CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN: Grace
Tristan sat next to Joshua’s body.
Blood was on the ground – blood was in his mind. He lifted his hand, sticky with it – he laid his hand on Joshua’s shoulder. He groaned.
Death. It was everywhere! Death. Touching Joshua did nothing now! The lit eyes were closed. The warm smile was gone.
“What have I done?”
A hand was on his shoulder – and then the strong arm came around his shoulders. Tristan glanced erratically up, to see Rau’s face.
“Oh, God!” Tristan pleaded – Rau! Pain twisted his heart – did Rau know? Rau was holding the rifle!
Rau drew him into his arms. Bewildered, Tristan felt his control fall utterly away. Grief owned him! Grief consumed him. He sobbed – hard sobs that shook his entire body: pain that consumed his entire soul.
Rau was rocking him. Tristan clung to his shirt, and hid his face in his shoulder.
“Houhanga a rongo,” Rau whispered over him. “Be at peace, Tristan. ‘By his wounds, we are healed.’”
“I killed him!” Tristan pleaded. “I killed him!”
“We all killed him” Rau murmured. “Be forgiven – be at peace.”
Rau’s hand moved over his face, while Tristan still hid. He was murmuring over him still, in Maori! He was praying for him! Tristan tightly closed his eyes. What did he know of God? Nothing, he thought: nothing but the agony of life. And yet Rau’s words soothed him – Rau’s care began to heal him.
Tristan found himself stilled. He didn’t know what it was – something spiritual? He didn’t know. Some kind of trust – some deep kind of love. Something he had never known before.
Rau asked nothing of him. Only held him – only murmured over him: only loved him.
Tristan’s hand was being grasped. He stiffened – sticky! Joshua’s blood! He was passing it to Rau! He tried to pull back, but Rau grasped him more firmly.
“It’s all right,” he said. “We’ll carry it together.”
And now Rau was pulling him to his feet.
Tristan stared at him. He felt strong now! He felt…that he could survive what he had done.
Rau smiled gently at him, and the smile reminded him of Joshua. Tears filled Tristan’s eyes – he cried, and did not stop himself. And then he stepped back.
Rachel was there, sitting next to Joshua. Rachel. Tristan searched her face. She was avoiding him, he knew. She was angry. She was keeping watch over Joshua’s body – protecting his body…
“I’m sorry,” Tristan whispered, and she shook her head and looked further away.
John was standing behind her. Tristan met his eyes, face to face, over Joshua’s body. John! He looked upset, and yet…and yet gracious too.
“What do you say to me?” Tristan asked – and pain flooded John’s face, and Tristan felt his pain and did not block it.
“You did what you had to do,” he said, and Tristan wrapped his arms tightly around himself.
“I shouldn’t have done it!” he cried. “My God! How could I do it?”
John’s face softened – and now his hand came to Tristan’s shoulder.
“How could you not?”
Tristan was seeing Joshua again: staggering, clutching the crown to his head. Darkness! Darkness, surrounding him! Darkness, killing him…
Tristan moaned, and spoke. “I still shouldn’t have killed him.”
“You’re right,” John said, “but it still had to happen.”
Tristan reached out now, and grasped John’s shoulder in return.
“Thank you,” he whispered, and John nodded, with tears.
Tristan looked down at Joshua’s face. Joshua: kind, insightful – seeing what others did not see; being what others were not. What was it about him? A light – a light, frightening sometimes: a power greater than it should be, suggesting something more – suggesting something much bigger, or even someone much bigger.
“I am the boat for the coming tsunami: with me, you will be safe.”
What had it been, that darkness? What had he been carrying, in his last moments? Tristan couldn’t comprehend it – not as John did: couldn’t comprehend the magnitude of what had just taken place. But he remembered the person: the words, the eyes, the face…the smile…
Ninety Mile Beach…The storm had been coming, on the horizon: that smile had suddenly gone! The intensity had come.
“What is it?” Tristan had breathed. “What do you see?”
“Some things are better not to know – not until their right time.”
Now Tristan stared at the dead blood stained face. He had known! Dismayed, Tristan suddenly realized it: he had seen his own death, after all! And…and he had seen Tristan pulling the trigger…
Tristan swayed, and sagged down to his knees beside Joshua’s head. What kind of death was this? What kind of life? Living with one’s own murderer: embracing one’s own death? Joshua had loved him! Even knowing what he would do, he had loved him.
Tristan remembered those last moments, now: he remembered them with agony. Joshua had grasped his shoulder! Had fallen to his knees in front of him!
“Father!” he had cried out to God. “Don’t hold it against them! They really have no idea what they are doing!”
The darkness! As if drowning! As if drowning…And then, the shots.
Tristan reached a trembling hand out to Joshua’s chest now – to the bullet holes – and tears filled his eyes.
“I’m so sorry!” he cried to him. “My friend! I’m so sorry!” And he wept.
The images of war were before him again, now! Screaming! Death! His rifle, shooting! Shooting, as though…as though they were not human beings he was killing…He shook, and regretted – his hand remained on Joshua’s bullet holes, as his eyes closed. Death! Death!
“I’m so sorry!” he whispered. “I’m so sorry!”
The scape goat! The scape goat. He felt no terror, now! No fear. He could look at the images! He could feel them! He knew he was carried – the boat, for the tsunami! He was carried – and grief filled him, and the grief was good, and right.
But there was a final image: the hardest to look at – the hardest to resolve.
It was his mother.
He saw her, now – her body, on the stretcher. Her face, dead, dripping blood, like Joshua’s…He saw her, and cried, and…and saw his father, sitting next to her: shoulders sagging, face in his hands.
“It wasn’t his fault.” Joshua was before him again, on Ninety Mile Beach.
“What do you mean?” he had cried.
“You know what I mean.”
Not his fault…Tristan realized it now, painfully, clearly: he had blamed his father for his mother’s death! He had blamed him! Had cut him off – had joined the Army, in his fury.
“I hate him,” he had said to Joshua…
Now there was no hatred – only regret! Such regret, for all of his life! All of his life…
He moved his hand from Joshua’s wounds to his forehead, and closed his eyes.
“Forgive me,” he prayed. “My precious friend, forgive me.”
And then he opened his eyes.
Someone was standing on the other side of Joshua’s head. Tristan looked up, from the leather shoes, up the grey trousers, to the creased shirt, and then to the face.
Mark Blake held his eyes. There were no bishop robes – only the simple clothes of an everyday man. His face was transparent! Vulnerable! Tears were in his eyes! Grief passed between them: grief, and deep regret.
Mark’s hand was reaching for him now – reaching! Tristan found himself pulled up and into his father’s arms, over Joshua’s body.
“I’m sorry,” Mark whispered into his ear, and Tristan shook in his arms.
“I…” Tristan stuttered, and couldn’t find the words! “I was wrong…”
“So was I.”
“I…I loved her…” His heart twisted, now: such agony! Such agony, to lose her!
Mark was drawing back from him, now – graspin
g his hand. Joshua’s blood was sticky between them, but Mark didn’t flinch. He was crying, now – his eyes were wet, but also filled with a new kind of strength.
“I loved her too!” Mark said. “So much, Tristan! I loved your mother so much!”
And Mark’s body shook, and Tristan grasped his other hand, and folded both arms on his own chest.
“She was beautiful!” Mark said, and Tristan nodded with tears.
“Beautiful.”
“I shouldn’t have sped…”
Tristan quickly shook his head. “Oh, Dad,” he whispered, “when I had my car, I was speeding all the time…”
Mark laughed gently – a laugh, even as he cried. And…and his eyes were changing, to an expression Tristan hadn’t seen for nine years.
“Stay with us, Tristan,” Mark said. “Come back home.”
Tears filled Tristan’s eyes – tears that would not stop.
“Home?” he whispered.
“Where will you go now?” Mark asked. “Now that Joshua has gone?”
Tristan hadn’t been able to think about it. He stared into his father’s eyes – into his sudden familiar love.
“I killed him,” he whispered. “I killed him, and he forgave me.”
“So did I,” Mark whispered.
“I pulled the trigger – I should go to prison. I’m willing to go to prison.”
“Maybe so,” Mark said, “but where is your accuser?”
Tristan looked around himself. Rau was standing aside, with John – both were quiet. The crowd had left! The Army had dispersed – he had acted as one of them! The police, also, had gone. Who would they arrest: their own prime minister?
Connor was there! Tristan saw him, standing far away, in Hill Street – watching, still looking shocked. The Governor General had left. A minister was standing on the steps of St Peter’s – an Asian woman, holding back, and praying.
Rachel…even Rachel’s anger seemed to have eased, to be replaced by the deepest of grief.
Where is your accuser? Selena was lying on the ground. She had seemed to be sleeping. Now she stirred, and rose to her knees – now she pored over Joshua’s face, reaching out to touch it: looking confused. Tristan remembered how her eyes had been: black as death, bitter, evil.
The accuser was gone.
“Home?” Tristan whispered, looking back into his father’s face. “Give me some time! I think I need more time…”
“I’ll give you time,” Mark said gently – and Tristan released his hands, and stepped back, and he felt a strange sense of peace, and it was good.
Mark now knelt next to the body. Tristan watched him. He stiffened, as he suddenly remembered: his father had been on the verge of suicide! How had he come back? Tristan now glanced at Rau, and at John, and then back down to Mark.
He was reaching, to touch the face – to touch the bullet holes.
“‘By his wounds we are healed,’” he murmured – and then he unbuttoned his own shirt, leaving himself naked, shivering in the Autumn air, and laid it over Joshua’s chest and head.
“Reverend Rau,” he said, looking up again, “let’s arrange his funeral.”
“His family!” Rachel suddenly said. “Where are his family?”
“We are his family,” John replied. “He always said so.”
“His mother,” Tristan said, with tears. “He had a mother, in Kaitaia.”
“I will find her,” Rau said. “I will bring her down. His father has passed on. But, Bishop Blake…”
“Yes?” Mark asked.
“No one will attend a funeral service – they will be too afraid.”
Mark swallowed – Tristan saw the understanding in his eyes.
“Very well,” he said, and called over the other lady minister who had been waiting. “We’ll make it a private burial. We will bury him here, Eun Ae – in the burial ground of St Peter’s.”
Her face broke into a sad smile. “I’ll make some calls,” she said.
“Thank you,” Mark said.
Tristan watched his father rise to his feet again. He quickly reached to unbutton his own shirt for him, but Mark laid a hand on his shoulder.
“I’m all right,” he said.
Selena was sitting quietly next to Joshua’s dead body. Tristan reached out a hand to lay it on her head. She was hidden away, and yet…and yet she was Selena again…
“What happened?” he murmured, and Mark’s gentle voice replied.
“More than you need to burden yourself with.”
“Will she be all right?”
“I believe so – now that I’ve finally worked out what to do.”
Mark reached down to her, to lift her to her feet – he murmured a few words in her ear, and she shrank away with him from the body.
Tristan was almost alone, now, with Joshua – soon he would be buried! Soon he would be fully gone.
Only one remained now: Rachel.
She was gazing down at Mark’s shirt, resting over Joshua. Her face was contorting with the finality of the gesture. Then Tristan watched fury enter her eyes – and she turned to look at Connor.
“Don’t,” Tristan whispered. “Don’t make the same mistake I made…”
But she was rising to her feet, now, and leaving Joshua behind – and there was nothing he could do to stop her striding toward the shocked man.