“Yes, I guess now that you mention it … okay, it was the stigmata,” I said pulling out my notebook. “And please, Father Jacobi, sit down, for goodness’ sake.” He pretended to smile at my lame joke and showed a mouthful of yellowish teeth. I even hit the “record” button on Sadowski’s phone. For once, I really wanted a record of somebody’s own words in their own words.
Cesur brought over a lit nargile—a water pipe, and Jacobi took a long hit and offered it to me.
“Is it hashish?”
He laughed—laughed! “No, just tobacco and fruit.” I took a drag (what the hell) and was amazed that it tasted like I was smoking apples, but within minutes the buzz I got off it was not like anything I’d ever experienced after eating a Golden Delicious. (Turns out the water filters the tobacco in these pipes in a way that makes the nicotine hit quite sensational.)
“Miss Russo, as was foretold, fate brought you here.”
Not to mention running from the law after being accused of murder.
“Only you will know—when the time is right—what to do to prevent worldwide catastrophe. I only have the honor of being your historian. The ignorant are damned to repeat history, as you know. I can’t arm you with the weapons, but I can arm you with the truth.”
“The truth of…”
“The true story of the birth thirty-three years ago of the Son of the Son. He who was born from the womb of a thirteen-year-old virgin.”
I’ll be a son of a bitch!
Again, as though reading my mind, Jacobi took a long hit of the pipe, handed it to me, and said, “No, we are not monsters, Miss Russo; we are warriors and servants.”
“Of…?”
“Why, of God, of course.”
“God told you to impregnate a thirteen-year-old child?”
“She was twelve at the time of conception, actually. The cloning.”
I felt bile rising in my throat. Was it the tobacco or was it the story? Both.
My God. Jurassic Park for Jesus.
Cesur brought out a tray of mezzas—Turkish appetizers—and laid them on the table and took the pipe from Jacobi. We were definitely in here for the long haul. And now, even disgusted as I was, I too was in all the way. Perhaps I could finally discover the whereabouts—if she was still alive, that is—of little Theotokos.
I swear that was really what I was thinking. I didn’t even really absorb that crap about saving the world. I only wanted to save one now-grown woman from what I assumed was captivity. And clear my name. And win a Pulitzer.
And I was wrong.
21
“Okay, then, where do we begin?”
“First we eat,” Jacobi said, blessing the tray of food and a carafe of delicious Turkish white wine. “We need to be nourished in our bodies, not just our souls.”
Is this what you said to the little girl you kidnapped for your disgusting purposes?
We finished the rest of the meal more or less in silence. I realized that the old guy needed to get his strength back before embarking on his wild tale.
When we were finished, Cesur cleaned off the table, and laid down a pristine piece of exquisite white linen that looked like an altar cloth you see in a Catholic church. He then carefully put down a small wooden box. Jacobi opened it to reveal a test tube surrounded by satin. The tube was filled with blood that looked fresh.
He picked it up gingerly, made the double sign of the cross (that again), and handed it to me.
“Sorry, I’m a bit squeamish,” I said, refusing to touch the thing.
He then held the tube aloft and sang in a rapturous, strong voice: “Blessed is the blood of Demiel ben Yusef, Son of the Son of our Lord and Savior.”
Then, with his eyes closed and beginning to drop tears, he proclaimed: “His blood is drink indeed. He who eats His flesh and drinks His blood abides in Him, and Him in You. As the living Father sent Him through me, we live because of the Father. So he who feeds on Him will live because of Him!”
Father Paulo then waved a hand, and Cesur brought a bottle of wine and what looked like two gold chalices and filled both. He helped Paulo to stand, and the old priest this time made a double sign of the cross over the wine goblets, handed me one, and said, “It’s not poison, my dear, it’s the blood of our Lord.”
“Blood?”
He snickered, shaking his head. “No! We don’t drink blood. Not literally. It’s not what you think. Believe me,” he said and took a swallow of the wine.
“This blood,” he said indicating the test tube, “is the blood … different from all other blood on earth—except for the ‘source blood’—the blood from which it came.”