The Touch of a Lighter Hand

By Costa John

Imagine if, through the practiced art of meditative touch, you discovered a molten stream of psychic energyjust below the surface of your hands. A mystical gateway to everyone around you, that revealed their deepest beliefs, their most intimate secrets. A window into the future that reduced all time to the eternal present moment. A source of immense power to healor to harm. Daniel Michaels develops mystical abilities that are somehow connected to his hands. Drawn into a world where terrorism and love become inextricably linked, he is periodically haunted by a recurring dream of imminent danger. Does it speak of the past, the future, or the frightening figments of a vivid imagination? In this riveting drama, author Costa John weaves the beauty of Africa, the tension of Middle East politics, the meaning of dreams, and the inspiring notion that a spiritual connection binds us all, into a romantic, political thriller that keeps readers guessing until the last page.

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THE TOUCH OF A LIGHTER HAND
Costa John 2005

Costa Johns intricately woven tale touches on the nuances of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict at a deeply human level. So often these clashes are reduced to bloody television coverage and statistics. In this story, the lives and intense passions of the key characters are inextricably connected. Within the grey areas of right and wrong, the righteous and the rebellious, is a world that Costa John describes with acute sensitivity and insight.

His style of writing creates well drawn, rounded characters. Women play a powerful role in his novel. Too often in the genre of thriller, their role is victima mounting series of dead and mutilated bodies. If not dead, they are deadly. Whether tough and career minded, or siren and seducer, Johns female characters are also strong, flawed, irrational, passionate, fierce and caring.

His principal character, Daniel Michaels, is an extraordinary man. His hands are imbued with energy that he describes as strangely able to project and receive life. His mystical power is latent but heightened by his increasing mastery of Aikido and the philosophy behind this martial art. But it extends beyond physical energy. He has paranormal abilities. His recurring dream grows on the reader and tugs at the edge of the sub-conscious. With mounting unease, as we track the time frame of the book, it leads us inexorably to a revelation, and a sense of dj vu.

His soul mate, Liann Zellan, also has the power to heal. Evident from the first moment we meet them, they should and must be together. John keeps them tantalisingly apart, politically and emotionally. They are both attracted and troubled by each others standpoints. His Arabic blood, African heritage and American upbringing become a source of conflict as Liann struggles with a love she believes is at odds with her deep commitment to the Israeli cause.

The plot takes the reader from Chicago to San Francisco, from the bush of Southern Africa to the Middle East. Here John masterfully personifies Middle Eastern conflict, where desires and goals seem tantalisingly congruent, but are more often at violent odds.

The villains of Costa Johns thriller run the dark side from warring factions, feeding expediently off the conflict, to parasites who benefit from the richness of their hosts whatever side they may be on.

For any South African reader, Michaels involvement in the Angolan war as a member of the South African Army in the 70s will resonate strongly. For American readers, this chapter in Africas history may evoke hauntingly similar memories of foreign conflicts in Korea, Vietnam, and Iraq. But he also draws a vivid picture of African wildlife that reinforces the romance, the wonder, the sights, and the sounds of Africa.

The plot races to a climax th

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 20, 2006
• ISBN: 9781462835515

Costa John

Costa John is an author deeply influenced by his native Africa. A finance executive and a martial artist, Costa is also a massage therapist who assisted rescue workers as a Red Cross volunteer at Ground Zero in September 2001. Born in South Africa, he lives in California with his wife and children. Profits from the first 100,000 copies of this book have been pledged as a donation to the American Cancer Society’s ovarian cancer research programs.

Book preview

Copyright © 2006 by Costa John.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any

form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,

or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing

from the copyright owner.

This novel is a work of fiction. Any references to actual events, persons and places—

past and present—are designed solely to provide a contextual chronology. All

other events, persons, and places have occurred as described only in the author’s

imagination. Any resemblance to real-life equivalents is entirely coincidental. All

trademarks are the property of their respective owners.

In dedicating this book to the courageous women who are engaged in a daily

struggle against ovarian cancer—and the precious few who touched Costa’s life

so personally—he and his family have decided to make an irrevocable $10,000

donation to the Ovarian Cancer Research Fund.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

21725

Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

EPILOGUE

To my darling wife, Mary Anne, for the patience, the love, and the wisdom, to know

the difference between fiction and reality. To my sons, Jordan and Calvin, for the

chase games that we missed while I finished this book.

To my deceased editor, Sue Nussbaum, for your professionalism, directness, and

guidance. And your dignity in the fight against ovarian cancer. To my proofreaders,

Janet Hill and Cheryl Applewood, for your persistence and care with each word

in this novel. To my graphics designer, Caroline Van Remortel, for a creative

cover design that so simply captured the themes of Africa. To my graphics adviser,

Nella Courtney, who advised on the cover graphic, for your refusal to surrender to

ovarian cancer. To my beloved deceased sister, Alana, for embodying selfless love

and defining courage in your struggle against ovarian cancer. To the 2,986 fallen of

September 11, 2001 and their loved ones.

To my deceased father, Costa, in loving memory.

Aikido Glossary

Shodan—First-degree black belt rank

Taijitsu—Empty-handed techniques

Nidan—Second-degree black belt rank

Sandan—Third-degree black belt rank

Hakama—Traditional black or blue Aikido wide pants worn over the Gi

Sensei—Aikido master instructor

Gi—Aikido training suit

Hara—Eastern concept of one’s physical and spiritual center, located 2-3 inches between the navel and the pubic bone

Dojo—Aikido training center, or temple

Uke—Attacker

Aikidoka—Student of Aikido

Misogi—Purification of mind, body, and spirit through cleansing, fasting, or repetitive exercise

Kotegaeshi—Sidestep defense against knife thrust by grasping and twisting attacker’s wrist Shomen Irimi Nage—Blend with attacker using fast pivot reversal of his forward motion Ryote Dori—Pivoting extension of hands to defend against wrist grab from behind Koshi Nage—Deflection of side attack using hip as fulcrum to send attacker to the ground Yokomen—Cutting strike to the side of the head

Kaiten Nage—Deflection of attacker’s forward motion using his head and arm for windmill-like throw

Yonkyo—Defense through painful pressure against the inside of attacker’s forearm Gyakute Dori—Cross-hand grab to simultaneously defend against attacker’s arms Seiza—Traditional Japanese meditative position achieved by gently sitting back while kneeling

ChinKon KiShin—Breathing that calms the spirit into an alert, meditative condition

Ten No Kokyu—Deep breathing posture with hands raised upward

Arabic Glossary

Sharmouta—Whore

A’hm—Uncle

Tayta—Grandmother

Intifada—Palestinian uprisings against Israeli occupation that began in December 1987

Nothing is so strong as gentleness, nothing so gentle as real strength.

Saint Francis de Sales

PROLOGUE

The nurse raced breathlessly toward the makeshift medical facility, stumbling several times on the uneven rubble strewn across the entire area. The dry evening winds spread dust and debris across her face, stinging her eyes and caking her throat dry. She entered the tent with a sense of swift purpose in the midst of the panic that characterized the poorly lit facility.

Where are the doctors? Are there any doctors here? she yelled, almost rhetorically. She wondered how long it would take the nearby Israeli medical teams to arrive and assist with the aftermath of the disaster. Given the renewed Arab-Israeli tensions of late, she wasn’t going to hold her breath waiting.

Having ensured that two critically injured victims had been temporarily stabilized, she looked around with a frustrating sense of helplessness at this tragically under-equipped facility. As she began to walk into the adjacent tent she nearly collided with an incoming stretcher, followed closely by doctors issuing rapid instructions in Arabic. Her gaze settled on the medical staff, frantically attempting to assist with the last emergency. She could not even see the patient as the team swarmed around the stretcher.

As she watched the frantic activity, a bloodied right hand slipped off the stretcher. The angle of the patient’s arm reminded her of the Michelangelo painting in the Sistine chapel. Instinctively, she reached for the outstretched arm. She made contact with his hand, intending to return it to his side on the stretcher. She shuddered reflexively at the lack of body warmth in the touch. Was he already dead? His hand tentatively reached around to hold hers. She sighed with relief as the surge of warmth from the palm of his hand confirmed his struggle to live. She leaned forward, peering past him in the dimly lit tent. There was something on the floor beneath his hand. She reached down and picked it up. As she opened the bloodstained, crumpled piece of paper, her pulse quickened. Tears rolled spontaneously down her cheeks. She held his left hand tightly to her chest as her other hand slowly began to stroke the side of his head, her delicate fingertips gentle and soothing as they traced the contours of his face. He was badly injured and semiconscious, yet the nurse seemed to connect effortlessly with him as she comforted the patient. She choked on her first attempt to speak as the emotions welled up inside, hurting her throat. Unsure if he could hear her, she uttered a coarse whisper, Don’t you go anywhere without me, you hear? Her voice broke up as she wept.

Stay with me now, stay with me, she sobbed.

CHAPTER 1

The funeral ceremony drew Salma Michaels into growing sadness. She searched for that elusive point in the sky that would remove her from the grief engulfing the many mourners.

With great dignity, she stood quietly, gripping young Daniel’s hand firmly, as the ceremony droned on. She looked down at his solemn face, tears streaming down his cheeks.

What must he be thinking at this moment, she wondered. So proud of his father’s heroism, yet Salma knew that Daniel could sense the conflicting emotions overwhelming the funeral. His respect for this moment would prevent him from asking her why. There would be an appropriate time to do so. They both knew that.

Family and friends were indeed here to mourn. Dignitaries from high office added to the impressive number of people attending the event, yet Salma did not need to look too far to identify the hypocrites. They managed to hide their attendance behind suitably qualified phrases like paying respects and sense of duty. Some here today might quietly think this large funeral undeserved. Indeed, among the curious crowd gathered at the event, there was the tempting possibility of a media audience for these misguided notions. Until Salma arrived.

From the moment she climbed out of the limousine, her powerful presence and steely gaze silenced the critics. No words were exchanged—just the message. The funeral ceremony would be conducted with honor.

Daniel listened as the ceremony concluded, feeling Salma’s hand tighten around his, almost painfully. To family and friends Salma was a Rock of Gibraltar, a source of strength, calm, and comfort. As she began to weep, Salma was moved by deep anger at the only certain outcome of war. A mother would lose a child. A child would lose a parent. A sister would lose a brother. Moreover, the inevitable question Why? would go unanswered.

Salma looked around, sweeping her gaze across the crowd. Looking more determined than ever, she struggled to hold back her tears.

Never again!

Never again! she vowed, sobbing as young Daniel, stoically struggling to be older than his years, put his arms around her.

CHAPTER 2

Daniel learned about the circumstances of his father’s death through layers of stories that periodically permeated family events. These descriptions of a larger-than-life war hero served as a constant reminder of how his tragic death in the Middle East had stunned the family and permanently changed its course. Daniel knew that South Africa’s participation in the Korean War, as a member of the British Army’s Commonwealth Division, had triggered this devastating episode. His father had been transferred to an Allied hospital ship that sailed through the Suez Canal to Israel. He went on to serve in the Middle East where both he and Salma were born. The disastrous Anglo-French invasion of the Suez in 1956 led to a more serious skirmish that left him with an impressive posthumous award—and Daniel without a father. This kindled a strong curiosity in Daniel to visit the Middle East.

Daniel displayed intriguing abilities from early childhood, but his family and teachers seemed troubled by contradictions that they could never quite fathom. As a toddler, he knew colors of every shade and astounded those around him with his intense delight at the sight of any object that exhibited shades, tones, and textures. He learned many of the colors from a heavily embroidered piano seat in the living room.

Whenever he engaged in activities that required some thought and analysis, he exhibited a depth of thought that was profound for a young child—and intimidating for many around him. He had powers of concentration often accompanied by a penetrating gaze that unnerved both adults and children. The intensity of his look was not aggressive. In fact, he concentrated with an air of serenity, but when he gazed at people, it was as if he were looking into their core.

However, he had a troubled side, too. Daniel began to stutter after his father’s death and continued to have speech difficulties for several years. His powers of concentration also seemed vulnerable to frequent lapses. Yet, whenever he was called out of these apparent daydreams, he had not missed any events or discussions around him.

Daniel’s real problem was not with daydreams but night dreams. He always slept soundly, yet he frequently had vivid, powerful dreams.

The reality of the dreams and the clarity of his recollections caused many restless nights for his family—but only momentarily for Daniel. He would often be in the throes of lifelike dreams, yet his anxious family could not shake him awake. He occasionally awoke with a cry of anguish, but seconds later he would fall into a deep sleep, leaving a frustrated and frightened family to wrestle with the problem of getting back to sleep. Salma waited for an opportune moment to ask Daniel about his dreams.

Daniel, darling, tell me a little about your dreams. It seems that you have the same kind of dream each time. Is this true?

Only s-s-some of it, Mom. I don’t know the place, I d-d-don’t know most of the people, but each time I see the s-s-ame man lying on a stretcher.

Do you recognize the man?

W-well, I’m not sure.

How so? Is he too far away for you to recognize him?

N-n-no, it’s not that. It’s more like when I see him, I feel that I sh-sh-, he inhaled sharply -should know him.

Yet you never do?

Not yet, Mom. Not yet. P-p-perhaps one day.

This man is always injured?

Yes, he-he’s hurt, but I never get to see if he lives.

Do you ever recognize the place?

I don’t think so. It’s more like I feel the place. It’s somewhere dry and windy.

You were very young when Daddy died, my boy. Did you know that he was in the desert? Perhaps that’s him in your dreams?

It could be Mom. I’m just n-n-never that close to be sure. I’m s-s-sure I know him, though.

The apparent contradictions in this young boy only served to confirm that he was a complex, gifted child. Certain troubling aspects of his personality paled in comparison with attributes that manifested themselves from time to time.

Family, friends, and teachers knew that Daniel was a sensitive boy. Sensitive, though, was a term that seemed to understate the dimensions of this trait. At first, even his mother did not notice the pattern that emerged out of what she thought were coincidences. After spending time in the garden, Daniel would reappear in the house, to be greeted by different family members, at different times, each of whom would say, more often than not, I was just coming to find you or I was just thinking of you.

The first time his mother linked these intuitive experiences was at a fast-food restaurant. Stopping in to pick up a quick lunch for the family, Salma entered the restaurant with Daniel following her. As they stood in line, Daniel tugged at his mother with an urgency that startled her.

M-m-mom, why is that man so angry? he asked, pointing hesitantly at the young unshaven man standing at the back of the restaurant.

Did he say anything, Daniel? she asked with some concern. He seems quite calm and certainly isn’t bothering anybody. He’s obviously waiting for someone.

No, b-b-but—

But what? He doesn’t even look angry.

Oh he-he-he’s angry, Mom—I can feel it.

Next in line, please! bellowed the oversized cashier as he gave a friendly smile to Daniel and Salma.

Salma quickly forgot the curious conversation as she rattled off the order for her family.

They stopped in at the drug store opposite the restaurant to pick up some prescription medication. While waiting at the counter, Salma heard the insistent sirens of emergency vehicles approaching. Within seconds, police lights flashed across the drug store windows and before she could react, Salma witnessed in almost slow motion horror, a young man emerging from the fast food restaurant, ignoring a police bullhorn to place his hands on his head. Within a matter of seconds, he lunged at the nearest crouched police officer, collapsing after a short burst of gunfire.

Shaken by the incident, Salma looked down at Daniel, realizing in that moment that they had indeed recognized the man who was gunned down.

Volunteering what information she or Daniel could give, Salma waited patiently for police officers to interview them. Salma recounted what had happened a few minutes before. Listening to her, skeptically, the police officer asked how Daniel had known about the suspect’s anger. She looked down at her son and instinctively blurted out that Daniel had probably seen his gun. Smiling in a self-assured manner that confirmed his suspicion about this mother and child, the police officer politely terminated the interview. The suspect was in fact unarmed before he calmly walked behind the counter and attacked his ex boss with a carving knife lying on the cutting board.

Their humiliating dismissal as credible witnesses left Daniel embarrassed by his intuitive senses, and left Salma more puzzled than ever. How did he know?

Yet, incidents like this continued with almost monotonous regularity. Daniel would ask, unexpectedly, about an uncle they had not spoken to in years and, minutes later, he would call. Salma once comforted him after he became inexplicably distraught and tearful at a family Easter lunch. He was unable to explain his distress, but recovered very quickly and playfully rejoined his family minutes later. The event seemed odd but unconnected; until Salma learned later in the evening that her mother had died in Lebanon after a heart attack, at about lunch time that same day.

Salma decided to discuss this event with Daniel.

Daniel, this must have been a sad day for you too?

"Of course, Mom. I loved Tayta v-v-very much. You know that."

"Tayta loved you too. Did she have something to do with your sadness at lunch today?"

Do you mean d-d-did I dream of her today?

Did you?

No. I just felt bad. No dreams, no faces, j-j-just a bad feeling d-d-deep down inside me.

The heartfelt honesty of his stuttering reply was all she needed to hear. Clearly, something had moved him, something he could not quite recognize. Yet, he resisted the temptation to contrive a clarity of vision that had never occurred. He was paradoxically so sure of his feelings, that even as a child he saw no need to stretch the simple truth into a more understandable premonition. Blissfully unaware of taboos and boundaries, he continued the exploration of his latent psychic abilities—and continued to unsettle those around him.

His mother became increasingly convinced that Daniel possessed paranormal abilities.

Although Salma needed no further convincing, the rest of the family witnessed an event later that year which left them almost fearful of Daniel. At a family birthday, Salma’s cousin introduced Sandy, an American spiritualist of extensive and controversial acclaim. American presidents had reportedly consulted with Sandy, but some followers of parapsychology regarded her as someone with heavy satanic leanings.

Sandy had kindly agreed to read each family member that night. She demonstrated a remarkable ability to disclose secret, often intimate, facts about each person in turn, which she could not possibly have known before. She read people by placing their hands in hers and looking deeply into their eyes. She approached Daniel while playfully looking back at an aunt who wanted to know Sandy’s fees for disclosing similar secrets about irritating neighbors and office colleagues.

Bellowing with laughter, Sandy joked, I accept all major credit cards.

Then she overstepped the mark.

In fact, for a large enough fee, I’ll even let you in on Salma’s pillow talk with one of her patients when she did her Florence Nightingale stint in the Middle East. The faux pas brought the background murmurs and laughs to a grinding halt. In a misguided attempt to display her telepathic powers, Sandy had jokingly directed sexual innuendo at Salma. Her family revered her, and the remark was particularly insensitive to the painful memories of this dignified widow. Salma was clearly hurt by the joke. It seemed to mock her nursing career and her morality. However, her greater concern was the unmistakable flash of anger, which surfaced for just a second on Daniel’s face. She had never seen her son this angry.

In a defiant and unapologetic gesture, Sandy shrugged off the icy reception her last remark had received. And she stepped into even deeper water.

What’s the matter? Do you think anyone is beyond the reach of my powers of perception? No one—nothing is out of bounds.

Sandy moved toward her final reading and began to settle her gaze on Daniel’s eyes, drawing everyone’s attention to this fascinating encounter. Daniel was certainly intrigued. Only Salma had seen his display of anger. To the rest of his family, he had simply adopted his now familiar intense gaze.

Looking directly into his eyes, Sandy reached out and grabbed Daniel’s hands. Without warning, she buckled and dropped to her knees with a piercing scream as though she were struck a fatal blow through the center of her chest. Sobbing and heaving, she reached for Salma’s cousin, imploring him to take her back to her hotel. Speechless, the family watched her leave the house in a flurry of tears and apologies. They turned to Daniel, fumbling questions about what had transpired.

He didn’t reply; he was in his private world of daydreams, staring at his hands with a quiet, worried intensity.

He knew that something unusual had happened. What though? He hadn’t tried to hit her, and he hadn’t tried to hurt her. Yet, something had passed between them—something powerful, though unspoken. This event marked the beginning of his curiosity about hands.

As a young teenager, Daniel outgrew his stammer. Once