Blood Doctrine

By Christian Piatt

What if, through modern science, we had the power to resurrect Jesus?

First, the dreams came. And then the blood. Young Jacob had always known he was different, but he was beginning to lose control. Unknown to him, Nica, the skeptical New York journalist was beginning to pull the pieces together: the Israeli Antiquities Authority, the Max Planck Institute in Germany, VitaGen labs in Pennsylvania. And then there was the Project, the group rumored to be obsessed with invoking apocalyptic end-times on their own terms. But what role could a teenage boy from Denver, Colorado play in this unfolding story line?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Samizdat Creative
• Release date: Apr 30, 2014
• ISBN: 9781938633577

Book preview

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Blood Doctrine

Also by Christian Piatt

PostChristian

PregMANcy

Banned Questions About Christians

Banned Questions About Jesus

Banned Questions About the Bible

Blood Doctrine

A Novel

Christian Piatt

Blood Doctrine. Copyright ©2014 by Christian Piatt. All rights reserved. Published at Smashwords. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, email

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Published in association with Samizdat Creative, a division of Samizdat Publishing Group (samizdatcreative.com)

Cover design: Mathias Valdez, Lastleaf Printing

Prologue

The lights hanging over the young woman’s head were intense. Her eyes began to water. The monitors crammed into the makeshift delivery room resonated in a chaotic chorus off of the cold, bare walls.

The nurse reached beneath the curtain. Dear, I’m going to need you to push again.

No, said the girl. I can’t do any more.

Doctor, something’s wrong. The nurse glanced at her, over to the machines, and back at the girl again. What do we do?

The obstetrician pulled the blue mask from her face to reveal flushed, damp cheeks. We should call in a surgical team.

There will be no one else, said the man, shifting in a dim corner of the room. His unblinking eyes fixed on the young woman on the table.

The girl issued a piercing, mournful cry as a growing pool of blood oozed from between her legs.

I don’t think you understand, said the doctor. This woman needs more specialized care. We need to get her to a hospital.

No, it’s you who doesn’t seem to understand, said the man. When you agreed to do this, it was on the condition that no one else would be called in.

But she could go into shock…

Get the baby out of there, said the man. Save the girl if you can, but the baby is what matters.

Christ, she’s hemorrhaging. She’s got to have a transfusion.

Doctor. The child, please.

The obstetrician pulled the mask back over her mouth. This is on your head. If she dies, someone will have to answer for it.

The young woman cried out and the nurse nervously held the girl’s hand while the doctor positioned herself at the end of the table. Here it comes, she said, and a third surge of blood gushed out across the operating table.

It’s a boy, said the nurse.

I know, said the man.

After a traumatic delivery like this, said the doctor, the baby and mother should be in intensive care. She clamped the umbilical cord and cut through it.

Do as I tell you, he hissed.

Is he all right? said the young woman weakly.

Don’t let her see, the man in the suit said, advancing. Give him to me.

I want to see him, she said.

That’s not part of the deal, said the man.

I want to see my son.

The man leaned across the curtain to meet her eyes. This is not your child. He’s ours, and you’re never to see him.

My baby, she whispered. My baby boy.

Enough, grunted the man. Give him to me. He grabbed the infant from the nurse, wrapped him in a nearby towel and turned toward the door, careful to occlude the young mother’s view of the boy.

My baby, she cried, stretching her arm out toward the man. My boy! She managed to grasp the corner of the towel as he passed by.

Doctor, the nurse started toward the door, stop him!

No, she said, turning back toward the girl. If we leave her now, she’ll die in a matter of minutes.

But what can we do?

I don’t know, she said, but we should at least try something. She reached into the woman for the source of the blood. A clotting agent? Please, what do we have?

Doctor, said the nurse, you have to look at this. They stood motionless before the monitor. Her pressure, pulse, everything is completely normal again.

My God, she said under her breath, the bleeding’s completely stopped.

The young woman rested, eyes closed, as if in the middle of a peaceful rest. She opened her eyes and smiled groggily when the nurse came alongside her to check her vital signs.

It was a boy, wasn’t it? she asked. I just knew it was going to be a boy. I just knew it.

1

H ey Nica, what’s a six-letter word for ‘vagabond?’

Nica’s gaze was fixed on the screen before her. Harlot, she said.

I thought that was a prostitute, grunted Edward, tossing a handful of almonds into his mouth. Edward was a stout man. He was also a New Yorker editor twenty years Nica’s senior. Since his wife put him on a diet, Edward had replaced the M&M’s on his desk with almonds. He’d eaten a lot of them.

That’s what it means now, said Nica, pulling her chestnut hair into a ponytail. It used to mean someone without roots. After that, it referred to a male libertine.

You’re making that up, said Edward, picking his teeth.

Over time, she continued, it became a deprecating word for women.

Edward lifted a folded newspaper he had resting on his lap.

New York Times crossword, said Edward.

You just got lucky, said Nica. I happened to learn plenty about harlots in my graduate class on women in the Bible. Do you read the Bible?

Edward shook his head no.

I do. I got hooked on the genealogy of Jesus. Especially the fact that there are different accounts of his bloodline.

Uh-huh.

Did you know that Luke actually refers to the bloodline of Mary, but because maternal lineage was not considered valid at the time it was written, the name ultimately was changed to Joseph?

I did not. Thanks for that.

Nica was unaffected by his obvious indifference.

The thing is, she said, ancient DNA samples, like the ones found in ancient ossuaries and the like, usually were traceable only through the maternal bloodline.

Fascinating, sighed Edward. You know you’re too smart for your own good.

Is it my fault if the average reader has the vocabulary of a seventh-grader? said Nica.

Of course not. But it is your fault if they stop buying our magazine. Religion mostly sucks as a subject.

At the New Yorker, where it was common practice for articles to make readers reach for a thesaurus, Nica was expected to produce detailed investigative stories. No one wanted to know about her hobbies, like when she spent three months investigating a group called The Project. They were related to the Merovingians, heirs of an ancient French dynasty, mythologized as protectors of the bloodline of Jesus. Give it to Nica, was pretty much what everyone in the office said whenever a religion story intruded. Priest rapes child—Give it to Nica! Pope calls for world peace (yawn!)—Give it to Nica.

Currently, Nica was finishing up a story about a botanist in Israel who had nurtured a two thousand-year-old date palm seed into germination. The Israel connection made the story religious enough to get dumped in her lap.

Then there was the hokey name plate that was supposed to be the King of the Jews notice nailed above Jesus on the cross. The Jerusalem tourist office loved this thing and everyone said it was of course a fake—until it got carbon dated. To everyone’s surprise it checked out as two thousand-plus years old.

Nica had met the guy in New York who had identified it as authentically old at a conference on Biblical artifacts. He presented a paper on advances in artifact tracking using computer technology. It was not her area of interest, but she decided to introduce herself after his talk. He warmly shook her hand, said his name was Ibrahim, and the two struck up a friendship. She always liked his calls. It was usually unexpected—as it was today—but she smiled when the front desk buzzed her to say that Ibrahim was on the line.

Nica, my dear, said Ibrahim. It’s been too long since we spoke.

I know. How are you doing?

My wife is pregnant with our third.

Wow, that’s wonderful! How are the boys?

Fine.

Send some pictures?

Of course.

Actually, I was going to call you. I have some questions about something you have in your catalog. I’m not sure about the Latin, said Nica.

Tilulus crucis, said Ibrahim. Title of the Cross.

Any chance you can tell me who took samples?

You never got anything from me. Understand?

I understand, Nica assured Ibrahim. I won’t forget it, seriously.

***

When Nica got back from lunch, the fax was sitting on her desk. The source number was blocked and there was no cover letter. There was also no reference to the titulus crucis on the page, only her name scribbled at the top, followed by three more names, professional affiliations, and dates. The first sample was taken in 1981, the year the titulus was discovered. The recipient was Dr. Binyamin Abijah from PaleoTech Labs, a contractor for the I.A.A. The most recent date was a month ago, registered by a man named Dr. Vaughan Pavel from the Max Planck Institute in Leipzig. The third, registered to Dr. Damian Armitage from Pennsylvania State University, was taken in June 1985.

I’ll be damned, said Nica.

Something wrong? said Edward, glancing up from his crossword.

I think, she said, I need to take a trip to Pennsylvania.

2

The dreams had been essentially the same. There was Gethsemane and the plaintive cries. There was prison, the sound of whips echoing off the stone walls. Jacob knew the scenes as if they were scripted.

In recent weeks, the dream had taken on a new sense of presence. As the apparitions became more vivid, they brought with them a salience that lingered throughout the day. Then there was the blood he woke up to, perhaps half a dozen tablespoons from each arm.

It was Friday and, as usual, Jacob was late before his feet hit the floor. He had started meeting with Father William once a week as soon as he was released from the custody of Sacred Heart orphanage. It was part of the requirement for him to receive the six-month allowance that provided for his room. He and Father William—whom Jacob affectionately called Scratch because of his nervous habit of stroking his unkempt beard whenever he spoke—both knew he didn’t have to show up anymore, but he kept coming anyway.

His only reliable means of transportation was his Organika skateboard. Scratch had given it to him as a gift four years ago for his fifteenth birthday. Jacob still had no idea how a priest who spent most of his life within the walls of a religious bastion in northeast Denver knew how to pick out a custom deck. Aside from the board, the only other gift he had received growing up was a slightly oxidized saxophone someone had donated to the church. It hadn’t sold in their yard sale, so they thought one of the children might have use for it. Jacob’s slender, agile fingers had moved adeptly over the mother-of-pearl keys, and his slow, patient vibrato had manifested deep in his solar plexus, whereas many young players created an artificial tremolo with their jaw. Several of the regular men who Jacob had sat in with encouraged him to pick up a nicer horn to make the most of his talent, but aside from the fact that he could hardly keep himself supplied with reeds, let alone a new instrument, the thought of playing another sax felt like betrayal.

Jacob threw his saxophone case over his right shoulder, stuffed a folder of lead sheets and his MP3 player into his backpack, and tucked his deck under his left arm. As he pulled the door to his room closed, a familiar female voice said, Hey, Jacob, come here for a sec.

Elena was as fair in complexion as Jacob was bronzed. Whereas her hair was fine, falling in silken strands along her neck and shoulders, his thick black hair gathered in ringlets on top of his head. Her angular features complemented the full, firm contour of her hips and breasts. Jacob was practically Elena’s anatomical negative, his rangy nineteen-year-old skater-boy frame accentuated by a big nose, thick lips like ripe figs, and almond eyes so pronounced that he always looked surprised.

What’s up? said Jacob.

Where you going? Elena asked. Got a rehearsal?

Later, yeah, he said. First, I have my Friday thing with Scratch.

I didn’t know you still had to go see him. Wasn’t that just so they’d pay for your place at first?

I just—I kind of like to talk to him still, you know?

Cool, she said. Elena walked

Reviews for Blood Doctrine

[loribom · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The synopsis of this book is pretty accurate. It leaves enough to the imagination that if you try to put answers to the questions before you read the book, you may be surprised. Personally I enjoy that; enough to wet your appetite but it doesn't give away the entire story so you don't need to read it.The premise of this book is awesome. I'm not going to say too much about it because it would give away a major mystery of the story line. Suffice it to say if you enjoy the thought of accessing ancient DNA for today's world, this should be right up your alley.I enjoyed the opportunity to learn a bit of a story in the bible. I found the characters believable and interesting to get to know. I hope Mr Piatt has thoughts of a sequel. It does sort of just end abruptly.I highly recommend this to anyone interested in what I mention above. Again,I don't want to say too much without giving the book away.Thank you Mr Piatt for the opportunity to read this book!

[dubiousdisciple · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Piatt spins two parallel tales: the major story in the twenty-first century, the minor one in the first century. They dovetail by the end of the book. The first story is a page-turner; the second, not so much. As a scholar of first-century Palestinian history, you’d think that would be the portion of the book that would most interest me, but I found it to be rather unnecessary.That minor complaint aside, the primary tale is captivating! A teenage boy who grew up as an orphan recognizes that he is different, that he seems to possess strange healing powers, but is hesitant to discuss it with others. When a journalist on the trail of an archaeological mystery comes into his life, he learns that his powers are no accident … they stem from the time of Jesus … and that powerful people are watching him closely, anxiously trying to hurry the Second Coming of Christ.With likeable characters and multiple plot twists, this would seem to appeal best to young adults. But with the pointed subject matter and the first-century side story, perhaps it will find its niche instead among free-thinking adult readers.Samizdat Creative, © 2014, 183 pagesISBN: 978-938633-55-3