor, the next he was here. Save for brief flashes of colour he remembered nothing. Over two weeks of his life lost, never to return. He imagined it must be how people felt coming out of a coma.

  And then there was the not inconsequential matter of his friends. He shivered as he recalled the chilling screams echoing through the jungle the night he lost consciousness. He was as sure now as he had been then that Jennings was their source. What manner of sadism had produced such an outburst he dared not think, but he knew that those cries would haunt him for a long time to come, if not forever. He hoped that wherever Jennings was, alive or dead, he was no longer suffering.

  And what of Stella? Was she still out there in the jungle with Jimi the guide, or had she too been captured along with Jennings? His stomach spasmed and shivered as twisted images shot through his overactive mind. Jennings’ torture would be light compared to what a group of savages would do to a woman alone in the wild. He closed his eyes tightly and shook his head to disperse the painful pictures.

  At least there was a glimmer of hope for both her and Jennings. For Oggi there was none. He had met his doom on the jagged river rocks. Stratton replayed the scene in his head over and over again, wondering if maybe he could have held on a bit tighter or a bit longer. Did he really try his hardest to stop his friend from falling, or were there extra reserves he could have called upon to lift him to safety? Where was the superhuman strength that ordinary people found in such situations? Why had he not dug deeper?

  His guilt-ridden musings broke as Majami returned with food. He handed Stratton a bowl of steaming vegetable stew and a flat bread similar to a naan.

  Stratton thanked him and began to eat, dipping the bread tentatively and forcing a slow mouthful. But the meal was delicious, restoring his appetite as he ate, and it wasn’t long before he was finished and sitting back with a full belly.

  “That was fantastic,” said Stratton. “I didn’t think I was hungry. What’s in it?”

  “It is a special recipe,” said Majami. “Made to stimulate the appetite and strengthen resolve. I use traditional vegetables and also rare jungle plants. It has taken years of trial and error, but I think I am close to perfecting it.”

  “Well, it’s certainly worked the oracle on me,” said Stratton. “I feel much better already. So perhaps now you can tell me exactly who you are and how I got here.”

  “I think you should sleep first.”

  “I’ve been asleep for over two weeks.”

  “No,” said the monk. “I mean proper sleep.”

  “I’ll sleep better if my head isn’t pounding with questions,” countered Stratton.

  Majami smiled. “Very well,” he said. “If you must know, I am the head of an order of monks charged with protecting the secrets of life and healing. I believe you were on your way to find us.”

  “Yes, I was…well we were – I was part of a group.”

  “Indeed. You were being guided by my young friends Jimi and Tali.”

  “Yes. I’m afraid Tali is dead though.”

  “
Yes,” said Majami. “It is most unfortunate. And even more unfortunate that Jimi too has joined him.”

  Stratton bowed his head. “I’m sorry to hear that. He was a good man.”

  “Yes, a very good man.”

  A horrible thought entered Stratton’s mind and he looked up earnestly to Majami. “Jimi was looking after one of our party – a girl. Do you know anything of her?”

  “No, no girl. We came across Jimi’s body on the jungle path – he was alone.”

  Stratton breathed a respectfully internal sigh of relief, and continued to probe. “So how did you come to be that far out in the jungle? I was led to believe that your temple was right in the very heart of the forest.”

  “It is, and we would not normally venture so far, but one of my brothers had a terrible vision and it was decided that two of us should come and aid your party. Unfortunately we were too late to save Jimi, but we found you and brought you here to heal.”

  “Where is here?” asked Stratton. “Surely you didn’t carry me all the way back to your temple.”

  “No, of course not. This is one of our way-houses. It is not at all far from where we found you. But it is off the beaten track and extremely well-hidden.”

  “Is it?” said Stratton. “The men who were tracking us seemed to know all about Jimi’s little hiding places.”

  “Not this one,” Majami said assuredly.

  Stratton wasn’t convinced, but decided to take the monk’s word for it. He was about to ask about Jennings when the monk interrupted him.

  “No more questions,” he said.

  “But I just wanted to know…”

  Majami repeated himself. “No more questions. It is time for sleep – for you, and for me also.” He got up and bowed and bade Stratton a goodnight.

  Stratton lay for a while, stroking Titan’s head absentmindedly as he went through different scenarios in his head, each one becoming progressively worse. But then Majami’s words floated gently into his visions and he knew it was time for sleep. He closed his eyes and vacated his mind, hoping that tomorrow would bring some much-needed answers.