The Dawn of Grace :: A Mystery and Suspense Christian Historical Fiction Comprising of Enduring Love and Glory (Revelation Book 1)

by Christian Hunt

  THE DAWN OF GRACE

  REVELATION

  BOOK - ONE

  CHRISTIAN HUNT

  Copyright © 2016 by Christian Hunt

  www.christianhunt.org

  All rights reserved.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  ISBN: 978-0-9946110-0-0 (Mobi)

  Dedication

  To my loving parents and sister. Thank you for your warm love and sacrifices that has taught me the values of greatness.

  To my loving wife and co-author, Liza Mary. If not for you I would have never cherished Jesus in our lives.

  To my dearest children, Ruth and Joshua my greatest inspiration.

  Acknowledgments

  First and foremost, I would like to thank God for entrusting me with the opportunity to draw out His love for mankind.

  Thank you, leaders of Chapter B2- CFC UAE for your prayers, support and love.

  Thank you DABS Family, for guiding Liza and me to our Savior, Jesus. If not for your love and support, we would never have found our way.

  Thank you, leaders of the Chapter Broken Bay, CFC Australia (CFCA), for guiding us to grow in Christ.

  A special thanks to my loving sister Beena for encouraging me.

  I wish to thank the following friends for their contributions to my inspiration and knowledge and additional help in creating this book:

  Julie Rogers / Liz Botts / Dinesh Marayil

  The mother of goodwill is freewill, if untainted by evil.

  Prologue

  His darkest hour had come, his sight blinded with blood and tears. “Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?” he cried. And in the next moment, with the most peaceful smile he whispered, “Father, I am coming home.”

  Earlier that evening the man had hung his head, quietly listening as the King announced his death sentence. Silent prayers fell from his lips like stones plunked into a stream. If he kept his focus on the Almighty, he knew he would be fine. Others had called him brave and noble, but he knew that if not for God, he would be nothing.

  After the cock crowed, darkness had crept upon him as he pressed his body flat against the cold brick building, panting hard, praying that somehow, this cup would pass from him. Panicked screams echoed through the air as soldiers interrogated commoners nearby for information in their search for the man. Shadows of the king's footmen slithered along the ground until they swallowed his own. The imminent sound of heavy footsteps echoed in return as the man finally finished his prayer and propelled himself forward with no real destination or hope of escape. He was scared, but he knew that he would face whatever challenges came with his surrender to God.

  He knew that he was being chased upon orders of the king. Since the Great Papal Schism in Europe, the king had set out to prove his power. His lungs burned from endless running, and his muscles ached. What had he done? He couldn’t remember anything now; his thoughts were shrouded in fog. Suddenly a prick of light appeared within his reach, and he pushed forward, forgetting that not all was what it seemed in a place like this.

  The man morphed into someone else, someone familiar. He could feel the change, but only internally. The instant his foot touched the light, he felt his body pitch forward. Before his eyes could adjust to the light, he realized he was cascading downward toward a deep sea of blue. Bracing himself for impact, he drew a heavy breath and held the air tight in his fatigued lungs. The jolt of hitting solid ground knocked the air out of him, however—and he coughed, rolling over on his back. Light, but not that of the sun—blinded him as he peered at what seemed to be a long road. The smell of damp rock and stale air filled his nostrils as he let his body adjust once again to his surroundings. That was when he noticed people watching him.

  They weren’t normal people, and he shivered as he followed their eyes, cold and gray. They stared back at him, blank and empty. A vague sense of familiarity resonated through his brain, but he couldn’t make the connection. Why did these faces seem so familiar? He struggled to his feet, feeling the overwhelming need to get away. Was it something about a king? He couldn't remember. After stepping into the light, he carried his own consciousness plus another. Somehow, he was no longer one man, but two. The fog of two minds clouding his brain seemed to obscure his vision for a moment, and he shook his head to clear it away.

  A series of strange statues lined either side of the road, and with a groan of pain, the man propelled himself forward, walking fervently toward the nearest one. His body operated on autopilot as his left hand traced the face of the statue. Somehow he held back his gut reaction to recoil at the ice-cold sensation the stone left on his fingertips. The sound of waves below the road roared into his ears, and untold fear spiked in his chest. Something in the back of his mind warned him that he might be swept away once more, to some place he didn't recognize as Paradise.

  With every second the waves grew more violent as if they were thrusting themselves upon the roadside barriers, intent on crumbling down upon him. Malevolence hung thick in the air and weighed heavily upon his chest. He could feel his heart growing slower with the lack of oxygen. He recoiled, gasping for air. Why couldn’t he take a full breath anymore? His lungs wheezed with each gasp, the waves booming all around him. Presently, his labored breathing and the pounding waves seemed to be accompanied by flashes of lightning and thunder, roaring crashes, seven flaming torches burning behind a throne the sound of a jet plane taking off? Just how did he know this, and what was a jet?

  Yet somehow, he knew. Deep in the man’s chest, he continued feeling like he was split in two- two lives in two eras living in one mind and body. Something clutched at the edges of his consciousness, something he needed to remember.

  A revelation, perhaps? A Prophet? A king? The haze in his brain grew thicker.

  He didn’t have much time to wonder about the fresh, new sound of water pouring over the road, a riptide that would send any man to his grave. The road instantaneously dissolved below him, and he jumped into the waves as emerald green seaweed tangled around his body and crystal blue water pulled him into its grasp. Sensing the situation was too far out of his control, the man lets go, all the tension leaving his body. It was time to stop fighting; he was too far gone. He gave himself over completely to the water, slipping once more into the void as the darkness covered his body. Somewhere in the blackness, his words echoed. “Forgive me.”

  Far away in a different time and place, another man jolted awake in his bed, hurling his body out from under his covers. Sweat-drenched blankets tangled around his legs, and he could barely contain a scream, thinking of the seaweed that had held him down, dragging him under the water, keeping him prisoner. But, wait—that wasn’t really him, was it? He shook his head.

  His heart was pounding faster than an internal combustion engine at full throttle, and as reality settled upon him, he slowly found himself sitting back down on the bed. He stared at the familiar white stucco ceiling in his bedroom and tried to control his breathing, at least until he could feel his pulse returning to normal.

  Once his panic subsided, he angrily flicked away beads of sweat dripping down his dark brows with his forearm. Next to him, his wife slept soundly through it, not even remotely aroused by his plight. Though he envied her, he also knew she'd already been through his night terrors hundreds of times, which she had learned out of self-preservation to block out completely.

  “Not again,” he muttered, cradling his head in his hands u
ntil exhaustion overcame him. Why did he keep dreaming about this tortured, middle-aged fugitive drowning under a bridge? Why did he feel like he was this man, seeing life—and death through his eyes? The man shook his head miserably, curled on his side, and faded back into restless sleep.

  The rich live once, but the wise lives forever.

  Chapter One

  Thanksgiving Day, 1958

  The sun hung high in a cloudless sky, and a cool breeze stirred the trees. This holiday could've been just another ordinary, lovely day in Manhattan as late-morning sunshine beat down the backs of over one-million spectators gathering to watch Macy's annual Thanksgiving Day Parade.

  Radio City Music Hall's Rockettes continued their shoulder-high kicks and contagions to the roar of the crowd, sequins bedazzling the front-row onlookers amid flying confetti and ticker tape. The dancers paced their show-stopping routine in lockstep precision even as they approached Thirty-fourth and Broadway, the end of the parade. At that intersection, the march discontinued, the dancers following massive four-story balloons and marching bands turning down Thirty-Fifth Street to dismantle. The crowd thronged at the edge of Broadway, waving and cheering for the country's most highly televised and photographed parade.

  At Broadway and Thirty-third stood a man with lightly salt-and-peppered chestnut hair, wearing glasses and a light black double-breasted jacket. He was beyond conventionally handsome, and by all appearances, he knew this fact well. In his arm, a woman with nape length, strawberry-blonde hair rested her head on his shoulder. Her eyes were twinkling with joy, a soft smile gracing her lips as she watched a young boy with the same shade of hair dancing a few feet in front of her.

  David Fristensky, a highly regarded movie star turned fiction author, smiled as thoughts of gratitude crossed his mind. On this particular Thanksgiving Day, he truly had plenty to be grateful for. His wife, Amy, gave him a delighted smile as their eleven-year-old son, Christophe, pointed to the monolith Nutcracker balloon coming down the street, its sheer magnificence—dangling from a crane—also earning a grin from their older son, Lucas.

  That moment for David was one of elusive closeness. He knew that each member of his family, lost in their own world, was mesmerized by the parade in front of them. Christophe was wondering how much candy he could collect this year, his coat pockets already overstuffed with jujubes and Tootsie Rolls. David chuckled as his youngest son waited patiently for someone to throw more Bonomo Turkish Taffy- his very favorite. More than likely Christophe would also beg his dad to pocket any more taffy they caught together; half-a-dozen Tootsie Rolls had just fallen out of his jacket.

  If David was correct, Amy was busy mentally running a mile-long checklist of all the food and side dishes she needed to finish preparing for Thanksgiving dinner once they got home. He could almost sense anticipation coursing through her as she wondered if the boys had picked up their rooms as instructed, or whether she'd brined the turkey long enough . .. and the list went on.

  A blip of sadness registered on David’s face as he remembered his father and the last Thanksgiving holidays they had spent together when he was a very young boy. David often found himself wondering if he was the best father he could be for his sons, and on days like this, he felt compelled to give his family the best memories possible, never certain when time might catch up with him like it had with his father.

  Because he was duty-bound to make their lives the best he could, he’d spent much of his personal time wrapped up in climbing the celebrity career ladder. With the daily demands of acting and writing, he found he barely knew his own boys at times. Lately, he regretted this more and more, yet in his heart; he knew he wouldn't trade his hard-earned fame for anything. He was a proud and vain man who had made his own way to stardom, undeniably handsome and talented, and he would never forget that.

  One glance down at Christophe, though, chased the majority of his self-absorption away. The boy was obliviously happy, unshackled by any problems or worries—past, present or future. The only thing in the world that his boy saw now was the splendor of the parade festivities. With Christophe's cheer, David’s sadness and greedy thoughts melted away, and warmth spread through his chest. He must have done something right to deserve such a beautiful and happy child, even if he had neglected him for so long. That was one way to look at this, he thought. But if David was truly honest with himself, even his daily best for these boys didn't match what he'd been taught, at least by his mother. He knew what real love was supposed to look like, and the moment now painted across Christophe’s face was a shining reflection of it.

  His older son, Lucas, however, had taken to sitting on the sidewalk a few yards away from them, his elbows resting on his knees. He looked displeased and unhappy, not only about the parade but also about life in general.

  Poor boy, David thought. Just observing Lucas surfaced every kind of fear and remorse that David emotionally held at bay. He knew that if he’d been a better father, or even if he'd introduced a surrogate father or mentor into the child’s life before this point, Lucas might've stood a fighting chance of growing up with good character and on a solid foundation. As it had transpired, the boy had not taken well to the lack of a man's presence in the household.

  David wasn’t stupid—he knew that Lucas was aware of at least one of his transgressions with a movie costar. Lucas loved his mother furiously and saw himself as her protector. Though the boy had never confronted him about it, David knew that nothing hurt him more. The boy was outraged. Come to think of it, that sulky and unruly part of his son reminded David of himself, and it broke his heart. He blinked back tears and rubbed his wife’s arm, keeping Lucas in his line of sight.

  “Something in your eye, dear?” Amy fished a tissue out of her purse, handing it to him.

  David nodded, flashing a smile her way. “Between my allergies and the confetti, I'm a marked man.” He blew his nose and winked at her.

  Glancing back at Lucas, he noted that the boy hadn't moved an inch. David couldn’t see his face, but his posture said everything, his breathing rapid and unsettled. More than ever David wished he knew how to reach out to his son—what he could say, how he could hug him—to make the rest of this day better. But he didn’t. When he was Lucas's age, he had an absent father as well, with little guidance about how the world worked or how to maneuver in life.

  Lucas had been in detention several times during the past school year, and David knew if he were to say anything at all, on this very special day of days, it would need to stimulate reflective communication.

  Lucas needed some nugget of wisdom that would follow him from this day forward. But David didn't know where to start. Was he supposed to bring up the hard stuff? Was he supposed to leave all that alone and just put his arm around the boy? He wanted desperately to know how to fix things, but he also knew he was grasping at straws every time he planned how to approach his troubled son . . . so he waited.

  As the last float passed through the intersection and parade ended, parade attendees rushed to make their way back to their homes for Thanksgiving dinner. David and his family hurried back to their cherry-red Plymouth Fury a few blocks away near Bryant Park, joining the rest of Manhattan's gridlock as everyone else in New York navigated toward their homes. In the passenger’s seat, Amy prattled on about all the dishes that would need to be reheated before the guests arrived. David pretended to listen to her as he focused on traffic, knowing she was very anxious to be home. In spite of Amy's hand-wringing apprehension, the food would taste just as delicious as it did last year, he thought. No sooner had they pulled into their driveway did their guests arrive, their new 1958 Buick Estate Wagon tagging behind the Fury. Amy jumped out of the car and hurried toward the house. David and the boys exchanged amused glances. Even Lucas smiled.

  “Mom’s really nervous about this dinner, isn’t she?” Christophe asked with a twinkle in his eyes.

  “She doesn't need to be,” David said, watching his wife scurry through the side door of the garage. “
I've never seen that woman serve a bad meal. But—” he killed the ignition, “she always frets about these things, doesn't she?”

  “That’s why we need to help her all we can,” Lucas said with a firmness that startled David. He slammed the car door and ran ahead into the house.

  The guests Amy was so flustered to please were longtime family friends, the Watermans, who had been in their home more times than David could possibly count. He and Christophe joined Stephen, Sandra and their son Jeremy on the front sidewalk, exchanging handshakes and hugs, everyone chattering about this year's parade. Christophe and Jeremy tore off without so much as a backward glance, running for the front door.

  “You’d really think they’d be calmer after a morning of pure entertainment, but nothing keeps those two from regularly bouncing off the walls, does it?” David observed.

  Sandra shook her head and smiled. “I'd better get in there fast.”

  David and Stephen followed Sandra to the kitchen doorway. Taking his cue from Amy's expression, David led Stephen back to the den to indulge in conversation while she, Sandra and Lucas started preparing the remaining food for their giant holiday meal.

  The two men settled down into a pair of Eames rockers and talked of old memories. Both men had grown up together and were as close as best friends could be after so much history—good and bad—between the two. As David stacked logs into the fireplace and stoked the wood, Stephen got them both chilled Pabst from a cooler he'd taken to the parade. Once the fire was roaring, David settled into his rocker opposite Stephen and they both cracked open their beers.

  The two men held up their bottles in toast, then settled into conversation.