Pillar of Light

by Gerald N. Lund

  Elizabeth Ann—at fourteen the youngest of the Whitmer children—was out with Matthew and Becca, but the older ones had stayed, and now all, save one, sat together. Four sons—Jacob, John, Christian, and Peter, Jr.—sat in a row along the east wall. Jacob and Christian sat with their wives. John and Peter, Jr., not yet married, sat next to their oldest sister, Catherine, and her husband, Hiram Page.

  Mary Ann noticed that Peter, Jr.—at nineteen the youngest of the four—had sat where he could catch Melissa’s eye. And Melissa, blushing at almost every turn of his head, was like a flower burst forth in the spring sunshine. All of the boys had shown considerable interest in their winsome visitor, but it was Peter, closest to Melissa in age, who had pursued that interest with vigor, and she positively basked in his attention.

  Next to Hiram Page sat Oliver Cowdery. He and Martin had returned from Fayette Village shortly after the Steeds’ arrival. Almost immediately Mary Ann understood why Nathan had spoken so warmly of Oliver. He was, for that time, a particularly well-educated young man, and it showed in the polish of his speech and the graciousness of his manners. And his experience as a schoolteacher showed in his open love for the children. In moments after his return, he and Joseph had the younger children rollicking in the meadow behind the cabin.

  Sitting shoulder to shoulder with Oliver was David Whitmer, the fifth of the Whitmer sons. Almost the same age as Oliver and Joseph, David was more serious in nature than either of the other two. Quiet and less given to idle conversation, he was nevertheless affable and pleasant to be around. He smiled easily, had a quiet sense of humor, and, of all the children, had made the greatest effort to make the Steeds feel welcome. Now, as he spoke quietly to Oliver, Mary Ann detected a slight German twang in his speech as well, though not nearly as pronounced as the accent in his parents’ speech.

  The last two in the room were, of course, Joseph and Emma. Mary Ann had met Emma only once before, and then only briefly in the village. Nathan had nothing but praise for Emma, and Mary Ann had looked forward to finally getting to know her better. She had not been disappointed. Emma was a woman of quiet dignity, culture, and good manners. She was a gracious lady in every sense of the word and provided a fitting and proper wife for Joseph.

  And then there was Joseph. He had sat quietly for the past several minutes, content to let the group converse with one another, pleased with the company around him. Beside him on the table sat a thick sheaf of papers. This was the copy of the manuscript which Oliver had made. She could see the lines of neat and precise handwriting on the top page. She was ready for him to begin. This was what she had come for, and while she found the conversation and the company most pleasant, she willed Joseph to begin.

  Finally he stood, picking up the manuscript, and the room quieted almost instantly. Mary Ann breathed a quick, inward prayer. “O Lord, if this be thy word, help me to know it without question. Open my heart to thy feelings, Heavenly Father, I pray in Jesus’ name.”

  Joseph was clothed in an open-necked shirt and linen breeches. His hair was still slightly tousled from his wrestling with the children, which gave him a touch of boyishness. He smiled as his blue eyes scanned the faces of those present. Mary Ann saw Emma smile up at him and nod her encouragement.

  Carefully, so as not to wrinkle the foolscap, he pulled off the top two-thirds of the stack and set it on the table. He turned more pages, now one at a time, searching for the place he wanted. After a moment he found what he was looking for and set a few more pages aside. He looked up, quite sober in his demeanor. “The part I would like to read this evening takes place in the Americas shortly after the time of the Savior’s crucifixion and resurrection.”

  The blue eyes that could be so piercing, almost looking through a person, were suddenly filled with joy. He looked directly at Mary Ann. “Of all the Book of Mormon, I particularly love this part,” he said simply. As he read, his voice was deep and sonorous, and it was obvious that he was familiar with the material, for he did not stumble. But within moments, Mary Ann forgot about Joseph’s voice. She focused on the words he spoke, letting her heart open to make its own judgment.

  There was mention of prophets. They had foretold of the signs which would accompany the Savior’s death. Now those signs were given. A terrible storm arose across the face of the land. Thunder cracked with terrifying power. Exceedingly sharp lightnings flashed downward, setting buildings on fire. A great tempest, the likes of which had never before been seen, swept across the land, carrying people away. A terrible earthquake shook the earth, wreaking terrible destruction.

  After the earthquake a thick darkness settled across the land. For three days and three nights the darkness prevailed. The people were astonished. Their prophets had warned them of these things and called on them to repent of their evil ways, but many had not listened. Now, the survivors rent the air with their cries.

  Joseph stopped for a moment, and Oliver spoke quietly. “Listen carefully,” he said. “I wept when we were translating this part.”

  Nodding, Joseph went on, reading more slowly now. The darkness lifted, the earth was finally still. A group of disciples, those who had believed and looked forward to the promised signs, gathered at a temple in a land they called Bountiful. While they were conversing one with another about the great and marvelous things which had transpired, they suddenly heard a voice, coming from the heavens.

  Mary Ann felt a sudden thrill course through her body. She leaned forward, her eyes fixed on Joseph’s face as he read.

  “‘And it came to pass that while they were thus conversing one with another, they heard a voice, as if it came out of Heaven; and they cast their eyes round about, for they understood not the voice which they heard; and it was not a harsh voice, neither was it a loud voice; nevertheless, and notwithstanding it being a small voice, it did pierce them that did hear, to the centre, insomuch that there was no part of their frame that it did not cause to quake; yea, it did pierce them to the very soul, and did cause their hearts to burn.’”

  That brought Mary Ann up sharply. In Luke’s Gospel, the two disciples on the road to Emmaus had used those same words. They had walked and talked with the resurrected Christ, though they did not recognize him. After he vanished from their sight, one said to the other, “Did not our heart burn within us?” She had always loved that phrase, for it best described how she felt when she read the Bible. She felt a leap of joy. It also described how she was feeling at this very moment.

  Mary Ann pulled herself back as Joseph continued.

  “‘And they did look steadfastly towards Heaven, from whence the sound came; and behold, the third time they did understand the voice which they heard; and it saith unto them, Behold, my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased, in whom I have glorified my name, hear ye him.’”

  Mary Ann felt a hand slip into hers and turned to see Nathan looking at her. She suddenly realized she was crying. She squeezed his hand back. “It’s all right,” she murmured. “It’s all right.”

  Joseph paused, and Mary Ann realized he and the others were all looking at her too. She brushed quickly at the corners of her eyes with the back of her hand. “Please don’t stop, Joseph.”

  Joseph’s eyes softened as he nodded and found his place again. “‘And it came to pass as they understood, they cast their eyes up again towards Heaven, and behold, they saw a man descending out of Heaven; and he was clothed in a white robe, and he came down and stood in the midst of them, and the eyes of the whole multitude were turned upon him, and they durst not open their mouths, even one to another, and wist not what it meant: for they thought it was an angel that had appeared unto them.

  “‘And it came to pass that he stretched forth his hand, and spake unto the people, saying: Behold I am Jesus Christ, of which the prophets testified that should come into the world; and behold I am the light and the life of the world.’”

  Oh, Benjamin! Why aren’t you here now to hear this, to hear these words which set my heart aflame? How could you the
n deny? How could you say there is no power in all this?

  The sounds of the children playing outside could be heard faintly through the open windows, and somewhere further away a meadowlark was giving his last song of twilight. But within the cabin no one made a sound. Every eye was on Joseph.

  Joseph’s voice had dropped now but was still filled with a quiet power. “‘And it came to pass that the Lord spake unto them saying: Arise and come forth unto me, that ye may thrust your hands into my side, and also that ye may feel the prints of the nails in my hands, and in my feet, that ye may know that I am the God of Israel, and the God of the whole earth, and have been slain for the sins of the world.

  “‘And it came to pass that the multitude went forth, and thrust their hands into his side, and did feel the prints of the nails in his hands and in his feet; and this they did do, going forth one by one, until they had all gone forth, and did see with their eyes, and did feel with their hands, and did know of a surety, and did bear record, that it was he, of whom it was written by the prophets that should come.

  “‘And it came to pass that when they had all gone forth, and had witnessed for themselves, they did cry out with one accord, saying: Hosanna! Blessed be the name of the Most High God! And they did fall down at the feet of Jesus, and did worship him.’”

  Joseph stopped, took the sheets in his hand, and put them back with the ones he had set on the table. He was gazing out of the window, his eyes seeing something far away. Finally he turned. “Martin has got to start back or it will be midnight before he gets to Palmyra. We’ll read some more tomorrow.”

  There were murmurs of disappointment, but people began to stir themselves. As they began to talk or to go outside to check on the children, Mary Ann did not move, barely aware of what was going on around her. Hosanna! Blessed be the name of the Most High God! Thus had the people cried. So now did her own heart cry out. It was enough. This was the anchor she had been seeking.

  She was jerked out of her thoughts when she realized that Joseph had come to stand before her and was looking down at her, smiling softly. “Well, Sister Steed,” he said, “did you get it?”

  Startled, both at the form of address and his question, she stood up, quickly smoothing at her apron.

  “Well, did you?” he said, looking deep into her eyes.

  “Did I get what?”

  “The answer for which you were seeking.”

  She rocked back a little, stunned that he would know.

  He laughed and held out his hands. She took both of them, tears suddenly welling up again. “Yes,” she smiled through them. “Yes, Joseph, I did.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  It had not been a good two days for Benjamin Steed. Even though he had replaced the splint on his arm right after his family left, it continued to ache abominably. He went to bed early, but slept little until he rose about midnight and downed a third of a bottle of whiskey. That had dulled the pain to the point of bearability, and he finally slept, though fitfully. But this morning he had awakened with a raging headache, and the throbbing in his arm was back.

  An empty house and having to fix his own breakfast did little to improve his temper. By ten o’clock he was in the barn, puttering around awkwardly, his mood growing blacker each hour. In almost twenty-three years of marriage he and Mary Ann had had their disagreements—what man and wife didn’t?—but there had always been a common bond, shared goals, unity of purpose. Now he felt that slipping away from them, and the harder he fought to halt the slide, the more it widened the gap.

  From the time he was a small boy working alongside his father in the fields, he had enjoyed throwing himself against the land and wresting victory from its reluctant grasp. That he understood. When you had a problem, you lowered your shoulders, bowed your neck a little, and charged into the fray. Hard work, integrity, good old-fashioned common sense—these had always proven sufficient to win the day. But now he was up against something without form or substance. It frustrated him, and even though he knew he was driving a wedge between him and his wife, standing by and saying nothing chafed at his basic nature.

  The sounds of a wagon in the yard brought his head up. For a moment he felt a quick surge of elation. Mary Ann felt bad. She had returned early. But almost immediately the irritation bubbled up again. It was time to put this thing down once and for all. He had been trying to patch a board the cow had kicked loose. He tossed the hammer aside angrily and stomped out into the yard, in a mood for battle.

  He stopped, blinking in surprise. Martin Harris was just going onto the porch of the cabin.

  Along with each successive wave of immigrants that came to America came the folk medicine of the Old World. Drawing liberally from the elaborate pharmacopeia of the native Indians and the secrets of African medicine men brought as slaves, the folk medicine of America was a blend of superstition, good old common sense, a touch of white magic, and, in some cases, blatant charlatanism. Butternut bark (effective only if peeled upward off the tree), slippery elm, bloodroot, jimsonweed, and pokeberry soon mixed with Old World favorites like saffron, pennyroyal, and tansy. Some of the formulas and recipes made at least marginal sense. Cholera morbus, which was rarely fatal, was treated with a combination of French brandy, lime juice, sugar, and a little hot water. Such a mixture was bound to improve one’s attitude if not the sickness itself. But the shakes and typhoid fever were treated with soot from inside a chimney—stovepipe soot was useless—mixed with sugar and cream. Juice from the woolly-headed thistle could cure even the most virulent forms of cancer, while a rival recipe prescribed white-oak ashes mixed with calomel, saltpeter, and pulverized centipede applied to the afflicted area with a piece of new, soft leather. Fried-mouse pie cured bed-wetting. Cow-dung poultices were for serious bruises. Amulets hung round the neck for at least twelve days prevented a host of general infections.

  Benjamin had never put much stock in such shenanigans; in fact, he had never had to, because he was rarely ill. So when Martin brought out the bottle of herb tea prepared and sent by his wife, Benjamin looked at it suspiciously. “What’s in it?” he asked.

  Martin Harris shrugged. “Lucy never tells me. But it works. I had a toothache one night last year. Thought I’d go mad before morning came and I could get to the doctor. Lucy made me drink one cup of this tea and in twenty minutes the pain was all but gone. I’ve been a believer ever since.” He laughed. “Though it takes me half a day to work up my courage to drink it.”

  He poured a generous measure into the cup he had gotten from the cupboard. “Come on. I know your arm must be hurtin’ like the devil.”

  Still reluctant, Benjamin picked up the cup and sniffed at it, wincing almost instantly.

  Martin laughed. “Don’t think about it too long, or you’ll not have the nerve to drink it. Just hold your breath and down it.”

  If it had been anyone else, Benjamin would have refused, but he didn’t want to offend Martin. He sniffed again, then taking a quick breath, drained the cup in three great gulps. He gasped, his face contorting as the bitter liquid hit his throat, burning all the way down.

  Martin laughed again. “Pretty awful, ain’t it?”

  Benjamin barely repressed a shudder and set the cup down. “Thank you.” He managed a grin. “I think.”

  Martin chuckled easily. “You’ll see. Won’t be long and the arm will be back down to the point where you’ll barely notice it.”

  He took the bottle of tea and the cup and carried them over to the table. “I’ll leave the rest for you.”

  Benjamin swallowed twice, trying to clear the bitterness from his mouth. “Tell Mrs. Harris thanks for her consideration.”

  Martin nodded absently. He was gazing out of the window. One hand had come up, and the fingers were drumming on the tabletop. Benjamin watched him closely, sensing there was more to this visit than simply bringing medicine to an ailing neighbor. He was nervous. He had spoken too quickly, laughed a bit too loudly, and had pattered on like a woman at a cornhusking.<
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  Turning, he came back and sat down at the table facing Benjamin. He took a quick breath, then leaned forward. “I was in Fayette yesterday, Benjamin.”

  Benjamin’s head came up slowly.

  “I had a good visit with Mrs. Steed and Nathan before I came back last night.”

  The heavy dark brows lowered as Benjamin stared at his neighbor. “Did Mary Ann send you?” he asked tightly.

  Martin’s hands shot up in protest. “No, no. She doesn’t know I’m here. I did ask about your arm and she said it was bothering you some. I just thought some of Lucy’s tea might help.”

  Benjamin sat back again, pushing down the anger that had fired almost instantly within him. Differences between a man and his wife were strictly their own affair. He would have taken it as a serious breach if Mary Ann had been talking things over with Martin. “That was right thoughtful of you,” he finally said, forcing himself to relax again.

  Martin nodded. Benjamin’s reaction had done nothing to lessen his nervousness. His fingers picked at a thread on one of the buttons of his jacket. His eyes would meet Benjamin’s momentarily, then flit away, only to dart back again to see if Benjamin was still watching him.

  “Joseph’s got the translation of the Book of Mormon done,” he suddenly blurted.

  So that was it. Benjamin winced inwardly. He was hardly in a mood for that this morning, but all he offered was a noncommittal, “Oh?”

  Martin went on in a rush, obviously relieved to have finally started. “The problem now is to find a publisher.” He took a breath. “At first he went to the E. B. Grandin shop here in Palmyra. Grandin prints the Wayne Sentinel. He’s probably got the best print shop around. But Grandin refused to do it. He said Joseph had no money and no one was going to buy the book, so he wouldn’t take the risk.”