A New Kind of Zeal

by Michelle Warren

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE: The Coronation

  Rachel stood inside the gates of Parliament.

  In front of her, four people lay shot on the ground. She rushed toward them, to help – to check their pulses – but was shoved away by army officers.

  “Stand back!” they ordered.

  Rachel stared at them. “I’m a doctor, for Christ’s sake!” she said. “Let me pass!”

  But they shook their heads. “No exceptions.”

  The four extra shootings, after the first, seemed to allow the Army to gain back control of the crowd. They were surrounding the people, now: ushering them back, back, out of the Parliament grounds, back onto the street.

  Rachel found herself pressed, by a wall of army officers, back, back – she almost stumbled, but somehow kept her footing.

  “Our army is supposed to protect us!” someone called out in fury. “Not bloody Parliament!”

  “Parliament is us, bloody monarchist!” someone else yelled.

  The black iron gate was in front of her. A few people tried to clamber over it – they were shoved down.

  “Back!” the army officers called out, lifting their rifles in aim. “Or we will use force!”

  Rachel stared at their faces: hard, focused – oblivious to killing, even their own, in their task. Four lay dead! One had been saved by Joshua – only one…

  How the hell had that happened?

  Through the gates, Rachel saw a movement behind the army officers. A suited man was walking to the Hill Street gate – his walk, his greying hair: was it…? Rachel pressed herself through the crowd, to the right, further and further, and finally reached the edge of the crowd.

  Army officers were spread across Molesworth Street, holding the people back. Rachel looked between their shoulders. The intersection was right there, between Molesworth, Hill and Aitken: St Peter’s Cathedral was there, on the right corner.

  Joshua stood in the intersection. Rachel’s heart pounded in fear. He was alone – isolated out by the Army. Black jeans. She suddenly noticed his white shirt: ‘I love Aotearoa,’ fading in the sun.

  His white face was unreadable.

  “You can’t kill him,” Rachel instinctively whispered to the army officers. “He has committed no crime.”

  “We’re the Army,” an officer replied, “not the police. We act in times of war, to establish national security.”

  “We are not at war!” Rachel said – and now Joshua’s eyes were on her.

  War…

  “He’s done nothing,” Rachel said. “He’s a pacifist, for God’s sake! You can’t kill him! It would be an act of murder, if your actions were unprovoked! You would be held to account – taken to court…”

  They were shifting uncomfortably on their feet – Rachel knew that they heard her: she knew they agreed with her.

  “He is a New Zealand citizen,” she said. “You must protect him: you know that.”

  Rachel’s eyes quickly moved over the street. John was there – John! He was standing a few metres away from Joshua, to his left – close to Aitken Street, on the right, in the intersection. Oh, John! Loyalty! Exposed, with Joshua, but somehow not at risk. He was watching! Rachel could see the fear in his eyes, but also the gritty determination: he was staying! He was staying, and no one was going to move him.

  Rachel smiled grimly at him – he smiled grimly back at her. Then she looked over the rest of the intersection. Where was Rau? She couldn’t see him anywhere. Had something happened to him?

  Someone was standing on the steps of St Peter’s, on the right corner. Rachel noticed now: the Army didn’t move him either. She peered at him – he was wearing robes! A black scarf, over red and white! Anglican robes! Rachel vaguely remembered him – the Bishop of Wellington! What was his name? Mark Blake! He was a friend of her father’s!

  He stood quietly, watching the crowd – and now a Korean woman was rushing down the steps, wearing much simpler robes: white, over black. Rachel had met her one Easter, when her family had attended church: the dean of the Cathedral, Eun Ae Choo.

  “What’s going on?” she cried, looking across the crowd – looking through the bars. “Are those people dead?”

  “Joshua Davidson killed them,” Blake said, pointing to Joshua. “He is destroying our nation.”

  Rachel stared at him. The bishop himself was blaming Joshua? Where did he think his words might lead? The bishop and the dean: shouldn’t they be acting to diffuse the situation? Proclaiming some kind of blessing from God, or healing words, or forgiveness, or something? Blake’s face was hard, and Choo’s forehead was furrowed – she was whispering something, lips moving: prayer! Maybe she was praying for God to guide her! At least she was praying.

  Rachel tried to look to her left, down Hill Street – who was the politician? He would represent the people – surely he would act!

  The man finally emerged on the street, opposite the steps of St Peter’s, facing Joshua in the intersection. It was James Connor.

  Rachel pressed against the army officers. “Let me through!” she said. “That’s my father!”

  “No exceptions,” the officer said – but now, suddenly, she dove between their legs.

  She was through! On her knees, on the road – there was nothing but space between her and Joshua! But now she felt the tip of a rifle to the back of her head, stopping her from rising to her feet.

  Joshua’s eyes widened – and he stretched out a hand.

  “No,” he said, “she’s not the one you want.”

  The rifle left her head, letting her stand, but now she felt it prodding the small of her back.

  “Leave her!” her father’s voice called out. “That’s my daughter!”

  “She’s a rebel,” the officer called back. Rachel flushed, looking at her father. His face was taut, now – his forehead creased with burden. This was the Prime Minister of New Zealand! This was his nation! Going to pot!

  “What the hell are you doing?” Rachel cried out to him. “The Army, Dad? What are you thinking?”

  Now the officer was forcing her down to her knees again – now the rifle was again at the back of her head.

  “Leave her,” Joshua’s calm voice said. “No one else needs to die today.”

  Rachel’s body shook hard. She stared at her father – he stared back at her. Then his eyes shifted to Joshua.

  “You are a curse,” he said, spitting at him, “a curse that is bringing our people to ruin!”

  Joshua faced him – but did not speak. Confused, Rachel searched his face. He was innocent! He was good, not evil! How dare Connor accuse him, and blame him, when Connor’s own actions had precipitated the riot?

  “You’re a bastard!” Rachel shouted out to him. “An incompetent bastard!”

  And now she felt a blinding, sharp, painful blow to the back of her head.

  She fell, gasping, on her face – her vision blacked out, though she heard her father’s voice.

  “Stand down, officer!” he ordered. “I am your commander!”

  A hand was on her head. The pain disappeared – her vision returned. Confused, Rachel looked up – Joshua was standing over her, his face breaking into his familiar smile. He reached out a hand – he pulled her back to her feet.

  “Don’t argue anymore,” he said quietly to her. “Don’t fight them. You’ll get yourself killed.”

  He had always said it! Don’t fight! Don’t use weapons! Overcome evil with good! Swallowing, Rachel nodded and stepped away, with her back to the iron gate.

  Someone else had appeared, next to her father. Rachel searched her – was that the Governor General? Yes! Anita Mayes! Surely she could stop this! She held the most power in New Zealand: she was the guardian to ensure the diplomatic process went forward unhindered!

  “Right Honourable Prime Minister James Connor!” she said loudly. “Do you really think this is legal?”

  “The nation is under threat, Right Honourable Governor General,” Connor replied. “I have taken the necessary actions to ens
ure our nation’s survival.”

  Rachel looked at his face. She longed to hate him, but found, in that moment, she could not. He was the Prime Minister! He was responsible! He was afraid! He had acted in good conscience – could it be true? It was true. He had acted for New Zealand’s interests.

  Blake now shifted, on the steps of St Peter’s. “Connor!” his strong voice called out. “Do something! Deal with this man, before it is too late!”

  Rachel stared at him. What did he mean by ‘deal with’…? Connor moved – with a grim face, he made a gesture to the crowd.

  Rachel looked to her right, to the crowd, contained by the army – and now Tristan stepped between the officers.

  He was carrying a rifle.

  Rachel swallowed. “Oh my God…”

  Tristan’s face was hard – his eyes distant: far away…

  “Tristan!” she whispered. “What are you doing?”

  She had known! Had known something was up with him, but hadn’t acted! She should have sectioned him, or something: kept him safe!

  “Tristan!” Connor cried out. “Why now? Why like this?”

  “Now!” Tristan replied, his voice hard. “Here! A public act, ordered by the Prime Minister himself! An army weapon, so no one can hide!”

  A lead weight was in Rachel’s stomach, now: a terrible twisting in her gut.

  “Oh my God.” Connor had organised the assassination of Joshua.

  A girl was with Tristan – a strange girl, flitting about, dancing, even! Dancing, and singing some strange chant! She looked sixteen – she was dancing around Joshua, now! Laughing, an eerie laugh – laughing at him.

  “King Joshua!” she called out, mocking and bowing before him. “Your majesty!”

  Rachel instantly hated her. She longed to vomit, watching her. There was a black intensity to her eyes – an aged calculation to her actions. She appeared young, but in fact seemed very old: hard, bitter; conceited.

  “Witch,” Rachel whispered.

  She was carrying something: what was it? Round, made of some strange grey metal Rachel had never seen – ancient symbols; an ancient pointed design.

  “Your majesty!” she said, bowing – and she put the thing on Joshua’s head.

  It was a crown.

  Rachel stared. Joshua’s face turned a sickly shade of grey. His brown eyes fixed on her – she saw a sudden kind of agony. His head tipped back, he clung the crown firmly to his head, and began to stagger.

  “What is it?” Rachel whispered, and then she cried out. “Poison! The girl is poisoning him! Get that thing off him!”

  But now John was shaking his head – stretching his hand out toward Rachel.

  “No,” he said. “Don’t!”

  Rachel stared at him. John’s eyes were full of tears – his face contorted. Rachel wanted to rush forward, but knew she must not! Something was happening! Something she did not understand – something she could not possibly comprehend. John knew! John understood. She had to trust in that, now! She had to trust.

  She remained still, clenching her fists – and now Blake’s voice sounded, strong and hard, over Joshua’s head.

  “Kill him, Connor!” he said. “Do it now!”

  “Not yet!” John cried. “Not yet! It’s not the right time!”

  Joshua was groaning, now – still staggering, still trying to keep his footing, his face pointed up to the sky: his hands still clutching the crown to his own head.

  Tristan was staring at Joshua, now: he was staring – his body was shaking.

  “Kill him!” Blake cried out. “Kill him, and we will all be safe! Kill him, and we will all find our peace!”

  “The scape goat…” Tristan whispered. “Oh my God – the scape goat…”

  Rachel thought the rifle might fall from his shaking hands.

  “You can’t kill him!” Choo cried out, from the Cathedral. “Killing is a sin! This man is innocent! He is innocent!”

  “Enough!” Blake said to her. “I’ll dismiss you for disgraceful conduct! You’ll never work in the church again!”

  Choo was staring at him. She looked about to tear off her robes, but then a strange calm came over her. She stepped apart from him and retained her robes, grasping them firmly.

  “Don’t kill him!” she called out to Tristan. “In the name of God, I say to you: this is a crime! This man is innocent!”

  Rachel felt tears pricking her eyes: a woman of God! At last, a true bold Christian voice! Blake shoved her, and propelled her back into St Peter’s. At least she would be praying! Rachel thought. At least someone would be praying.

  “Kill him!” Blake repeated. “Execute him! Do it quickly!”

  “Prime Minister!” The Governor General cried out. “Our state is a democracy! We have a Law! We have a court system!”

  “To hell with the Law!” Blake said. “This is about our survival! Our survival, as a people – even as a race! What are you waiting for?”

  He was staring at Connor.

  Rachel saw reluctance in her father’s eyes, now: with relief she saw it – reluctance! He wasn’t evil! He wasn’t a tyrant! He actually didn’t want to act! He didn’t want to execute!

  “Do this,” Mayes declared loudly, “and I will use the powers invested in me to dissolve the Government! This is not your role, Connor! You are way out of line here!”

  Connor’s eyes moved over the crowd, and the Army – his gaze passed through the iron gates to the four dead bodies beyond. Then he straightened with new resolution.

  “Let the people decide!” he said. “This won’t be my responsibility! Let the people decide!”

  “Connor!” Mayes cried out. “You call this due process?”

  “People of New Zealand!” Connor called out. “What is your decision? This man, Joshua, has stirred up our nation! Four are dead! We are fighting each other – we are divided! We are all New Zealand. What should we do? Let the people decide!”

  There was silence – and then a response.

  “Oh, to hell with it!” someone cried out. “Get it over with! Get him out of the way, so we can all go home.”

  “Kill him?” Connor asked. “How many say ‘Yes’?’”

  “Oh, you can’t be serious,” Rachel muttered under her breath – but now a swell of anger overrode her thoughts.

  The girl was moving, next to Joshua – she was straightening, her dark eyes hard: she was adult – she was ancient.

  “Kill him!” she commanded. “Kill him!”

  “Just kill him!” the people cried. “Get it over with! Kill him!”

  Others struggled! Others shouted for his life! Rachel raised her voice, loud and strong.

  “No!” she cried. “Kill him, and it will all be over! We will never be the same again!”

  Joshua’s eyes were on her, now! He was suffering. His grey face was sweating, and bleeding! Bleeding…

  “Hematohidrosis,” she whispered. “Rupturing, from the stress…”

  Tristan stood before Joshua. Rachel watched, as Tristan looked at Joshua’s staggering form and saw the blood – Tristan’s face contorted. Joshua was looking at him, now! His eyes were clouded with pain, but gracious! There was no anger! No resentment! No fear! Rachel was drawn into his expression. It was love! Tristan saw it, too: looked stricken by it! Love.

  Joshua reached out a hand to grasp Tristan’s shoulder – his body stiffened. He fell to his knees, his back taut, his face pointing to the sky.

  “Father!” he cried to God. “Don’t hold it against them! They really have no idea what they are doing!”

  Blood dripped down his face. The crown fell off his head, and now he stretched his arms out wide.

  “Where are you?” he cried, to God – and his face now contorted with terror! “Oh, God, Daddy – I can’t see you! Darkness! Darkness…”

  Rachel’s eyes filled with tears – she blinked them furiously away. Joshua! Joshua…

  Tristan was rigid. Dismay flooded his face. Then he stepped back, gathered
the rifle, and fired.

  Rachel choked. Bullets landed in Joshua’s chest – many bullets! They jerked his body backwards – they threw him to the ground.

  She rushed forward, now – she rushed to him. He was lying on the ground, his body jerking with pain – gasping. She tore away his blood stained white shirt, to find five bullet wounds – two to each lung, and one to the heart. The bullets hadn’t emerged! His body had stopped them.

  “Oh, God,” Rachel breathed, shaking. “No…”

  She reached for his neck – his pulse. Still there, but faint! Fading rapidly! He was bleeding, badly! Bleeding, from the chest – gasping for breath: bleeding from the heart.

  Rachel took off her own jacket, and pressed it into his wounds. Pressure! But she knew it was useless. His heart had been penetrated! And his lungs! There was no way he could survive.

  He grasped her hand, now. Rachel sobbed, as he met her eyes – as he struggled, on his last breaths.

  “It’s finished!” he gasped. “It’s sorted!” And his face broke into a sudden beautiful smile.

  Rachel grasped him, crying. “Don’t go!” she said. “Don’t go!”

  Peace filled his eyes – and then his head fell back, and his hand fell from hers.

  He was dead.

  Rachel sank to the ground next to him. Resuscitate? Resuscitate? She crossed her hands over his chest – she began to pound his heart. But then she felt a hand to her shoulder.

  It was John. His eyes were filled with tears – overflowing tears. He held her gaze, and shook his head.

  “It’s over,” he whispered “Don’t try to bring him back.”

  She stared at his face – she began to weep. She shrank back away, from John – away from Joshua’s body. And then she looked at the crowd.

  They were silent.

  “Enough!” cried the Governor General’s voice. “By the power invested me, as the representative of the Queen, I now announce that the current Prime Minister has acted outside of his jurisdiction!

  “I am dissolving Parliament! The Queen will rule directly, until time permits to allow for an election – until democracy is effectively established again!”

  Democracy...Freedom, choice: they had gone! Fear had ruled – corruption had acted.

  Joshua was dead.