A New Kind of Zeal

by Michelle Warren

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: Dissonance

  Tristan stood still.

  They had made it to Upper Hutt, in Wellington.

  In front of him Joshua had gathered another new crowd – on the grass in Maidstone Park. He was speaking to them, as always. Tristan couldn’t take in the words he was saying, but he could see the faces in the crowd: wide eyes, full of hope – full of expectation for the future.

  They were close now to the city of Wellington: only twenty-five minutes’ drive away from the Beehive.

  Chills went up Tristan’s spine. He turned his face away from Joshua and the crowd, toward the bush.

  “Oh, God,” he whispered, “what the hell do I do now?”

  He had joined them all again, at Turangi – he had joined them, as though nothing had happened. He had acted in friendship as though all was well: a spy! Shit! A spy – how the hell had that happened?

  He had acted the part well enough – but Rau had known something was up, surely! How could he not?

  Tristan glanced at his friend, now, to find Rau was already watching him. Quickly Tristan tried to look away, but now Rau was wandering up to him.

  “You all right, mate?” he asked. Tristan looked reluctantly at his Maori face – the warmth, the gentle wry smile: the genuine concern. Something had happened to Rau, up Ruapehu! That aura of faith, that joy, that sun in his eyes, had intensified ten times. Tristan had grown accustomed to it – had even grown fond of it. But now that light made him want to writhe.

  “I’m all right,” he muttered, keeping his face turned away. “Just hanging out for a joint.”

  Rau’s eyes were inquisitive. Tristan tried to avoid him – but could not.

  “Why?” Rau asked. “Why now?”

  Tristan swallowed. “Just memories,” he said. “My house is ten minutes’ drive away – just down the road in Lower Hutt.”

  Now Rau’s hand came to his shoulder, and Tristan forced himself not to flinch.

  Don’t touch me! He thought. You have no idea what’s going on.

  “Your father’s house?” Rau asked, and a sudden sharp pain seized Tristan’s chest. He closed his eyes.

  “I’m sorry, Rau,” he whispered. “Please leave me alone.”

  Rau was silent. Tristan opened his eyes again, to see the gravity in his face. Then Rau bowed his head respectfully, and moved away.

  Tristan watched him, surprised at the intensity of his own regret. He moved a little away from the group, and lowered himself to the ground, against a maple tree. The leaves were beginning to change into yellows and oranges.

  His father’s house…Now another torrent of pain took him. His mother! She had died, here – not five minutes away! His father had driven her, from Lower Hutt, for dinner – while Tristan and Selena had stayed at home, Mark Blake had driven her.

  Tristan suddenly remembered now that night, nine years ago. The phone had rung – his parents were in hospital! He had grabbed Selena, and rushed there, in the valley – he had seen his father, with a cast on his arm, sitting ashen white, and…and the body of his mother. The sheet was over her, with blood! Blood, on the sheet…

  He pulled his knees up to his chest – wrapped his arms around his legs, and squeezed his eyes shut, hiding his face in his knees. He was feeling it now? Only now, on the eve of his decision to kill, he actually wanted to cry for his mother?

  He had never felt it! Never felt it, until now…

  A kind of darkness surrounded him: a stale, stagnant smell of death. He shuddered, and fought it, and staggered to his feet. He looked outside of himself – and Joshua was standing there.

  Bewildered, Tristan stared at him. They were alone. Why had he left the others? His white face was close.

  Tristan suddenly remembered again – the time on Ninety Mile Beach: Joshua’s words.

  “You said,” Tristan whispered to him now, “that it wasn’t his fault.”

  “No,” Joshua quietly replied, “it wasn’t his fault.”

  “Then whose fault was it?” Now agony consumed his heart, as he continued. “Was it God’s fault?”

  Joshua’s expression shifted – the cloud had come again! The intensity.

  “Do you need someone to blame?” he asked.

  “If I did,” Tristan said, “would it be you?”

  Now Joshua was struggling again: the same struggle Tristan had seen in him on the Beach! The trance – seeing something else.

  “If it was me,” Joshua whispered, “would that take the guilt away?”

  Suddenly Tristan felt an urge to touch him – an urge he could not explain, to know what Joshua knew: to see what he saw. In that moment he vacillated – and then Joshua grasped his arm.

  Light wrestled with darkness within him. Tristan cried out, pushing Joshua away, staggering back – and stared at the man now on his knees before him. Joshua’s face was ashen white – like his father’s face had been on the night of his mother’s death. His gaze was far away – and great sobs erupted from within him, until they were gone.

  “Darkness,” Joshua whispered. “It’s everywhere! In everyone. It can’t coexist with light! But I am the scapegoat.”

  Tristan trembled. “What do you mean?”

  “I’ll carry it,” Joshua said, now looking up at him, from his knees. “All of it!”

  “Carry what?” Tristan whispered.

  “The guilt!” Joshua cried out. “The rage, the hatred, the crimes: the darkness! I have to get rid of it all!”

  Tristan swallowed as he continued.

  “The light has to have its way!” Joshua said. “Don’t you see? Love must have its way! I’ll deal with the darkness, for anyone who will give it to me – I’ll carry it, so that they can choose to live in the light.”

  Tristan was locked in his gaze – locked, neither for nor against this man whom he knew to be innocent. A scape goat? What did he mean?

  Joshua rose to his feet. His normal colour seemed to be returning to his cheeks. He smiled, and turned away – and Tristan choked.

  “Joshua,” he said, reaching out a hand, before he could stop himself. “That vision, with me, on the beach…” A steel fist felt clenched around his heart as he continued. “Was that…was that…?”

  He couldn’t bring himself to state the deep fear rising in his heart. Had Joshua actually seen his own death, at the hand of Tristan?

  Joshua hesitated, and then turned to him, meeting his eyes with an unreadable gaze.

  “Some things are better not to know,” he repeated his same words said on the beach, “not until their right time. But…” And now he grasped Tristan’s shoulder, with steadfast gaze. “…do what you have to do.”

  Joshua quickly left, and Tristan stared after him. What did that mean, ‘Do what you have to do’? Did he know? Chills again rose up Tristan’s back. Had Joshua always known? Even more, was Joshua actually telling Tristan to kill him?

  “So weird!” Tristan whispered, and he felt confused. What had just happened? What was the light? He didn’t know. Tristan had that same sense, as on the beach: there was more! More Joshua was not telling him: more to find out. But Tristan had no time to look.

  He wandered away from the gathering – away from the crowd, and the park, toward the streets. Then he found himself wandering toward the centre of Upper Hutt.

  “Hey!” A voice called to him, from behind: he ignored it, but it persisted, and now a hand was grasping his shoulder. “Tristan!”

  He let himself be turned – and it was Rachel. Her face was too inquisitive, but pretty. Tristan hated himself for the thought, and promptly discarded it.

  “Oh,” he said, “it’s you. What’s up, Doc?”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Ah…I don’t know.”

  Her brow furrowed – and her eyes, now annoyingly doctorly, moved over his face.

  “You don’t look right,” she said, and he smirked.

  “Is that the best you have?”

  “You look…” She hesitated, and then continued,
“stoned.”

  Tristan laughed at her. How ironic was that? “I wish!” he said, but now her eyes were looking further.

  “What’s wrong?”

  He trembled, against his will, and closed his eyes. His mother was there: her body, the sheet. Those screams, from overseas! War! Never far from him. And now…now his damned father, and the Prime Minister of New Zealand himself, were asking him to kill a profoundly innocent man.

  “Everything’s wrong,” he whispered, swaying on his feet – and he felt her hand on his arm, steadying him.

  “Tell me,” she said, and he shuddered.

  “Can’t.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Can’t! Can’t.”

  Her hand was firm on his arm – he opened his eyes to her physician’s gaze.

  “PTSD,” she said, and he shook his head.

  “What?”

  “Trauma. From war.”

  He stared at her, and then swallowed. “I’ve been asked to do something,” he said, “and it’s the one thing I can’t do! For so many reasons, I can’t do it! But I must! I must.”

  She frowned, looking at him.

  “Are you suicidal, Tristan?”

  Tears filled his eyes. “No,” he said. “I’m too afraid to die.”

  “Then what…?”

  Her face was trustworthy – her eyes were trustworthy. He found himself wanting to tell her, though he knew he must not: wanting to reveal the terrible conflict of his heart. But then there was another voice.

  “Tristan!”

  This one he didn’t recognise. He turned, surprised, to see a girl, maybe sixteen, striding up to him.

  She had long black curls, and blue eyes. White skin. She seemed familiar…and then, suddenly, Tristan realized who she was.

  “Selena!” His sister! The last time he had really seen her, she had been seven! Apart from that time with Joshua. She was a young lady! Short skirt, cream blouse. And yet…there was still something wrong…

  Her blue eyes were dark – almost black.

  Tristan swallowed, and found himself lost in the eyes. “Come with me,” she said. “We have lots to catch up about.”

  She wasn’t surprised to see him! Why not?

  He glanced back at Rachel, and shook his head to clear it again.

  “I guess that’s it,” he said, and Rachel smiled sadly, concern in her eyes.

  “I guess that’s it,” she repeated, looking at Selena and then back to Tristan. “Keep safe.”

  Safe…As Tristan followed Selena, he felt himself slipping more deeply into darkness, and death. Safe? Was there anywhere safe anymore?

  “Stay with me, and you will be safe,” Joshua had said – but his words were fading quickly away.

  “Follow me,” Selena said, “and we’ll get you sorted.”

  And he blindly followed, and left Joshua behind.