Pillar of Light

by Gerald N. Lund

  He thought about going for Nathan. He didn’t dare leave the carcass out for the whole night. Wolf sightings had not been uncommon. This would be too tempting to leave unattended. But then he decided it was not likely that Nathan had returned from dinner yet, so he set to work on his own. He would clean it out, get it propped open so that the meat would cool, and then he would find Nathan to help him drag it back to camp. Glad that he had sharpened his knife that morning on Heber Kimball’s grindstone, he bled the deer carefully, then opened up the stomach. Once it was cleaned, he dragged the body a short distance from the entrails, then propped open the body cavity with two sticks so that it could cool. Leave an animal too long in its own body heat and the meat could turn pretty “gamey.”

  He was whistling again now as he worked, finding a deep satisfaction in the evening’s success. When he finished, he moved the few yards to the creek and washed the blood off his hands and knife. As he stood, wiping the blade of his knife against his trouser leg, he turned and looked at the deer. In the dragging of the body away from where he had cleaned it, he had left the neck twisted a little, so it was looking at him. For a moment it looked as though it were simply lying down, resting.

  And then, a strange thing happened. The song he was whistling died on his lips. He moved slowly back to the slain deer, staring down at it in sudden morbid fascination. A quarter of an hour ago this had been a living thing. It had stepped out of the forest, a thing of beauty and magnificence. Now it was dead.

  Slowly he put the knife back in its case. He squatted down again, directly in front of the animal. The large brown eyes had not closed in death but stared sightlessly back at him, locked forever open by that shattering blow from the ball. He reached out and touched the brown fur. It felt stiff, and beneath it he could feel the flesh already cooling. What was it that was gone now? When the buck had stepped out of the trees it had life. It had intelligence. It sniffed the air for danger. It scanned the forest for any threat. It had done so for years now, pitting its natural caution against the cunning of the wolves and the threat of winter storms and the predator known as man. Then Joshua’s shot had taken him down. In seconds the life—whatever it was—was gone. What was it that was different now? Outwardly there was little difference—if you ignored the fact that Joshua had cleaned the animal. The head was the same shape, the velvet antlers still there, but the eyes were as dead as though made from glass. The fur was the same color and texture, but it was no longer alive and shimmering with movement.

  He knew what Nathan would say if he were to ask these questions of him. He would talk about the spirit. Did a deer have a spirit? Or did it just have life? Just life? His brow furrowed. Life was a miracle whether it was spirit or not. And he had just ended that miracle. He felt no guilt. That wasn’t it at all. Food was a constant problem for the Saints. Tomorrow they would cut up the meat and distribute it among the men working at Mount Pisgah. The fat around the deer’s stomach was thick, and Joshua knew that the steaks and roasts cut from its flanks would be marbled with veins of fat as well. Working men needed that for strength and endurance. So what he was feeling wasn’t guilt. Rather it was a sudden, strange fascination.

  Then Joshua visibly started. With a jolt he realized what it was that he had been whistling to himself for the past half an hour or more. It was the song that Savannah had been playing that last day back in Nauvoo. It was “Olivia’s song.”

  A great sadness washed over him. Olivia too had once been filled with laughter, love, intelligence, vibrancy. Wasn’t that what was meant by life? Nathan had once said that the body was just an outward shell, the house in which the spirit lived. It wasn’t the “house” that was Olivia. It was whatever it was inside her. That’s what made her what she was, what he had come to love.

  And then, with the same blinding swiftness that had cut down this beautiful animal, her life too was gone. But gone where? Was she still out there somewhere, as Caroline so firmly believed? He wanted to believe that, but . . . He shook his head. Wasn’t that, in a way, the ultimate demand on God? Wasn’t that the ultimate request? that his daughter still be allowed to live on somewhere after death?

  Then, unbidden, his thoughts turned to his father. Just before the funeral, as hundreds streamed past the open coffin to pay one last tribute to Benjamin Steed, several people, including his own mother, had made a comment something like this. “That’s not Benjamin.” It had irritated him at the time. Of course it was Benjamin. Of course it was the man who had lived such a rich life, then given it without a moment’s hesitation for his granddaughter. But now Joshua understood. What lay before him now was no longer the beautiful white-tailed deer that had come out of the trees. It was just a body. The deer was gone.

  For a long time he sat there, letting the darkness slowly envelop him. Finally, with a sigh from deep within, he got to his feet. He looked around. There was no moon as yet, and only the last vestiges of twilight gave him any sight at all. There was no sound of voices or laughter. He was too far away for that.

  He walked away from the deer a few steps, moving back to the river’s edge. He stood there for almost a minute, staring down at the water; then finally, slowly, he sank to his knees. For a long moment, there was nothing, no movement, no sound. Then at last his lips began to move, and in a murmur so low that the sounds of the river’s current overrode it, Joshua began to speak.

  “O God.”

  He stopped. The last time he had prayed had been while he was still living with his family back in Palmyra almost twenty years ago now. And even though he could remember some of the words and phrases from back then, they seemed so alien to him now.

  “I don’t know if you’re there. And if you are, I don’t know that you would have any cause to listen to me.”

  An overwhelming feeling of being the fool rushed over him. His tongue felt heavy and thick. What was he doing? Here he was kneeling on the ground, talking out loud to himself, as if he were some crazy man or something. He opened his eyes, starting to rise, looking around quickly to make sure no one was watching, silently vowing that he would never, ever make this mistake again. But then as he got to one knee, his eyes fell upon the deer. It was still propped up a few yards from where he was, the large lifeless eyes gazing at him steadily.

  He sank back down and closed his eyes. “O God. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to ask you for anything. But I want to know if my Olivia is still alive. I’m so sorry for the things which I did that led to her death. I was such a fool. If only I could know that she’s not gone forever. And Papa too. I would like to know about him too. Mama and Nathan and Caroline and all the rest say they know he’s still alive. I don’t know how they know, but if that’s possible, I would like that too.”

  For the third time the words ceased and his eyes opened. He wasn’t fighting it anymore. He just didn’t know what else to say. Finally, he lowered his head for the last time, staring at the ground before him. “I’m sorry for what I am. I wish there was a way to make it different.” And then, after another moment of silence, he finished lamely, “Amen.”

  It was almost midnight by the time they got the deer back to their lean-to shelter and hoisted it up high enough between two trees to keep it away from wolves, foxes, raccoons, or any other creatures that might want to sample the fattened flesh. Once it was safe, they started to prepare for bed. Nathan stayed outside for a time, and Joshua knew he was saying his prayers. He did it out alone so that Joshua would not be embarrassed by it. When he came back he undressed quickly and crawled inside his bedroll. There was a deep sigh of pleasure. “Now, that feels good.”

  “Yes, it does.”

  “Brigham came by the Taylors’ wagon tonight. There’s going to be a worship service tomorrow. They estimate we’re up over three hundred wagons already. Probably more than a thousand people.”

  “I would guess that’s pretty close.”

  “In addition to worship services, it will give Brigham a chance to speak to everyone about what he
’s thinking.”

  “They need to know.” Joshua was chuckling inwardly now. He could tell that Nathan badly wanted to ask if he planned to go to the meeting, but was holding back. Then he decided it wasn’t fair to play with him in this way. “Yes,” he said.

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, I’d like to go to the meeting.”

  Nathan laughed softly. “You don’t miss much, do you?”

  He smiled in the darkness. “When you split logs with a man, you get to know his mind.”

  “I wish that were true.”

  There was no answer, and the silence was suddenly heavy and awkward.

  Nathan made a sound of mock pain. “Sorry. Comment withdrawn. I wasn’t—”

  “No apology necessary,” Joshua cut in.

  They lay there, listening to the sounds of the night—the crickets just outside their shelter, the lower-pitched chorus of frogs coming from the river, the soft hoot of an owl somewhere above them. Both were very tired; both were far from sleep. After almost five minutes, still wide awake, Joshua turned his head. “Nathan?”

  “Yes?”

  “There’s something you ought to know.”

  “What?”

  He searched for words that would not sound utterly foolish; then he decided to just say it straight out. “I know now that Olivia still lives somewhere. And Papa.”

  Nathan’s eyes half closed. It was as though someone had jabbed him, only the sensation was not pain but pure joy. “Really!” And then after a moment, “Can I ask how you know?”

  “It’s a long story. It happened while I was cleaning the deer, but . . . I finally asked God.”

  Nathan had to swallow hard twice as the enormous implications of that statement hit him. “That’s wonderful, Joshua.”

  “I know. I don’t understand it all. I’m not even sure how it came. But I know.”

  “Then that’s enough for now,” Nathan said softly.

  “Yes.” Nathan could hear the wonder in Joshua’s voice too. “Yes, it is for now.”

  Chapter Notes

  The Brooklyn sailed from Robinson Crusoe Island off the coast of Chile on 9 May. They would not land in Hawaii until 20 June. There were two children born during the voyage who were named as indicated in this chapter, though the Robbins baby was born a little later than is shown here. (See “Voyage,” pp. 53, 59–60.)

  After having returned to Nauvoo for a short time to attend to some business, John Taylor arrived at Mount Pisgah on Saturday, 23 May 1846. His report of how many wagons he had passed between Nauvoo and Mount Pisgah was electrifying to the Church leadership and spurred them on to even greater efforts to prepare for those who were to come. (See CN, 25 May 1996, p. 12.)

  Chapter 22

  The formal count on Sunday morning showed just over three hundred and fifty wagons at Mount Pisgah, with over a thousand people. In spite of the large number, Brigham called for a general worship service, starting at noon. When the bugle sounded, announcing that it was time, Nathan and Joshua walked together up the hill toward the main encampment.

  The business portion was brief. Brigham said little about pressing on to the Rocky Mountains with a vanguard company that Nathan and Joshua did not already know, then asked each family to discuss their circumstances and needs. Then he started the meeting. Nathan found it interesting that President Young set the theme for the meeting by speaking on the plan of salvation. All of the other speakers followed suit. From time to time Nathan would cast a sidelong glance at his brother to see if he could tell what Joshua was thinking, but though Joshua listened attentively, there was no reaction at all.

  As they walked back to their campsite, it was almost all that Nathan could do to stop from asking Joshua what he thought, but remembering his vow, he steered the conversation to what had to be done before the family arrived. If John Taylor was right, they would arrive sometime tomorrow. That left a lot of work to be done. They discussed possible campsites, where to graze their animals, how much firewood they would need. Then, as they ate, they talked again at some length about whether or not to go west with the vanguard company. As before, they decided that until they could bring it before the family, they couldn’t determine which course to take.

  When the meal was over and the dishes washed in the brook, Nathan went inside the lean-to and started rummaging through his gear.

  “What are you looking for?” Joshua called.

  “My pen and some paper. I thought I’d write Melissa and Carl a letter in case someone is going back to Nauvoo.”

  “I thought you still owed me the answer to one question.”

  There was silence; then a moment later Nathan stuck his head out of the shelter to look at him with some surprise.

  “Well,” Joshua said, waving Lydia’s Book of Mormon, “do you or don’t you?”

  “I do. Just a minute.” When he reappeared a moment later, he had his own Book of Mormon. He came down and sat across the fire from Joshua. “All right.”

  “Do you even remember what my question was? It’s been over a week now.”

  “I do. You were bothered by the concept of redemption. You wanted to know how something bad could be atoned for, or paid for, if nothing in the past could be changed.”

  “Very good. So, do you have an answer?”

  “I do, but whether or not it will satisfy you remains to be seen. This is pretty heavy doctrine. Simple in a way, and yet very profound.”

  “Try me,” Joshua said dryly.

  “All right. We talked about agency, about why God allows us the freedom to choose, even though some people will choose to do bad things, even very bad things. The problem is, this is not fair for others. Papa drowns because an evil man made a terrible choice. Jessica loses a husband because other men choose to try and drive us out of Missouri. That’s not fair.”

  “Who ever said life was fair?”

  “But wait,” Nathan said quickly, “remember that God is perfectly just. If not, then he is not God. I’m not saying that all things will turn out to be perfectly fair in this life. Not at all. But in God’s eyes, this life is only a tiny part of our existence. So as long as it is made right, then justice is done.”

  “So you’re about to tell me your answers are not answers for this life.”

  Nathan pointed a finger at him and wagged it a little. “Don’t be putting words in my mouth, Joshua. Just hear me out. I want to show you how payment can be made and justice done.”

  Chastened, Joshua nodded. “Go on.”

  “Before, I used an example of how you deal with Savannah to teach you how God deals with us. Let me do that again, only let’s use Charles this time.” Nathan hesitated for a moment, knowing he was about to move onto very sensitive ground. “Before I do that, I want to ask you some questions. They may be a little painful.”

  “Go ahead,” he said warily.

  “Do you consider yourself worthy of Caroline?”

  “No.” It came out flat and without equivocation.

  “Why?”

  “Because of what I was. What I’ve done.”

  “But you’ve changed.”

  He sighed, suddenly tired of it all. “Maybe I have changed, but those things haven’t changed. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. The past will always be there, no matter what I do now.”

  “I understand. And since Caroline has nothing like that in her past, it’s not fair that she should have to have a man who did do those terrible things. Is that it?”

  There was a brief nod, his eyes not meeting Nathan’s now.

  “And part of why you feel so terrible about Olivia is that it is so unjust that she should suffer for your mistakes, right?”

  It was barely a whisper now. “That’s it exactly.”

  “So there’s our dilemma again. God is merciful, and because you’ve truly changed he wants you to be with your family forever. But you say that your change of heart doesn’t take away the past. In other words, it isn’t fair—or just—that Caroline and Olivia shoul
d have to deal with a father and husband who has been far less than they have been.”

  Again there were no words, just a brief movement of the head.

  “All right, now to my example with Charles. Let’s suppose that he is playing stickball with some of the boys. They are in a field across the street from a general store. Charles knocks the ball with a solid hit. It soars out of the field, across the street, and right through the window of the general store.”

  There was a bemused smile. “That sounds like Charles, all right.”

  “So here we have a interesting situation. The storekeeper has lost an expensive glass window. He wants to be paid for its replacement. He wants justice. And that is only right. But you are the father. You want mercy for your son. This wasn’t a malicious act. He’s only six. He wasn’t thinking. He didn’t understand the consequences of his actions. Should he be blamed and punished? And if so, how can he possibly pay the damages? He earns no money, has no resources of his own.” He stopped and waited a moment before saying, “Do you see the conflict now between mercy and justice?”

  “Well, I probably would have put it in different terms, but yes.”

  “So how do you resolve it so that both mercy and justice are satisfied? Would you make Charles go to work at the store until the debt is paid?”

  “He’s only six,” Joshua protested.

  “And that wouldn’t be very merciful, would it? So be merciful to Charles. Just tell the storekeeper that Charles is only a boy and that he—the storekeeper—will have to replace the window himself.”

  “No, that’s not fair either.”

  “Now you’re beginning to see why the Book of Mormon says that mercy cannot rob justice. That would not be right.”

  “What if I paid it?” Joshua suddenly said.

  “Ah,” Nathan said softly.

  Joshua shook his head ruefully. “Every time you say ‘Ah,’ I feel like I just stepped into a trap. Ah, what?”

  “That’s your answer, Joshua. If you pay the storekeeper, will he be satisfied?”