A New Kind of Zeal Read online

  A New Kind of Zeal

  Michelle Warren

  Published by Michelle Warren

  Distributed by Smashwords

  Copyright 2013 Michelle Warren

  Updated 2018 Michelle Warren

  Discover other titles by Michelle Warren:

  A New Kind of Zeal 2: The Price of Redemption

  A New Kind of Zeal 3: The Crux of Salvation

  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.

  Smashwords Edition, Licence Notes

  Thank you for downloading this ebook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. If you enjoyed this book, please return to your favourite ebook retailer to discover other works by this author.

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  For Aotearoa

  Aotearoa/God Defend New Zealand [1]

  E Ihowā Atua,

  O ngā iwi mātou rā

  Āta whakarangona;

  Me aroha noa

  Kia hua ko te pai;

  Kia tau tō atawhai;

  Manaakitia mai

  Aotearoa

  English translation

  O Lord, God,

  of all people

  Listen to us,

  Cherish us

  May good flourish,

  May your blessings flow.

  Defend

  Aotearoa

  God of Nations at Thy feet,

  In the bonds of love we meet,

  Hear our voices, we entreat,

  God defend our free land.

  Guard Pacific's triple star

  From the shafts of strife and war,

  Make her praises heard afar,

  God defend New Zealand.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Start of A New Kind of Zeal

  Next in the Trilogy, A New Kind of Zeal 2: The Price of Redemption

  Connect with Michelle Warren

  CHAPTER ONE: Kerikeri

  Tristan tugged at the straps of his backpack, and wiped the sweat from his brow. The midday summer sun was getting to him now, despite the odd patches of shade from totara and pine trees. He had been walking for over two hours, after a mad salesman had dropped him off near Black Bridge Road. The guy was heading back to Auckland; no way was Tristan going to hitch a ride back there.

  Ahead, the junction to Kerikeri came into view. Kerikeri? Surely he could make it further north than this. He took a deep breath and forged forward across the junction, watching for cars and darting back into the ditch as needed. Where should he go first? Whangaroa Harbour? Doubtless Bay? It didn’t really matter. Just anywhere to get away from it all.

  The tar-seal was starting to melt on the road. He smelt the fumes and grinned. Where could he score a joint? He wouldn’t have to travel far, that was for sure. The thought spurred him on, one step at a time, and after another thirty minutes of slogging and sweating he crossed over to the left side of the road, and starting thumbing for a ride.

  Now he was walking backwards, a little uphill and around a bend. He swore as a car nearly caught him, and he stumbled against a tree. Someone else tooted at him; he swore again. Then he noticed a Ute had pulled up at a parking bay a few metres ahead.

  Tristan slowly walked toward the car. It was an old red Holden, and there were fishing lines strapped in the back.

  “Sweet as,” said Tristan, speeding up to catch the car. The driver’s door opened, and Tristan reached out a hand.

  “Hey, mate.”

  “Kia ora, ‘mate’.” An olive-skinned Maori man grasped his hand in greeting. “Need a ride?”

  “Where are you headed?”

  “Ninety Mile Beach.”

  Tristan grinned. “Ninety Mile Beach? More like ‘Ninety Mile Rip’, by now. Mind if I borrow one of your lines to go fishing?”

  “Sure. Why not? There's still enough beach, and the warmer water’s bringing more fish.” The man smiled up at Tristan, a slight wrinkling creasing the corners of his eyes and a sprinkling of light silver dusting his short black curls. Tristan held his warm gaze, then suddenly reared backwards. The man was wearing a dog collar.

  “No way,” said Tristan, before he could stop himself. “You’re a priest?”

  “My name is Rau,” the man replied. “Rau Petera, of the Ngapuhi tribe. And you are?”

  “Tristan Blake, from…never mind.”

  “You look like you need some help, Tristan Blake. Do you still want a ride?”

  Tristan looked the man up and down. “I don’t know,” he said. “What about that collar?”

  Rau’s brown eyes held his own. “Makes you nervous, does it?”

  “Nervous?” Tristan laughed. “You have no idea!”

  Rau’s mouth twitched, and then he pulled the collar away and unbuttoned the first two buttons of his white shirt.

  Tristan studied him, as Rau stretched out his hand again.

  “Want a ride?”

  “Okay,” replied Tristan.

  “Hop in then.”

  Tristan dumped his backpack in the back, with the fishing lines, and climbed into the car.

  Rau pulled out and began negotiating the windy road. Tristan closed his eyes fleetingly, grateful for the air-conditioning.

  Rau prodded him. “Here, have some coke.”

  Tristan looked at the half drunken bottle now in his lap. “This is yours?”

  “You look like you need it more than me.”

  “You’re drinking coke?”

  “I’m an Anglican priest, not a monk.”

  Tristan sprayed the coke in his mouth and Rau smirked.

  “Besides,” he said, “you’re helping my diabetes.”

  “Sorry,” said Tristan.

  “Ka pai,” replied Rau. “Got family, boy?”

  Tristan shifted uneasily, and didn’t reply.

  “My whanau’s in Kerikeri,” said Rau.

  “Yeah?”

  “My wife and two teen-aged kids. And then there’s Auntie Ngaire, and three of my cousins…”

  “Yeah, yeah,” said Tristan, “I get it – the whole tribe.”

  Rau cast him a sideways glance, and Tristan stared out of the window.

  At Kaeo Rau pulled off the highway.

  “Want some food?”

  “How about a beer?” Tristan smirked.

  “Not on my watch. Kai?”

  “Sure, whatever you’re having.”

  Tristan watched as Rau crossed the road and shook his head. A priest – seriously? What weird twist of fate was that?

  The empty coke bottle had fallen between the seats. Tristan reached down to pick it up, and as he sat back saw Rau at the driver’s door.

  “Here,” said Rau, tossing him a paper wrapped parcel, “fish and chips.”

  “What?” chided Tristan, as Rau sat back in. “Won’t we get plenty of fish later?”

  “Depends how good you are! Personally, I’m not hedging my bets.”

  Rau smiled, and Tristan, despite his best efforts otherwise, found himself liking the man. As Rau pulled away from the curb and drove north, Tristan ate and passed Rau food.

  “Where’s the tomato sauce?” he complained.

  “You Pakeha and your tomato sauce,” replied Rau.

  “Enjoying our potato chips, are we?”

  “You got me, boy. But try a hangi someday – snapper and kumara. That’s real kai.”

  Tristan broke apart a piece of fried terakihi and passed it to Rau.

  “Fish and chips, fish and chips,” he sighed. “All I ever see is fish and chips.”

  “Tired of fish?” asked Rau. “Your mother not giving you beef or lamb?”

  “How old do you think I am, man?”

  “Twenty?”

  “I’m twenty-six. Fresh fish sure is better than army rations, but now I’m finally out of it I’d rather have a good juicy steak.”

  Rau’s eyes glanced at him again and then back to the road.

  “The army?”

  “Five years.”

  “Why’d you leave?”

  Tristan stared at the road ahead. Screams surrounded him; young faces dripping with blood filled his vision. He sucked in a breath and shut the memory down.

  “Let’s just say peacekeeping isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

  Rau lapsed into silence and Tristan watched him warily. “You got a joint, mate?” he finally asked.

  “No,” said Rau quietly. “I don’t.”

  “Then how about your religion? Wanna try it on me now?”

  Rau frowned, but still remained silent. Gratified, Tristan spoke into the silence.

  “It’s 2030,” he chided, “and where is humanity at? The world’s a crock! Temperature’s rising, food’s disappearing, people are fighting, and lunatics are still preaching.”

  Rau grimaced as Tristan's words became a torrent.

  “The Middle East is still where all the action is,” he said, “still! A brawling desert! We tried to help. We came this close to a nuke!” He pinched finger and thumb together, a mere millimetre apart. “A nuke, in the Holy Land! My God! You have no idea how close we came to World War Three…”

  Tears pricked Tristan’s eyes
. He blinked them away furiously, as always.

  “So preach it to me, priest. God exists, right? God loves us? Yeah, right.”

  Rau remained silent. Then he pulled over to the side of the road.

  “Listen, mate,” said Tristan quickly. “Thanks for the ride, and everything. I’ll get off here, and hitch another ride, okay?”

  He opened the door, eager to get away, but then suddenly Rau’s hand grasped his shoulder.

  “Hey,” said Rau. “Where are you going?”

  Tristan’s body stiffened as the priest’s grip reminded him of something, a distant memory, shoved away for too long. Rau’s eyes searched his own and Tristan looked away, shaking his head.

  “Hey, man,” said Tristan finally, “it has nothing to do with you. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “I know,” said Rau, “but how about that fishing?”

  Tristan hesitated, frowning, drawn back to his eyes. “What kind of fishing?” he asked.

  “Only the best! You’re looking at a Snapper champion.”

  “No way.”

  “2005 – I caught myself a whopper – a three-foot fish.”

  “2005? Twenty-five years ago? Forget that.”

  “Beat my record, and I’ll give you the Ute.”

  Tristan stared at him. The Ute? Surely he wasn’t serious. “You’re bribing me?” he asked.

  Rau shook his head. “Not a bribe, a prize.”

  Tristan tilted his head thoughtfully. What was the priest up to? “Think I couldn’t get a car if I wanted one?”

  Rau shrugged. “I guess your cash is stashed away.”

  “Getting pretty worthless, cash.”

  “Commodities are worth more.”

  “Missed out on the quarter acre section,” said Tristan.

  “I’ll bet you can sleep in a car, if you have to.”

  Tristan frowned. “But why?” he asked. “Why would you offer me your car? Not to mention the petrol. Petrol’s become as rare as hens’ teeth.”

  Rau smiled. “Food’s scarcer here as well. Fish well and live well, we say.”

  Tristan considered the offer, vacillated, and then finally shut the door.

  “Fine,” he said. “Have it your way.”

  Rau pulled back out onto the road and began driving hard around the bends.

  “You’re crazy,” said Tristan.

  “Aren’t we all?” replied Rau.

  They passed north, skirting the shoreline of Whangaroa Harbour and Doubtless Bay, and were soon heading northwest, beyond Kaitaia, toward Ninety Mile Beach.

  CHAPTER TWO: Ninety Mile Beach

  The sand ramp onto Ninety Mile Beach at Waipapakauri lay before them.

  Rau smiled. Sandy dunes rose up on either side of the Ute, smothered with long yellow grass. Straight ahead, Rau caught his first glimpse of the damp brown sand and the sparkling blue ocean beyond. He took in a deep breath of salty air. At last he was back at his favourite spot! He had waited months for this moment.

  Beside him sat the Pakeha, Tristan Blake, from who knew where? He had no tribe, of course, being a New Zealand European, but he seemed to have no whanau either.

  Rau turned to face him. “Are you ready for this, Pakeha?”

  Tristan shifted in his seat, peering through the windscreen at the ramp ahead. “You bet I am,” he said. “Lay it on me.”

  Rau hit the accelerator.

  The Ute jerked forward through the sand ramp, and suddenly out onto the wide expansive beach beyond. The vast dark blue ocean glimmered before them, and the wide, bright blue sky embraced them from above. Rau took a deep breath, and broke into a wide smile.

  “Whoa!” Tristan cried out. “Stop the car!”

  Rau slammed on the brake. Was the boy hurt? Instead Tristan leapt from the Ute and stood, stretching out his arms wide, gazing north. The sand stretched on and on, as far as the eye could see.

  “Wow!” cried Tristan. “What a beach!”

  Rau leaned through his window. “Easy, mate!” he said. “You’re in the middle of a highway.”

  “What? Oh, yeah.”

  Rau could see the shimmering image of a distant bus, approaching rapidly. Tristan slipped back into the Ute, and Rau drove them closer to the water’s edge. Waves rose to a metre, and then crashed on the shore. Beyond the layers of white froth the sea extended unhindered, to the horizon.

  “Wow,” said Tristan again.

  “Different from the Middle East, eh?”

  “So…beautiful.” Tears pooled in his green eyes. “I’ve never seen it before.”

  Rau watched him. “Not everything in the world is war and famine, my friend.”

  Something in Tristan’s eyes in that moment drew Rau to him. Peacekeeping, in the army? No, this boy was far from at peace. His talk of World War Three, his camouflaged memories; joints, and beer.

  “Come on,” said Rau opening the door, “let’s get to it.”

  Rau reached into the cargo tray. Tristan was now kicking off his shoes, and dipping his toe into a broken wave. Rau gathered the rods and bait and joined him, delighting in the familiar northern warmth on his face and the gentle sea-breeze. The sun stood high in the sky.

  “I never knew it could be like this,” said Tristan, gazing out to the horizon.

  “Like what?” asked Rau, laying down lines and bait alongside.

  “I don’t know…kinda free.”

  Rau nodded, and smiled. Tristan kicked some water in his direction.

  “Hey,” said Rau, “think I’m afraid of a little salt water? I’m a fisherman! Here, show me what you can do with a line.”

  And he tossed a rod to Tristan. He caught it, fumbled, recovered, and then cast the line far out beyond the waves.

  “Not bad!” said Rau. “Try it again, this time with some bait.”

  Tristan wound the line in, attached a mussel to the hook, and cast out again. He had some skill, Rau noted, and then he cast out his own line, alongside him.

  “I’ll catch it!” Tristan insisted. “First fish, biggest fish: you name it.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “How many fish do you catch?”

  “Depends.”

  “I reckon…”

  “Yes?”

  “I reckon I could stay here for a while.”

  Rau looked at him – young face, blonde curls, white as, and utterly alone.

  “Then you stay here for a while, Pakeha,” he said. “See what your home, Aotearoa, has to offer.”

  An hour passed. Tristan had caught two kahawai, too small to eat, and had thrown them back; Rau had caught a foot long silver-grey trevally.

  “I began fishing as a boy in Kerikeri,” said Rau, winding his line in a little. “There were beautiful rainbow trout in the river.”

  “Kerikeri – ‘The cradle of New Zealand’,” said Tristan, looking at him. “You meet any of those missionary jokers?”

  Rau smirked at him. “How old do you think I am, boy? Two hundred?”

  “I dunno. Some of your ways seem as old as the hills.”

  Rau smiled. “Forget the army, mate – you should take up tourism instead.”

  Rau spotted Tristan smiling. At last, a smile! “Ngapuhi welcomed the missionaries,” he explained. “Some of their families still live amongst us.”

  “And the Anglican Church.”

  “Ae.”

  “Ministers, and dog collars, and all that preaching. I’ve sure had enough of all of that.”

  “Enough?”

  Rau watched while Tristan hesitated. There was more to him than just the army.

  “What is it?” asked Rau.

  “My…” Again he hesitated.

  “Spit it out.”

  “I guess it’s a waste of time hiding it from a priest.”

  “Hiding what?”

  “My father’s in the church.”

  Rau looked at him. He had a father?

  “Where does he attend?”

  Tristan grimaced, and then forced himself to continue.

  “He’s the Anglican Bishop of Wellington.”

  Now Rau stared at him. The Bishop of Wellington? The Right Reverend Mark Blake was this young man’s father?

  “I know of the man,” said Rau, and Tristan shrugged.

  “I’m sure you do.”