A New Kind of Zeal 3
The Crux of Salvation
Michelle Warren
Published by Michelle Warren
Distributed by Smashwords
Copyright 2016 Michelle Warren
Updated 2018 Michelle Warren
Discover other titles by Michelle Warren:
A New Kind of Zeal – the first in the trilogy
A New Kind of Zeal 2: The Price of Redemption
Statement:
This novel is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of a character to a person living or dead is a coincidence, apart from those clear characters of inspiration from two thousand years ago. Likewise, the organisations, positions and places explored do not represent any current reality today, but rather represent a fictional future.
INTRODUCTION
This novel follows the events that took place in ‘A New Kind of Zeal’ and ‘A New Kind of Zeal 2 – The Price of Redemption’:
Two and a half years have passed since Kensington confronted his son Alex in Saint Peter’s Cathedral, Wellington. Alex has been studying at Victoria University, while the Prime Minister James Connor continues to lead the nation from the Beehive. Rachel Connor has been training to become a Physician, while her husband, John Robertson, remains in the Cathedral with Bishop Mark Blake.
Tristan Blake has been watching Alex. The young man, now twenty, has locked himself away in his room in Mark Blake’s home, studying. Tristan sees the legacy of Alex’s past: a past Alex seems to be trying to hide. What will become of him?
Rau Petera remains on the shores of Oriental Bay, offering good news: but Tristan is watching and waiting. The nation suffered an upheaval, and has settled in a kind of peace – but Tristan is uneasy. Alex’s strength is growing, along with his potential power over the nation. Tristan sees his father, Kensington, in Alex: he senses the threat Alex has not yet overcome.
Trouble is brewing overseas; trouble is brewing within. Kensington is beginning to take a greater hold. Powers are rising: the world is at risk of war. What fate will beset the nation? What forces, in the midst of the growing darkness, will win?
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Start of A New Kind of Zeal 3: The Crux of Salvation
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CHAPTER ONE: Graduation
Alex Kensington shifted on his feet. He stood waiting in front of the historic cream stone of the Law Faculty of Victoria University. Across the road, a little in the distance, rose the Beehive. His eyes roamed over the ten storeyed grey hive, settling on the ninth storey – the office of the Prime Minister.
In front of him hundreds of graduates from the university had gathered, forming the graduation procession for 2032. They wore black academic gowns in the blistering December heat, and formed a colourful crowd, with their different coloured hoods of light blue, yellow, orange...
Alex frowned and glanced down at his own black gown, reaching to finger the purple coloured hood sitting across his back. Then he moved forward to join the throng.
They processed down Lambton Quay, through central Wellington. Family members shouted and waved from the path, holding up cameras and cell-phones to take photos. Alex ducked his head to avoid the shots. From time to time he glanced across at the crowd, expecting to see someone – a face he knew, smiling back at him. There was no one. He swallowed, fleetingly closed his eyes, and moved forward with the procession along Willis Street, across Mercer Street, and finally they gathered on the brick pavement of Civic Square.
Alex looked up at the Wellington Town Hall. The cream stone pillars had been freshly painted, after the entire building had been strengthened for earthquakes. His classmates were nearby, in their black gowns and purple hoods; he could hear their laughter. He wandered toward their smiles. And then it was time.
They filed into the building. Excitement filled the air; of victory, of achievement, of success. He looked around the students’ eager faces, and sat down, but soon rose again for the lifting tones of the national anthem.
God defend New Zealand…
Alex’s mind drifted, away from the resonant voices in the concert hall to another chamber – to the robes of the Governor General, Anita Mayes, as she carried the golden mace…
“Welcome!” The Chancellor’s voice rang out. Alex drew his attention back to him, to his colourful robes and his strong voice as he led the gathering.
They sat again, and Alex listened to the Chancellor’s speech. He made acknowledgements, gave thanks, and declared recognition of the efforts of the students. Alex glanced up at the balcony above them, to the proud faces of the families. There were only two seats allocated per student; why hadn’t he invited Mark and Tristan Blake? They would have come, he was certain; he’d been living with them for two years. And yet…
Family. Could he see eyes watching? A familiar face? But, no, there were only dark shadows.
He settled back into his chair, but then they were being called again to their feet as the Chancellor directed them to be capped.
Alex reached down to the black cap tucked under his left arm, and placed it on his head. He’d graduated! He’d made it! He moved as the Engineering Faculty was called forward.
The Masters graduates stepped up onto the stage and received their degrees. Then his classmates were called, in alphabetical order.
Nervously Alex watched them walk up to the Chancellor, shake his hand, take the scrolled degree, and move off the stage.
“Alex Kensington,” said the Chancellor, “Bachelor of Engineering with First Class Honours, and the Anderson award for top of the final year.”
Kensington. The name lingered in his mind. He thrust himself forward.
There were too many eyes upon him. He fixed his gaze on the stage, concentrating on each step until he reached the top, and then stretched his hand out hesitantly toward the Chancellor.
“Congratulations, Alex,” said the Chancellor.
“Thank you,” he whispered, and he took the scroll and the medal, and walked back across the stage, ready to descend.
Suddenly, something flashed before him. He gasped, stiffened, and stumbled on the top step, but then felt a steadying hand grasp his arm.
“Easy,” a voice whispered, and he looked up into Tristan Blake’s green eyes. “Security,” continued Tristan wryly. “I had to find some way in, being army and all.”
“Worried about their safety?” muttered Alex under his breath, tipping his head at the other graduates.
“From you?” whispered Tristan. “Now you’ve aced IT?”
“My father would be proud,” choked Alex, as he turned and made his way back to his seat.
The ceremony continued. Alex watched Tristan’s eyes wander across the room. The soldier had found a way, shrewdly positioning himself to protect Alex, acting as an older brother would. But why, wondered Alex.
Maybe it was because…
A chill passed through Alex’s body, and he closed his eyes tightly. No, he thought, don’t let Selena in. Not yet! Not here.
He was twenty now; it had been two and a half years. Would the shock ever ease?
He drew his attention back to the ceremony. The next person was graduating, and then the next. It seemed endless. More speeches. And then, finally, it was time to leave.
They rose to their feet, and followed the professors and teachers out of the building and back to Civic Square. Alex searched for Tristan, certain he’d be there, somewhere in the background, watching him and the crowd.
His class mates were grinning, talking rapidly. They grasped their caps and threw them, as one, into the air. Alex took his cap off, and clutched it to his chest.
Finally it was over. The graduates moved away with their families; to have lunch
, he presumed. He stood alone in the courtyard as the others disappeared, looking back up at the Town Hall. Then he wandered away, wondering where he should go. To lunch? McDonald’s? He clutched his cap and wandered through the streets, back down Lambton Quay toward the Law faculty. Eventually he found himself standing in Molesworth Street, between the Beehive and Saint Peter’s Cathedral.
Home. This place felt like home.
He walked up the steps of the stone church, and moved through the glass doors.
The Cathedral was silent, and empty. The new stained glass windows shone red, blue, and green, capturing images of Christ, and of Peter, John, and Paul. The windows were reflections of reality; evocative light. Alex took in a deep breath. Water! Here was water for a thirsty soul. He drank in the air; he breathed in the Spirit of the sanctuary. Then he wandered down the central aisle.
Jesus was in the heart of the Cathedral, the innermost place, painted on tiles, stretched out on the cross with the crown of thorns on his head. Alex looked at him, and at the altar before him, covered in white linen. Here was Christ’s offering – the offering of his life.
Here Alex’s father had…had…
Suddenly deep breathing overcame him. He looked up again to the stained glass windows, the windows he had shot out that were now restored. Breathe! Breathe! His father was hitting him again! As he had already hit him so many times…
“Oh, God,” he pleaded, as he forced himself closer to the altar. Here he had chosen Christ! Here his father had pressed the gun to his head, pulling the trigger! Here his father’s body had been violently seized from him just in time by Tristan’s bullet.
Agony took him. He reached out to clutch onto the altar, sank to his knees, and pressed his head against it. Breathe! Breathe! He looked up at Christ, on the cross: he was suffering! His wrists were pinned! His feet were fixed. His side was pierced…
Alex’s chest ached, his father’s knife twisting in his side. Where was Christ’s chalice? Where was Christ’s life? It was there, lying on the altar: the silver cup, filled with wine.
This is my blood, given for you…
He reached for Christ’s blood, and drank. He sank into the altar, and cried. Again! His father’s image kept coming to him, again and again, from beyond the grave! So many times, he thought, why must it be so many times? It felt like a thousand deaths!
But now Joshua’s image flooded his memory; his brown eyes finding him, his gentle smile easing him.
“You are my brother,” he said. “Shine my Light! Carry the cost.”
A thousand deaths! A thousand resurrections. There was a reason for the pain! A greater purpose, and a calling.
Alex reached beneath his black gown to his right trouser pocket. He still carried the five bullets with him, even now after over two years, deformed and used. He had sent these into Joshua’s chest, through Tristan and the Prime Minister. Yet Joshua had known, and had willingly taken Alex’s bullets.
Alex could see Joshua now, in his mind’s eye, staggering between the Beehive and the Cathedral. His face was bloody as he clutched onto the ancient cursed crown Selena had thrust upon his head – the crown of Alex’s inheritance – embracing Alex’s death into Joshua’s own grave.
“You saved me,” whispered Alex, gripping the bullets, and pain seized his chest again, but he continued through the pain. “You took my curse onto yourself, and you overcame it.”
He lifted himself away from the altar back to his knees, looking again at Jesus on the cross, clutching the bullets in his fist to his own heart. Joshua was only a representation! A translation of a much older reality, a reality he had touched in childhood.
“I will love you,” he said, “now and always. I will follow you, whatever the cost! Whatever the cost.”
And he rose to his feet.
The altar was before him, the silver chalice in its rightful place, on top. Alex tilted his head, looking at it. This was the necessary sacrifice – the whole offering. Why had he done it? To draw the inherited darkness of humanity onto himself; to overcome the corruption passed on from generation to generation. To transcend the inevitable death of body and soul.
“Do it,” he whispered, reaching out to touch the polished wood of the altar, beneath the white linen. “Save us from ourselves, before it is too late.”
He gazed at the altar, at his own fingers touching the wood – and then, suddenly, he acted. His academic cap was still tucked, forgotten, in his left arm; his degree and medal clutched in his left hand. He reached out to lay the black cap on top of the altar, adding his rolled up scroll and medal. He drew his hood and gown over his head, and laid them also on the altar, covering his qualification.
“Four years of work completed in two years,” said a voice behind him. He turned to see Mark Blake standing quietly behind him, wearing his purple bishop’s tunic. It seemed he’d been there for a while, waiting. “You are talented.”
Alex shrugged, and turned back to the altar.
“Top of the class,” said Mark, moving behind him. “You would do well overseas.”
“Meaningless,” muttered Alex, staring at the purple hood. “It’s all meaningless.”
“How can it be meaningless?” asked Mark. “I watched you work hard for all you have achieved.”
“I have achieved nothing,” said Alex. “Nothing of importance.”
“Not so,” said Mark. “You have knowledge…”
“This kind of knowledge is meaningless,” said Alex, staring at the degree, lifting it again in his left hand, “compared with what he did. Compared with what he knows.”
He pointed the scroll toward the cross, and tossed it back on the altar.
Mark moved alongside him at the altar, and Alex looked up at his face – at his gentle sad smile, looking down at the academic gown.
“You could use your great talents,” said Mark. “You could use them for good. All knowledge can be used for good.”
“Do you think I won’t use my knowledge for good?” asked Alex.
“You could help humanity.”
Alex stiffened. “As if the only thing I have to offer humanity is my mind.”
“I didn’t mean…”
“Even priests treat Christ as if he’s a piece of…”
“I certainly didn’t mean…”
“He saved my life,” said Alex curtly. “He overcame my father’s evil in me. There’s nothing more important than that, Mark: everything else is rubbish, compared with grasping him; compared with knowing him. I don’t care about my degree any more – you, of all people, should understand why.”
Alex saw Mark grimace, but the words continued to pour out of his mouth.
“I don’t care if people treat me like a piece of shit,” he said. “I don’t care if people call me idiotic for leaving their values behind. I don’t care if you think I’m useless without my degree…”
“Alex!” Mark’s face creased into a frown, and his voice filled the Cathedral.
Alex caught his breath, staring at him – fear! Always the fear seized him, with no warning. He reached out to clutch at the altar.
Mark’s face softened before him. “You’re misunderstanding me,” he said gently. “I am not your father.”
Alex’s chest tightened with pain. He closed his eyes.
“I know you’re not my father,” he whispered. “That was never your responsibility.”
“Again misunderstanding.”
Alex shook his head, and opened his eyes. Mark had always offered himself! And Alex had always resisted. For two years they had danced the dance: Mark offering, Alex refusing. How could Alex accept anything from him? When he had used him to get to Joshua. When…when Selena…
He looked abruptly away.
“It’s time for me to move out,” he said woodenly. “I’ve relied on your hospitality for too long.”
“Son…”
Tears pricked at Alex’s eyes, and he hastily squeezed them away. Son? Son?
“Look at me,” said Mark,
and Alex made himself turn back to Mark’s kind face.
“I have no claim over you,” said Mark. “Your heart is your own.”
“I…” whispered Alex. This man! This man had done so much for him! Could he not reciprocate? Could he not offer him love in return?
“But if I did have a claim,” continued Mark, “I would be proud.”
Alex felt his face contort as Mark continued.
“Not because of the hard work,” he said, “although that is admirable. Not because of your grades, although they also are admirable. But because you survived hell, Alex; you survived hell, and escaped corruption.”
Alex reached out a hand to his arm. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, and tears suddenly filled his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“I know,” said Mark. “But it wasn’t your fault.”
Pain seized Alex’s chest again. “I could never replace her,” he whispered. “You do know that, don’t you?”
Mark’s blue eyes widened. “I never expected that. I never required that.”
“I know, but…”
Mark gripped his hand, interrupting him. “You were a son to me,” he said, “even if I could not be a father to you. I understand, Alex! I understand. You still love your true father.”
Shocked, Alex stared at the truth in Mark’s eyes – Alex’s truth, naked, laid bare.
“I have loved,” he whispered, desperately holding down the tide, instinctively returning truth for truth. “I have loved you too, and I’ll always appreciate…”
“I know,” interrupted Mark. “I know.”
“It’s just, I can’t keep going like this.”
“I know.”
“Pretending,” said Alex. “Pretending.”
“I know, Alex,” said Mark.
Alex held his eyes. He trembled – should he speak? “It’s not okay,” he said finally. “It’s not okay, with my family, or with me, or even with anyone else. I see the reality in here, and I see it out there. The world is in trouble, Mark: broken, half blind, struggling and straining to be delivered into something better, and he knows it.” He gestured to the cross. “He knows it, and he’s done something about it.”
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