CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: Auckland
Sweat dripped down Tristan’s face.
It was another hot day – steaming. He backed away from the melting tar seal of the road, through the packed crowd of people, to under the overhanging shelter of a bakery.
They were on Karangahape Road, in the centre of the city of Auckland. People were pressed into him on all sides. Where was Joshua? Tristan could just see him, across the street. He was with some women who were wearing tight miniskirts and heavy makeup. Prostitutes? Joshua was talking to prostitutes, at a time like this?
Tristan looked around – and saw Rau, a few feet away.
“Hey!” he called out. “Bro!”
Rau glanced his way, and smiled, and Tristan inched his way toward him.
“What’s with Joshua now?” Tristan asked.
“All part of the territory,” Rau said.
“Wadaya mean?” Tristan asked, staring hard at him, grinning from ear to ear – and Rau shook his head.
“You know what I mean. He’s talking with them.”
“Got something to say?”
“Always. There is always something to say.”
Rau’s warmth silenced Tristan. He glanced again to Joshua – he was gesturing the ladies forward. They hesitated, looking around at the people – but then they joined the crowd.
A car was struggling to slowly make its way through the bodies. Behind the car was a large float.
“Come on,” Rau said, grasping Tristan’s shoulder, “that’s our ride.”
And, a little bewildered, Tristan followed him – pressing between people, to the float.
Somewhere ahead of them was music playing: another car, maybe, with a stereo. Anahera was there, sitting on the outer edge of the float. John and Rachel were there, too, and a few others, on the other side. Rau pressed him forward, and Tristan awkwardly joined the team, sitting on the edge of the float, dangling his feet over the edge.
“What am I even doing here?” Tristan asked, and Rau patted his shoulder.
“You are following him, like all these people are following him,” Rau said.
Tristan stared into his face – and then Joshua arrived.
He stepped up onto the elevation of the float. Tristan looked up at him: he looked so ordinary! Wearing tidy jeans, now, full length, and a smart short sleeved white shirt. A roaring cheer went up – almost too loud for Tristan to bear. And then the float began to move, slowly, slowly, behind the car.
People steadily made way for the float – for Joshua. Tristan watched the faces, as they passed – they were captivated by him. Many stretched their hands out to him, and Joshua stretched over to take them. Many cried out their need, and Joshua called out his comfort. The scene reminded Tristan a little of the Pope – except that Joshua held no formal position, wore no formal robes, had no formal training, but was utterly adored.
Was he like Lady Diana had been? Tristan remembered reading about her, in a history book: The People’s Princess. What was Joshua: the People’s Prince? No, more. He had fed them. He himself had healed them. He had even claimed to be their shelter, for the coming war to come.
Maori voices were raised, ahead of them. Tristan stood up on the float, now, balancing on the lower level – he looked ahead. Yes, there they were: a huge Maori gathering, walking in front, in traditional dress – feathers, beaded skirts, tattoos. Sometimes they were breaking into a haka! Sometimes performing a karakia. Sometimes singing waiata.
Tane was there. His voice was raised, in the group – declaring something in Maori. Tristan knew he was proclaiming Joshua to be the King.
Tristan sat himself down again – and noticed Rau was quiet, next to him. The Maori Anglican priest was praying. Tristan let him be, and looked up at the European Pakeha faces watching them.
The float turned now, left, into Queen Street.
Now more shouts went up. “Joshua!” they cried. “Joshua!” Whoops and whistles sounded – New Zealand flags were waving in the breeze. Ticker tape suddenly appeared, thrown from the footpaths – descending all over the float. Tristan laughed, and reached out to grab some red streamers. What would be next: fireworks?
Hands were waving, and clapping – voices were raised, singing. The float moved steadily on, down the main road of town. Tristan had never seen such a display – not for over fifteen years. It was an utter extravagance, carried off by a city that could not afford the transport. People must have walked there! Walked for miles! They had walked, Tristan knew, for the hope. They had walked, he knew, for their future.
The float turned left into Customs Street, to still more cheers, and streamers. Along they went, down the road, along Fanshawe, and then they turned left into Hobson, where the road had been partitioned off.
Now the parade was over. Now the people could return home. Tristan glanced back down the street, toward Fanshawe Street. Yes, the masses were moving – catching buses, catching trains, catching ferries, and walking. A few of the rich could still buy petrol for their cars – as they had all just travelled.
Joshua stepped off the float. His face was bright, his eyes looking full of purpose. But there was something else there, too – some hidden sadness.
“Sir…?” Tristan began to ask – and then he turned, and found a group of people waiting for Joshua.
The police were there. Tristan swallowed – were they going to arrest him? They did not. Only murmured a few words: only watched. And now two other men stepped forward.
One was dressed in a dog collar: tall, and slim. “Joshua Davidson,” he began, “I am the Right Reverend Richard Barker, the Anglican Bishop of Auckland.”
Joshua tipped his head to him. “Nice to meet you,” he said.
“I was wondering if you could please explain to me what just happened here.”
Joshua smiled, and shrugged. “The people have spoken,” he said.
And now the other man stepped forward – tall and thin. Tristan suddenly recognised him.
“Sir,” he said, “I am Patrick Clarkson, the Leader of the Opposition Party.”
“I know who you are,” Joshua said. “I am a New Zealander too.”
“I understand what you’re trying to do here, and I salute you for it.”
“Thank you.”
“Helping the poor, healing the sick, giving the people their voice: I support all of these things.”
“Good.”
“But do you realize what people are saying about you?”
Joshua didn’t flinch from Clarkson’s gaze: quite the opposite – Tristan noticed Joshua seemed to grow in strength.
“What are they saying?”
Clarkson became silent – and now Bishop Barker spoke.
“Some say that you are the Christ, returned to us: the one filled with God’s Spirit – the same one great high priest that we should all follow.”
Joshua was looking at him. “And what do you say, Bishop?”
The older man’s face clouded with sadness. “I don’t know,” he freely admitted. “None of my years as a minister have prepared me for this.”
Joshua laid a hand on his shoulder. “Then you are close to the truth,” he said. “Keep searching for it. Keep watching. Keep seeing.”
Barker looked perplexed, at the words – and Clarkson again stepped forward.
“Priest or not,” he said, “the people are starting to claim that you are our king.” He fixed his eyes directly on Joshua again. “Are you our king?”
Joshua held his gaze, once again – and Tristan watched the same familiar sadness fill his expression.
“That is what the people say,” he replied.
“Sir,” Clarkson said, “I am a politician. In a democracy, people choose their leader: not so in a monarchy. A monarch chooses himself.”
Joshua smiled slightly. “Natural strength prevails,” he said.
“Are you saying that you are stronger?”
“That is not what I am saying.”
“Then what are you saying?”
> Joshua looked at him, paused, and then spoke.
“There are different kinds of leadership,” he said, “and different kinds of kingdom.”
“Then you are a king?”
Joshua took a deep breath, and then released it. “I am,” he said.
Clarkson’s face flushed – and Tristan swallowed. Joshua was directly calling himself a king, now? Where might that lead?
“You don’t understand,” Joshua said. “Your idea of a kingdom is different from mine. I’m not talking about a political kingdom – rather a spiritual one.”
“Do you mean to do away with politics?” Clarkson asked him.
“I do not.”
“Do you mean to override Parliament?”
“No.”
Now Clarkson looked more appeased. He tilted his head thoughtfully.
“How can you claim to be a king, and not participate in any way in politics?”
“Political parties have their own form of power,” Joshua said, “and God has his form of power. We should give to our politicians what they already possess, and to God what he already possesses.”
Tristan was impressed with his words – and Clarkson seemed intrigued.
“You are curious,” he said. “Communistic, surely! Left wing! And yet, you let the status quo be?”
“A time is coming when everything will be turned over,” Joshua said, “but that time has not yet come.”
“The voice of the people – the power of the people.”
“No,” Joshua said. “The power of God, over and through the people.”
Clarkson was silenced – and Barker spoke.
“‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength.’” [8]
“Yes,” Joshua said, “I see that you mean it.”
“‘And love your neighbour as yourself.’”
“Love God and people,” Joshua said. “That is the right way. That is the only way.”
“And when we fail?” Barker asked. Tristan watched the same intensity appear on Joshua’s face: the same deep sorrow.
“When you fail,” he said, “I will carry it for you – I will see you through it. But you must hold onto me, or you will be lost. Darkness cannot coexist with light. Darkness will not survive.”
Clarkson had lost interest – he was turning away. But Barker’s expression held Tristan captive: his jaw was dropping – his eyes were fully engaged.
“Are you the Christ?” he whispered. “The one we have been waiting for?”
Joshua gazed at him – seemed to search him – and then he answered.
“Who is the Christ?” he replied. “Each one must decide for themselves. But don’t tell anyone your thoughts: not yet. The right time hasn’t come yet.”