Pillar of Light

by Gerald N. Lund

  For Benjamin and Mary Ann that would mean leaving the family. And that would be painful somewhat. But for Nathan and Lydia, it would mean taking five children; it would mean leaving the store, their primary source of income.

  He felt Mary Ann’s hand take his arm as Brigham opened a large sheet of paper and squinted down at it. He didn’t dare look at her. He was barely breathing.

  “David Evans. Abraham O. Smoot. Edson Whipple.”

  Benjamin was straining, almost flinching at every name. That the list was not alphabetical was the first thing he noted. So there was no relaxing until they got to the S’s. But then he felt a stab of disappointment. He knew all three men. David Evans was about forty, as was Whipple. Smoot was about thirty. It wasn’t a surprise. These men were in their prime. And he was fifty-nine now. Fifty-nine!

  “Harvey Green. J. S. Fullmer.”

  He knew neither of those two, so that didn’t help, except to confirm that this was not an alphabetical list. He turned to look at Mary Ann. “You don’t think . . . ?” she started, but he shook his head. “Nathan,” he responded. “I’ll bet they call Nathan.”

  They both turned back. Brigham was reading the name of each man slowly, in a loud, ringing voice. It seemed to Benjamin that he was pausing for thirty or forty seconds between every name. And then he became aware of the sounds around him, the reactions as the voice intoned each name. There were soft “aahs,” or the quick intake of breath.

  “D. B. Huntington.”

  The Huntingtons were sitting just two or three rows ahead of them. Benjamin heard a gasp, then saw Sister Huntington’s shoulders slump.

  Brigham didn’t seem to notice the cries of either dismay or elation rising all around him now. “Lorenzo Snow. William Snow. Noah Packard. Elijah Fordham. Franklin D. Richards.”

  Mary Ann turned to look at Lydia. Her head was down, her hands clasped tightly together. Her eyes were not closed but just stared downward, registering every name with dread. And then Mary Ann saw her lips moving and realized that Lydia was counting. There were eighty-five names, Brigham said. With every one that passed, Nathan’s chances went down.

  Brigham was well past forty names now, and Nathan Steed was still uncalled. Mary Ann turned back to Benjamin, watching him closely now, feeling his hope, hurting with his growing despair. He wanted it so badly. Not the position, but the opportunity to feel like he was of service. And yet, like Lydia, she felt a sense of dread. It would be wonderful in one way, but oh, what it would mean for her! To leave the family. To be gone when Rebecca and Jenny and Jessica all had their babies. To miss the baptisms, the birthdays. She felt a sudden pain. Christmas around the piano at Joshua’s house. If Benjamin got his wish, they would not be here at Christmas.

  When it finally came, she nearly missed it. She was listening to the names with such intensity that for a moment it sounded like the name of a stranger.

  “E. T. Benson. Benjamin Steed. Shadrach Roundy. E. D. Woolley.”

  The family gasped and jerked around to stare at Benjamin, who was thunderstruck. And then, seeing their eyes upon him, he let a slow grin steal across his face. He was shaking his head and beaming like a young boy.

  Any dread Mary Ann felt was swept away in that instant. The look was of such supernal joy that, for now, she felt only his pleasure, only his vast relief. Later she could think about what it would mean to her.

  But Lydia’s ordeal was not over. Mary Ann turned to agonize with her. She was counting aloud now, in a whisper, but audibly enough that Mary Ann could hear her words. “Eighty-one. Eighty-two.” Her fingers were digging into Nathan’s arm.

  “Titus Billings.”

  “Eighty-three.”

  “Harvey Olumstead.”

  “Eighty-four.”

  Brigham looked up, and smiled. “And finally, Daniel Stanton.”

  A great whoosh of air went out of Lydia and Nathan at the same time. They looked at each other and Lydia slowly released her grip on him. Then they too grinned, but it was a smile of relief and not exultation.

  That night Brigham came. He came to Benjamin’s home, but he had sent word ahead with Matthew. He asked for others to come there as well. And so they did. Nathan and Lydia. Derek and Rebecca. Matthew and Jenny. During the hours before his coming, they speculated on what this might mean. Perhaps more high priests were to be added to the list. Maybe it was a call for missionary work for Nathan as well. That was almost certainly why Matthew and Derek were told to come. Lydia’s agony began in earnest all over again. This time it was shared by Jenny and Rebecca.

  Once he arrived, there was little delay in getting to what he had on his mind. Brigham was heavily occupied now with leading the Church and, particularly after a conference, he didn’t have a lot of time for idle talk.

  “Benjamin,” he began, “I watched your face today as I read your name. Can I take that as a yes to your calling?”

  “Yes, Brother Brigham,” he said joyfully, still reeling a little from the wonder of it all.

  Brigham gave Mary Ann a querying look.

  “You know the answer is yes, President,” she said immediately.

  “And I know what that will mean to you, dear Mary Ann. Thank you.”

  “Have you decided where we shall be asked to go?” she asked.

  He nodded. “I’d like Benjamin to preside in Nashville.”

  “Nashville!” Nathan exclaimed.

  “Yippee!” Matthew yelped, slapping his father on the back. “Nashville, imagine that.”

  Brigham waited until the congratulations were through. “I know it will take a while to get your affairs in order, but as soon as you can, we’d ask you to depart. It won’t be long before the ice is on the river, and then you’ll have to wait until spring or go overland.”

  “We’ve talked about it this afternoon,” Benjamin said, looking at Mary Ann for confirmation. “We think we can be ready in about a week.”

  She nodded firmly.

  “Good.” Now Brigham turned to Nathan and Lydia. Though neither of them moved, the tension in Lydia was obvious. Her eyes were fastened on Brigham’s, as if he were about to give her the secret to everlasting life. “You may have wondered if you were going to be called as well, Nathan.”

  “When you said it would be high priests, I did,” he admitted.

  “Your name was put forward, but I took it off the list.”

  Lydia jerked forward a little, her eyes widening even more than they already were.

  Brigham chuckled softly. “With your father going, this family is going to need someone at the head. That will be your role until your parents can return.”

  “You mean here?” Lydia blurted. “You want us to stay here?”

  Brigham laughed aloud. “Unless you’d like Nathan to try and keep track of things from St. Louis or somewhere.”

  Her face colored and she gave a soft, self-deprecating laugh. “I’m sorry, President. You know that we would go anywhere you asked.”

  “I do. But . . . ?” he prompted.

  The smile burst from her like the late afternoon sun suddenly striking the waters on a lake. “But I’m so glad we don’t have to go right now.”

  “I know.” He swung around to the other two couples. “Unfortunately, the news is not so good for you two sisters.”

  Rebecca and Jenny both looked at him steadily. “We expected no less, President Young,” Jenny finally said. “And we shall support Matthew and Derek in whatever you require of them.”

  “I know that too,” he said in a low voice. “And that means a great deal to me.” Then he straightened, looking at the two men. “I saw the missionary service you two gave while in England. You have proven yourselves as able emissaries for the Lord.”

  Rebecca sagged a little as she heard the mention of England. If Brigham noted it, he gave no sign.

  “Can we serve together again?” Derek asked.

  “Of course.”

  They both smiled at that.

  “When and where?” Jenny asked
in a tiny voice.

  “And for how long?” Rebecca added.

  “Well,” Brigham said, frowning slightly, “after the determination was made to call these two young men, I heard that both of you are with child. Is that correct?”

  “Yes,” Mary Ann answered for them as they both blushed a little and ducked their heads. “Both are due about the middle of March.”

  “Then I shall have them back to you before that.” He turned to Matthew and Derek. “I should like you to leave as soon as possible. Your field of labor shall be in the state of Arkansas.”

  Again he waited while the others reacted to that. Then he looked at Matthew. “You must feel as though I’m trying to destroy your efforts to make a go of the cabinet shop. First I leave you to run it by yourself, now I send you away as well.”

  “It will be all right. I have some excellent help now.”

  “I know,” Brigham said wryly. “I checked that out first.”

  “What about the others?” Derek spoke up. “Will? Peter?”

  “No, I think we’ve taken enough from this family for now. Actually, Peter’s name was considered to accompany you two, or perhaps some other missionaries, but John Taylor howled like he’d been shot all over again. He says that without Peter at the newspaper office, the whole thing would collapse. And Will? Well, all things considered—his father, his mother’s health—I think it’s best to wait for a time.”

  He stood, taking his hat in hand. “Well, I’d best be off. I have others I must see.”

  They all stood and moved with him to the door.

  “Thank you, Brother Brigham,” Mary Ann said. “Thank you for taking the time to come and tell us this personally.”

  “No thanks are necessary. The Twelve are making most of the other calls, but I told them I had to see the Steeds myself.” He stopped, looking first at Mary Ann and then to Benjamin. “Do you know what I would give,” he said, his voice suddenly gruff, “if I had a hundred families like you? A thousand? Why, we’d have the world converted by Christmas and be welcoming back the city of Enoch by New Year’s Day.”

  He clasped Benjamin’s hand, shook it once with great fervor, waved to the others, and walked out the door, leaving the Steeds to assess what had just happened to them.

  That same night, less than half an hour after Jenny and Matthew had returned home with the news, there was a soft knock on Kathryn’s door. She looked up from her journal. “Come in.”

  It was Jenny. She stepped inside the bedroom and shut the door behind her. “Peter’s here,” she said.

  “Oh. Tell him he can come in.”

  But Jenny didn’t move. “Kathryn?”

  She looked up, suddenly wary. Was this going to be another sisterly lecture? Three times now Jenny had caught her trying to move about on the crutches and had given her stern rebukes. The crutches now hung in the armoire, where she could get them only if someone helped her. And Jenny and Matthew had both noted the sudden drop in Peter’s visits to the house. Jenny had pumped her unmercifully to know what had happened. When Kathryn had finally told her what she had done and why, Jenny was furious with her. And now she had that look in her eyes again. “What?” Kathryn said shortly.

  “Peter wanted badly to go on a mission,” Jenny said, ignoring the tartness in Kathryn’s voice.

  “So?”

  “John Taylor thinks his mission is here, helping with the paper.”

  “So do I. What Peter does there is very important.”

  “But staying here doesn’t solve his problem.”

  “What problem?”

  “You.”

  “Jenny, don’t start again on that.”

  “I’m not starting anything,” she shot right back. “I’m just telling you. Peter has to stay. I know how you feel, Kathryn, in spite of all you say. I know you don’t want to hurt him.”

  “I don’t,” she admitted meekly.

  “So just stop it.”

  “I can’t,” she whispered.

  “Yes, you can,” Jenny said, more kindly now. “I’m not saying you have to give him any hope that you will change your mind. That’s your decision. But you can stop treating him like he is the problem.”

  Then, without waiting for an answer, she turned and walked to the door. She opened it and looked out. “Come in, Peter. She’s ready.”

  As Jenny left the room, Peter came in, hat in one hand, a small book in the other. For a moment Kathryn was afraid it might be the book that he wrote his poems in, but then she saw, with relief, that it was not.

  “Hello, Kathryn.”

  “Good evening, Peter. Come, sit down.”

  “I can only stay for a few minutes.”

  “Because of you or because of me?” she asked.

  His eyes got that startled look, like a deer that has just seen a sudden movement in the forest. Kathryn had a way of doing that to him, and she felt a wave of shame.

  “I . . . I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Just sit down, Peter,” she said, reaching across and patting the chair beside her bed. “Pull the chair around so I can see you.”

  He did so, setting the hat and book on the small table behind the chair. She watched him settle in, feeling a deep pain as she studied the features that she knew so well. As usual, one lock of his thick dark hair had fallen down over his forehead, and, as usual, he reached up and brushed it back with ink-stained fingers, barely conscious of what he was doing. His eyes, pale blue and seemingly open into the depths of his soul, were gentle, inquisitive, filled with the caring he had for her. His features, which Derek said he had inherited from their mother, were smooth and fine, making him look more like he was eighteen years old than twenty. She wanted to close her eyes, for she had every detail, every tiny line and wrinkle and every faint freckle memorized.

  Growing uncomfortable under her gaze, he leaned forward. “I guess you heard about Matthew and Derek,” he said tentatively.

  “I did. Does that make you sad?”

  “In a way.”

  “But in another way it should make you feel very good.”

  “Why?”

  She gave him an incredulous look. “You have an Apostle of the Lord who says that what you’re doing here is more important than going out to serve a mission and you ask why?”

  He shrugged. “Elder Taylor is very kind.”

  “Elder Taylor is very wise,” she corrected him.

  He sat quietly, clearly uncomfortable under her penetrating gaze. She knew Jenny was right. She had been punishing Peter for her own frustrations. Now she wasn’t sure what to do about it. Then, realizing that she knew only one way to go about it, she took a quick breath. “Peter, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  He gulped, looking more cornered than ever. “What?”

  “When I stopped you from . . . well, from saying what you were going to say that day. It was not a good day for me and . . . Well, what I mean is . . . I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right. I think I understand.”

  She slapped angrily at the covers of the bed. “Peter, stop being so nice. Why don’t you just tell me that I acted like a spoiled brat, that I treated you abominably, and that I ought to have my bottom spanked?”

  He was gaping at her, and then a strange look stole into his eyes. “Well,” he started very slowly, “sometimes I do think you ought to have your bottom spanked.”

  She blinked, then blinked again. “I beg your pardon,” she said, not in protest, but in complete shock.

  “Well,” he grinned sheepishly, “you asked.” He reached up and pushed back the lock of hair again.

  Leaning back against the pillows, eyeing him as though he were a complete stranger, she spoke slowly. “Say that again. I’m not sure I heard you right.”

  “I said I think there are times that you ought to have your bottom spanked.” Pleased by the new respect he saw in her eyes, he decided to go further. “Not that it would do any good.”

  “Peter Ingalls!” she cried in dismay, but smi
ling broadly as she did so.

  “Well,” he said, “you act like I don’t know one thing about what’s going on here. Well, you’re wrong. I do understand. I think I know how you feel about me, and I think I know why you keep pushing me away.”

  Now it was her that was starting to squirm. This was pushing in too close to her vulnerability. And as usual, her defense was anger. “I’m not sure you do,” she snapped.

  He bristled right back. “Well, if I don’t, it sure isn’t your fault. You’ve been so honest and open with me, sharing everything about how you feel.”

  She felt her face burning. “I think you’d better go, Peter.”

  “Oh no. No you don’t. Not this time.” He stood, too agitated to remain seated anymore. “I’ve been thinking about this all afternoon. I should be overjoyed that I didn’t get a call to be a missionary today. I should be happy that I get to stay where I can see you, be close to you. Instead, I’ve never been more disappointed.”

  He swung around, then swung instantly back. “Do you know why I came tonight? To tell you that I’m going to John Taylor tomorrow and telling him I don’t care about the paper anymore. I’m going to beg him to let me go with Derek and Matthew.”

  She was staring at him now, half in horror, half in numbed shock. “You don’t mean that,” she whispered.

  “I do mean it, Kathryn!” He started pacing back and forth; then, on impulse, he spun around and stalked to her armoire. Jerking the doors open, he reached inside. When he turned, he was holding one of her crutches. “You think I care one minute that you have to use these?”

  She turned her face toward the wall. “I can’t use those, Peter. I can’t even stand up on them.”

  He jammed it back in the armoire. “I don’t care! But what I can’t bear are those other crutches you keep using.” He tapped his head. “The ones up here, Kathryn. Those are the crutches you use all the time—self-pity, anger, rejection of me.”