An Improbable Life Book Iii: The Light of Canopus

By FRASAR

He already knew that he should never give up but persevere and Head towards that unknown world that represented life in order to survive And find his place within the human race

If the life of Francis, the hero of the saga of An Improbable Life, were a river, it would be longer than the Nile, more exciting than the Amazon, more fascinating than the Danube, more laden with legends of the Mississippi and it would run across all continents. After his early, fascinating adventures of the Book I and Francis explorer life in the Australia outback and his extraordinary New Zealand adventures described in Antipodium, the Book II of the series, the new Book III-The Light of Canopus of the An Improbable Life series will take you from a terrifying ambush inside the Tomb of Absalom in Jerusalem to black magic rites in Venezuela, an escape from the Guatemalan guerrillas, a shipwreck in the Caribbean in addition to climbs of gigantic volcanoes, discovery of pre-Inca mummies, floating islands, diabolic events, a (true) UFO battle in Peru and spiritual wonders. Yet Book III, like all previous books, is NOT fiction. Every episode is true and documented, even photographed. And once you have finished reading it, your only desire will be to find out where the next book would take you.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Apr 18, 2018
• ISBN: 9781546291336

Book preview

AN IMPROBABLE LIFE,

BOOK III

THE LIGHT OF CANOPUS

FRASAR

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AuthorHouse™ UK

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403 USA

www.authorhouse.co.uk

Phone: [phone]

Author contact: [e-mail], www.francescosarno.com

Front cover illustration by Paolo Puggioni wwwpaolopuggioni.com

Translated from Italian by the Author and Valentina Sarno www.valentinasarno.com

Back Cover photograph of the Author by John CurrensPhoto Inc., Woodcliff Lake, N

© 2018 FRASAR. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 04/17/2018

ISBN: 978-1-5462-9130-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-9131-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-9133-6 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Canstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Some stock imagery © Canstock Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Foreword

The Prologue of Life

Mark, the ancient

The Kidron Valley

Curfew

Teutonic Forest

The Roar – March 19, 2009

The roads of the mind

The dream

Olney (MD) - November 1996

Olney (MD) - November 2003

New York – 2010

The awakening

The story continues

Chapter 6 The Latin American Years

The night of the comet

Caracas (1976)

The magic circle

The night of the frogs

Petrol fountains

The unreachable Doctor Avila

The rebels

Panama Tricks

The girl in white

The infinite weeping

The ambush

The void

Puerto La Cruz

The dark lagoon

Anaconda

Earthly paradise

Inez, the Argentinian

The shipwreck

The head of the snake

Karsten is back! (Peru)

The UFO battles

The man in white

The climb of volcano Misti

The crisis

Floating islands

The devil’s mind

The endless journey

Prophetic dreams

The end

The Copacabana gift

The endless abyss (June 1983)

The invincible man (Caracas – August 1983)

The pre-Incas skeletons

Chapter 7 The Arabic Years

The beginning (November 1983)

Monkeys’ world

A day like any other (March 17, 1984)

Arabic women (March 23, 1984)

The Shada castle (April 1984)

Sharks’ island8

Cleopatra’s Needles5

The cliffs of Alabalah (June 18, 1984)

The Queen of Sheba (1984)

The last beach

Back to the past

A day to remember

Yogurt and lemons

The concert (August 23-26, 1985)

Being God

Yin – Yang (14th November 1985)

The caravan (8-11 February, 1986)

Revolution! (22-25 February, 1986)

The Halley Comet (9th April 1986)

When everything is possible (9 – 13 May, 1986)

Acknowledgements

Book III of the FRASAR Improbable Life is dedicated to his children

Fabia, Valerio, Valentina, Kurt and Paolo

Who, in different stages of his life,

Shared joys and sorrows

Of their father

Accepting

It all

An Improbable Life

Book III

The Prologue of Life

The Latin American Years

The Arabic Years

FOREWORD

This foreword is for the benefit of those who have yet to read Books I and II of the series FRASAR - An Improbable Life. Francis, the protagonist of the book, came to see me, the writer, in December 2010, after he had been living for some time in California. He left with me several volumes of his diary asking me to read them pick freely from his memories, and possibly write a book out of them. Each volume of the diary covered a period of seven years of his life since he had reached the conclusion that each of these spans of life reflected different cycles of his life. Francis was seventy years old at the time, and he feared that all the memories of his extraordinary adventures could be lost forever maybe, as described in the Prologue, into the dust of an ancient tomb in the Valley of the Apocalypse or between the jaws of a mountain lion in the South California hills.

Francis is not a book character. He is a real person, who is still very active and engaged in many adventures. His life took him in every continent, except Antarctica, following a career that started as a gold and copper explorer in Australia’s outback to end as World Bank executive in Washington D.C. The episodes narrated in the An Improbable Life series are real and took place in the dates stated in the text with a few exceptions made to protect people privacy. As a writer, I found it impossible to narrow down Francis’ incredible life into a single book, so I chose to tell it as chapters of different books. My hardest decision was how to pinpoint the place in time where I would start the description of his life. I thus decided to use a Prologue, with the last episodes described in his diary from March 2009 onwards as an individual chapter for all books of the series. The story therefore will start with an extraordinary event in the ancient house of Mark the Evangelist in Jerusalem’s Armenian quarters, and will continue within the narrow borders of the Kiron valley just outside the walls of that city, before entering into different episodes and time spans. In the books of "FRASAR -An Improbable Life", Jerusalem will represent the centre of the world, where everything began and everything will end.The books series does not contain all the episodes described in Francis’ diary, but just fragments of his life spent in the various countries where he lived and worked. From Old Europe to Oceania (Books I and II), South America and the Middle East (Book III) to Asian, African countries and Pacific Islands (Book IV) and finally North America and Caribbean countries.

I am also perfectly aware that some readers may doubt the veracity of the episodes told within. That is why I chose An Improbable Life as the overall title for the series, despite all events narrated in it being real and documented. There are several photographs in the books. The images included in the text are there to help readers picture the locations where the events took place and confirm their authenticity. This however should not undermine the readers’ ability to use their own imagination.

I had no need for it myself. As I immersed myself in Francis’ diary in its entirety, I felt the Arabic sun on the back of my neck, the salt of the Caribbean Sea on my skin, the New Mexico wind in my hair and even the smell from the encounter with one of North America’s most ruthless criminals, as though I were the protagonist of his tales and reliving his every adventure in his stead. I do, however, need to add one more note to this Foreword. Francis told me there would be a further chapter to his already improbable life, but that he could only confirm it after the 13th of November 2017. His choosing such an exact date did not surprise me in the least. In fact, you will discover the reason for it by reading the Prologue carefully until the end.

THE PROLOGUE OF LIFE

Mark, the ancient

It was the 8th of March of the year 2009 and Francis was feeling restless. He hadn’t slept much that night, perhaps because the light of the moon filtering in through his window had kept him awake and thoughtful. He knew that the three weeks of March that preceded the beginning of spring would always be a period of closure for him. What he didn’t know was that he would never forget those weeks. At the first light of dawn, he was still lying in bed while he thought back to similar periods in previous years of his life. It had never been a positive time for him, even though it was invariably followed by a period of strong rebirth and euphoria at the beginning of spring. All activities he was involved in seemed to come to a sudden end, while episodes he thought relegated to the past would resurface to torment him. That year was no different: once again, the end of the astrological year was coinciding with the termination of a cycle of assignments which Francis had undertaken for the World Bank in Africa and the Middle East. His work concerned mainly the supervision of projects located in the troubled West Bank area, although he would spend his weekends in Jerusalem, a city that held a special attraction for him.

The Old Jerusalem, enclosed by ancient walls that were destroyed countless times but always rebuilt, was a unique city, with a far more Arabian accent than one would generally assume, its crowded alleyways filled with strong scents and merchandise of all sorts. Most of all, although it was less than one square mile, it was a divided city with Islamic, Hebrew, Christian and even Armenian Coptic quarters. Francis had tried to visit them all, going in and out of ancient buildings dating back to periods even older than the birth of Christ. Old Jerusalem was a place like no other. It was a place where you felt immersed in an extraordinary atmosphere, out of time. During a previous trip in March 2000, which coincided with Pope Wojtyla’s visit to the city, Francis had had some unforgettable experiences that he had tried to describe in his diary, which he had begun to write a few years earlier, describing every detail of his adventurous life, lived in every corner of the world.

Jerusalem wasn’t just any city to him, but a place where the edges of reality became blurred and you could get lost in history. That day, during a late sunny morning, Francis was walking in proximity of the so-called Tower of David, built under King Herod in 34 BC, in the north-western part of the city. That’s when he saw a small sign directing towards the House of Mark the Evangelist. This sparked his interest because he considered himself a fan of Mark, having reconstructed his history in detail in the 1980s, during his mystic period of Abha, a town situated in the Asir region of Saudi Arabia.¹ Mark was the young man who standing at the door of his mother Mary’s house in Jerusalem would open the door to the apostles who were arriving one at a time, or in little groups, unsure of what may happen in the next few hours. Mark would close the door quickly behind him to avoid unfriendly eyes seeing the assembly of people who was gathering in the largest room of the house. That day and location became famous later when one of the most extraordinary events in the history of the world took place there: the descent of the Holy Spirit above the heads of each of those present in the form of tongues of fire. That day the gathered apostles received the gift of speaking and understanding any language.

Everyone loved young Mark, especially Saul of Tarsus (better known as Saint Paul) and his cousin Barnabas, who often invited him to accompany them on their apostolic missions to the Middle East. In their company Mark visited a large number of locations all around the Mediterranean Sea to reach finally Rome and later Aquileia, in the Northern Italy, a city of great strategic importance at the time. Mark’s life was eventful although bound to end in tragedy a few years later in Alexandria, in Egypt. Mark’s story, however, did not end there. Eight centuries later two Venetian merchants stole his remains and hid them inside a vegetable basket covered by pork meat to discourage Muslims from searching it. Then they put the basket on their ship and went back to Venice, where his remains were finally buried under the pavement of the great Saint Mark’s Basilica.

Francis had all of this in mind when he finally arrived in front of Mark’s mother’s house in the Armenian quarter. From the outside, the ancient house looked like a small church, protected by an iron gate. The front door had a frosted glass panel through which Francis could make out some lights and the shadows of various people moving around the little church. Someone inside had noticed his curiosity, as the glass door suddenly opened and a little nun dressed in dark cloth appeared on the threshold, inviting him in with an impatient gesture and motioning for him to take a seat with the others inside. The nun closed the door behind her and addressed the other pilgrims in an incomprehensible foreign language, most likely Armenian. Francis couldn’t understand a word of what she was saying, until she began speaking in perfect English. What she said at that point made a lasting impression on his mind.

She talked about the early history of the church, and the many events that had taken place there. She then spoke of a painting of Mary, traditionally attributed to Luke the Evangelist and of its many miracles. Finally, she described Mark’s house, or rather his mother Mary’s, which was just under the church, like other original Jerusalem buildings. The nun ended saying that she would now show them the largest room of the ancient house, down an internal stone staircase. Francis followed the group to the top of the stairs, which descended into a large rectangular room. As they went down the stairs, the nun explained how the current room was smaller than the original, due to a transversal wall that had been built in recent times to support the vault of the house. She added that it was in that very room that the apostles had gathered together on the day of the Pentecost. When the group arrived below, they faced a large, dim, room, lit only by a few lights on the walls. The nun stopped talking and the group fell into a deep and respectful silence.

Francis had moved to the front of the group when something indescribable happened, which at first, he couldn’t understand. It was as though the room had preserved even the air of a distant age, and he had thus entered the past. The air he was breathing was not the stale mouldy air of an ancient underground environment: Francis was breathing fresh, natural air, as though a door to the outside had opened behind him. The transversal wall had disappeared and the room had regained its original size. There were many lit torches on the walls and at one end there was a long table with people sitting around it. He was about to ask himself how this could be possible, when his senses became filled with images, sounds and colours. Ahead of him and to his side, there were people moving about, wearing ancient tunics and colourful mantels, which looked at once solemn and familiar to him. It was as though the room had suddenly come alive and he was in it as a partaker in an event of unspeakable majesty. Past, present and future fused together and Francis had become one with the entire universe.

Time had stopped and no longer had any meaning. Francis had entered a dimension where a millennium or an instant were the same thing. He was here now, with the Armenian pilgrims, but he was also there, with the people who were filling the room. One of the persons sitting at the table looked at him as though he knew him and gestured for him to join them. That had to be a day of celebration, but also a day where all the attendees seemed to be expecting something to happen. It was something big, something immense, something to be remembered forever.

A white and powerful light suddenly lit up the room, like lightning or a heatless sun. Francis had to shield his eyes with his hands from the brilliance. A great din ensued, a cacophony of voices and accents, as though all those present had suddenly started to speak at same time in ancient and unknown languages. Overwhelmed by the immensity of the event, he decided to keep his eyes shut and find solace in that temporary darkness. Francis could not remember how long he stayed in that state of trance, although he knew he didn’t want to come out of it. He did remain at the entrance to the room until the clamour of voices suddenly stopped, and he was surrounded by the utmost silence. Then he heard the nun’s abrupt voice again. He opened his eyes and found he was still in the middle of the pilgrim group and the nun was inviting all of them to go back up the stairs. Getting out however was exactly what Francis wanted to avoid. He would have wanted to stay longer in that room, possibly alone and free to act. He would have liked to see what was behind the wall that was once again dividing the room and return to that world of sounds, colours and life from which he had just emerged. He was indeed the only one left behind in the dim room, but not for long. The nun noticed his absence and immediately reappeared at his side, imperiously gesturing to follow the Armenian pilgrims who were climbing the stairs.

Back upstairs, the group of visitors said farewell to the nun and went out of the church. All except for Francis, who had many questions to ask. When he saw her alone, he approached the nun to tell her about the great experience he had had in the room below, but she no longer could speak any English. She was either pretending not to understand him or perhaps she had decided that it was already late and wanted to lock up the church. Francis decided to keep the memory of the extraordinary event to himself, but he wanted to at least thank her for speaking English to him, adding that he didn’t expect it at all. The nun however looked at him in surprise and told him, more in gestures than words, that she had never spoken English! And yet Francis was certain that the little nun had started to speak in Armenian when addressing the group of pilgrims, but she had then continued her narrative in perfect English. He remembered with certainty that during the talk, the nun had mentioned a German visitor who, in front of an icon of the Virgin Mary painted by Saint Luke, had acquired the ability to understand Armenian. Now Francis wondered whether that episode might have anything in common with his experience a few minutes earlier. The nun’s response had left him speechless, as the memories of the room and its people returned to his mind in turmoil. Had he really been a part of it all? Had it all been a dream? And why was the nun denying having spoken English?

The little nun noticed Francis’ bafflement. She smiled and shrugged as though there were nothing to be surprised about. She seemed to think that such an occurrence was normal in that place. Francis wanted to say something, tell her about what had happened, receive some explanation, but he knew that for the nun there was nothing more to add. It was time to shut the church, and he had to head towards the exit, followed by the nun’s amused gaze. Francis told others about this episode, though he preferred to focus on the language oddity, rather than the trance, which could have been caused by the intense emotion of being in that place. He talked about it with his wife Georgina, Peruvian by birth, and jokingly called it the milagrito (Spanish for "little miracle"). This caused great indignation in her and she would scold him for not showing adequate respect for such an extraordinary event. Francis however had his own reasons for his apparently detached attitude. First of all, he had already experienced other situations in the past, which he would absolutely define miraculous. He was certain in fact that a spiritual world existed around every person and that it was accessible to anybody who believed in it. But that was not the only reason. Just a week after that event, Francis would endure another, far riskier, adventure, which I will tell you about in the pages that follow.

The Kidron Valley

It was now Sunday the 15th of March, 2009 and Francis was due to take a taxi at 3am the next day for Tel Aviv, from which he would fly to Frankfurt and then back to Washington in the United States which he had left a few weeks before. It was at the Frankfurt airport duty free that he had purchased his very first digital camera, during a stop-over of his incoming flight. It was a device he hadn’t used yet, partly because he hadn’t had the time and partly because the instructions were in German, a language he could not read. He managed to decipher them that afternoon, then looked out the window of the American Colony Hotel room he was staying at and saw it was still very sunny out. It was a holiday, and that afternoon seemed ideal to go for his last walk and see places he hadn’t visited yet and take a few pictures.

He had never been to the Kidron Valley so far and this could be his last opportunity to see it. The narrow flat area at the foothills of Jerusalem fascinated him, in particular the exotic and elegant monument known locally as the tomb of Absalom. He walked through the valley starting from the Mount of Olives, while memories of its history crowded his mind. He especially remembered an episode he had read as a child in an illustrated Bible a little friend’s mother had given him for his first communion. The book had some large colour illustrations showing King David’s escape through the forest, which at that time covered the Kidron Valley. He was being chased by his evil son Absalom, who wanted to kill him to take his throne. Absalom, a beautiful but shameless youth, had already killed his brother. He then was shown in another illustration, hanging from a tree, with his curly and long blonde hair caught in a branch.

Francis looked around. Nothing remained of the Kidron Valley’s ancient forest. The slope on Francis’ left was entirely covered by thousands of grey tombs of the three main religions, all of whom agreed at least on this one thing: the Kidron Valley was to be the seat of the end of the world for them all: Jews, Christians, Muslims and any other human being. According to the prophecies, all people, good and bad, dead for centuries or just a few hours earlier in the fires of the Apocalypse, would be reunited and await with great trepidation the sound of the trumpets announcing Judgement Day.

It was a pleasure however to bask in the last rays of the sun, alone, and enjoy this small and pleasant historical valley. There was, however, no trace of the clear, bubbling spring described in an ancient ode Francis had read that very day in a book he found in the Hotel’s library. The bottom of the valley was flat and there was no water course, although Francis gathered its presence from the dark green colour of the grass. He thought that perhaps the bubbling water described in the poem might refer to a part of its course that was further down the valley, in occasion of some overflow. He had seen similar water courses called wadi in Saudi Arabia² and also in a few dry areas of Sicily. They were dry riverbeds that could fill with enormous quantities of water and mud after only a few hours of rain.

It was almost 6 o’clock in the afternoon, and Francis continued his walk through the valley while the sun had begun to set in front of him. He knew he had to leave soon the valley near the Tomb of Absalom to get to the steps leading back to Jerusalem, and from there to his hotel outside the Old City walls. A nightly curfew had been imposed by the Israeli authorities and it would have been dangerous to be found walking the streets of the old Jerusalem at night. He