In His Image

by James Beauseigneur

  Christopher took a long breath while Decker looked at him in anxious surprise. “I know who I am,” he said. “I know that I was cloned from cells Uncle Harry found on the Shroud of Turin.”

  “What? How do you know?” Decker managed to sputter despite his shock.

  “Well, I always had a feeling I was different from other kids. But whenever I mentioned it to Aunt Martha she would just tell me that every kid feels that way from time to time and that I shouldn’t let it bother me. Aunt Martha was a wonderful lady; she could always make me feel better.

  “But when I got a little older, just before my twelfth birthday, I had a terrifying nightmare of being crucified—literally! It was so real. I didn’t tell Aunt Martha or Uncle Harry about it because I thought it was just a nightmare. But over the next few months I had the same dream several more times. Of course, I had heard of crucifixion, but it didn’t particularly frighten me, certainly not enough to cause a recurring nightmare. The dreams were always terrifying while they were happening, but when I’d wake up, it all just seemed kind of crazy, and pretty soon I’d go back to sleep.

  “Then about a year ago, I was in Uncle Harry’s study. He was doing some work at his desk and I was doing my homework in his big over-stuffed chair and I fell asleep. When I did, I had the dream again and apparently I started talking in my sleep. When I woke up Uncle Harry was sitting in front of me with the strangest look on his face. He had recorded most of what I said in my sleep on his old tape recorder. He asked me what I had been dreaming and I told him. When he played the tape back for me I didn’t understand a single word. It was my voice, but the words weren’t English.

  “Uncle Harry called someone he knew in the language department at the university, played the tape for him over the phone, and asked him if he could identify the language. The man said I had been talking in ancient Aramaic with some Hebrew thrown in.

  “That’s when Uncle Harry told me the whole story about the Shroud and everything. According to the man on the phone, a couple of things I said in my sleep were similar to things Jesus was supposed to have said when he was crucified.

  “It was scary, but to tell you the truth, it was kinda neat too, especially when Uncle Harry told me his theory that Jesus might have been from another planet. I guess every kid likes to think he’s special. He made me promise not to tell Aunt Martha or anyone else because he was afraid of what people might think or do. He was especially worried about the fundamentalist Christians who would think it was a sin to clone Jesus. He said that the only other person who knew about me was you. And, of course, you were in Lebanon.”

  “But how can you remember these things?”

  “Uncle Harry wondered about that, too, and he had a theory that he thought might explain it. He said that each cell in the body has the blueprints for the whole body—not just things like race and sex and hair color and eye color and whether you’ll be tall or short, but everything that every other cell in the body needs to know to function. That’s how the single cell of a fertilized egg can reproduce to form something as complex as a human being. The information even tells the cells in a finger which finger they’re in and how they’re supposed to grow so that finger fits with the other fingers on the hand and is the same size as the matching finger on the other hand. He said that information is also what makes cloning possible.

  “Uncle Harry’s theory was that the cells may include even more information than all of that. He said that about 95 percent of human DNA is called ‘junk DNA’ by scientists because it’s repetitive and they’re still not entirely sure what it’s all for. He thought maybe the junk DNA is used by cells to record any changes in other cells, so that every cell stores the information from every other cell, including the cells of the brain. He said that might also answer some questions about evolution and something he called the collective unconscious of the species, but he didn’t really explain that.”

  Decker recognized the reference to the theories of Sigmund Freud’s protégé, Carl Jung.

  “Before he and Aunt Martha died, Uncle Harry was experimenting with some white mice to see if a cloned mouse would remember its way through a maze that the original mouse had been trained to go through. I don’t think he ever completed his work on that.

  “He thought that maybe the reason my memory is only partial is because of the cellular trauma of crucifixion, resurrection, and cloning.”

  “Do you remember anything after Jesus’ resurrection?” Decker asked.

  “No. Uncle Harry said I wouldn’t remember anything about that because I was cloned from a cell left on the Shroud only seconds after the resurrection.”

  “Is there anything else besides the crucifixion that you remember about your life as Jesus?”

  “Uncle Harry tried to spur my memory by having me read parts of Aunt Martha’s Bible. It was interesting, but it didn’t help me remember anything. There was one thing in the Bible that seemed really confused, though.”

  Decker was intrigued. “What was that, Christopher? What was confused?”

  “Well, the Bible makes it seem like Jesus knew he was going to be killed, like it was all planned out, but that’s not the way it was. I know this all sounds kinda strange, but in my dream, before the crucifixion, I remember being in front of Pilate and he was asking me questions. The whole time I just kept thinking that any minute I’d be rescued by angels. But something went wrong. Mr. Hawthorne, I don’t think the crucifixion was supposed to happen! For hours I hung on that cross with spikes driven through my wrists and feet, trying to understand what went wrong. That’s why I said, ‘My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?’ 30 I don’t think I was supposed to die. I think God was supposed to rescue me!” 31

  Remembering this was obviously a painful experience for Christopher.

  “I’m sorry,” Decker said, as he put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and tried to comfort him.

  At that moment the phone rang.

  Decker gave Christopher’s back a comforting rub and went to answer the phone. It was Ambassador Hansen. “Decker, I don’t know any way to say this to make it any easier on you,” Hansen said, “so I’m just going to read you the dispatch I received from Ambassador Rogers in Tel Aviv.

  As per your request, at about 5:00 Eastern time, midnight Israel time, a driver was dispatched to Tel Hashomer Hospital to bring Mr. Tom Donafin back to the British Embassy with the intention of expediting his departure from Israel. The driver and Mr. Donafin were expected back within two hours. Three hours later, that is about 3:00 A.M. Israel time, the driver had still not returned to the embassy and could not be reached by mobile phone.

  In keeping with standard operating procedures, a search team was dispatched to cover the route that the driver had indicated on his itinerary. The search team was unsuccessful in finding either the driver or the car, but they did verify that Mr. Donafin had checked out of the hospital and left with the driver from the embassy.

  The search team expanded their search to include some likely alternate routes and at about 7:30 A.M. Israel time, they located what was left of the car, which was positively identified by the license plate.

  “Decker, I’m sorry,” Hansen concluded. “It appears that the car took a direct hit from a stray missile or artillery shell and was completely destroyed. There were no survivors.”

  New York, New York

  The wealth of the Bragford family was clearly evident in the solid cherry wood paneling, rich carpeting, and highly polished brass that presented former UN Assistant Secretary-General Robert Milner and Alice Bernley with perfect mirrored images of themselves and the operator who was piloting the private elevator to the penthouse office of the family’s guiding force, David Bragford.

  Most of Robert Milner’s adult life had been spent in the presence of the wealthy and powerful. Raising large amounts of money from rich patrons for special projects at the UN came with the job of assistant secretary-general, and Milner was quite good at it. The experience had its benefits. He knew w
hat it took to separate the rich from their money—at least small portions of it. He had become adept at getting what he wanted by alternately stroking an ego and stoking a sense of guilt for having so much while others starved.

  Still, Milner held a deeply seated distrust of those with great wealth, and certainly there were few on earth who possessed such wealth as did the Bragfords. Men like David Bragford were altogether different from the garden-variety rich. While it was true the Bragford family had been very extravagant in their support of the UN—indeed, the Bragfords had been instrumental in financing the original organization of the UN—Milner had found that such extravagance is never born purely of generosity. When they gave, there was usually something they expected in return, and in Milner’s experience, at the very least that meant intrusion.

  It was, therefore, with some discomfort that he agreed to accompany Alice Bernley to Bragford’s office. Bernley was positive, she said, that this was the right thing to do and that Bragford would help them. She had consulted her spirit guide, Tibetan Master Djwlij Kajm, and he had left no doubt that Bragford was to be consulted.

  At the conclusion of their ascent to the penthouse, they were met by David Bragford’s administrative assistant, who escorted them past two security posts to a mammoth office where David Bragford sat comfortably on the edge of his desk, talking on the telephone. Beside the desk, on the white carpeting, lay a full-grown black Labrador retriever who, unlike their host, seemed to take no notice of their arrival. Bragford quickly finished his conversation and joined his guests in a sitting area of the office.

  “Alice, Mr. Assistant Secretary-General, welcome,” Bragford said, affording Milner the honor of his previous post. “Can I get you anything? Would you like some coffee?” Bragford had his secretary bring coffee for his guests while he shared niceties with Bernley and Milner about their recent projects. The arrival of the coffee marked the end of small talk and the beginning of discussion of the business at hand.

  “So,” Bragford said, directing his opening to Milner, “Alice tells me you would like my help with something.”

  “Yes,” Bernley said, taking the lead. “As you know, Master Djwlij Kajm many years ago prophesied that both Bob and I would live to see the true Krishnamurti, the Ruler of the New Age. Yesterday we saw him.”

  One would never have guessed it from the look on his face, but with each word Alice spoke, Robert Milner was dying inside of embarrassment. Why, he asked himself, had he allowed Alice to do the talking? He should have known this would happen; Alice was not one to control her emotions. This was not the correct approach for the uninitiated. Sure, it was all true. They had seen him, but Milner knew very well that David Bragford did not believe one word of this about Bernley’s spirit guide. Bragford, after all, had never been present at a demonstration of Master Djwlij Kajm’s power.

  “That’s great,” Bragford replied to Bernley’s introduction. “When can I meet him?”

  Though there was absolutely no evidence of it, Milner was sure Bragford was patronizing them, but he was suffering too greatly from embarrassment to respond.

  “Oh, well, that’s the problem,” Bernley said. “We don’t know where he is. He was at the UN, but then he left with a man, possibly his father.”

  “His father?” Bragford asked. “Just how old is this … uh …” Bragford was trying hard not to say anything that would make his skepticism too obvious, but he could not for the life of him remember what Bernley had called this person.

  Alice spared him the difficulty of finishing his sentence. “He’s just a boy,” she said. “I’d guess he was about, oh, what would you say, Bob?” But ‘Bob’ wasn’t saying. It didn’t matter, though. Alice was already starting to answer her own question. “Fourteen or fifteen, I’d say.”

  “Fourteen or fifteen?” Bragford echoed.

  “Yes,” Bernley said, ignoring Bragford’s raised eyebrows and the skepticism in his voice. “What we need is your help finding out who he is.”

  To Milner’s surprise, Bragford was ready with an answer. “I think I have just the right person to help you. Just a moment,” he said as he reached for the phone on the coffee table. “Betty, would you ask Mr. Tarkington to join us in my office?”

  Almost immediately, the door opened and a tall, muscular man entered the office. “Come in, Sam,” Bragford said as he sat his cup down. Bernley and Milner rose to meet him. After the introductions Bragford got right to the point of explaining what was required, although leaving out the stranger aspects of Bernley’s and Milner’s interest in finding the individuals.

  “Do you think you can do it?” Bragford asked.

  “I believe so, sir. The security cameras at the UN record everyone entering and exiting the guest lobby. I can get the tapes. If Ms. Bernley and the assistant secretary-general can identify the man and boy from the tape, then I’ll put our people to work finding out who they are. If they went anywhere in the building that required signing a registry, such as the Secretariat Building or the Delegates Dining Room, it’ll make our job a lot easier.”

  “Great,” Bragford said, satisfied with the prospects and confident of Tarkington’s abilities.

  “Great,” echoed Bernley. “Now, once we find out who they are, there’s one other thing we may need your help with.”

  Tel Aviv, Israel

  The darkened streets were nearly silent as the tall, bearded man walked through the rubble scattered across the pockmarked asphalt. His long, purposeful strides and the soft, muffled sounds of the leather soles of his shoes gave no hint of the great weight the man bore over his shoulder. The long, brown, curled hair of his traditional Hasidic earlock was flattened against his cheek, sandwiched tightly between his face and the load he carried. For more than six miles the darkly dressed man had carried his burden, from the business district of the city down long straight streets to a cluster of apartment buildings near the shore of the Mediterranean.

  Finally, the man stopped in front of a ten-story apartment building on Ramat Aviz and went to the front entrance. The glass doors, which had been destroyed in a blast the night before, had been replaced with sheets of plywood. The man knocked, and a moment later the door was cracked open and two eyes peered out at him. As recognition registered in the eyes, the door was quickly shut again and a table moved so the door could be fully opened. A rather plain woman in her mid-thirties, dressed in a blood-stained surgical gown, greeted her unexpected guest.

  “Welcome, Rabbi,” she said, as she led him to an area of the lobby that had been converted to a makeshift clinic. Here and there family members of some of the patients were camped out near their relatives to assist with their care.

  “Not here with the others,” he said, his words revealing a voice unusually rich and measured. “You must take him to your apartment.”

  Only now did the woman see the face of the man the rabbi carried over his shoulder. The blood that covered his face and soaked his clothes was foreboding enough to his prognosis, but his misshapen skull led her to believe that the patient was as good as dead, and perhaps would be better off if he were.

  “Rabbi, I think we’re wasting our time with this one,” she said.

  “You must see to it that we are not,” he answered firmly as he turned and walked toward the stairwell. “You are a good doctor. I have full confidence in your abilities.”

  “But Rabbi, he’s nearly dead if he’s not dead already.”

  “He is not dead,” the rabbi said as he opened the door and began to ascend the first flight of stairs, the woman following closely behind. The woman moved quickly, dipping and swerving to get around the rabbi, then placed herself in the middle of the stairs, stopping his advance. The rabbi stared insistently, his eyes telling her to let him pass.

  “At least let me check his pulse!” she pleaded.

  The rabbi paused as she took the man’s wrist and checked his pulse. He watched her eyes, entirely certain of what she would find. To her amazement the pulse was reasonably strong. The
rabbi moved past her and continued up the steps.

  “Okay,” she said, “so he’s alive, but you can see the condition of his head. He’s probably hopelessly brain damaged.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with his brain. It’s an old injury he received when he was a child.” The rabbi reached the third floor and opened the stairwell door.

  “Okay, okay, so maybe he’ll survive.” She was becoming frantic to stop him as he made his way ever closer to her apartment with his unwelcome patient. She knew her only hope was to talk him out of his plan. If he insisted, however, she knew she would have to submit; he was, after all, the rabbi. The problem was that as far as she knew, no one had ever talked the rabbi out of anything.

  “But why does he have to stay in my apartment?! Why can’t he stay downstairs with the others?”

  The rabbi, who had now reached her apartment, turned to answer as he waited for her to unlock the door. “He is unclean,” he answered in a whisper, though no one else was within earshot. “He is uncircumcised,” he added in clarification. “Also, he will need your personal care.”

  Convinced it was futile to resist, the woman relented and opened the door. “Put him in the extra bedroom,” she said as she grabbed some old sheets from the linen closet. “Is he a Gentile?” she asked, as she began spreading the sheets on the bed.

  “He believes he is,” he answered. “In a week or so, when he is better, I will see to his circumcision.”

  “Who is he?” she asked, now reluctantly reconciled to her situation.

  “His name is Tom Donafin.” The rabbi waited while the woman ran water into a basin and began to clean Tom’s wounds. “He is the one of whom the prophecy spoke, ‘He must bring death and die that the end and the beginning may come.’”

  The woman stopped her work and looked back at the rabbi, stunned at what she had just been told.

  “He is the last in the lineage of James, the brother of the Lord,” he continued. “He is the Avenger of Blood.”