Is It Okay to Mix Past Tense With Present Tense in Story Writing?

I've been re-reading and editing my "little" piece and I'll just give you an intro here to give you an idea of all that I've mentioned.  It's turned itself into a novel over the years and is called "Escaping to Paradise". You'll pick up on a couple of things that will provide good examples of getting a reader invested in a story.

First up is the prologue ...

                        PROLOGUE

The tour had been a good and fruitful one, Jensen Larsen had to admit as he rode his dark Bay stallion north toward the outlier town of Ipswich. Over the past month, he had gone out to a number of small settlements around Ipswich, visiting the local churches as part of his mission duties. As per the itinerary outlay, not only had Jens given assistance where necessary he had also spoken at the Sunday Church meetings and had led the mid-week studies. Though most of the people in the settlements were already believers, strong and devout in their faith, there were a few whose faith had waned, but at least they had attended the meetings. But that wasn’t why Jens considered the tour fruitful. Rather it was the opportunity to present his faith to a wandering tribe of indigenous people. That, Jens reflected, had been an opportunity he could not pass up and he considered it a blessing to be able to do as such. Fortunately, there had been a helper with them who had been able to translate for him. Not all of the indigenous had chosen to accept his faith, but a few had – including one who Jens took to be the tribal leader. It had been a fruitful trip indeed.

The trip would have been even better if he’d had company with him. It wasn’t that the people in the settlements had been stand-offish, rather they had been very welcoming. And he always had God with him. But none of that was quite the same as having his wife, Agatha, by his side. Yes, his relationship with God was intimate, but it wasn’t the same as that of a man and his wife. Normally, Agatha would have accompanied him. In the past she had done so and many of the people had commented on her absence. But this time round, Agatha had stayed behind in Ipswich due to her being pregnant with their first child.

Oh, how Jens had beamed when they had found out. Even thinking about his wife and his child caused Jens to smile. The prospect of being a father to a child of his own was both daunting and exhilarating. Daunting because he was still a young man just barely into his twenties. Exhilarating because it meant a new challenge and Jens was always open for a new challenge.

As he rounded a bend that brought him facing directly north, Jens slowed his steed. Even though Ipswich was still a good hour’s ride away and there were several hills between him and the town proper, Jens could see smoke wafting to the sky. Immediately, Jens knew something was wrong. Even though the smoke was thin, there was too much of it rising from too many sources. Filled with a sense of urgency, Jens spurred his steed and raced onward fervently praying that everyone was alright. Especially his Agatha.

Twenty minutes later, his steed sweating and trembling beneath him, Jens arrived in Ipswich to a sight too horrific to conceive. Everywhere he looked, there were the smouldering ruins of buildings. But that wasn’t the truly horrific thing that had brought Jens to a sudden stop and caused his face to go ashen. Among the ruins were the charred remains of the buildings’ occupants and in the streets, laying where they had fallen, were the corpses of others. All of them people he had known, with whom he had dined and laughed. Those in the streets had clearly been shot as they had fled, those in the buildings …. Jens shuddered to think how they had met their fate but he prayed that they had been spared the agony of consuming fire.

Numb with shock, Jens dismounted from his horse and slowly made his way through the ash, debris and corpse littered streets, silently praying for the souls of these people he had called his own. As he neared the north end of town where the church stood, Jens looked up and felt his heart plunge inside his chest. Not even the Church, the most holy of houses, had been spared from the conflagration. Feeling tears welling up in his eyes, Jens slowly turned his gaze the residence beside the church.

“Agatha!” Jens cried upon seeing his wife kneeling in the lawn, her arms spread wide as if to welcome him. He broke into a run, calling out her name again. It was only as he neared his beloved that Jens realized a cruel joke had been perpetrated on him. Agatha was dead, that was evident. If he had the eyes to see – if he wanted to see – Jens would know that she had suffered a brutal death. But all Jens could see was that his beautiful Agatha was dead and that she had been crucified where she could see the entire town burn to the ground.

Jens fell to his knees and gently stroked his wife’s cheek. “I am so sorry, my lovely,” Jens sobbed, tears running freely down his cheek. “This is all my fault. If I had not gone. If I had only insisted you come with me …” He shook his head. “I am sorry. Forgive me, dear.”

One week later, having buried his wife and the towns people, Jens rode east out of Ipswich. He had a fair idea who had committed such an atrocity – Bandits. It had to be. But which crew would be so uncivilized as to burn down a church and crucify a pregnant woman? That Jens did not know. All he knew was that he would find them. And when he did, they would know the wrath of God. All of them.

“What d’ya say we start up our own crew?”

 Jens looked back towards Brisbane. Of the crew with whom he had joined on his hunt for those who killed his people, there was only himself and Bert left. When Jens had joined the crew, a man going by the peculiar name of Black Jack had been in charge. Why he had called himself that, Jens hadn’t known at first. His name wasn’t Jack, John or Jackson – if Jens had heard rightly, his real name had been Terry. Nor was his complexion or hair dark. Rather, he had been of pale complexion with hair a shade or so darker that Jens Scandinavian Blonde. It wasn’t until after four full raids that Jens at least partly understood where the name had originated. That had been some six months ago. Since then, due to a series of failed raids, the numbers had dwindled until now there was just Jens and Bert. Bert had been a scout for Black Jack’s crew and had proven to be effective in choosing settlements and outlying towns for them to raid.

In contrast to Jens’ fair complexion and chiseled features, Bert was a surly, swarthy looking man whose language matched his appearance. But though he may have been surly, swarthy and uncouth, Bert definitely had something about him that indicated he could lead. A brutal charisma, one might say.

“We’d have to go elsewhere,” Jens replied, his voice toneless and dry. “It’s too risky around here.” He looked at Bert. “Where were you thinking? North?”

Bert shook his head. “Nah. South.”

“Melbourne?”

Bert turned his head to his left and spat. “**bleep** no,” he said. “Ain’t going nowhere near that **bleep** if I can help it.” Bert looked south, away from Brisbane. “Was thinking maybe somewhere further north of there but not as far north as Sydney.”

Jens puzzled over this for a moment. “There ain’t much in between those two,” he said. “A lot of forest and mountains.”

“That’s where yer wrong, ol’ mate,” Bert laughed, slapping Jens on the shoulder. “There’s heaps of outliers scattered all through there. We can make a livin’ down there and give people time to rebuild the places before we hit ‘em again.”