A New Kind of Zeal

by Michelle Warren

CHAPTER THIRTY: Water and Stone

  Mark stood on the bank of the Hutt River, in Lower Hutt.

  At his feet, the river flowed: a quiet, dark current. The wind had lifted – now he fought hard against it, to stand his ground.

  Joshua was coming – Mark felt it in his bones. The time was near.

  Tristan…Mark swallowed, staring into the dark water. Tristan hadn’t contacted them, since that meeting on Ruapehu. How would he act? Would he obey?

  A crushing pain gripped Mark’s chest. He gasped. Tristan might obey, now? Like this? Nine years later? Dismay filled him – but then he gritted his teeth, and clenched his fists, and willed the pain away. It was necessary! Whatever the cost, even if his son should be compromised, Joshua must be dealt with.

  Mark turned his back on the river, walked down the bank, and strode across the large deserted car-park beyond. He passed his Mercedes, without bothering to pay for parking, and weaved his way through a few streets, finally reaching St Luke’s Anglican Church.

  The Church Council of New Zealand: he had to get them on his side.

  The church was quiet – warm tones, with light streaming through the windows: an empty wooden cross behind the altar. There was a time when Mark had loved this church, years earlier, before tragedy had struck and meetings had taken over. Now that time was over.

  He strode down the aisle to the ministers waiting, sitting in the pews.

  Murray rose to meet him. “Mark,” he said, extending a hand, smiling.

  Mark curtly nodded to him, and to Andrew Stead, and to the others.

  “Thank you all for coming,” he said. “This is an emergency meeting.”

  He moved briskly to the front of the church to address them, with his back to the cross and the altar, next to the pulpit.

  Murray was watching him – and then sat down. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  Mark looked over the faces before him. The Church of New Zealand must be united: must be one, against this imposter!

  “Joshua Davidson,” Mark began. “He’s almost here. We have been slow to act, as the Church – we must act now.”

  “What do you mean?” The Presbyterian minister Reverend Robyn asked.

  “This man is putting himself forward as Jesus Christ.”

  Now he had their attention.

  Young Father Andrew looked stunned. “What?” he asked.

  “You heard me,” Mark said. “Everything he is doing is the same.”

  “Shouldn’t we all be aspiring to be like Jesus?” Murray asked, and Mark grimaced at him.

  “Not if it means inviting people to trust in us for their salvation, instead of in God. That is not acceptable! I’m sure you’ll all agree.”

  They were silent – and then the Pentecostal minister, Pastor Luke Davies, spoke.

  “Jesus is our Saviour,” he said, “no one else. If someone else is claiming to be Jesus, he must be deceived! It must be Satan, not God.”

  “Agreed,” Mark said. “This man is speaking the words of Satan, not of God. If he truly has powers, they must be Satan’s powers, not the power of God.”

  He quickly looked over the faces. Reverend Robyn looked troubled, but she was silent. Murray also was quiet, obviously thinking. But now Father Andrew spoke.

  “Aren’t we waiting for Christ to come again?” he asked.

  “Don’t be a fool,” Mark said. “If Christ had truly returned, we would all know it.”

  “Would we?” Murray asked. “‘I come as a thief in the night.’[20]”

  “‘Be ready!’” Andrew quoted. “‘Be ready.’”

  “‘Watch out that no one deceives you,’” Mark quoted easily, “‘for many will come in my name, claiming “I am the Christ,” and will deceive many.’[21]”

  “Hmm,” Murray said. “So, tell me, Mark, has he actually said that he is Jesus Christ?”

  Mark stared at him, and flushed a little. “I’m surprised at you, Murray,” he said. “Have you actually looked at what he is doing? Have you heard what he is saying? A claim to divinity need not be overt – it can be subtle: discreet, but clear.”

  “Like Jesus,” Andrew said.

  “‘Darkness cannot coexist with light,’ Davidson said. ‘Only goodness will survive.’”

  “True,” Murray replied. “But I don’t see the claim to divinity.”

  Mark fixed his eyes on him. “Just because you don’t see it, Murray, doesn’t mean it is not there.”

  Murray shifted in discomfort as Mark continued: “Have you watched the news? He talks of safety, for the tsunami to come – he says he himself is the boat for the flood. He talks of a coming war, and the dropping of the ultimate weapon – he says that he himself is the shelter for when that weapon comes.”

  Murray swallowed, and Mark knew he finally had him. “Clearly the tsunami is God’s Judgment. Clearly the great weapon is also Judgment. He is presenting himself as the Saviour of the world! He is putting himself forward as Christ.”

  Andrew’s eyes seemed to be fixed on the cross, behind Mark’s back. His lips were moving, as if in silent prayer, and then he spoke.

  “What do you want us to do?”

  Satisfied, Mark looked across their faces. “Firstly, we must take a clear message of his blasphemy to our churches, across New Zealand.”

  “Certainly,” Murray said. “But those who attend church are already attempting to follow Christ. This man seems to be trying to reach those who do not yet know him.”

  “Which makes his deception all the more powerful,” Mark said. “And that is why we must stop him.”

  “Stop him?” Andrew said. “How?”

  Mark smiled slightly. “Don’t worry,” he said, “I have that part sorted.”

  “Sorted?” Murray asked.

  “Yes,” Mark said. “It’s sorted.”

  Andrew was frowning, but remained silent. And now Reverend Robyn spoke.

  “What are you planning?”

  Mark looked at her older face: her grey hair, and glasses.

  “I’m going to bring about justice,” he said.

  “Whose justice?” Murray asked – but now Mark quickly brought the meeting to an end.

  The ministers wandered back out of the church, but Murray lingered, as always. Mark suppressed a sigh, as the warm eyes returned to him.

  “What are you up to, Mark?” he said, and Mark smiled again.

  “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  Murray frowned. “I don’t know who this Davidson is,” he said, “but if we are to stop him, it must be through conversion.”

  “You do things your way, and I’ll do them my way,” Mark said.

  “We are not the judge.”

  “Neither is he.”

  “Our job is to fight for the minds and hearts of men and women – not to condemn them.”

  Mark held his eyes with a steely gaze. “Each to his own, Murray,” he said. “You take the high way, and I’ll take the low way – someone has to act, when our backs are all against the wall.”

  Murray’s eyes moved up and down Mark, now – he looked perplexed: concerned. But Mark knew there was nothing Murray could do: Mark’s heart was iron! His mind was decided.

  “May God bless you, Mark,” Murray said – and then he nodded his head, and backed away, and was gone.

  May God bless you. Mark gritted his teeth at the words, and glanced back at the cross. Blessing? Mark shuddered. No! No blessing – only hatred! Only retribution.

  “Justice,” Mark whispered, looking at the wooden instrument of Roman execution. “Someone must pay.”

  His heart was girded: strong and resolute. Then he turned.

  Tristan was there – with Selena. Mark stared, and then smiled. Fate! It was meant to be: the means for the execution walking in, just at that moment!

  Tristan’s young face looked bewildered, in the church. His eyes fixed on the cross – he seemed to tear up. What was he thinking? Some memory from the past? Could it be, Mark thought with nausea, a memory of
childhood faith?

  “Don’t worry,” Mark said. “Your childhood days are over now.”

  Tristan’s face twisted with some kind of pain – but Mark’s own heart was too hardened to care.

  “Is he here?” Mark asked. “In Wellington already?”

  “Yes,” Tristan choked. “He’s here.”

  “Are you ready?” Mark asked.

  “No,” Tristan whispered – but now Selena moved forward, and took his hand. Tristan’s body stiffened as she said something into his ear.

  “If not now, then soon,” Mark said. “We must meet with Connor, to make the final arrangements.”

  “The final arrangements?” Tristan moaned.

  “The time, and place. The weapon.”

  Tristan was swaying on his feet, now – he looked like he might vomit.

  “Harden up,” Mark said. “You’re army, not some schoolboy. Why do you think I chose you?”

  Now Tristan’s eyes somehow met his – and, for a moment beyond his own control, Mark was chilled by what he saw in them. Death! Death.

  “You have no idea who I am,” Tristan whispered. “You’re using me, using my training: nothing more. That’s all this will ever be.”

  Regret threatened Mark’s heart – he thrust it aside.

  “So be it,” he said. “Do what you must do. The Beehive, in three days: One pm. Connor will be free.”

  Tristan’s face flushed – and then turned to iron. “All right,” he said, “the Beehive, in three days.”

  Mark nodded, and strode back down the aisle of the church.

  The wind had lifted a little. Mark wandered across the pavement to cross the street, when he saw the small gathering in the council gardens.

  “Joshua’s here!” someone cried. “He’s coming! He’s coming!”

  Tristan and Selena were there now, next to him. Selena laughed – loud and hard.

  “‘He’s coming,’” she mocked. “‘Let’s all go and worship him!”

  Tristan hit her lightly across the head. “Shut up,” he said – but then she grasped his hand, and he shuddered.

  Mark frowned at the gathering crowd. Joshua was closer than he thought! Tristan hadn’t said where – he didn’t need to say. In fact, the less Mark knew the better.

  “Wait here,” he said to Tristan. “Catch up with Joshua again – join his crowd again.”

  Tristan grimaced, and nodded. “All right.”

  “You’ll need to know where he is at all times.”

  “I think he’ll be hard to miss.”

  “He disappears – it’s those private times: those are your best chance.”

  Now Mark laid a hand on Tristan’s shoulder. “Just get the job done, and get out of there. No one will ever know. Deal with him, and then you’ll get to have your own life back again.”

  Tristan grimaced at him, and shook his head. “You really have no idea, do you,” he said. “You’re asking me to murder an innocent man in cold blood.”

  “You’re army!” Mark said.

  “It’s not the same!” Now, for a moment, Mark thought Tristan might hit him. “For God’s sake, Dad – what the hell has gotten into you?”

  Now fury filled Mark – his temples throbbed; his vision turned dark. He shoved Tristan back.

  “You also have no idea about me,” he said. “You ran away.”

  Tristan’s face hardened. “Why do you think I left?” he said. “You turned into a bastard!”

  Mark felt his hands clenching now into fists, as Tristan continued with the unbearable words.

  “You killed her, and then…”

  “I hate you.” Mark said. He coldly unclenched his fists, and watched the colour suddenly drain from Tristan’s flushed face. “I hate you, and I never want to see you again.”

  It was said. It was done.

  Tristan looked dismayed. Mark stared at him, furiously fighting the tide unleashing itself in his heart: no! It was enough! It was time to move on.

  “Fine,” Tristan eventually said, “if that’s what you want.”

  “That’s what I want,” Mark said. “Meet with Connor, get the job done – and that’ll be the end of it.”

  Mark turned his back on him, now – he walked away, across the road, through the streets, back to the Hutt River car-park. Why had he parked so far away? He wanted nothing to do with church now – wanted nothing to do with family now.

  “It’s almost over,” he whispered into the air. And he opened his car door, sat inside, and drove back home.

  Tristan was left, outside St Luke’s. The wind was blowing again. It was cold. Drops of rain were starting to fall on his bare arms.

  He stared at the place where his father had stood.

  “I hate you.”

  My God, Tristan thought, had he actually said it?

  “I never want to see you again.”

  It couldn’t be, could it? One parent dead, the other rejecting…?

  Selena was there, pulling flowers from the garden – pulling off the petals one by one, and then dancing around the small gathering, throwing the flowers over them. So sarcastic! So bitter! What had their father said to her? Had he even said anything? She had only been seven, when their mother had died.

  “You killed her.”

  Why had he said it? In the heat of the moment! In the heat, he had said it! But he regretted it, now! He regretted it.

  “I’m so sorry,” Tristan whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

  Joshua’s followers were gathering, here in Lower Hutt: here, in his home. Tristan would wait – he would join with them again. He would join – and then he would carry out what he must.